Final Curtain

Mel's POV

Yesterday, Reed had given me details about an account my parents had opened in my name a fallback plan if anything ever happened to them. Today, I got up and strode into Columbia's administration room, sat down with a secretary and started a long talk about quitting. She tried changing my mind for, like, fifteen minutes straight. Showing me grades from recent papers, works—I wanted to face bump the table.

I. Wanted. To. Quit.

What was so wrong with that? Higher education wasn't for everyone. Especially when I couldn't seem to finish sophomore year. Plus, what would I do if Pacey or Ginger bumped into me?

"Hey where have you been, Mel?"

"Oh, you know, I was just kidnapped by this guy who happens to be my half-brother. Not that I remember. I lost all my memories of the last months!"

Hmm, now that was punch-line entertainment. Not to mention Parker. My very deceased Ex.

So yeah, quitting and getting away—for now—was the best option. Honestly, as I gathered my saddle bag and strut for the double doors, I didn't feel too sad. Wind picked up as I made my way across campus passing numerous people my age, laughing, talking. Girls in groups of threes, guys talking in a huddle sneaking looks at some hottie.

It was all normal.

All so... boring.

A sigh left me. Okay. I had put some thought into this decision, really. Columbia wasn't the only College in NY. If familiar faces and annoying questions were my only enemies, I could easily start over in another university.

The more I thought about it, spending my time researching for projects, painting and drawing things just so I'd get a good stamp of approval and graduate? It seemed like a waste of time. And it screamed ROUTINE.

Every time, I thought about doing the same thing over, and over, I'd looked at my wrists—I tugged my long sleeves down, a habit I was suddenly picking up. I could've died. Not from burns on my wrists, but well, all the other times I couldn't remember.

I'd been in a two-week coma!

Truth was, life was short.

I wanted to draw and paint what my heart told me. I had passion. I had talent, and I would cultivate it. Why should I wait for a piece of paper for that?

A roaring sound caught my attention. I was close to where I'd parked the Ford, and a hundred other students were hanging in by the cars, but what called to me wasn't a car. It was a bike. Big, curvy in all black. It was the first time I thought a machine was beautiful, had to be Italian.

A long leg lifted over its seat. I found myself getting closer to it, to the owner. It was a tall, brown haired boy. Wide-receiver shoulders, chestnut leather jacket and... He lowered the silver helmet onto his bike, looking over a shoulder.

He had blue eyes.

Like, really blue. Really pretty.

His face? No trace of baby-fat, square cheeks, strong jaw and his eyebrows were semi-arched.

Me staring was creepy. But he was a hottie. Gaze sliding down, I saw his behind was really...

"Anything my butt can help you with?"

Oh God. Idiot. Stop staring! Aquamarine snapped up as my cheeks heated.

"I wasn't staring at your butt," Lie. Taking a deep, privy breath through my nose, I nodded behind him. "I was looking at your bike. I like it."

Blue Eyes cocked his head to the beast behind him. Ha. That's how it's done, Mel.

"Yeah, she's a work of art. Worked on her myself."

My brow crinkled.

"Why do guys always do that? Treat cars and bikes by she? I don't get it."

"You forgot boats," he said, putting some weight on his bike, looking down at me. I smirked. "And it's because they're high maintenance, just like girls. If we want to keep them, we need to spend a whole lot of money on them."

"Gee," I rolled my eyes. "Did your girlfriend steal your shoes or something?"

He gave me a funny look before chuckling. It was a nice, deep sound.

"Actually, my last girlfriend stole my Offspring CD's."

I mocked gasped, "That's cold."

He nodded, "So," his icy-blues looked me over. Quite shamelessly. Then again, I'd been totally checking him out. "What are you studying? I don't remember seeing you around."

"I'm an art major—was an art major. I just dropped out."

"You don't look like dropout material, sweetheart. You look..." He paused, as if looking for words that wouldn't offend me. "You look like one of those good girl types, the kind that does no wrong. No offense."

A little scoff left me.

"And you look like a bad-boy-wannabee. No offense." He picked up the helmet, sitting on the bike, keeping the helmet perched on a knee.

"What's your name?"

"Melissa."

Blue Eyes' lips kicked into a little grin, before he held out his hand.

"I'm Jensen." I shook his hand. It was warm, large and manly. Calloused like he used them a lot. "I'm majoring in mechanical engineering." Nice.

I pulled my hand back, shoving it in my back pocket.

"You like bikes?"

"Huh. No. I mean, I like yours. I've..." I stopped. Had I ever ridden a bike before? In the life I didn't remember? With... him? I swallowed, giving my head a shake. "I've never actually ridden one."

Jensen's eyebrows jumped high.

"For real?"

"For realsies." I muttered, seriously.

My eyes circled back to Jensen's large bike. I bit my lip. Life was short. And I'd never felt attracted to bikes before. Something was different, I knew it. Melissa from six months ago wouldn't have pondered dropping College, she would've followed the plan.

Yes. I used to have a five year plan.

I had dropped out—about twenty minutes ago. That girl had changed throughout those six months, she had to, because the Melissa I knew wouldn't have been with Nathaniel. But... did that mean I'd become a bad person? Was this person—who I was now—the one I'd become?

Or was this because of memory loss?

Well, whatever it was, it felt good.

"I want to buy one," I blurted. "I want to buy a bike. Do you know a good place?"

Jensen did a double-take before laughing.

"Wow. That was sudden. You usually make spot decisions like that?"

"I'm box full of surprises." Literally.

"I'll say..." he rubbed his neck.

I crossed my arms, "So, what do you say, bad-boy-wannabee? Want to help me shop for my bike?"

Jensen shook his head, as if not believing our conversation had gone from harmless filtration, to my-name-is and to I-want-your-help-buying-my-first-bike. Huh, when I listened to it in my own mind it sounded bizarre, too.

I was so not the slow girl anymore.

"Yeah," he finally shrugged. "It would be a shame to let a pretty girl like you get ripped off. Plus, you'll need driving lessons."

"Are you offering?"

"Maybe,"

I snorted.

"You could be a serial killer."

He crossed his arms over the silver helmet and rested his chin at the top. "Yes, well, there's always that possibility." The skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled ruggedly. "Tell you what, I'll give you my number and if you decide I'm not an ax murderer and you still want to indulge your sudden—"

"I want a bike."

He stared at me for a moment, lips in shaking line.

"That's cute," Jensen said. "I thought you were going to stomp your foot, though."

Hahaha. So funny. Not.

"Here," I gave him my phone and watched him punch in nine digits along with his name. "Thanks... Jensen Lisbon."

"Don't mention it," he threw over a shoulder while sliding off his bike—again—and walking around me, to where one of his classes was.

I walked toward my Ford, hyped about the fact that soon, I would be driving a motorcycle. The hairs of my neck stood as I imagined the adrenaline rush.

***

Nate's POV

Yesterday night, Aric and I went down to the docks. Warehouse 13 had been empty aside from random cargo, Nolan and some new Order members Aric didn't recognize. They'd patted us down to the extreme and, at one point, I swear one of them copped a feel.

My nose scrunched at the memory.

After that, Nolan had gloated. I swear the guy wanted us to kill him off. And finally, when we'd thought our purpose for being there was none, Nolan spelled out our next job. It was simple, very much so.

A deal between some big shots in the cocaine business was going down three days from today. Nolan wanted Garcia's gang to make an exchange with him, instead. Garcia was a big drug lord in New York; he had a big gang who took care of distribution—selling—on the streets, private clients—the rich kind—and he paid big bucks for the good stuff.

Nolan needed money. Badly.

Me and Aric were going to ensure Garcia's men didn't buy product. How? By opening fire on Garcia's guys while the deal took place. Garcia would think the sellers tried to screw them over, wanting to keep the money and drugs. He'd have to look for another seller.

Nolan would be next in line. 'Cause over the last few months, his new guys had spread word about their stash. Sold some of it, too.

I rubbed a hand down my face, tired and beaten by my own life. It sucked. The job was easy enough, and we didn't have a say in the matter, and I was looking after Melissa.

A pang started within me. Growing into tormenting agony, a fire-breathing creature that set my insides completely ablaze. I wanted to see her—I needed to. Because I was going crazy. Seeing her with hate in those eyes would be heartbreaking, but I didn't care as long as I got to be near her, smell her shampoo, trace the birthmark above her lip...

I groaned inwardly.

Walking down the street while thinking of Melissa and that sexy... I glanced down. Yeah, just thinking the word sexy made images from weeks ago jump to the front of mind. My friend liked them a wee bit too much.

I walked a ten more steps before shoving my hand down my jean's pocket, fishing out my phone. To hell with waiting and what Aric thought was best. Anna backed me up on seeing Mel, and that's what I was going to do.

Something softened inside me once I saw her face down in the iPhone's screen, below it, was her caller ID: Princess.

Shaking with nerves, I dialed her.

It rang forever. Only to go to voice-mail. I tried again. Nothing.

On an angry turn, I dialed our apartment.

It rang. It rang. It kept ringing.

But it didn't go to simple voice-mail. No. It wasn't a robotic voice that greeted me. It was our recorded message. A lump formed in my throat as the memory hurled itself at me like a missile...

Mel clicked the answering machine's erase button.

"Hey!"

"What? That was terrible!" She laughed bumping my shoulder with hers.

I rolled my eyes.

"Sorry, I was raised by assassins. I have very poor people skills."

"You do." I tweaked her nose, she yelped. "Ass,"

"You love my ass." Mel's olive cheeks turned rosy-pink and the way she busied her bottom lip did things to me down below. "Fine. What do you want to say?"

"Let's do one together."

I frowned causing my nose to wrinkle.

"Isn't that what cheesy couples do?"

Her eyes became sharp slits, Mel stabbed a finger into my left cheek.

"It's romantic."

"It's cheesy."

She stabbed the recording button with no heads-up.

"Hi! This is Mel..." she nodded at me, telling me to follow up.

Groaning inwardly, I followed her stupid wish. Because it was what I always did, follow her wishes.

"And this is Nate—I live here, too."

"Yeah, he does, because we're a really cheesy couple who can't live without each other."

"Right," I dragged out giving her an odd, funny look. She'd gone all smiley-faced. "And we can't get to the phone because we're..." I paused. Honestly, I had no idea what to say—

"Because we're having sex."

God damn.

My eyes jumped from my sockets. Mel usually had trouble saying the word 'sex', or talking about it. She always broke down laughing, which yeah, I found hilarious.

When I glanced at her, Mel's eyebrows wiggled and she tilted her head asking me what I thought. Well, who was I to turn down my girl's wants?
"We're having really hot sex...?"

"Okay." I smiled, draping an arm around her. I rolled on top of her, kissing her neck. I nibbled below Mel's ear, a sensitive spot that always made her laugh.

"Hahaha...! Okay... So leave a message..."

I lifted my head for a minute looking at the black machine sitting at the foot of bed.

"And we'll get back to you when we're done," Melissa's hands grabbed my face tugging me down. Someone was in a hurry. "If we're done..."

Her hysterical, happy giggles rang through my head as the memory faded and all I was left with, was the bitter taste of reality.

After our little message ended, the beep came and I opened my mouth. For a second, I looked like a baffled moron on the middle of the street. Like a pre-teen kid calling his first girlfriend.

Then I talked.

"Hey, Mel... Melissa? It's me. It's Nate. Nathaniel." I was tripping all over myself. I bit back a curse. "Look, I get what's up with you. You don't remember anything, you don't remember us and you think I'm this asshole..." which I was. "But I... I just need to see you. Really, really badly."

I sounded like a desperate dog out for a bone. I rubbed my forehead, leaning on a coffee shop's wall.

"I really want to talk, princess. Please?" I whispered into the receiver, breathing harshly, eyes closed.

Uncomfortable with mumbling such personal things out in the open, I slid my thumb over the tactile screen, ending the call and message.

Tonight was a good night to start my job as a "bouncer".

***

Aric was broody while droving us in his precious viper to Ben's underground club, grumbling in thick Australian accent thinking it would make me change my mind about fighting.

Wrong.

I knocked on the metal door. It stood behind a full functioning jazz bar. The bar was also Ben's, a cover up for the whole scene going down underneath. The bar didn't have nicer people than the ones who participated in illegal fighting, though.

A rectangular slit opened and a pair of heavy dark eyes stared outside.

"I called Ben earlier. He's expecting me to fight tonight."

The man's eyes looked me over under the flickering light, then, in a booming voice he said, "He mentioned you'd come around." A latch was undone and the door pulled open.

It was the burly guy, the one whose face looked like candle wax.

"Looking more beautiful each time I see you." I whistled passing him.

Aric kept quiet but I could feel hear him wanting to slap me.

"One of these days, kid, I'm going to shut that mouth of yours..."

"Dream on," I chortled darkly.

Aric and I followed down the yellow hallway where blood trails covered the floor, some splatters had made the dingy walls and some fighters were leaning against them. Nearly passed out, bleeding, moaning in pain.

"You really bring me to classy places, little brother." He sounded disgusted.

"I'm starting to think you have something against underground fighting."

"I do," he murmured. "Especially when someone as stubborn as you is the one fighting."

Pft.

Like I didn't know when to stay down for the count?

I thought for a minute.

Fair point.

But who won didn't need to stay down and I was a winner. A killer.

The grand fighting area was centered in the middle of the room, a quadrangular boxing ring. A lot of people, men, cheered the ongoing fight. There were all sorts of dudes down here, but most had tattoos covering their arms, necks. And piercings. Couldn't forget those.

I'd learned the hard way that the quiet ones, by themselves, were the ones you needed to look out for.

"I thought you weren't coming back!" Ben showed up, talking loudly.

I turned to him, "Bet that'd make you happy?" I yelled knowing he hadn't forgotten our little arrangement.

Ben said nothing. I saw him gulp when his eyes found my brooding half-brother. Aric looked more deadly than usual. Dressed in a long, black trench coat, dark jeans and gray worn sweater. He looked like he was hiding a katana under the flapping coat.

I chuckled.

"My buddy came to cheer me on." I lied. Aric was neither my buddy and definitely didn't cheer. "Hope you don't mind."

"No, of course not."

Ben stayed with us until the fight was over, explaining how I'd be fighting against the winner. Which, by the looks of it, would be Snake Head. The guy he was fighting was half beaten to death. Snake Head was taller than his adversary, less muscled, but more agile. I studied the sloppy attacks. He was using basic kickboxing techniques.

Snake Head caught the other dude by the hair, spun him in a full circle and making a big effort, threw him off the ring. The crowd parted where the man fell, bleeding and unmoving.

"I have money, you don't need—"

I shot Aric a glare.

I'd told him before, I didn't do charity.

"Here," I slipped my sweater overhead, tossing it Aric's way. He caught it unhappily. "Loosen up, Aric. It's not like I haven't done this before."

Ben walked me over to the small stadium, climbing in first. Once I was up there, I could see baldy batter. The snake tattoo climbed up the side of his neck, going behind his left ear, up his bald head. The snake rested its head right above the man's eyebrow.

I hated snakes.

Ben gave the final warning of 'playing fair' and jumped from our ring. I could see his guys collecting bets from the crowd.

In a blink, the guy came at me, hurling a fist straight to my face. I dodged easily. The guy tried aiming a kick at my side, I caught his ankle and held his leg up while kicking out the other one, slamming my foot behind the dude's knee.

I threw him back and his back smacked the dirty, bloodied floor with a grunt.

I rolled my shoulders, craned my neck left and right working out a kink. This was way too easy. I almost felt bad for the bastard. Almost.

Spotting Aric leaning on a far end wall, I smirked a what-did-I-tell-you smile. The last thing I saw was him flipping me off, then, my waist got tackled.

My ears rung as me and Snake Head fell, only my head cracked off the floor. Gritting, I cleared spots from my vision blinking. In one of those blinks, I saw torn knuckles come at me. My adversary punched my left cheek once, twice, three times.

Five times.

He pounded my face five times in a row. I let him. It felt amazing, to fight. Body parts slamming against each other in an outlet for anger, a release I'd grown up knowing. I'd done it so many times, I'd learned what laid behind the biting pain—relief.

Comfort.

Pain was something I understood, something I could handle.

It was the only thing in my life I could handle.

But once my opponent went for a sixth punch, I lifted one leg, wrapping hard around his waste and with a fierce push-off the ground, I swung us right. I ended up on top. Next, it was me punching him. My knuckles were the ones tearing, skin broke beneath my aggression; blood pooled on the guy's face, running down it.

Our blood melted together as I cut his face.

The cheering crowd faded. There was just me and the Snake Head, the one I was beating to a pulp.

Until I backed off. Guy was unmoving—not dead. Just out cold.

Getting up, my bones cracked and I heaved a satisfied sigh, before I found Ben climbing in with another big guy to carry out Snake Head.

I wiped some blood off my face with a forearm.

"Who's next?" I asked him with bloody wolfish grin.