Here – Chapter 22
Thursday, 29-Jun-00 21:56:46

12.79.60.183 writes:
Here - Chapter 22

"Slow tonight..." Claude sighs to Carly from behind the bar, his newspaper spread out in front of him. The bar is nearly empty, save for a few alcoholic regulars who would show up during an earthquake.

She nods, "Well, it is a weeknight."

As if just remembering, Claude's face lights up, "Hey! How'd your class go?"

Carly rolls her eyes, "I don't want to talk about it..."

"Who's your professor?" he asks curiously.

"Some slavedriver named McGee," she provides without enthusiasm. "He acted like I was some kind of, of," she starts to say 'criminal,' but realizes how ridiculous it would sound coming from her, so she changes her tack, "some kind of slug when I showed up just a couple of minutes late!"

He smiles, amused, in understanding, "Yep. That sounds like Andy, all right."

She is flabbergasted, "You know that guy???"

"He used to work for DuPont -- before he became a," he puts his fingers in the air to indicate quotation marks, "doctor. He's still a member of my investment club."

She shivers, thinking of the man's merciless blue eyes, "Well, sorry if he's a friend of yours, but the guy is just awful."

"He's no friend, Carly. I just know him," Claude explains. "He's not too bad. He just likes to be stroked every now and then."

Carly rolls her eyes, "I'm not into stroking anybody," except Sonny... She stares at Claude pointedly, "So, what do you know about this guy?"

Claude raises a brow, his eyes are twinkling, "You mean, do I know any dirt on McGee??"

"Hey! I didn't say anything about 'dirt,' Claude!" She responds somewhat defensively, although that is exactly what she meant.

"Well," he sighs, "if I hear anything interesting, I'll pass it on. Okay?"

He frowns, letting the subject of the professor drop, and looks back down at his Wall Street Journal. He says softly, "Anyway, I remember when this place would be hopping every night."

Carly looks at her co-worker, "So, what? Are you saying Luke's lost his touch or something??"

Claude laughs. He has a booming, infectious laugh. "You know I'd never say anything against my boss, Carly."

"Of course you wouldn't," Carly smirks.

Claude goes on, thoughtful now, "I just think the place could use something exciting. A new band or maybe a theme night during the week."

Carly lifts her brows, "That's not bad. You should run it by Luke."

He shakes his head, still smiling, "Luke doesn't like when I suggest things."

She leans over the bar and narrows her eyes at Claude, "Why do you put up with him anyway? It's not like you need the money, man..." Like me, she thinks with chagrin.

He shrugs and answers straightforwardly, "I like it here. It's fun. I don't have much of a social life, and this gives me one."

Carly says, "That's it?"

"That's it," he answers.

"No ulterior motive?"

"Not that I know of," Claude laughs, then pretends to become serious, "but maybe, somewhere deep -" he stops and grins at her, "very, very deep, okay? - in my subconscious, I'm pining for Luke."

"Aren't we all?" Bobbie puts in mildly, suddenly standing next to Carly. She smiles at the bartender, "Hi, Claude." She turns to Carly and her smile fades a bit, "Hello, Carly." Bobbie puts her arm around her daughter and gives her a quick hug.

Carly looks at her mother, reading her face. Now what?? She pats the bar and nods to Claude, then leads Bobbie to one of the empty tables, where they both sit down. Carly asks right away, "So what are you doing here? If you want to see Luke, he stepped out for a minute..."

Bobbie purses her lips, her eyes probing, "I'm not here to see Luke."

Carly waits for Bobbie to get on with it.

The older woman takes a deep breath, then says carefully, "I tried to reach you all day."

"Why?" Carly immediately suspects tragedy. "Is it Michael?? Lucas??"

"No," Bobbie says, calming Carly down, "nothing like that."

Carly sighs, relieved, "Then what's the problem?"

"Carly," Bobbie begins, "I would like to know what you're doing with your time..."

Carly blinks, hardly believing what her mother has just announced. "What??"

Bobbie becomes more insistent, ticking off the list on her fingers, "Carly, sometimes you don't come home at night after work, you're gone during the day and I have no idea where you are..."

Carly puts up a hand, her brows furled in anger, "I'm sorry, I was unaware that being my landlord entitled you to monitor my every movement!"

"I'm more than your landlord, Carly." Bobbie reaches over the table and places her hand on top of her daughter's, "I'm your mother! I don't have a right to be concerned for you??"

Shaking her head, Carly lets out a breath. She sits still for a few seconds, trying to keep herself from responding the way her gut tells her to: Here's what I'm doing, Bobbie: I visit my son every day. I go see my lawyer I can't afford to make sure AJ doesn't try to steal what little time I have with my son away from me. I go to driver's education classes so I don't have to take any more busses I can't afford. I go to PCU and buy $80.00 textbooks I can't afford. And now I'm going to be going to classes I can't afford. Oh yeah, and I spend my nights screwing a mobster's brain out. Who has time to get in trouble?!

Out loud, Carly says in a rational tone, "Sure, you can be concerned. But you don't have to be. I'm perfectly okay."

Bobbie's eyes flutter. She wants to believe what Carly is saying, but she is incredibly worried. She shifts in her chair, still holding Carly's hand, and proceeds, "I just hope you're not spending all of your time chasing after..." Bobbie pauses, then forges ahead, "I don't want you chasing after another man like you did Jason..."

Carly throws her head back and groans, "Ugh! God, Bobbie!" Then she looks at Bobbie, "You think I'm spending all of my time camped out at Sonny's front door or something??"

Bobbie narrows her eyes and asks quietly, "Are you?"

Carly jerks her hand away and stands. She loudly shoves the newly-empty chair under the table and rests her hands on its back. Her voice is tremulous. She feels hurt by what Bobbie apparently thinks of her: very little. "You know, no. No. I'm not. I don't spend every waking moment thinking about Sonny. I don't spend all of my time looking for him, or calling him, or sleeping with him. Okay?"

Bobbie shakes her head sadly at her daughter. She is genuinely concerned. She presses her lips into a line, then begins softly, "Carly...do you remember when Sonny first came back to town?"

Carly narrows her eyes, "Of course."

"Well," Bobbie continues carefully, "don't you also remember how he treated you?? Because I remember. I remember you telling me the names he called you. The way Jason had to defend you to him..." Bobbie tilts her head and asks earnestly, "I just need to know, Carly...how can you be involved with him now?"

Carly immediately grows uncomfortable, and she can think of no good response. All that she knows is that something has changed between her and Sonny since that time. Something fundamental. Something that has roots in her heart and her gut. Something that won't go away.

After a brief silence, Carly says weakly, "Just, just don't worry about me, okay? I am fine!" Then she leaves the table and returns to the bar, landing on the barstool with a dull thud.

Claude sees Carly's forceful, angry approach, but pretends to be involved with his newspaper.

Bobbie remains at the table, watching Carly sadly. She thinks about apologizing.

Until she realizes that Carly never bothered to answer her original question.

With a deep sigh, Bobbie heads for the door. She waves to Claude, "Tell Luke I stopped by, will you?"

Claude looks up from his paper and gives the exiting Bobbie a friendly nod. Then he sneaks a glance at Carly. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, lips are set in a determined pout, and her nostrils are flaring.

The bartender takes a deep breath and begins humming to himself, burying his eyes in the Wall Street Journal once again. He can tell this is going to be a very long night.

Carly is furious. Not with Bobbie, but with herself. It takes Bobbie's concern to make her realize how quickly and deeply she has sunk herself into 'this thing' with Sonny.

It is as if a light switch is suddenly turned on and her feelings are spread out on the table right in front of her. A delicious buffet of conflicting, confusing emotions: a little tossed salad of revulsion and attraction - with a healthy smattering of what-am-I-doing dressing; For the entree is a lovely roast of lust in creamy passion sauce; The side dish? The side dish is mixed doubt in cheese sauce. For dessert, there is a tasty confection of Sonny-flavored sorbet.

But, most amazing - and unsettling - to Carly, also sitting on that table in front of her is the fact that somehow, at some time she can not pinpoint, Sonny appears to have become her friend.

How the he!! did that happen???

And, now that Carly finally recognizes that the playing field has inexplicably shifted from 'just sex' to more than 'just sex,' she wonders if she is making yet another mistake in a long line of mistakes.

******

"Move it up? Just like that?" Sonny is furious, he is forcing the words through clenched teeth, blasting the hapless messenger, Benny.

Benny shrugs, his voice shaky, "They said they had a change of plans. Something came up for next week, so they had to send the guy sooner."

"But this week, Benny??" Sonny asks in disgust. He begins pacing the living room like a caged panther. After a minute, he stops his pacing and rubs his face with his hands. He sighs, thinking out loud, "All right...all right...this week...."

Sonny does not like this. Not at all. Surprises do not bode well in his business. Suddenly, the Kansas City people want their representative to meet with Sonny in a few days instead of two weeks. Sonny smells something bad. But, unfortunately, since he had Benny dispatch Coroza earlier in the day, he needs the money from Pfizer.

Desperately.

Why would Pfizer move up the meeting?? His mind rolls through the possibilities.

He thinks they could be telling the truth, that there really is some sort of scheduling conflict. But he dismisses that as soon as he thinks it. From what he knows of that midwest operation, they run like clockwork, a well-oiled machine. Those guys just don't have scheduling conflicts.

Another possibility is that the meeting is some sort of set-up, a trap. Maybe the 'representative' is working undercover for the cops. Maybe the entire Pfizer deal is some sort of scam. Damn it. The last thing Sonny needs is to be fooled by an undercover agent. Again. But Sonny finds this option equally unlikely. He's done his own checking on Pfizer, on the deal, on the downfall of the Seattle network, with sources he trusts implicitly. He believes the deal is real.

The last scenario is what Sonny believes is most probable: Pfizer is testing him. Benny admitted that the Pfizer people are uncertain about Sonny's emotional stability. Perhaps they are trying to catch him off his guard, see how he reacts.

If he says 'no' to the meeting, he could be kissing that load of money - and possibly what little is left of his reputation - good-bye.

He takes a deep breath, holding his cheek in one of his hands, knowing he has no real choice. And absolutely hating that fact. He is resigned, tired, "Okay, Benny. Tell them I'll be there..." How much work am I going to have to do to prove myself??

Benny slowly nods, his eyes focussed hard on Sonny, "You sure?"

Sonny's eyes are like lasers when he looks into Benny's. Suspicious, Sonny questions, "Why do you keep asking me that?"

Benny is confused by Sonny's accusatory tone. Asking 'Are you sure?' is Benny's panacea. 'Are you sure' is the cover-your-ass response that all old men in this business ask their bosses. That phrase is precisely why they are old men and not rotting corpses.

Reading the consternation on Benny's face, Sonny waves him off, "It's on."

Benny nods, attempting to be reassuring, "I'll pass the word."

Sonny looks at him pointedly, of course you will, and mutters, "You do that."

*****

"Your sister stopped by," Claude says as Luke walks into the bar and makes a beeline for his office door.

Luke stops and looks at the bartender, "Barbara was here?"

Claude smiles and deadpans, "Unless you've got another sister..."

Smartass, Luke thinks, his eyes grinning. "What did she want?"

Claude shrugs, "She didn't tell me. She talked to Carly."

Luke looks around the club for Carly and finds her serving drinks to two regulars at a back table. Her mouth is smiling, but her eyes look angry. Luke murmurs, "Uh-oh..." Louder, he calls across the room, "Caroline! My office! Now!"

Carly rolls her eyes at Luke's tone, excuses herself from the two habitually light-tipping customers, and heads for Luke's office, adjusting her apron on the way. She gives Claude a questioning look, to which he responds with a shrug.

She walks to the office door and finds that Luke has inexplicably closed it. She blows out a breath and opens the door.

He looks up from pouring a drink into a glass on his desk, surprised at her entrance, "You forget how to knock??"

She scoffs, knowing he pulls the little mind games like the door just to get to her. She smirks, unaffected, "You called me in here!" She walks into the office, slams the door behind her, and spits out, "What?"

"Bobbie was here. What did she want?"

Carly crosses her arms over her chest and shakes her head, "Same thing she always wants, man...every detail of my life!"

He stares at her as if she has not spoken, then says, "No, no. I don't care about that. What did she want with me?" He points to his chest.

Carly laughs, "I have no idea, Luke. She didn't even mention your name."

Luke takes a large swallow of his drink, which burns his throat on its way down. He pounds his chest with the side of his fist and lets out a deep, yet silent, belch. Finally, he says, "I guess I'll have to call her then...?"

She is disinterested, "Whatever." She jerks her thumb to the door, "Are we done now?"

He takes another gulp, puts his glass down, and puts a finger up in the air, "Not yet."

"Now what?" she asks impatiently. There are not any customers to serve, but after Bobbie's visit, Carly is not keen on family chat.

He squints at her, "Are we going driving tomorrow?"

She purses her lips, "Yeah."

"Okay," he replies. He makes a note to himself to buy a neck brace - or have Bobbie 'borrow' one for him from the hospital. He plans on wearing it while he's in the passenger seat. Despite his best efforts, Carly is not a good driver. And he has made it his mission to communicate that fact to her in as many nonverbal ways as possible.

Instead of leaving as he expected her to, Carly remains standing in front of his desk. He looks at her. She is thoughtful.

Carly is not sure whether Luke is the right person to discuss her personal life with, but, truth be told, he is her only option. If nothing else, she knows he will be brutally honest with her.

"Luke?" she utters hesitantly.

He meets her eyes, waiting.

She begins playing with her thumbnail, a little nervous, "Do you think it's possible for something good -- no, something great -- to come out of something really, really ugly??"

Luke's eyes narrow. After a beat, he slaps the palm of a hand on the desk loudly and announces, "Okay. You win."

She looks at him, confused.

"That is the vaguest question I've ever heard."

She blinks and shakes her head, "Never mind, man. Just forget it, okay?" She turns for the door.

Luke lets out a breath, then says reluctantly, "Hold on..."

She turns to face him again.

"What is it we're talking about here? Food? A factory? Clothes? What?"

She looks down at her hands and fills him in, "Relationships..." Then her eyes slowly rise to meet his.

At first, given his own dark, ugly past with Laura, he believes she is taking a very nasty, personal shot at him. But he quickly sees that she is not. He can read her face and he knows by the uncertainty and naked hope there that she is most likely talking about her dalliance with Corinthos.

After studying her for a minute, Luke says slowly, "Sure." Then he qualifies the answer, "But that's not how it usually turns out..."

He lets his voice trail off, then sits back in his chair, rubbing the top of his head with a hand, his eyes focussed on some point out in the distance, his mind back in another time. "It depends on what made it ugly to start with. Depends on why you would stick around for something so ugly." He pauses, bringing himself back to the present and watching her face react to his words, "Depends on if you can get past the ugliness. I mean really deal with it and not just brush it off..."

Her eyes show a glimmer of new life, "So you think it is possible? I mean, it doesn't have to stay ugly, right?"

He sighs and lowers his eyes sadly, looking inward. His voice is just above a whisper, "It doesn't have to stay ugly. Not if you don't let it."

***to be continued***