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The Real Deal	By : Gallivant Category: M through R > Red Eye Views: 3200 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye. I am not making any money from publishing this story.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
3. A Means to an End
Lisa could hardly believe she was standing in her kitchen with Jackson Rippner, the man who, just six short months ago, had tried to kill her. And yet here he was, rifling through her kitchen units looking for some kind of band-aid to dress the cut above her right ear, which was seeping blood profusely.
'Does it need stitches?' Lisa asked, in a shaky voice, padding the wound with a clump of cotton wool. Her head certainly ached where those thugs had bashed her into the abandoned Cadillac. She recalled with a shiver how they had grabbed at her, ripping at her clothes, like out of control animals.
Jackson glanced over to her. 'No. You'll be fine. It's a scratch.'
A scratch? Then why did it hurt so much?
She suddenly felt woozy with pain, and a strange weariness. She tottered, having to grab the edge of her kitchen table for support.
Jackson offered his arm, to lead her to a chair close by, but she brushed him away furiously.
'I can do it myself,' she said bitterly.
'Like hell you can,' he muttered, throwing her arm over his shoulder and guiding her to the cream couch in her sitting room, where he slowly slid her into a reclining position.
Lisa shut her eyes, ignoring the sound of Jackson's brisk movements as he fetched surgical spirit, lint and dressings. In fact, she wanted to ignore he was here at all. Blank out his presence.
Having decided that she wanted to see him again, to face him down, to confront him, this homey little scenario was not quite what she'd had in mind.
She felt a little cheated.
Jackson sat next to her on the couch, and hoisted her into an upright position. He manoeuvred her head so that he could more easily access her wound.
'This is going to hurt,' he warned, dabbing her wound with a damp pad with one hand, whilst firmly cradling her head with the other. She jerked in response to the searing pain which shot through her.
'That stung,' she complained. She opened her eyes.
She was shocked how close his face was to her own. She automatically recoiled.
He smirked and roughly pulled her back towards him.
'Dear me Lise. I didn't have you pegged as a coward,' he murmured.
His chill blue eyes were alive with smug amusement.
Lisa couldn't bear his laughing at her, his easy proximity, his relaxed intimacy, as though they were old friends. Even if he HAD just rescued her. It was too much to bear.
Hot anger unexpectedly boiled up inside her.
She struck out, slapping him forcefully in the face.
She was almost as surprised as he was, and even a little ashamed. He hadn't really deserved that. Not now, at this moment.
His hand instantly went to his cheek, which was stained red, and smarting. The amusement in his eyes had vanished. Instead. Cold sneering fury.
He grabbed her by the throat, his lips curled in contemptuous rage, and forced her onto her back. Lisa could barely breathe, aware that his weight was pinning her deeper into the couch's cushions. She tried to move her head so that she was facing him, but he had a hand buried deep into her hair, and was squashing her face into the couch's cream fabric. She kicked and bucked, desperate to free herself from his grip, from the confines of his hard, lean body which pressed against her.
And then as soon as it had happened, it was over.
Jackson suddenly released her, springing up from the couch and staring down at her. She twisted her body around to look at him, fearlessly meeting his gaze. He was flushed and panting.
'I see you still have a temper,' she choked, caressing her throat. She'd have bruises, she thought. Good. Proof that he'd tried to hurt her.
'You've ruined your furnishings,' he said drolly.
Sure enough, the cream covers were stained brown-red from the copious blood on Lisa's blouse and skirt.
Her attacker's blood.
Lisa stared at her blood-sodden clothes, her face contorted in sickly revulsion. She retched, her hands flying to her mouth.
Leaping up from the couch she ran for the staircase, colliding heavily with a table on the way, scrambling to get upstairs, to get these clothes off, to get clean.
XXXXXXXXXX
She sought solace in her en-suite bathroom, a haven of sparkling clean white ceramics and reassuringly shiny metal fittings. She tore her clothes from her body, sobbing with impassioned disgust as she recalled how they had got bloody, re-living, yet again, the heart-stopping moment when her attackers had pounced, clawing at her savagely.
She had been relieved when Jackson had stopped them. Of course she had. But that too had been so gruesome, so very terrible.
Finally naked, she kicked the offending clothes away from her, bile rising into her gorge at the mere sight of them. Hot tears flooded her cheeks. Her head was pounding: a mixture of pain and pent-up emotion.
This was a natural response, she told herself. She couldn't expect to simply function as normal, as though nothing had happened. Not after witnessing the deaths of those two young men – even if they had been intent on harming her. Possibly even killing her.
But the man downstairs. The man who had saved her 'sorry ass' as he himself had put it, seemed wholly unmoved by these events. It was business as usual for Jackson Rippner.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror hoisted above her pedestal basin. She was a pitiful sight. Her auburn tresses were unkempt, soaked with sweat and blood. Sticky brown smears coated her face, and a small swab of lint was hanging loosely from a deep cut streaked across her right temple. Her chest was heaving in uncontrolled pants, her body coated in gleaming perspiration, mottled with blood – but not her blood.
A whirl of panic shot through her, like a cold wind.
What the heck was Jackson up to now? Why had she even let him into her house?
She must have been crazy, delirious.
It had all happened so quickly.
But her mind was clearing now. She had to suppress the stream of anxious thoughts which swooped constantly through her head.
Get a grip. Take control, she said to herself.
First up. What if Jackson came in? Found her. Like this?
With frantic, scrabbling fingers she bolted the bathroom door.
Now for a long, hot shower.
XXXXXXXXXX
Lisa slid to the floor of the shower cubicle, relishing the hot, drumming water as it cascaded at full force onto her skin. It was soothing, calming, yet strangely exciting too. She wallowed in the feeling of being lost in the thunderous noise of the water, able, momentarily, to switch off her thoughts, wash away the horrors of her evening.
Her eyes flipped open.
Of course that wasn't going to be possible. She still had to think about how she could get rid of Jackson Rippner, get him out of her house.
In spite of the steaming heat of the shower, a shiver tingled through her.
She took a deep breath, telling herself, repeatedly, over and over again. Think straight Lisa. Think clear. Take control.
Yes. Take control. That was what she had to do.
OK, so yes, Jackson had rescued her – which was kind of humiliating in its own way. She had no desire to be his damsel in distress, to give him that satisfaction. But still. She probably owed him – a little.
No you don't, yelled a more strident voice in her head. Don't be a sucker. This guy tried to kill you, he attacked your father, he used you, manipulated you, with heartless ease. She couldn't just forget who he was. What he had put her through. What he still put her through.
And what was he doing in that parking lot anyway?
He'd been following her. Haunting her. Which meant all her suspicions were correct.
She angrily thumped the tiled wall of the shower.
He was creepy, if not downright dangerous. He had said he wouldn't kill her. And she'd believed him.
But what if he was lying?
He'd once told her that he'd never lied to her, and she'd believed him, even then, while he was blithely, wittingly, throttling any happiness she'd struggled so hard to attain, out of her life.
But that didn't mean he never WOULD lie to her, did it? Say, in a different, perhaps non-professional, situation.
Bad things happen to good people, he'd said. People like you … .
Why should that be any different now?
Lisa huddled her knees to her chest, embracing herself tightly, lost in thought.
So what did he want of her?
What does that matter? She thought.
What mattered most was what she wanted of HIM. She wanted him caught and sentenced. Not so much for his role in the plot to kill Keefe – although this had been a primary motive for her in the initial days and weeks after that fateful flight – but this was for herself. For the mental agonies she had suffered. The multiple, excruciating embarrassments. The heated rage which had consumed her when she had realized how Jackson, how someone, some people, close to Jackson, had double-crossed her, double-crossed everybody.
Something stunk.
And he was the key to finding out precisely what that was.
But there was no point her going to the Police now. Tonight. Jackson had been particularly scathing, when they were driving to her house, about what type of reaction she could expect from the police, if she was to announce that John Doyle was visiting. He joked darkly that the police would offer HIM protection from her.
No. She needed proof of his lies, before she approached the Police.
With renewed vigor, Lisa hauled herself out of the shower. She roughly dried her hair with a towel, allowing her body to drip-dry.
She felt clean, renewed, and determined to eke out the truth from Jackson.
She had the Dictaphone. She could record him. Get her evidence.
She grabbed her bath-robe, a thin, satin number which clung stickily to her hips – perhaps not the best outfit for interrogating a psychotic killer, but one glimpse at her bloody clothes scrunched into a heap next to the lavatory proved she had no other alternative.
She needed that Dictaphone. And fast. The sooner she got him to talk, got him to say what she needed him to say, the quicker he was out of here, and out of her life for good.
XXXXXXXXXX
Lisa hurried into her bedroom. She didn't bother with the light. Just kneeled on the bed and groped around for her pillow, the one with the Dictaphone lurking underneath it.
But instead her hands hit body, hair, a face.
She screamed in fright, instantly catapulting herself backwards, off the bed, as if electrified.
Jackson appeared to have other ideas. He roughly grabbed her wrist, then hauled her back onto the bed beside him.
Still holding her, Jackson swiftly turned to flick on her bedside lamp.
A pale orange glow illuminated the room.
Lisa now saw that not only was Jackson sprawled across her bed, but his head was resting on the pillow which hid the Dictaphone.
'You … you startled me,' Lisa explained, panting with shock.
She desperately tried to release her hand from his grasp, but he wouldn't let go, his nails digging into her wrist.
One glimpse of his face, however, revealed that he too, had been taken by surprise, even terrified. His eyes were wide and staring, his nostrils slightly flared, his breathing hard and labored.
Lisa tried to keep her voice clear and steady, wary of the manic glint in Jackson's eyes.
'OK Jackson. What … what the hell are you doing on my bed?'
Jackson looked nonplussed. A little dazed.
'You're on my bed!' Lisa yelled, calmness deserting her. 'Get off!'
Jackson frowned.
'No need to shout Lise. I'm right next to you.'
'I realize that Jack. That's the problem,' Lisa hissed furiously, frantically trying to extricate her hand from his firm grasp. 'You're hurting me,' she moaned. 'Let me go.'
Jackson smiled nonchalantly, seeming to relish her discomfort. But his grip relaxed a little, although he didn't quite relinquish his hold, his hand still resting on her arm.
Lisa sneered, flicking his hand away. She sat bolt upright, staring down at him, her eyes burning with indignation.
'So come on. Tell me. What are you doing?'
Jackson grinned. His clear blue eyes suddenly dancing with merriment.
'Oh. I was tired. Fell asleep,' he said lazily. 'It happens you know.'
'You sick bastard,' Lisa muttered.
Didn't he realize she hated the mere thought of HIM, of all people, sleeping on her bed?
But of course he did. This was his warped idea of fun.
But she needed him off this bed. She needed that Dictaphone. It was her only chance to nail him.
'Please leave Jackson,' she said coldly. 'I want to get dressed.'
He glanced at her radio/alarm clock. 'What ever for? You're normally tucked up in bed by now,' he said. 'Not that you'd actually be sleeping of course.'
He settled back onto the pillow, hands behind his head, eyes closed, and sighed, an exaggerated sigh of contentment, clearly designed to aggravate her.
Lisa couldn't believe what he was doing.
'Don't think you're sleeping here,' she growled furiously, shoving at him with both hands, hoping to topple him off the bed.
'Get out! Get out!' she shrieked. 'Or I'll call the police, and I don't care WHO they think you are.'
She reclined her body backwards, and summoning all her strength, she kicked him in the side.
Jackson was too quick for her. He grabbed her ankles, pulling her towards him. But she then pummeled him ferociously with her fists, so he changed tack, pushing her roughly backwards, with so much force, her head smashed against the headboard.
She surged against him, ignoring the pain she was feeling, and clenching her teeth, she grabbed at his stomach, pinching as much flesh as she could manage, which was precious little. Jackson was a lean man.
He yelped in sudden pain, thrusting her aside. But before she could leap off the bed, he swiftly rolled towards her, sliding his arms tightly around her, gathering her close to him.
'Where are you going, Lise?' he snarled.
This proximity was unbearable, Lisa thought. His body was wedged tight, next to hers. So close, she could feel him, trembling with anger. He flipped her over, onto her back, and pinioned her legs to the bed below him with his knees.
She was painfully aware of his hard gaze, as his face hovered directly above her.
If we were lovers, she thought dismally, this hold, this nearness, would be so natural. So warm. So enticing.
But they hated each other instead.
Yet try as she might, she couldn't suppress the wave of excitement which throbbed softly through her, the faint knotting in her belly.
And she knew, in that moment, that Jackson had had that exact same thought. His face softened yet she felt his body tensing against her, wishing to press closer, yet reluctant too.
Perhaps then, she thought, this is the way. Her best weapon. The best way to be rid of Jackson Rippner.
A means to an end.
With tremulous intent, she plunged a hand into his thick, dark hair, pulling his face even closer, so close she could feel his hot breath tingling against her skin, while she surreptitiously snaked her other hand under the pillow, desperately grappling for the Dictaphone.
The sound of Jackson's ragged breathing, coming in short, rapid bursts, filled the silence which weighed heavily between them. Lisa lay perfectly still, sharply aware that her heart was thumping loudly, almost bouncing out of her rib-cage, as her hand fumbled, trying to find the Dictaphone, with the tiniest, slowest movements, to avoid drawing his attention.
She needed to distract him further.
So she reared upwards and faintly grazed her lips against his.
Jackson jerked his mouth away, as if stung.
She held her breath, frightened at what she had done. What he might do.
He stared down at her, a confused expression on his face.
Then he slowly traced a finger over the soft skin on her face, her chin, her lips, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on her throughout.
He subtly shifted position, aligning his body even closer with her own, so that he was now completely lying on top of her.
Lisa was startled to find she was moving her own body to accommodate him, even though she was acutely conscious that this was Jackson Rippner, the man of her nightmares, who was stroking her face, roughly intertwining his fingers with her damp hair.
She gulped in panic, stiffening in expectation, as she realized he was going to kiss her in return. She couldn't twist her face away, because his hand was firmly steering her head in his direction.
She closed her eyes.
He kissed her. Tentatively at first, even tenderly. A soft, light breeze of a kiss.
His hand slid slowly up the outside of her clingy bathrobe, over her leg, her hip, close to her tummy, where it rested, an unmistakable warm presence.
She was unable to dismiss the shiver of anticipation which shuddered through her.
Under the pillow, Lisa's fingers flailed frantically for the Dictaphone.
At last she found it.
This was her big chance. All she had to do was press the 'record' button.
And dismiss the thought that this, this activity, this distraction, was so intensely, so shockingly enjoyable.
But try as she might, she was struggling to disengage.
She managed to untangle her hand from Jackson's hair, sliding it down his neck, and then down his back, which exuded warmth through his shirt.
She could feel Jackson quivering beneath her fingers. His physical responsiveness startled her, even thrilled her a little if she was being brutally honest.
Jackson had become something of a a monster to her. An admittedly handsome, but slightly inhuman automaton. A cold, heartless machine. Not a real-life, sensual, flesh-and-blood man, who was so driven by desire, he was hardly able to control his breathing, who winced at her every touch.
She pulled her hand away, desperately trying to collect her thoughts.
'Lisa,' Jackson whispered, burying his face in her hair. His mouth brushed her neck, her face, then caressed her lips.
Hell, Lisa thought, panic bubbling up inside of her.
I can't stop this. I have to stop this.
But she didn't even know if she wanted to.
Her hand covered the Dictaphone's hard plastic casing. Her fingers fidgeted amongst the buttons, until she found the right one. Just press it, she said to herself. Just press it. Shut your mind off. Ignore this. Ignore him.
Jackson's hand wound itself even tighter into her hair. He pulled her closer. She could feel his heart beating furiously against her own.
He kissed her again, gently at first, then deeply, hungrily.
Now. Do it. Press the button, she thought.
But the urgency was draining away from her, as she found herself succumbing to the dense warmth of Jackson's mouth, the surge of heated arousal which was pulsing through her, urging her to press her body hard against his.
This is all wrong. So very, very wrong, she thought.
He trailed soft, damp kisses down her throat, then he was kissing her deeply again, full on the mouth, gently grinding against her.
Don't forget who he is, she said to herself primly. Don't feel. Stop feeling.
She had to do it now.
But she was getting lost.
She gasped as Jackson's hand smoothly, slowly, moved from her tummy, traveling upwards, over her ribs, to cup her breast. His touch was featherlight, teasing.
Fresh urgency seemed to sweep through him. His breathing had become rasped and uneven. His mouth pressed harder, deeper, while his body crushed tightly, rhythmically, against hers.
She could sense he was beginning to lose control.
And in spite of herself, she couldn't help responding, softly moaning in pleasure whilst kissing him passionately in return, hooking her legs around him, drawing him closer.
A tiny stab of alarm shot through her. What the hell was she doing?
But it was enough to clear her mind, for that one crucial moment.
She couldn't let this, let IT, happen. Not with him. She just couldn't. All she'd planned to do was provide a distraction. Just enough to get hold of the Dictaphone.
To do the right thing.
She clutched at the Dictaphone and stabbed frenetically at the Record button.
OK, so it would record her and Jackson making out, which was perhaps a little embarrassing, and wouldn't quite mesh with her portrayal of Jackson Rippner, as a terrifying psychotic killer, when she played it back to the police investigators.
But it would be what he said that mattered.
But first she had to get him talking, and at this moment in time, that seemed unlikely.
She had to say something. Had to stop this, before it got out of hand. Before SHE got out of hand.
'Jackson,' she murmured. 'Please. Stop it.'
But his hold on her only intensified.
She retracted her hand from the pillow, faintly aware of the Dictaphone whirring underneath her, and pushed Jackson's face away from her own.
Caught off-guard, Lisa noticed a momentary sadness, a boyish confusion, flash across his features.
Then his face hardened. Becoming the Jackson she knew and dreaded.
He swept her hand away and his mouth dived back to her own.
She writhed, twisting her face away, shoving at him with her torso, trying to wriggle her legs free from under him, but he was wrapping himself around her in an ever-tightening python hold.
She didn't dare look at his face, but she could sense he was grinning.
She battened his chest with her fists, aware of her rising panic, desperate to control it. This is not the time, she thought grimly, breathing heavily. Not the time for that familiar dreaded clutching in her chest … .
'Please Jackson. No,' she sobbed. 'Please don't.'
He halted, pulling away from her with sudden abruptness.
Lisa sighed, relieved. She sat up.
She couldn't help but notice that without his warm body weight against her, she was suddenly cold.
And then, surprising herself yet again, Lisa slapped Jackson in the face – for the second time that evening. She gasped at what she'd done.
His skin instantly glowed bright red.
Oddly, Jackson didn't react, as she feared he might. If anything he backed away even further.
He rubbed his smarting cheek, all the while staring at her intently.
Lisa grabbed a pillow – ensuring it was not the pillow concealing the Dictaphone, which she was now leaning against – and hugged it tightly against her, in self-defense, drawing her legs up and away from him.
'Well, well Lisa,' he said eventually, in mocking tones. 'I must say I'm surprised. I didn't know you cared so much.'
His eyes flicked from her face to her body and back again. He was sneering disdainfully, his crystalline, blue eyes brimming with sarcastic amusement.
Anger bubbled up fiercely inside of her. But she had to control her emotions. Her sudden loathing. She had to get him talking.
'You …you took advantage of me,' she stuttered, holding the pillow tightly to her chest.
Jackson laughed, his eyes crinkling in mirth. 'I what?' he asked, astounded.
'You heard,' she said through gritted teeth. OK, so it wasn't strictly true, but all the same … .
Jackson was open-mouthed. He regarded her curiously. And then.
'If you think I was going to … do anything you didn't want me to,' he said slowly. 'Then you're very much mistaken.'
She remained tight-lipped.
'I wouldn't do that,' he added, his face stern.
She glowered at him. 'Then why are you here, on my bed, Jack?' she said, almost spitting the words out.
He reddened. 'You kissed me, Lise,' he replied bitterly. He jumped off the bed, away from her, and started straightening his clothes, tucking in his rumpled shirt which had broken free from his pants. He looked at her, a contemptuous smile on his face.
'Anyway, You're not my type. You're too fucking complicated.'
Lisa exploded with sudden rage. She sprang up to a standing position on the bed and threw the pillow she was holding with venomous force at Jackson's head. He swerved. The pillow crashed against her dressing table, launching a range of bottles with a loud clatter onto the floor.
'In that case, Jackson Rippner,' she said, emphasizing his name – she had to fight the fury, to think of the damned tape, get his identity firmly established – 'if I'm not your TYPE, why are you following me? Why did you call me at work? Why were you in that parking-lot?'
He had picked up his jacket which was neatly draped over a chair. He had clearly removed it whilst she was in the shower. He proceeded to meticulously smooth the sleeves. He studiously ignored her glaring at him, ablaze with anger, from the bed.
When he did look at her, his blue eyes were cold, unwavering.
'Force of habit,' he said coolly. He put his jacket on. 'Something to do.'
'What do you mean?' she asked, her forehead crinkled in bemusement.
'YOU are what I do when I'm in Miami Lisa. When I have any free time, that is.'
He was fully dressed, ready to leave. But he leaned back against her bedroom wall, hands plunged firmly into his pockets. He peered at her from behind a blanket of dark tousled hair, which was sticking to his damp forehead.
'I don't understand,' she said, almost tearfully. 'I thought … .'
She was unable to say what she thought. She was completely disarmed – yet again – by this whole situation. She sank slowly on to the bed, her eyes never leaving his face.
He laughed. 'Like I said, I have no desire to kill you Lisa.'
This is good, Lisa thought. She buried her face in her hands. Carry on Jackson. Carry on.
'And I most certainly have no desire to rape you, or torture you, or any of the bloodthirsty absurdities you've no doubt been thinking.' He paused. 'Killing you would probably be easier actually.'
'But surely your employers, surely they would want you to kill me?' she asked tentatively.
Jackson snorted in derision. 'You really think you're that important Lise?'
He pushed his hair from his eyes, which enabled Lisa to better study his face. He was taunting her, she was sure. But there was something else … something that didn't ring clear and true here. What was it? Jackson didn't like to lie. She believed THAT of him, at least. But he was suddenly uncomfortable – just a tiny quaver of doubt in his frank stare. A warning.
This was the chink she'd been hoping for. Now she had to press home her advantage.
'I'm surprised you're even alive Jackson. Undone by a girl.' She snickered. 'That must have hurt.'
His eyes flashed angrily, but he stood stock-still. For an instant he looked like he might respond, but quickly stopped himself.
'I mean, come on Jackson, Keefe was a big fish, a big, brash message, that YOU failed to deliver. Must have upset a lot of people,' she continued, barely able to believe her own audacity. But somehow she wasn't frightened of Jackson. She knew darned well she should be. But not now. Not tonight.
'That's enough now Lisa,' he said softly.
'Don't you want revenge?' she asked, baiting him.
He looked puzzled. 'Why would I want that?'
'I ruined your plans, your, your nasty little plot to kill Keefe and his family?'
He smiled, a dry, withering smile, which disappeared almost the moment it came. 'Revenge is messy. Involves too much …,' he struggled for the right word, then found it. 'Emotion.'
Lisa chilled a little. Maybe she'd been too complacent.
His eyes had iced. His face stiffened.
'However,' he added. 'If I did want revenge, as you put it Lise, then I wouldn't kill you, or kill your family, or your pet fucking dog or whatever fucking thing it is you think you're attached to.'
He locked eyes with her.
'No. That's too simple. Too easy.' He leered. 'But I would want to fuck your head up good and proper. Thing is. I don't need to Lise. You're fucked up enough as it is.'
She daren't breathe, mesmerized by his biting words. She looked away, hot tears suddenly stinging her eyelids.
He approached, leaned over her, and kissed her lightly on the forehead.
'I'll call you,' he said.
She could feel the tears sliding, uncontrollably down her cheeks. She didn't look up at him, just felt his presence, like a shadow crossing her.
And then he was gone.
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The Real Deal