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Bad Pennies Always Turn Up
Anneka is the mistress of denial, and she's occasionally about as deep as a teacup ... at least on the surface, anyway. But occasionally twinges of regret get through the wall, whether she likes it or not. (Which she doesn't.)
The train made its inexorable progress through time and space, and Anneka rode with it.
She was painting her nails. Really. Honestly. The items on the table were living proof - Puck's Lavender coloured nail polish, nail polish remover which made the tiny compartment smell like acetone, cotton balls, baby wipes to clean the nailpolish remover off, hand lotion. She'd even managed to get one of the nails half-painted.
So if she was painting her nails, then why was she staring out the window, glazed eyes watching the countryside fly by like a child watching a cereal advertisement?
No. She was painting her nails. She picked up the bottle again and brushed a long, deliberate stroke onto the nail.
"I have no reason to feel guilty about this." she said aloud.
Nothing was there. So nothing answered.
"None." she continued. "Nothing at all. If he didn't know it was a one night stand, then that's not my fault. Stupid pigheaded Irishman."
Nothing continued to say nothing. Unfortunately, it was saying it very reproachfully. Bastard. Anneka squirmed on the tiny, uncomfortable bench seat and sighed.
Okay, maybe she'd screwed up.
Yes, maybe she had.
Badly.
But ... it was Evan Donnelly, for Something's sake. Loudmouthed, tale-telling, drunken, lecherous Evan.
She painted another purple stripe on her nail, and the train continued to rattle its way along.
No. She was not going to feel guilty for this. She had done what she had done and if he couldn't figure it out that was his problem. Not hers. Not at all. His problem. Resolutely, she painted another nail.
His problem, damnit.
She picked up the file with a sigh. How the hell had that nail broken?
Unbidden, the answer swam before her, a traitorous montage of image and sound: moonlight falling onto skin, the animal catch of his shoulder under her fingernails, a purring moan and a laughing, sensual pair of blue eyes above her.
No.
She was not going to think about it again. It was a mistake. He must know that. She did, after all.
She did.
Really.
It was a mistake.
Honestly.
Completely a mistake. Two ships passing in the night, bumping up against each other, blah blah. Shared a joint and a warm bed for the evening and that was all.
So why didn't she feel better?
Anneka sighed, setting the glass bottle down a little too hard on the table and trying to swallow the bloody, iron-tinted pangs of guilt that had somehow found their way into her throat.
There was a knock at the compartment door. Probably the attendant.
"Entrez." she sighed.
The door slid open.
"Well now." a familiar voice commented. "Ye led me on a rather invigoratin' chase, but I'd rather have just run around the bed a few times, yeah?"
Her mouth moved, but no sounds came out. He came inside the tiny compartment and leaned up against the wall, staring at her with an amused expression on his face.
"Tryin' te catch flies, I see." Evan mused aloud. "Well, now that I've got ye stuck in one place for a few hours, why don't we talk about Saturday night then, yeah?"
The train made its inexorable progress through time and space, and Anneka rode with it.
She was painting her nails. Really. Honestly. The items on the table were living proof - Puck's Lavender coloured nail polish, nail polish remover which made the tiny compartment smell like acetone, cotton balls, baby wipes to clean the nailpolish remover off, hand lotion. She'd even managed to get one of the nails half-painted.
So if she was painting her nails, then why was she staring out the window, glazed eyes watching the countryside fly by like a child watching a cereal advertisement?
No. She was painting her nails. She picked up the bottle again and brushed a long, deliberate stroke onto the nail.
"I have no reason to feel guilty about this." she said aloud.
Nothing was there. So nothing answered.
"None." she continued. "Nothing at all. If he didn't know it was a one night stand, then that's not my fault. Stupid pigheaded Irishman."
Nothing continued to say nothing. Unfortunately, it was saying it very reproachfully. Bastard. Anneka squirmed on the tiny, uncomfortable bench seat and sighed.
Okay, maybe she'd screwed up.
Yes, maybe she had.
Badly.
But ... it was Evan Donnelly, for Something's sake. Loudmouthed, tale-telling, drunken, lecherous Evan.
She painted another purple stripe on her nail, and the train continued to rattle its way along.
No. She was not going to feel guilty for this. She had done what she had done and if he couldn't figure it out that was his problem. Not hers. Not at all. His problem. Resolutely, she painted another nail.
His problem, damnit.
She picked up the file with a sigh. How the hell had that nail broken?
Unbidden, the answer swam before her, a traitorous montage of image and sound: moonlight falling onto skin, the animal catch of his shoulder under her fingernails, a purring moan and a laughing, sensual pair of blue eyes above her.
No.
She was not going to think about it again. It was a mistake. He must know that. She did, after all.
She did.
Really.
It was a mistake.
Honestly.
Completely a mistake. Two ships passing in the night, bumping up against each other, blah blah. Shared a joint and a warm bed for the evening and that was all.
So why didn't she feel better?
Anneka sighed, setting the glass bottle down a little too hard on the table and trying to swallow the bloody, iron-tinted pangs of guilt that had somehow found their way into her throat.
There was a knock at the compartment door. Probably the attendant.
"Entrez." she sighed.
The door slid open.
"Well now." a familiar voice commented. "Ye led me on a rather invigoratin' chase, but I'd rather have just run around the bed a few times, yeah?"
Her mouth moved, but no sounds came out. He came inside the tiny compartment and leaned up against the wall, staring at her with an amused expression on his face.
"Tryin' te catch flies, I see." Evan mused aloud. "Well, now that I've got ye stuck in one place for a few hours, why don't we talk about Saturday night then, yeah?"