0 comments/ 11131 views/ 0 favorites The Brilliance Bomb Ch. 01 By: Story_Spinner A special thank you to my partner in crime in this story - will_4_rp. You've been a 'brilliant' partner. :) Chapter One Lyla lay in the cool darkness of her bedroom, unable to sleep for the umpteenth time in months. She was tired, but even the comforting weight of her husband's warm arm did little to sooth her frazzled nerves and running mind. Something was... off. Maybe it was her. With a soft sigh she gently wiggled away from Matt's heavy arm and rolled onto her side. Frustration welled up inside her. By all accounts, she should be blissfully happy. Yesterday had marked her seven years of marriage to her high school sweetheart. They had met after she had transferred her junior year and instantly connected. The rest was history. After two wonderful years of dating, Matt had proposed after graduation and they had taken the leap into married life. While everyone had scoffed that things wouldn't last, they had managed to remain together happily through college, both working to afford their little apartment. No kids busied their lives, both agreeing that, for now, they wanted to be financially secure. So it wasn't the stress of motherhood, she was happily employed, and happy too with Matt's progress as a construction foreman. But in the last few months, Lyla had felt increasingly frustrated and confused. Sex, which had always been better than nice, and sometimes quite brilliant, was now usually passable at best. Not for Matt's lack of trying, which made her feel horrible. How could she enjoy sex, however, with the "dark cloud", as she thought of it, beginning to gather around them. Matt's dizzying rise at work had occurred alongside a tide of new contracts for his firm, subcontracted out from major players and home and abroad. And so it had come to pass: he was to work overseas, and scheduled to leave the following morning. For Iraq. The argument that followed after they had first received the news hadn't been pretty. But it was nothing compared to the ugliness with which her imagination, in the weeks since the announcement, had been terrorizing her. Lyla was worried sick—some days quite literally. Matt had tried to sooth her frazzled nerves, of course. He'd assured her he would be fine; the work was all in the lushest forest of the Green Zone; it would mean a staggering injection of money for their savings; it would mean kids. But in Lyla's mind, the risks didn't outweigh the benefits and she resented him for not taking into consideration her feelings. Yet the cloud had other origins too. Deeper, darker. Iraq had given it focus and intensity. But she knew. It was now just part of all that was off kilter in her life. With a heavy sigh, she turned onto her side and gazed at his handsome sleeping face, his dark brown hair rumpled and sticking this way and that in the most adorable way. She reached out to ruffle it and almost stopped herself. His classic square and lean features relaxed in sleep, nose a bit too sharp a precipice, but dashing nonetheless. Still young, and working construction, his body was lean and strong, often catching the eye of other women. And she couldn't blame them. Her husband was something of a hunk. It must be in the genes. That handsome mug was duplicated, in an older, xeroxed, pre-digital copy, in his older brother Michael. Michael...She tousled Matt's hair. Usually single, not eager to mingle, quiet, considered, more socially reserved—or so she imagined. He'd moved away shortly after she'd fallen hard for Matt. Something Michael, of course, had been implicated in. Perhaps he had even orchestrated it. And now they saw little of him, and heard mere whispers—driven, accomplished, successful, her mother dropped hints subtle enough to break the tiled floor of the kitchen, ever failing to annoy the hell out of Matt. Was he going to Iraq to show he could be successful too? Lyla shuddered. Tousling again, she watched Matt's eyes slowly lift, bleary with sleep. He smiled sweetly at her, his arm returning to pull her soft, curving form against his lean, hard planes. "Hey, babe..." She forced on a smile and touched his forehead gently, toying with his hair still and drawing out a low rumble of appreciation. "Shhhh... go back to sleep," she murmured softly. Nuzzling the side of her neck, he shifted his big body and pressed his lips to her skin, sending a ripple of pleasure down her neck. She closed her eyes and relished the sweet, painful feeling, her heart aching. Her voice breaking: "You should be sleeping..." She slid both hands through his hair and tugged at his hair until he lifted his face to gaze into her own. His lips came down softly against her mouth, just a feathered brush. "Lyla... I'll be back. I promise you, I will. So soon. You'll hardly have time to miss me." He assured her again, and again. Her eyes stung as tears threatened to spill. Tilting her head back, she sniffed softly and swallowed hard. She didn't want to fight, and so she said nothing. Sensing her struggle, Matt dipped down and kissed her cheeks and nose, then back down to her lips, pressing more firmly until she opened up to him and, unconsciously, moaned. His body tightened in response. His sweet little Lyla. A girl's face, a woman's curves. Her silky skin arched beneath him, brushing his chest, her tongue stroking his own. A lone, silent tear broke free and traced the softness of her face, glittering in the near dark. He brushed it away. "I love you," he murmured, thickly, and she smiled at him, her slender throat working to control the welling of emotions. "I love you too. Even if you are a stubborn ass," she forced herself to joke. His smiled flashed, and then, in the darkness, she was lost to another of his kisses. Clinging to him, she pressed close, rubbing everything she could muster against him. Her thighs shifted to cradle his body against her own, opening, wrapping her legs around him, meeting the slow grind of his hips with circles of her own, her long t-shirt riding up, his naked body burning like kindling in a fire. "Make love to me, Matt," she breathed, terrified. Terrified that somewhere between her own messed up feelings and this trip, she was going to lose him, and however it happened, it would somehow be her fault. ****** Matt was not the kind of man you had to ask twice for a fuck. One minute, he was lying there, sucked into sleep, and dreaming of running through the fields with the family dog, aged 9, beside his brother, overtaking him in the race for the finish. What was that dog's name? The next, his weeping wife had woken him up. He needed sleep, but the unbidden erection under the covers begged to differ. The huge journey tomorrow would be arduous, even with so much free booze on the company tab to keep the boys happy for the duration. And yet... The sight of Lyla crying, and – if he was honest – the curve of her sweet, perky breasts pressing through the thin fabric of her baggy bedtime t-shirt were all he needed by way of encouragement. His cock was saying yes before he'd even left the golden fields of his dream. "OK," he thought, "And as I'm going away, here's one to remember." Moving fast, he pinned her arms on either side of her head, and rolled onto her, knocking her halting breath out of her. He used one hand to grip her wrists together, kissing down her face to lick up the tears, then sucking at her neck and the panting hollow of her throat. His other hand, work-rough and powerful, slid hard down her torso between her breasts, then bunched the hem of her t-shirt and yanked it up between them, hard, exposing her to the moonlight creeping around the edge of their ill-fitting drapes. Now she gasped, arching her back, and he dove in to suck eagerly at the long, pink nipples extending from each solid mound. Meanwhile, his stiff, rough fingertips slid down across her belly, into the tropical space between her legs, and up to the short, abrasive fuzz of her slit, now stretched wide by his quarterback's thighs. This time she did more than just yelp. Crushing her gasping mouth with his lips to absorb her delighted shock, he propelled his index finger deep into her soaking hole. He smiled: she was so fucking wet. Ever the teenage boy, this detail of their love-making – her body's desperate need, which he always assumed was for him and him alone – never ceased to give him a cheap but potent thrill. He moved his hand 90 degrees right as it slid in and out with some force, then 180 degrees the other way, there and back, there and back, like a key in a sticky ignition, before coming back to the middle and where he'd begun. Now he slid his middle finger in too, and used the pair to make their favorite bedtime gesture – come here, come here, they beckoned her. Come... He rubbed his cock, by now fiercely hard and bursting to fill her in one pumping move, firmly against her leg and mound, wetting itself on her flooding juices as she bucked against his fist. All the while he bit and sucked at her lips, her painfully stiff nipples, her bare, blushing neck... "Come here, come here," he teased her as his fingers flickered faster inside, right in the spot she loved best. He felt her widening inside, felt her ballooning open to receive him. Lyla now desperate, her hands grappling free – of course, he let them – and racing down for his cock, locking on, rubbing it one above the other on its thick, oh-so-fucking-satisfying length, and pulling him in towards his pumping fingers, to take their place. "Matt, oh baby, I'm... oh God... I'm... I'm..." ****** Lyla was often overwhelmed by that force of Matt's passion. And tonight, it was just what she needed. She needed to be overwhelmed, to be taken, to be his. He was doing just that, showing her how much he wanted her supple feminine body. Her soft skin, the curves he enjoyed so much, from her tits, to the dip of her waist, rounded hips and tight, heart shaped bottom. She squirmed and bucked against him as he played his signature move, one which he had perfected over the years that never failed to drive her to edge in little to no time. His mouth and hot breath against her skin were driving her wild and as she struggled to free herself, she felt herself teetering on the edge of oblivion. That maddening throbbing ache between her slick thighs was building to a crescendo. She gasped and pulled him closer, her nails sinking into his back. A shudder worked it's way down her body as her hips jacked up off the bed, words beginning to slip past her lips with little thought and all feeling. "Matt, oh baby, I'm... oh God... I'm... I'm..." She gasped and dug her shoulders into the bed, arching up and shoving her chest against his as the first contractions of her orgasm stole her breath away. "Yeeeess!" She hissed, just as the blunt head of his cock quickly replaced his fingers. She cried out, moving under him in the throws of passion as he grabbed a hold of her thighs and pushed them up and out. His name burst past her lips, her nails racked up his back as his hips thrust forward and every inch of his delicious length filled and stretched her out. "OH!" She yelped, her spasming pussy milking every sweet inch, making him grunt and moan. ****** Matt felt calm. Sometimes, playing football, it had been like this: everywhere around him, a turmoil of flesh, activity, the ecstasy of physicality. But as he considered his move, made his play, everyone else was muted, once removed from the action. He, meanwhile, slipped effortlessly between their semi-frozen forms, pure thought, seeing the plays, feeling the possibilities. As Lyla came, her muscles gripping him over and over, he assumed control of his body. He could have just made his play right there. Scored the perfect touchdown. But for Matt, there was always a better play to be made. At least, that was always his plan. Keeping her impaled, he brought his knees up, and pulled her a little closer and higher toward him, so he was kneeling in front of her spread-eagled form. His arms, sinewy and hard, supported him with no effort as he watched Lyla, still writhing. The muscles in her tummy were undulating like a belly dancer, her body only now beginning to be wracked less fiercely by her early orgasm. Tears streamed from her eyes, which now opened again to look up into his. If Matt had been brighter, he might have recognized that this was the first time she'd been quite this captivated and electrified in a long, long time. But Matt was a man of deeds, not reflection. A man of action. Supporting himself on just one arm, he moved the strand of hair that was playing in her eyes back behind her ear, and as he did so she turned her face sharply to follow his fingers, catching her own scent He smiled, and allowed her to suck greedily on their sticky thickness, as she began to squirm again. Slowly, so slowly, he withdrew his not inconsiderable cock until just the fat, bullet-shaped tip was inside her, threatening, given their bodily angle, to ping out of her with a shower of her juice. But he held it there, enjoying the sight of its lurid bulge just within her burning, tight hole, and began to move his hips, just an inch or two forwards and back, teasingly slowly. His other hand, meanwhile, trickled down the other side of her face and then, player with her breasts, stopped each from jittering with the fast, regular movements they'd been making by holding a nipple firmly and lifting it slightly, then letting it all fall back. She bit him as he did so, and moaned dark sounds into his other palm, so he knew she was just where he wanted her. He did this 24 times. Always 24 times, 24 feints, and then – pow – his whole length, plunging into her with violence and power that made her back arch and her mouth open in a scream that couldn't come out because the air had left her body already. And then carefully back out again, slowly, as her body rested, unable to relax to quite the same extent, and he began the process again. But this time, to just 23 little thrusts, and when he struck, it was with two of the slow, agonizing movements, and between them, when sunk inside her, he circled his hips, screwing her the way the name entails, churning her up like a thick, exotic cream, before striking again. Sex by equation. It should be the opposite of sexy, but to Matt, it was sex. Not that Lyla was complaining. As he moved quickly again, she clutched at the sheets to bear down on him, matching his short stabbing thrusts with pelvic movements of her own; and then when he took her fully three times, she opened her legs and hips as widely as they'd go, allowing gravity to pull them far from home, and moving with him, in contrary motion, intensifying every last circle, breathing his name, his sharp, dirty scent, and grinding out their love. But she knew how to subvert the game too: Lyla had moves of her own. Matt never made it to anything more than a High School reserve quarterback, and the reason for this had been that he'd lacked the concentration and commitment to follow through on his instincts through disciplined preparation. If he'd worked through all of the permutations, God only knew what Lyla would have experienced. A burst of pure brilliance, perhaps. But before that could occur, in the sack at least, he'd begin to lose control, and the slow, delicious plunges would become more frantic. Lyla's eyes opened, as he moved down through the upper teens of the fuck, seeing the strain on Matt's face as he tried not to let it all go as he screwed her deeply into the mattress again, sweat dripping from his hair into their slickened, interlocking parts. She smiled coyly up at him, but knowingly too. Time to intercept. She knew where to touch him, and how to move, to short-circuit the night to the conclusion she knew - as she began to tighten inside yet again - she so desperately needed. ****** Lyla was lost in their perfect moment. It hadn't happened in so long she had almost forgotten how good they were together. While not perfect, it had always been enough to made her heart swell with love and body sing with pleasure. His trained look turned her on further, because know the power was in her hands. Over the years she had learned some of triggers and it never failed to draw a deep sense of satisfaction from her. With her coy little smile, she lifted her legs up and wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him down. Their bodies slapped together as he pressed his face to her neck and let out a soft growl. She purred, panting as she tightened herself all around him and squeezed him with her thighs, slowing his motions and running her tongue across the slick salty skin of his neck. He strained to above her, fighting against her hold, which in reality he could easily break, but was lost in the sweet sensation of her velvety wet walls gripping him so tightly. "Is it good?" She breathed into his hear, tilting her face to suck on his earlobe, her breath tickling his skin. "You like my tight pussy holding you Matty? Tell me you love it baby." She purred, earning her a grunt as his big hands slid down her sides and gripped her tightly. Using his hips as leverage, she bore down him with her own sure movement, impaling herself and grinding her clit against him with each gyration. Her nipples poked into his chest, moving back and forth, slick with sweat. She wanted to tweak his nipples, run her mouth over them and truly tease him, but knew she was right there with him. "I love you baby." She whimpered, his hot breaths making her quiver, "Uh huh...right there Matt!" She urged him on, her nails raking down his back as she felt him harder and pulse within her. Her own spasms began, the sweet little inner flex deep inside as she eased and relaxed her hips and let him go. He took over again, bucking against her, his breath hissing out, loud moans followed by his body tensing against her own. She struggled to breath as he worked her hard and felt herself tumbling right over with him. Her name burst past his lips, a hand fisting her hair as he pulled her tight to him and filled her, spurting deep into her again and again. Moments later, his great body sagged against hers just as her legs hit the bed and slid down. She hugged him close a moment before her rolled, easing his weight off her smaller frame. She breathed in deeply and tried to regain her breath. "C'mere." He murmured thickly, his own energy drained. She wiggled closer, turning to her side and letting him pull her close. His nose pressed to her hair, nuzzling as he spread his fingers wide over her flat belly and cupped her against his body. Now tired, Lyla yawned and snuggled, in that moment completely at peace and refusing to think of tomorrow. For tonight, they were brilliant. With a soft smile, she welcomed sleep with a gentle yawn and let herself go. The Brilliance Bomb Ch. 02 (Sorry about the mix up -- wrong story in what I thought was in the right spot. Oops! Silly me!) * The phone on the bedside table trilled impertinently. Michael reached over, annoyed by the unfamiliar terrain of the motel's anonymous dresser, fumbled around for his specs, put them on, grabbed the phone, looked at the number. Curious. Not only unrecognized, but government, judging from the codes. He sent it to voice mail, took his expensive glasses off and placed them carefully by the iPhone, put his hands back behind his head and sank back into the pillows. The government could wait. Light played at the fringes of the curtain, hastily pulled some hours before. A broken champagne flute was over there somewhere. Note to self, he thought: ignite light before walking barefoot in its general direction. He could just about make out other, gauzy shapes on the floor. His shirt. A discarded vest top. Assorted undergarments, coiled together. As if in love. He sighed. Yeah, right. As if... He peered down his lean, running hardened body. Say what you like about this girl, he thought to himself: she's certainly dedicated. The intern -- Cathy? Katy? -- had been sucking at his unenthusiastic bulge for precisely 13 minutes now. He'd come out of snooze mode to find her rooting about down there, and thought to himself, well, if it please thee -- and closed his eyes to leave her to it. A few minutes later, she'd become enthused by a sleepy surge, and she'd redoubled her efforts, awakening him again, and a little annoyed, if truth be told. Now, she was apparently convinced that, in spite of the ample evidence to the contrary -- his near comatose state, the fact that this would mark a fifth orgasm of the evening and thus, at the tender age of 35, something of an achievement, and the fact he'd not uttered a single grunt of encouragement -- she could land the plane. "Honey?" he half whispered. Damn. This was going to be awkward. He couldn't remember her name. "Honey?" She paused, looking up at him all smudgy eyed adoration, her impressively taut, if rather tiny breasts holding their breath as she paused, mid-suck, awaiting his command. "Sweetie, I'm not sure this is going..." The phone chirruped again. Saved by the bell. In one smooth motion he removed himself from her mouth (Katherine? Katharina?), picked up the phone and glasses, and slid his legs off the bed and onto the floor. She sank tiredly into the bed to rest her no doubt aching jaws and tongue with just the merest harrumph of disappointment, her gorgeous, dusky blonde hair tumbling around her. If only he could be bothered to notice. Same number. He took the call. Susannah (Susannah! Of course!) watched him. His bare back, tightly muscled, with a single, overgrown mole among the constellations of minor blemishes. His breathing, slow and careful as he spoke. Then a little shorter, harder. "Yes, this is he. No, I was not aware of that. He did? Really? Not Lyla?" Lyla? And who, pray tell, is Lyla, thought Susannah? She'd shadowed this brilliant man for six months, moving around the world with him, listening to his speeches, proofreading his newspaper articles, even understanding some of them and what they had to say about the peak oil crisis, overpopulation, and so on, and for the last few hours she'd beaten off a small harem of intern admirers to keep him company at night as well - and yet she'd never once heard of Lyla. She propped herself up on an elbow. "I see. When did this happen?" And then, more quietly. "Oh no." A pause, as he listened. "Yes, but of course I will. Somehow... Yes, sir. Goodbye General." General? Slack-jawed, and not only from her misguided oral heroics, the beautiful, sweet, clever, 23-year-old Yale graduate sat up in the middle of the bed and watched networks of tension join the dots across her boss's many moles. "Michael? Michael, what's wrong?" He stood up, naked, and walked through the darkness to the windows. Something crunched angrily on the floor. He reached the curtains and parted them a little, allowing some light in. He stood there for a time. "Michael?" His face turned slightly towards her, coldly illuminated by the pale morning sunlight. "I have to leave. My brother has gone missing in Iraq. I must inform his wife." She mouthed words that were utterly pointless. "Can you get me a towel from the bathroom?", he added. "I've stepped in some broken glass." It had been two weeks since Lyla had waved goodbye to her husband, in the cool early mornings house. A thought she reflected on often enough, to the point of obsession. Dressed in only her robe, she'd clung to him on the front porch, not wanting to let go... He squeezed her tight, smoothing a big hand over the top of her head and down her neck and back. "I gotta go baby." She inhaled his scent and gripped him a little bit tighter, before easing back with a sniffle, feeling pathetic. He had been on trips before, many of them, but this was different and didn't feel right. "I wish you wouldn't do this. I have a very bad feeling." She told him for the hundredth time. Cupping her cheeks, he gazed into her worried eyes, then dipped down and kissed her softly. "I'll be back before you know it and then we can go for round two of what happened last night." "Promise?" His brows creased in concern at her soft, wavering question, his own doubts peaked, but he wouldn't admit it. Lyla had never acted like this before, always strong and self assured around him. "Promise. I'll be back Lyla. If you need anything, call Michael. I'll email you and call as soon as I can okay?" She nodded and planted another soft kiss on his lips as he slung his bag over a shoulder, giving her hand a small squeeze before finally stepping briskly down the porch steps to the waiting cab. Clutching her robe tightly to her body, she gave him a half hearted wave as the brightly colored cab slowly pulled away. She wouldn't be needing him, even if it was tempting to call and unload all the pent of worries she had bottled up inside. To hear him reassure her himself that everything would be okay. No, there would be no need to call Michael and it had always rubbed her the wrong way when Matt suggested it on his trips out of town. As if she was a weak and defenseless female unable to take care of herself when in reality she was well accomplished at basic house hold repairs and if push came to shove, could even check her own vehicle fluids without a male to interfere. Imagine that! "Lyla? Lyla?" A seemingly far off voice broke through Lyla's dazed thoughts, snapping her to the present. She blinked at her best friend's concerned face. "Hmm?" "You are okay?" Susan asked, "You've been staring off into space for a good ten minutes now and you don't seem like yourself." Lyla nodded, pushing aside her half eaten sandwich and brushing the crumbs off of her smock top. It had been a whole week of worrying about Matt, work, then going home to a lonely house and nothing to do but worry some more. "I'm fine." "No offense babe, but you look like crap." "Gee thanks." She grumbled, but couldn't help but smile slightly. Susan had always been honest to a fault and perhaps that's why she liked her so much. Unlike many women she knew, she cut through the BS and called it like she saw it. This also sometimes played against her. "Maybe you need a day off...you know, rest, relax...try not to worry so much. We could round up some of the girls and go dancing if you'd like. Let your hair down, shake a little tail feather." Lyla giggled at that, "I don't think so Suze." Susan sighed in exasperation, rolling her eyes. "Oh come on. Don't be a stick in the mud. A few drinks and some dancing never hurt anyone. Besides...I could use a little fun myself. We haven't done anything in over a month and I'm tired of all work and no play." "Well..." Lyla had to admit that it all sounded kinda nice. Staring at the walls at home wasn't helping her moods any. "Okay." "Yeah?" Susan beamed and let out a little whoop of excitement. "Tomorrow night then? I'll spread the word and until then, smile! For the love! You'll be making the babies cry." Lyla chucked a crumpled wrapper at her friend who laugh and dodged it. Break was over and they were both happy for it. While Susan went about her day making her rounds and spreading the word, Lyla occupied herself in the hospital nursery. She was thankful for that. Without work, she would have certainly lost her ever loving mind sitting staring at walls. The next baby that fussed instantly got scooped up and Lyla smiled down at his cute little face, cooing softly. For the first time in the weeks that had passed, she was looking forward to having a little fun. The silence that greeted her every night was just too much. "What do you think little man? Think I can dance off the blues a little?" The infant gurgled and she grinned, setting about doing her job with slightly higher spirits. With work taking up most of her evening, the following day sprang up way too early in Lyla's opinion and Susan had already filled her phone up with messages. By the time she'd dragged her bottom out of bed, she was beating down her door. "Open up missy! I know you're in there!!" Susan demanded and Lyla groaned, shuffling to open up the door. "What are you doing?" Susan waltzed in, shaking her head at Lyla's fuzzy slippers and oversized night shirt. "Come on, get showered and dressed. This is an intervention." "Excuse me?" Lyla quirked a brow, shutting the door against the cool morning. "An intervention. I'm tired of seeing you all mopy and depressed looking." She cupped Lyla's cheeks gave them a squeeze. "I love you and you're my best friend. So today, we're going to make it a girls day. We're going to go eat breakfast once you make yourself look presentable. Then we're going to get a mani and a pedi, get our hair did, we're going to then do a little shopping and eat lunch and theeeen my dear friend we're gonna go meet the others for some more fun." Lyla found herself smiling as she pulled Susan's cool hands off her warm cheeks. "Alright alright...I'll go change. Cool your jets woman." Susan laughed and gaze her a swat, then made herself at home in front of the TV while Lyla went to get herself prepped. A good hour later and she reappeared, looking fresher and more put together. "Ready when you are tyrant!" Lyla teased, poking out her tongue and laughing as she grabbed her purse. ***** He'd been parked outside his brother's house for fifteen minutes, seeking the courage required to get out of the car, when the door of the house had burst open and two young, striking women burst out. A tumble of joy, laughs and handclaps, Lyla bounced towards a 4x4 parked across the avenue with her even bouncier fried -- good God, Michael thought, is that really little Susan Sobotnik? -- who playfully slapped her on the rear as, alarm de-beeping, Lyla clambered into the vehicle. They pulled out and drove off, moments later, some vintage hip hop popping out of the opening windows. Michael had missed his chance, to put it mildly. But he was glad he hadn't intervened just yet. How could he have punctured that balloon with the terrible news? He'd wait for a better time. He started his Mercedes, and followed. He'd have to choose his moment. Surely that moment would arise soon. Wrong. First, he waited for three hours -- three hours! -- outside some beauty salon. Then, they'd driven out of town to a small winery, presumably for lunch and, no doubt, wine. He'd parked on the far side of the lot, enviously munching a bagel he'd grabbed from a vendor along with the New York Times during his earlier vigil, and waited. Why was he waiting to find her? Partly, it was because the news had darkened. Partly, it was because he's promised the officials to whom he had spoken that he'd keep her news private for now. So no friends yet. Matt's disappearance, it seemed, was linked to some kind of improvised device exploding; there were casualties, but his body had not been found in the wreckage of vehicles created by the bomb. The same General, a Greggs, had informed him, with a voice professionally devoid of emotion, that it was suspected Matt had been taken hostage. The request had thus evolved: now Michael had to tell Lyla and drive her to a hotel in Washington to be briefed, and also away from the pack of reporters that would descend on her once the news, if confirmed, went viral in her home town and the wider world. Michael, the General said -- with some distaste creeping through the cool veneer -- knew the ways of the media. They needed to get Lyla safe ad keep her quiet until it suited them to expose her to the press. They needed, Michael knew, to take control of the narrative. Sitting in his car, anonymous jazz on the radio, he thought about Matt. He regularly received jaunty texts and emails from his young brother, apparently because he was part of a group mailing list to which Matt saw fit to send the latest smutty link or joke he'd heard at work. He rarely liked the jokes, many of which were racist or sexist, or worse; he'd sometimes enjoyed the links, to his slight liberally-guilty shame. They rarely spoke in person nowadays. Yet he felt a profound responsibility towards his kid brother. He always had, after their father's death. He wanted the best for him. Hence Lyla. He had, at a certain moment, stepped aside, so that a smitten girl could fall instead for an equally smitten Matt, rather than for the strange initial object of her affections -- so obvious when she'd started popping around for "homework", and later for those first "dates" with Matt, later still for real dates as his frostiness did its work -- and once, excruciatingly, for dinner. He didn't remember much from that night, save for glimpses of a girl so beautiful he'd not dared to look at her in anything but sidelong glances at tiny portions of her body or face, and the disastrous moment her bare leg had brushed against his arm at the dinner table, as he'd reached down beneath it to grab a fumbled napkin. His knee banged up against the table, spilling coke, much to his mother's horror. It had soaked his jeans, so he'd retreated to his room to change. And also, he recalled soberly, to masturbate. While the merry sounds of dinner continued in his absence -- his mother had so loved it when they had friends around, filling the too often quiet melancholy of the house with something approaching its former brilliance -- he stroked his painfully hard, 18-year-old cock. Long and pale, rigid like porcelain, it gleamed in his hand as he focused on her skin, the soft down of her fine hairs against his arm, the curve of her breasts pushing at the tight fabric of the neat little dress she'd worn, bare armed, ample décolletage, utterly charming. He'd imagined pulling the straps of the dress down, her pale breasts tumbling free to hang before him, her mouth curling into a smile as she pressed them together beneath the rapid blur of his hand... and then he'd done what needed to be done. He'd done what he'd always done, throughout his life, for the good of his mother, his brother, his college roommates, his girlfriends, his non-profit organizations, and now, he sometimes permitted himself to imagine, for the whole damned world. Sublimation. His cock, he noticed, was hard in his pants. And sore, from the exertions of the night before. He shifted a little uncomfortably, willing it away. He had will power to spare, and it obeyed. Arms around each other's shoulders, the two friends suddenly emerged through the woven willow of the gates. The years had been kind to Suze, Lyla's old friend, Michael acknowledged. A lean, beautiful face with cheek bones, pert breasts, long brown legs. Lyla -- well, she was much more lovely now than the night she'd made him spill his coke. Yet her face bore the bruises of worrying, and perhaps something more. Was it the image he knew from his own reflection, the hairline cracks of disappointment? Or even of repression? If so, my God, of what? She'd won her man, the life she wanted, the career. A slide show of Lyla images spun through his mind as he saw them totter into the 4x4 and drive off a little too carefully, Suze and her passenger clearly well on the way to being pleasantly drunk: Lyla at her wedding, Lyla at that first family Christmas and cooking for the first time in his mother's house, Lyla sitting on Matt's lap at Thanksgiving the next year beerily swearing at the football on the TV, Lyla avoiding eye contact with him once, a thousand times. Or was that just his imagination? Whatever it was, he was enjoying watching her now, under the oddest, the worst possible, circumstances. The tires spun as he lurched out of the gravel parking lot and onto the road behind them. They wove slowly back into town, ending up at what appeared to be a C&W themed restaurant with some kind meets bar meets club appended to it-- revelry of various kinds, in full swing even at 4pm, was audible from every open window. The neon of the signs -- an electric blue cowgirl, riding a pink stallion -- played across the glass of his windscreen, gaudy against the reddening sky as he parked and watched them scamper inside. Three hours later, desperately hungry, he followed them. ***** Lyla was buzzing! And that was a good thing otherwise she wouldn't have had the nerve to make it out all that way to drink some more, eat and dance...only the eating was taking a back seat to all the 'fun' that Susan was throwing her way. This certainly wasn't her usual thing and she felt a little out of her element, but with Susan on her arm, she was braving it and taking everything as it came with surprising ease. She was dressed to impress, although not quite as boldly as Susan. Her dark wash jeans and heeled boots lent her a little extra height which most women craved. Plus, they were darn sexy! There was nothing like a pair of sexy shoes to make a gal feel good and she was feeling it. Even through the fatigue she fought off, Lyla tugged shimmer green top she wore and was flooded with the warmth of her co-workers as Susan zipped her into the club. Cheers went around, as if the part had just arrived. And in a sense, it had. Susan was the usually the life of the party and Lyla the tag along, but she didn't mind. Their friendship had never suffered from it and Susan was loyal to a fault. So much so she was determined to get her best friend out of her funk. "Okay girly, lets dance!" Slightly off kilter, she laughed and swayed against Susan as they hit the floor which was lit up with all kinds of colors. "Holy shit, I feel like we're at a disco." Lyla grinned and let her friend spin her around. Personal space were not words that occupied Susan's vocabulary and her hands slid against Lyla's curving hips as she began to playfully bump and grind from behind. Giggles bubbled up from Lyla's throat and filled the air as the dance floor came to life around them. She let the music fill her and lost herself in the beat, pausing only long enough to grab a shot from wandering trays. The body shot ladies were about in force, but the girls tossed theirs back with wicked little smiles. Before long, Susan had attracted one particularly tall blond man who reminded Lyla of sunshine and surf. His blond streaked hair could only be real or the man spent more time than both of them at the salon achieving such a natural look. Without bothering to ask, manly hands slid over her friends more narrow hips and the two began going at it. Lyla quirked a brow, but Susan was loving the attention. She glanced up and moved her lithe body again surfer dudes lean frame. Figuring this was time for a small breather, Lyla spun around to make her get-away only to smack straight into another man. The Brilliance Bomb Ch. 02 Unlike Susan's dance partner, he was shorter with dark hair and equally dark eyes, but stocky. He didn't posses the classic features that made her notice men, no, but he wasn't ugly either. The strangest part to Lyla was not having to crane her neck back to gaze into his face. "Hey sexy!" He grinned, showing off a brilliant set of perfect teeth. "Hey yourself." She retorted, wishing for one more shot. He let out a short bark of laughter and moved closer, his body not quite as in tune with music as her own. He measured her up in an instant and she wasn't saying no. Instead of escaping for a well deserved break, her new partner was pushing her into another dance just as the song switched to something a little slower. He took the opportunity to pull her closer. She stiffened and then fell into it. Alcohol making her reflexes a little slower than she wanted to admit. She peaked around to make sure that Susan was close and did a double take as she found her besty tonguing surfer dude, letting out a startled little snort. Geeez...it was then that her brain registered her dance partners hands and how they were cupping her rounded firm bottom. Jerking her gaze back around, she tightened her fingers against the man's shoulders and gave him a little shove. He didn't budge, "Wow cowboy. Hands a little higher." His hands didn't move either and Lyla began to feel a small pang of alarm, mixed with annoyance. "Look buddy. I came here to dance and have a little fun. I didn't come to get groped." He let a snort and dipped his face close to hers, his own breath reeking of alcohol. She wrinkled her nose and tried lean away. This only served in helping him push her hips lewdly into his own, grinding against hers as the dance continued. "I figure two chicks out on the town like you two are must be looking for more than just dancin' honey." "Well you figured wrong, now get your hands off me." Somewhere between squirming to get away and the mass of bodies, Lyla found herself alone in a sea of people with Mr. Grabby Hands. He wasn't taking no for an answer, his own brain addled by alcohol as he slid a sloppy wet mouth against the side of her neck. A big fat yuck echoed in her mind, and was sobering all at once. Frantic to get away, she twisted and squirmed, her eyes darting around to find a familiar face to come to the rescue. Where the hell was someone when needed them!? She cursed as she searched and then everything froze, including her body. Her mauler had ideas that she'd finally given in and went to town on feeling her up. But Lyla felt complete shock as her eyes held the ones of a man across the room. Matt!! Her brain raced and she blinked, shaking her head. And then a whole barrage of emotions hit her, robbing her of her breath. A burst of joy, then dread, fear, panic and something so acute and sweet she dared not delve into it. Not Matt...worse...Michael. ***** The food was barely passable, but at least it put off the inevitable horror of the dance floor. Michael could hear the throbbing bass, like bombs exploding at the edge of a city. As he swilled back Coke to wash away the slime of his fried chicken sandwich, the explosive music forced him to confront the traumatic images creeping out of his imagination. His brother, limbs blown off, dead on a dusty red road; his brother, blindfolded and bound in the dark, with footsteps approaching him stealthily; his brother, kneeling in front of a camera, men in black hoods standing behind him. He put down the Coke glass, the oily liquid shivering in the glass with the shaking of his hands. Many people saw Michael, sitting alone at a table for four in a crowded restaurant tipping into happy hour. Nobody bothered him. His haunted eyes, fixed on images beyond their comprehension, repelled all advances. After some time, however, he began to hear the thuds and thumps of music, not bombs, and remembered his mission. Passing a hand across his brow -- cold sweat -- he threw a twenty on the table and made for the club. Inside was a vision of hell that immediately sent him back into his nightmarish visions. Strobing red and blue lights like emergency vehicles, a track with a siren blaring across anguished vocals, a mangled knot of limbs and parts. As the strobes continued to flash, each limb, each head, seemed disconnected, every face contorted in a snapshot of pain. He couldn't breathe, noticed his head getting lighter, dizzier... then checked himself and stumbled to the long, inviting curve of the bar. He found a stool, and propped himself up with it, like an ungenerously stuffed scarecrow. The two swift shots of JD helped him back. "This is ridiculous," he thought. So he clenched his teeth, sank the third shot that had magically appeared in front of him, and swiveled round to face the floor. The song had changed many times, and now some kind of commercial country was in full swing. No strobes, just 70s disco effects. A mirror ball. And several metric tons of panting, middle-aged buffoons, apparently too stupid not to be having the time of their lives. He sorely envied them. He scanned for Lyla. On another night, he'd have taken a distanced pleasure from the sight of so many scantily clad women, many of them dancing together, as if intimate. But not tonight. There she was, her top brilliantly illuminated in a passing ultraviolet haze. Michael paused, again. She seemed... in delight. She seemed young. That is, he checked himself, she is still young, obviously... but young at heart, ebullient. Aflame with life. Without a care in the world. And it was his job to detonate that illusion. His heart sank through his ribcage and settled in his guts. And there it paused, as he considered an unexpected and sudden development. "Who the hell is this hobbit?" he said aloud. Stout, hairy -- you could see a dank pelt emerging from the collar of his shirt -- and dripping sweaty malice of forethought, a dark little man was propositioning Lyla. Worse, he already had his hands on her, and she clearly did not like this at all. People around them began to notice her struggle and -- typically -- made room for the spectacle, rather than lending her a hand. This was the land of Freedom, after all. (Susan, he noted, had her eyes closed, as she was kissing a guy with sun-bleached hair.) Then the gruesome, stocky little man planted a kiss on her, his hands cupping her backside - at which precise moment, Lyla saw through the crowd, saw Michael, and their eyes locked together. The room was silent for a moment. Perhaps for eternity. Then Michael sprang across the floor, moving like a panther, a boxer, and a dancer, with stealth, grace and killer purpose. In seconds, he was at her side. One hand on the little guy's shoulder, he span him around to face his considerably taller and stronger opponent. "And what the hell do you want, buddy?" "Time to go back to the Shire, Frodo," Michael replied. "Go find a piglet to fuck." "What the..." he stammered, his hands coming off Ilsa and waving incoherently in the air, a semaphore signifying speechless indignation. Ilsa took a step back and bumped into Suze, who had considerately now stopped snogging and, uncoiling one arm from the guy, passed it protectively around her friend. Lyla just stared, eyes wide and suddenly moist. "Why you..." Frodo muttered, and attempted to land some kind of two-fisted blow on Michael, at Michael, or at least in the vicinity thereof. But Michael had studied kung fu for over a decade. Feeling the man's energy approach, rather than striking out, Michael sank back onto one leg, anchoring his own weight, while slightly outstretching his other knee, and thus forming a void through which the man's fists passed, his body then following and catching Michae's leg. This sent him stumbling. Spinning his upper body back round in a tight semi-circle, Michael landed a single, devastating punch into the kidneys of that hairy back. This all took just three and a half seconds. Michael stepped over the unconscious heap, took Lyla's hand, smiled apologetically to Susan, and pulled Lyla closer to him. His arms gently closed around her, pulling her against his chest. He leaned in and pressed his lips to her ear. Her body crushed against his, and he could feel her shaking. "Lyla, we have to leave. It's Matthew. There's been a bomb." Her shaking ceased. The Brilliance Bomb Ch. 03 Lyla was stunned by Michael's ease with the whole situation. He moved with a certain grace and power that only one another man had ever shown her and that was Matt. Both so similar in ways and yet almost polar opposites in others. It was still breath taking to watch and made her heart slam against her chest as he dodged the drunk's attempted blows and went in for the kill. Thankfully the man was only unconscious, but Lyla found herself in a daze. The room seemed to slow, his actions almost slow motion until he pulled her away from Susan's hold and against his chest. His voice brushing against her ear and stilled every tremor inside and for a dreadful minute she forgot to breath. Her fingers bunched into the smooth expensive material of his shirt and crushed it in her fists. Slowly leaning back she blinked wide eyes up at him, clearly stunned by the news. "What?" Her question fell on deaf ears. The music was too loud, the crowds closing in and then she was being dragged away after Michael briefly leaned in to speak to Susan who's own eyes widened. She nodded in understanding and let him pull Lyla away, further off the dance floor, through the throngs of crowds until cooler air hit her over heated skin. It was like cold water hitting her square in the face and Lyla couldn't help but dig her heels in and jerk at Michael's hand. "Michael, please! What's going on? Is he dead? Is Matt dead?!" Her voice wavering and cracking slightly as panic welled up inside her. He hushed her gently, which was a far cry from what had just happened on the dance floor. Mr. Big Bad Protector going all soft. "We don't know, okay? I promised I'd pick you up and get more details." She nodded numbly and fought the urge to fall apart and start blubbering like a weak pitiful female. "This might not be appropriate, but better stop for coffee on the way." He gave her a short nod and tugged her back beside him. She fell silent, a little numb as he gently urged her into the car and then joined her. His scent seemed to fill the small space. Expensive cologne....not over powering, but definitely male and sexy. It should have unnerved her like Michael usually did. Something about his sharp gaze always seemed to cut right through her. It had partially been what had attracted her in the first place, but then he'd thrust her into Matt's way and the two had clicked quickly. Still there had always been that underlying current, tension; a connection that she'd never been able to completely define and they had both avoided like the plague. When a hot cup of coffee was gently place into her hands, Lyla blinked. Mildly startled that she'd completely zoned out. "Thank you." She murmured, a little embarrassed by the whole ordeal, but also worried about her husband. Nausea rolled through her, whether from alcohol or worry, she wasn't sure. Either way, it didn't settle well, but she sipped on her coffee, forcing the hot liquid into her system. Michael said nothing and she was somewhat glad of it. She felt foolish, having him come to her rescue while some drunk pawed at her. Jumbled thoughts filled her mind, coming and going between worries and questions about Matt and what Michael was thinking, but she had come to no conclusions. Vaguely she realized they were on the way back to her place and glanced at Michael's profile, so much like Matt's and yet...not. His features were sharper, almost harder and unlike Matt's open, devil may care attitude, Michael always seemed to have shadows behind those eyes. "Where are we going?" She finally asked. He spared her but the briefest of glances, his hands she noticed tightening on the steering wheel. "Washington." Once again dread crawled up her neck. If Matt was dead, then there wouldn't be such a fuss. Not, something else was wrong. Something bad. Feeling clammy, she slumped against her seat and remained quiet until they returned to the house. Not waiting for his help as he parked, she pulled herself out of the car and mechanically opened up the front door. She could feel his gaze on her, but didn't meet it anymore. Instead she left the front door wide open for him and went to her room to start packing an overnight bag before she immersed herself under the hot spray of a shower. Clean and feeling more awake and alert, she ran through her routine and returned to the living room in a pair of soft worn jeans and a bright long sleeved shirt. "When do we leave?" The Brilliance Bomb Ch. 04 The hotel was near the Interstate, near a getaway, but near enough also for officials to visit them once a day or more, in an emergency. Their rooms had the warm precision of business class: single beds, flowers, sofas, flat screens on the wall, and an adjoining door. On the first night, the door would be closed, but unlocked. On the second, it would be opened. On the third, it would be shattered. **** They drove through the night, descending into the hotel's six circles of parking hell just before 1am. Lyla had long been asleep, plummeting into unconsciousness, like a newly bathed baby, shortly after getting into the car. Michael had not minded. Less conversation. It was easier that way. Much, much easier. He had driven for hours, and having killed the engine stretched his lithe arms and legs, hunting for blood clots. Apparently unharmed by the journey. Good. He turned to his passenger. Her warm breath caressed his face, and also made a curl of hair which had fallen across her plump, slightly pouting lips sway back and forth. He reached out a hand to move it, checked himself, and she awoke. "We're here." Lyla sat blinking in the harsh light of the silent lobby as Michael took care of their luggage and the business end of things. He stood at the desk, long after a boy had scurried off to a lift, with their things, reading a printed e-mail. He let the paper fall, then looked up at Lyla. Her face tightened. "It's OK," he reassured her, "No news. Just an itinerary. Lets go to bed," he immediately corrected himself. "Lets go to sleep." "When will we hear from the General?" she asked wearily, slumping against the mirrored interior of the lift as it purred higher and higher. "We get briefed tomorrow, at 10 am. We'll be served breakfast, and all our meals, in our room. They don't want us out there. They don't want a... circus." "When can we leave?" "When we know." Her eyes fell to the floor, and his did too. He could see her bottom lip trembling. For a moment, she looked like her 16-year-old self. Fighting the instincts inside that usually forbade such an action, he reached out his large, smooth and capable hand, took hers inside it, and enfolded it firmly. The bell dinged, the doors opened, she sniffed and led the way purposefully out of the lift and turned left, walking some paces ahead of him. "Um, Lyla?" Michael stopped, failing entirely to suppress a smile. "We're the other way." She turned, frowned, and walked alongside him to their rooms. Michael tipped the bellboy, who quirked a brow at the specifics of the note he'd just earned, Lyla noted as she entered her room. Softly, Michael said "Goodnight. I'm right next door, if you... if you... need to talk?" Damn idiot, he kicked himself inside. Bloody fool. But she smiled at him, a terribly tired, adult smile, and she looked her true age, a serious, quite beautiful, strong but fracturing woman. "Night, Michael. Thank you." He closed her door softly, and slipped into his room. He fell onto his bed, shrugging off his shoes, slipping off his belt, but not bothering with anything else. As he fell asleep he could see, illuminated by a chink of brilliant, artificial light from outside his hastily drawn drapes, that there was a door in the wall separating their rooms. Just before he fell, he wondered: is that real? **** Lyla was exhausted, completely and utterly drained, but she was also restless. Thankfully she'd slept for the better half of the trip. She was trying to remain calm and collected, but inside she felt herself crumbling. If it wasn't for the fact that Michael was with her, his solidness keeping her steady, she'd hit the floor hours ago. Michael...the warmth of his hands grasping hers, trying to bring her comfort, still lingered on her skin. Her skin tingled where he touched her, as it always had. It was unnerving and not at all what she needed to focus on at the present. So instead she stripped out of her clothes and sank into another a hot tub of water, doused with complimentary bubbles. She sank neck deep into the warm water and shut her eyes. She couldn't even imagine what was going on with Matt. Where he was, if he was safe and what the situation was. In truth, it scared her to think of what had happened. She was both worried and also angry. She'd warned him, begged him to stay, but he'd been a stubborn mule of a man as per usual and left. Drawing a deep breath she cracked her eyes open and tried not to think. To only feel the warmth of the water...the warmth of Michael's touch. She groaned and shook her head. It was no use. How was she supposed to deal with all of it? Despite her guilt, she felt another stab of contempt...if it hadn't been for Matt leaving, Michael wouldn't be here. Just a room away. He'd offered to be there for her if she wanted to talk and at that moment, she was sorely tempted, but knew better. Talking led to tears or anger, perhaps other emotions she wasn't ready to face. Alone, with beds, secluded from prying eyes. No way. With a resigned sigh, she changed for bed and slid under the cool sheets of her bed, squeezing her eyes tightly together. Surrounded by pillows and a heavy blanket, Lyla struggled to find sleep again, but eventually succumbed to the darkness. A few short ours later, she was startled awake by a knock at her door. "Just a minute." She managed to call out, her voice husky from sleep. Fumbling for her robe, she tied it around her waist and moved to the door, peeking through the peep hole before opening the door. Room service stood on the other side and the young woman smiled sweetly. "Good morning. I'm bringing in your breakfast." Lyla stepped aside aside, mumbling a thank you. Before her eyes, the trays were uncovered with enough food for two. Fresh fruit, eggs and bacon, toast and juice and thank heavens, a huge carafe of coffee. She sighed softly. Regaining a little thought, she grabbed a tip from her purse and gave it to the young woman before she left, the regarded the meal, her stomach clenching. Obviously they'd sent breakfast for Michael as well. After a quick trip to the bathroom, she came out with brushed hair and clean, fresh breath, her robe still synched tightly. She knew she was being silly, but never the less, it took several calming breaths and courage to gently tapped her knuckles against the adjoining door. "Michael?" When there was no reply, she knocked again and cracked the door open. "Michael? Breakfast is here when you're ready for it." **** He awoke in his brother's bedroom, lying on his bed. On the ceiling above, fluorescent stars that had once shone brilliantly in the dark formed yellowing daytime blobs. The walls spoke more to his brother's later childhood interests than the constellations on the ceiling: playmates, sports stars, trucks. With everyone out at the ball game - as always, the whole family had turned out to watch the rising star, save him, "studying hard" for college, he knew he had time. His left hand slipped idly off the edge of the bed, sneaking under it, past old sneakers, unmentionable items that may once have been kleenex or gym socks, eventually alighting on a pile of glossy pages. The stash. They'd begun the collection several years ago, each chipping in as various dog eared magazines came into their possession. Michael had his favorites, and on this occasion was pleased to produce, from the musty vault, a three-year old Hustler involving a particularly endearing pool room session. Odd: he'd been wearing his jeans when he'd awoken: now they were gone, and his cock had sprung through the slit of his shorts, eager for his attention. No matter... He turned to the first page of his favorite section, a tautly curved model bent over the table, the rising hem of her micro skirt and string of her panties failing, delightfully, to conceal her wet, bulging knot of lips, and he began gently to smooth the tight skin of his cock up and down the length of his long and rigid, sinewy dick. And then he heard a creak on the floorboard outside the room, freezing in horror as the door opened. Lyla! Dressed, oddly, in the same micro skirt and white shirt knotted halfway up her midriff as the girl in the magazine, but not carrying a cue, she leans against the frame of the door. Lovely brown legs, the smooth kind you kiss lingeringly, savoring every centimeter as you make your way higher, past the knee, onto the thigh, then round to the inner thigh licking and sucking, teasing as you home in on the target, your other hand tracking up the back of her legs to the soft gauze of her panties, which your fingers slip under, feeling her buttocks tense and part as she sinks hard against the door frame, shifting her weight, touching her own pert teenage breasts and gasping when your lips brush against the wettened fabric.- (I'm kneeling between her legs now, but how, why's she here and not at the game, and where the hell's my brother?) - and suddenly you are 69ing on the hard floor, your tongue burying itself into her tight, bubblegum sweet hole and her burning mouth locked around the full girth of your cock, sucking hard enough to smart, and sliding up and down, and you can feel her beginning to spasm inside as your teenage fingers roughly, inexpertly, enthusiastically work their way up and down her hard as porcelain clit, groping with the other hand to find a tit spilling from her unknotted blouse, as you can feel yourself swelling bigger, and hear Lyla calling your name gently, gently - (how can she speak with her mouth full of my desperate cock?) - and you start to thrust, matching the grinding of her inexpertly clipped and scratchy mound as it crushes against your lips and you scream her name into her and you scream your brothers name as well as you hear your brother scream in agony and you wake up in an unknown bed, half-naked where you have kicked off your trousers and shorts in the night, your ridiculous erection on the verge of exploding and your sister standing in the doorway between your hotel rooms as you grab a handful of sheets and pull them over your body and over your head and you say oh my god oh my god and you wish you were nineteen again and this was all just a dream, oh what a dream. Recovering himself, finally fully awake, and feeling the terror of embarrassment warm his face enough to glow beneath the sheets, Michael held his breath to see if she'd close the door or speak again. In the darkness, he could see stars. **** Michael didn't respond in words, but she heard the rustling of sheets and tried to peer through the darkness of his room as the door slowly opened. A beam of light slowly slid over the bed, highlighting the outline of his legs under the sheets. Her gaze slid from the foot of the bed to the lump he made under the covers until they locked on the pale bare skin of his chest. "Hey...um...I hate to wake you." She started off slowly, forcing her eyes to shift higher until she focused on his face. A familiar quiver settled low in her belly and sent a shiver down her spine, instantly hardening her bare nipples under the fluffy gown she wore. Sleepy bedroom eyes, disheveled hair and stubble graced his face. For one agonizing moment, she wanted to feel the rough texture scrape against her sensitive skin. Against her neck or maybe the inside of her thigh. Clearing her throat, she blinked and crossed her arms, pulling the robe more tightly about herself. "Breakfast was delivered to my room. Thought I'd let you know. Come over when you're um...ready." Before she made a complete fool of herself, Lyla moved back, partially shutting the door and then moved to her suitcase. Wearing just a robe was no longer an option. While he got dressed, she decided a quick shower was in order. Cold food was better than making herself look like an idiot. Shaking herself mentally, Lyla locked herself in the bathroom and slid under the hot spray of the shower. She made short work of washing herself down, scraping a razor out of habit under her arms and over her legs. There was something soothing about being completely clean and soft all over and Lyla let herself focus on each little task until she was finally dressed in a dark pair of fresh jeans and a crisp white bottom blouse. She let her hair hang damply, gently scrunching it before adding a tasteful amount of makeup, paying a little extra attention to her under eyes until she had the dark circles under control. Feeling a bit more put together and ready to face Michael again, she stepped out, breathing a small sigh when she didn't see him yet. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she still needed to eat. Taking an extra moment to open up her blinds, she sat at the small rounded table by the window with her plate of food and poured herself a generous cup of coffee. **** At 9:59, Michael rapped curtly at Lyla's door. Deep breath in, deep breath out, he told himself, virtually in quotation marks. You can do this. The text he'd found on his phone after Lyla had awoken him - his stomach felt a cold hand rummage through its contents as he briefly re-imagined that non-delightful moment - had swiftly brought him back into character. Government adviser on the environment and future threats; brother; brother. He'd put on the dark suit in his travel bag, black shirt, no tie, the military spokesman's words bullet pointing his preparations: "disturbing news", "video demands", "prepare yourselves". Prepare yourselves? How could he ever prepare Lyla for what she now had to see? He'd decided not to, and so paced his room, munching on fingernails and energy bars from the mini-bar, until just moments before the full weight of the US Government arrived at their suite. Michael was brave like that. As are we all. The door swung open, and she'd barely had time to utter a friendly "Hey" accompanied with a bashful (bashful?) smile - he briefly wondered, noting a flush in her cheeks, what she'd been doing for the last 60 minutes or so, then shook his head to rid himself of a thought several floors below inappropriate. "They're here," he said instead. A knock at her outer door. Lyla crossed, looking back at Michael with a terrible, pensive frown. She opened it. The next 10 minutes happened with military efficiency. Not one but two generals, and their right hand men. One of the generals was a woman. Clever touch, Michael noted. They announced Michael and Lyla should sit, so they did, at her table which was still strewn with half nibbled croissant and untackled grapefruit. They looked like a too young couple at their wedding night breakfast: awkward, and lost. The facts were laid before them: the existence of a video demand for released hostages, that Matt was in the video and alive but apparently speaking "as if in a considerable degree of significant discomfort" - that was when the first tear fell from Lyla's left eye, breaking on the tightly clenched backs of her hands - and that everything, "and by that, we mean everything", by which they meant relatively little, of course, was being done to bring him home safely. The demands were not financial. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. That I could have helped him with. Damn it Matt. I could have helped you there. They were for the release of prisoners. The kind the US does not release. The deadline was 24 hours away from the time of the message's recording. Unfortunately... The male General, Franks, stood here: "Unfortunately, this was more than a day ago. We are not certain why, but the demand did not reach us until almost 18 hours had passed. We're doing everything we can. We'll be in touch as soon as there is... news." As they got up to leave - Lyla wording silent questions, shaking her head, shaking all over, Michael asked: "Do the networks have it?" General Franks lips pursed tightly, a shake of regret to his head: "Unfortunately, yes." The door closed behind them as they briskly left the suite. They sat there in silence, still. Lyla even halted her sobs. Michael now understood that chilled to the bone was not just a poetic metaphor: he felt like ice, and could not quite control a shiver in his bottom jaw. He clenched his teeth and met her eyes. Her eyes skittered away, alighted on the remote and TV. "No, Lyla. Please." She rolled across her bed to it, grabbed it, hit on and flipped through the channels. The fourth had a video capture of her dear husband's ashen face, bruised and broken, and a panel of experts discussing the various ways he was likely to have been executed by now. And here, Michael did something truly brave. He did not take grandiose, immature action, such as wrenching the set from the wall or kicking it in. There was no grandstanding. Instead, he went back into his room, opened the well stocked minibar, chucked every bottle into his overnight bag, plus the foodstuffs, returned to Lyla's room - her face blue from the screen's brilliance, parsing information, leaking a tear to every soundbite - and he sat down beside her, at the edge of her bed. The mattress sank into a lurid grin at their combined weight, pressing their arms together. Michael could feel her shaking harder now. He opened two bottles, gave her one, sank his without pausing to taste it, then took her empty hand in his. Her head settled on his shoulder. And Michael shed his first tear. Many more would follow that day.