Title: Chain Mail

| Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four |

Author: nix

E-Mail: nix_ni1@yahoo.com

Pairing: Sam/Brooke.

Rating: PG-13, progressively NC-17.

Feedback: Pleeease.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, I own nothing (except maybe my mom's old car if I pass Driver's Ed).


Part One

Sam pursed her lips contemptuously, the ephemeral faculty appointed newspaper supervisor had allotted random scraps of griddle poop chute tabloid indulgences to each solitary affiliate of the staff in hopes of swaying the student body. And, in a delirious flux of repressed oppression, Samantha had gallantly set Mr. Compton's tatty toupee on fire with a pink joint. Mr. Compton had responded to the mutiny with livid grace, and frigidly gutted her pride by smacking a shitload of spanking new articles onto her desk ... for editing! Editing! She was a goddam journalist, the Lois fucking Lane of Kennedy High! Lois fucking Lane!

Which was precisely why she was nursing a spastic eye at four in the morning on a Friday, perpetually hunchbacked and looming over the computer monitor with the very stack. She would have revolted against the system, but the prospects of chocolate covered coffee beans and snug bunny slippers called to her from the fuzziest recesses of her fragmented mind. No, really. Okay, she was scared, just a little. But definitely more than not.

Brooke chose to pop her head into the room, like an ardent Whack-A-Mole candidate. "Could you keep it down, Dr. Hackles?" she snapped grouchily, fussing with her tousled hair. "I don't reckon the Erotica Weekly mailing list is in dire need of your red eye submissions." The frill of her lips furled into subtle curlicues, oh yeah, she'd been milking that one ever since she had intentionally, unintentionally stumbled upon Samantha's late night fiction fetish.

Usually the brunette's eyes would crumble into simmering slits and her mouth would pooch into a cute little pout right before she mumbled something like,"You keep my smut out of this," and huffily prattling away three gallops at a time. This was not the case. Instead, Samantha seemingly discounted her bait, no hook, no line, no sinker, it was unnerving! "Hello, head case? I'm talking to you, or has that butt plug finally made its way into your ear?" she snarled, utterly peeved.

Nothing, nix, not even so much as a flinch!

Brooke clambered into the room, poising each convulsing fist at either side of her waist. "Oh, I get it!" She griped. "Why, Samantha, how very old school of you! A cunning round of flying ignoramus at my expense?"

Sam's red brimmed eyes were beginning to jolt and jerk in their sockets, and her shuddering hand reached for the obedient bag of chocolate covered coffee beans waiting by her thermal mug. Her palm covered the weight of the package, and her fingers closed around each groove, gripping and crushing, mostly crushing. Brooke's hinges creaked as she heard the scrape and grind and churn of the beans collapsing and groaning into itty-bitty morsels. "Brooke," she breathed in little wisps of tactically veiled wrath.

The blonde scowled, reevaluated her goals and staggered out of the threshold, mumbling, "Threat acknowledged!"

Dr. Hackles worked on.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fluorescent sweeps of light jiggled off the linoleum halls and lofty lockers, everything looked so damn sterile and glittery drab! Samantha blinked, rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm and blinked again.  Gosh, she squinted and bumped shoulders with a befuddled Harrison who waved his hand after her waddling form futily. "Sam?" he called, frowning a little at her sluggish steps, he watched her turn into the Bat Cave, her school sponsored newspaper HQ. "Oh," he mouthed, it must have been a journalist thing.

Mr. Compton had his loafers stacked on top of the central desk and his gawky frame fixed against the back of his revolving chair. Sweat stung his upper lip and dribbled down the pallor of his face, the AC was down again. "Aah, the little fire starter has returned," he snickered, grinning toothily when she shoved the crisp, freshly pressed articles under his nose. "Someone's been a busy bee, I see."

She grumbled and whizzed around, ready to totter off into the distance and hopeful vista of caffeine, but he yanked her back with a stuffy sputter, "McPherson?"

She fumbled to a halt. "Mr. Compton?" she managed.

"I don't know if you had the proper time to review the last issue of our paper, but there was a poll conducted," he ruffled through a case of files as she hesitantly slouched into a seat. "The results--," he smiled a sinister, depraved smile, and slid the slip towards her. "Well, I'll let you have a look-see."

She flipped it over, dreading the outcome, and began to read aloud, "Students of Kennedy High, I am pleased to inform you of the radical changes being made to our collective newspaper for your utmost benefit. Changes which will be carried out from this issue forth--," she skimmed down the column to the checkered corner pocket, the interactive chunk, the weekly poll. "In light of the upcoming international Siamese Twin Day, who would you like to see handcuffed together for a week? A. Nicole Julian and Brooke McQueen , B. Lily Esposito and Mary Cherry, C. Bio Glass and Harrison John , D. Brooke McQueen and Samantha McPherson!" Appalled, the brunette thrashed the bundle onto the floor. "This is, is crap! It's worse than crap! It's like crap's distant hick cousin visiting from Laxative Ville--"

"Oh, contain yourself, McPherson, for heaven's sake! It's all in good esteem," he persisted, shoveling out another slip, the standing results.

A. 2.5%, B. 1%, C. .5%, D ... "96 percent!"

"Yes," he chuckled. "And do you know what?"

Her head snapped up, and the paper wiggled out of her grasp. "You will be playing martyr for this here school franchise, or consider yourself swindled to the bottom of the pit along with the other swine," he groused and his eyes strayed, lingering at the ballooning choir of paper boys and girls. "Chain of command, McPherson, chain of command. You may go now."

"Yeah," she murmured, swimming with disbelief as she trudged to Biology.

~~~~~~~~~~ 

"Ms. Glass? Would you please send Samantha McPherson and Brooke McQueen to the principle's office?" It was the intercom.

Bobby Glass snickered behind a latex glove and stepped out from behind the Bunsen burner. "The little runts are on their way," she bellowed pleasantly, setting a bubbling beaker on the counter. "You heard the office attendant, Queeny, McPherson! Skedaddle before I change my mind and withhold your passes until after you're able to classify the assortment of animal dung I have squandered from the nearby recreational park!"

They snapped to attention and spilled out of the room in a curt shadow of a line. "What did you do?" whined Brooke, flicking her eyes towards Sam.

"Would you stop pointing your Barbie fingers at me, princess? You're always turning this into the cookie jar game!" She huffed. "For once in your life, stop behaving like a Gerber baby and simpering after the first damn peg! I am not a whore, and you are not Saint Brookie, Viceroy of Stone Casting!"

Brooke sniffled daintily and they cut into the main office, edging around a sickly freshman and a toss of cubicles to get to the principle's office. They turned the knob and Mr. Compton tugged them into adjacent seats in front of the towering principle. They cowered.

"McPherson," he began. "Mr. Compton has informed you of the status of last week's poll, and I have agreed to allow it, and in exchange for your cooperation I am prepared to credit each hour you spend bound to McQueen towards your community service requirements." He glanced at Brooke and offered her a rakish smile. "And, if you do not cooperate then you can see to detention hall every day before and after school for the rest of your young, impressionable life. Have I made myself understood?"

Sam bobbed her head slowly, but Brooke furrowed her eyes into a glare. "When you say bound," Brooke giggled nervously. "You mean--"

"Exactly what I said, McQueen. Bound, at the wrist, for one full week! For the sake of your social future and my reputation as an honest man. It wouldn't do good to make promises and not keep them, would it?"

"Wait just one damn minute! Uh, sir. Don't you need to get a doctrine or something from the school board?" Her eyes twinkled radically. "Ooh and I've got lawyers!" Brooke would not relent.

Samantha sharply pulled on Brooke's arm. "Brooke," she hissed, before turning to the unfazed principle. "Could you excuse us for a minute?"

He sighed and gesticulated. "Very well, two minutes."

Sam ushered the blonde outside. "Brooke, darling, you do not threaten the principle ... yet. There are a course of actions that must--hello? Are you listening?"

The blonde glowered. "Yeah," she grumbled. "But there is no way in hell that I am going to spend 7 days weighted down by you! What if I catch something?" She was mortified. "Like chronic social leprosy?"

"It can't be any worse than your brain hemorrhaging," she shot back. "We'll agree to it on a term, okay? You're going to have to trust me on this one, oh malicious step sister."

Brooke gritted her teeth. "So you can bend me over the fucking desk and screw me 'til the Sabbath day?"

The brunette rolled her eyes. "Well, if you insist ..."

"I knew it!"

"God, what is your head trauma!" Sam was seething. "Just shut up, look cute, and let me negotiate. Then, once in the solitude of our own home, I'll stand really still and let you throw things at me for ten minutes."

Her eyes glittered hungrily. "Paperweights?"

"Whatever you so desire."

Brooke nodded reluctantly and they scrambled back into the office.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"That was fucking brilliant if I do say so myself," gloated Samantha with a shit-chock grin. "And I do."

"Whatever," grumbled the blonde, rubbing her wrist where the cuff dangled authoritatively. "Slow down there, Speed Racer. My feet are blubbering on their Prada encased soles! These cost--"

"More than the faulty condom which caused your consummation, got it, pri--"

Brooke huffed. "Don't interrupt, you Payless hack!" She relished Samantha's glare, and continued, "As I was saying, these cost my daddy a lot more than what your pussy is worth on the street, so be a good girl and heel when you feel a tug on the leash, 'kay?" She smiled putridly and nudged at the links keeping them at a dangerously close proximity. "Just like that. Oh, and if you ever call me princess again I will be shoving said shoes so far up your ass that you'll be able to taste the tailor made fabric without craning your neck."

"Lube," she added thoughtfully.

"What?"

"Lube, will you be using any?" She rolled her eyes at Brooke's vacantly perplexed expression.

After a while, the blonde's brain retreated from its "happy place" and her pupils blinked like light bulbs as her lips twitched in abhorrer. "Ugh, you frickin' undersexed pervert!"

Samantha grinned, she'd just successfully anted up Brooke's insult tab, and oh how she could see that championship trophy in her peripheral future. "Brooke, please shut up if you want to pull a Houdini sometime in the next century, because I am starting to enjoy bonding with you. I'm getting that low down tickle just thinking of all the fun we could divest in a week. There's the minigolfing at the Put-Put Shack, and the shopping," she slipped a moan to emphasize,"the shopping, oooohh, the shopping. We could even check out that store you frequent with Satin and the rest of your pom-pom hoochie haunches!"

"Enough," pleaded Brooke," enough!"

"But I do so want to continue." Samantha batted her lashes. "Think of the parental units and their soon to be jovial faces."

"Pleeeeaaase!"

Samantha considered ignoring Brooke's tortured beg, but shuddered at the thought of the blonde beseeching her on hands and knees, it just wasn't natural. In a single second she could break Brooke's spirit like those animals brought under captivity, a dilapidated and tear stained Brooke staring back at her from behind dozens of iron bars ... she snickered. "Okay, Brooke, but only because you implore it. And implore it so nicely, you do. Just don't anticipate the forthcoming of any biscuits." She sidestepped Brooke's grumble and bounced ahead, dragging Brooke's carcass forward with every tug of her wrist. "Come along now, Brookie. We need to be at the garage before lunch."

~~~~~~~~~~

"Titanium?!"

Shorty swiveled in his rolling chair as Brooke clamped her talons over the back rest. "Listen up, you little insignificant twit! I did not subject my one-of-a-kind Gucci-trans-Armani collaboration garb to the risk of motor oil stains and chewing tobacco by peddling our asses to this one cent haven festering with pot bellied drunks to hear that these cuffs are made of Titanium!" She gushed. "You better find a way around it, junior grease ball, or I will kick your worthless, hocker hocking butt into the junkyard compactor and then go after your canine!"

He whimpered. "Hot damn, female! Chill, 'cause the words coming out of your grill has got me seeing some whack ass shit straight up. It ain't my fault you two got balled into a ripped deal, or nothin'. Geez." He rubbed his neck sorely, afraid of an impending ringing as he mulled over his options. "I guess I can find something to get you outta this heat, but it's gonna take a couple of days. I got a coz' that works in some type of mineral plant, they shit this stuff out by the dozens, and he oughtta know somethin'. The dirt is free, but priority mail's gonna cost some extra flow, you know what I mean? So," he glanced at them nervously, "who's gonna stick up the greenery?"

Brooke shoved her fist into her cute, compact handbag and plucked a few bills before laying them out in his hand. He grinned and counted the sum, licking his thumb between sheets. "That oughtta do nicely," he harrumphed, somewhat contentedly.

She narrowed her eyes. "One more thing, buddy! It's Friday so you've got two days to sort out your crap! I can probably keep any further outbreak of the situation wrapped tighter than a hoe on 8th Street this weekend, although," insert melodramatic sigh, "I will be missing out on the finer points of life, Paul's bonfire spectacular in statu quo," her eyes flashed a violent hue of blue. "But, there is a regional meet on Monday which, if absent, would be my downfall, the uncontested ousting of the decade! Ugh, the little people can be absolutely demanding sometimes! Anyway," she snapped, poking him in the chest and making him gurgle in fear. "Your deadline is Monday morning, come an ungodly visage of time before dawn, you best be here with the handy dandy solution to our handy dandy problem, or prepare to eat your pickled testicles on a shish kabob sequence."

Samantha patted his shoulder in sympathy, before Brooke dragged her away.  "Ouch," he grumbled, and then hollered after her, "Yo, peace out, Sammy!" Shorty's eyes were tacked onto Brooke's swaying hips as she fumbled with her car keys. "Damn, that is one bitter female," he noted with an impish grin, and swiveled back to ransack his desk for his address book. Balls qua shish kabob a la Brooke were not on the menu.


Part Two

"Brooke?"

"What?" huffed the blonde, distracting herself from the skimpy road to feed Sam an irate glower.

"I have to pee."

Brooke scrunched up her nose, and her forehead subsequently crumpled over distastefully. "Eww, over share, much?"

Shorty's garage had been conveniently stockpiled somewhere brinking the final stretch of the suburban boonies, nearly three masochistic hours away from Kennedy High, and they were just 15 minutes into their corresponding voyage. "Brooke?"

"Hold it!" She spat, Samantha's whimpers were prattling her temperament.

"But--," she sputtered.

"Hold it! I am not stepping out of this car until I see a reputable mall or, if ever hell turns into a winter wonderland production and some majestic force takes pity on you by therefore sending Ben Affleck to operate a roadside lemonade stand in a thong and bow tie somewhere between ha and ha ..." 

"Please refrain from unleashing your mock," she snorted in disgust, before her tone plunkered into desperation. "I really, really, really, really have to go, Brooke, please?"

Brooke rolled her eyes unabashedly. Too pee, or not to pee? That is the question. Awwe, Samantha was pouting, fuck, fuck, fuck, her mind berated her for thinking of Samantha's lips in any other way than sullied, pleading for forgiveness and kissing her designer laden boots. Damn it! She grudgingly kicked down on the break, and maneuvered the car into a slingshot position, abruptly revving into a frustrated u-turn. "There's a gas station or something like a mile back," she grumbled, refusing to look at her step sister.

"Brooke?"

Her lip twisted into a snarl, but the searing weight of Samantha's palm on her thigh made her mind lapse. "Uh ...?"

"Thanks." She withdrew her hand.

"It's no problem," she glanced at Samantha, the girl was grinning. "What the hell are you so happy about? It's not like I just announced that I wanted to have your baby or anything! Get over it."

They puttered up the diminutive lot to Stan's Pit Stop, pulling in front of the grungy convenient shack next to a single pump that read 'Out of Service'. Brooke shut off the ignition, and turned towards the brunette. "Oh, excuse me, is this an RSVP event? What, pray tell, are you waiting for? A cordial invitation by the official chairman of Charm?"

Samantha gritted her teeth, at first it was a little endearing, but suddenly the blonde was beginning to infuriate her. "We're kind of ... attached!" She struggled to quell her temper as Brooke bumbled to open the door.

"Right." Stupid. 

Samantha wriggled until she was a smidgen of a tad bit away from spilling over Brooke's lap, and then the blonde wriggled a few more inches so a stabilizing foot hit the ground. Eventually they squiggled and schooched their way to freedom, ducked any passersby and made it to the restroom. Samantha tugged at the knob with a groan. "It's locked."

"This is sooooo great. I am most definitely not asking the clerk for keys, he's going to think we're into bondage and glory holes or something." She flipped some blonde hair over her shoulder. "Besides, road side bathrooms are totally degrading."

"Fine," she dismissed the blonde's bratty stomp. "I will." She took one step forward and the links strained with no intention of giving. They'd either go one way or the other. "Must I drag you?"

Brooke threw up her free hand. "Whatever, I don't want to get my clothing dirty, you little savage pissant." She pressed ahead.

The clerk looked like an 80s nostalgic punk with all the studded leather accessories. She chewed on a wad of bubble gum, and occasionally twirled the expandable strands in a bow around her index finger. "Yeah?" she balked, still glancing at a newspaper.

"We need the keys to the bathroom."

She grappled with something under her desk and slapped it onto the counter. "Here you go. That will be eighteen dollars and fifteen cents."

"Are you kidding?"

She shook her head. "It's for security purposes, refundable when you check out. It's a long story, apparently one time this guy made out with all the toilet paper and cleaning solutio--," her eyes ballooned in agitation when she caught her first glimpse of the potential customers, and then quickly dipped back down to the newspaper, and up for a second time.

Sam winced a little, the girl was giving her a case of the creeps. "So, what were you saying?" she urged, dropping the cash onto the counter.

"Yeah," she cleared her throat. "If there's one thing Stan takes pride in it's his restroom."

"Right," enunciated Brooke after mumbling a quick thanks, and shoving Sam to get them moving. "What a weirdo, she was staring at us like we were about to jump the cash register or something," she breathed once they were outside.

"Yeah, maybe it was all the beeswax in her hair." She shrugged and nudged the bathroom door open, whistling almost appreciatively. "This place looks kind of classy with the exception of those stray beer bottles."

"And no glory hole, go figure."

"What is it with you and glory holes? At first I dismissed the obvious dig on account of temporary insanity, but you just keep walking into that concrete wall."

Brooke poked Sam's side to assist her in shutting up. "I saw a special about truckers on CNN," she explicated in concise exasperation. "Just hurry up and tinkle, or do you need help with your pants too?" She paused, contemplating the words in her head, and then hastily added, "Note the sarcasm."

Samantha was thwarted with all the repercussions of the situation. "I am not taking a pee in front of you," she refused stubbornly.

"Oh, please," growled Brooke, although she thought Sam's modesty was kind of cute. "I guess you're going to have to hold it until Monday."

The brunette clenched her jaw. "Okay, fine, but don't peek," she warned.

"Like it's the eighth wonder of the world," she snorted, turning her back to Sam.

A few seconds of silence wisped by and then she heard Samantha sigh in defeat. "Forget it, I can't go anymore," she mumbled.

"What do you mean you can't go anymore? You can't not go!" She persisted crossly.

"I just don't have to go anymore," she clarified. "What's the big?"

"The big, McPherson, is that you had me make a prohibited u-turn to find this dump, and risk the chance of visibility so that you could go, and now you don't want to anymore."

"Correction, don't have to."

"Look, whatever, just note that I am not stopping again."

"So be it." She pocketed the key as Brooke twisted the knob and tried to fling the door open, only to be met with resistance. Samantha eked as she stared down the sulky double barrel of a rifle. "I change my mind."

"Now's not the time, Sammy," she assured with a nervous giggle. "Look, if you're Stan we didn't steal anything--"

A rumble slapped against the inside of a tumbling gut as the robust man aiming the weapon chuckled mirthfully. "Don't play coy now, ladies. You're being placed under arrest for escaping the state penitentiary, please get into the van," he drawled.

Brooke spoke up. "We have done no such thing, and--"

Samantha's eyes ambled to said vehicle. "Hey, wait a minute, Chuck Norris, you're not a cop."

"How very analytical of you, Sam," coughed Brooke.

"I'm a bounty hunter," he explained. "I'll be the one handing you over to the local authorities. Now please get into the van."

Not these little doggies. Brooke and Sam exchanged glances. "Bruce Lee combo on three?" suggested the blonde.

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"Hurry up!"

"Three!" Brooke shouted, prompting Sam to kick the man in the groin area for get-away purposes.

It bought them two terse minutes, barely enough time to slip into the car at an awkward angle and shabbily back pedal out of the lot.  


Part Three

So they had spent a revered majority of the afternoon evading a barmy, ammunition totin' bounty hunter and his Mystery Machine of Cops memorabilia, tried not to look prominently handcuffed, although for some inane and woozy manifestation of reality an overwhelming bulk of people squirmed when they saw the two hauling ass around a bend. And then, like a life altering afterthought, Samantha had popped the radio on, lo and behold! : "Yesterday evening inmates Kelsey Howard and Donna Edwards successfully bypassed prison security and escaped the state penitentiary located 50 miles north of the small suburban town of Oakdale. Authorities attempted to restrain the two inmates when they were found just outside the outskirts of Oakdale early this morning and managed to handcuff the two women together before they attacked the officers and fled into town.

Some time ago the county sheriff received word of an eyewitness account at a gas station where the two inmates reportedly asked to use the restroom. Bounty hunter Alex Fernandez, who was present at the time, attempted to detain the women, but the inmates' aggressive antics bought them another speedy exit. We warn the citizens of Oakdale to proceed with caution, these women are armed and extremely dangerous. Authori--" Samantha slapped the radio off as if it had offended her and anxiously bit down on her thumb.

"I'd love to say that we're knee deep, hell, practically wallowing in shit, but the optimist in me isn't up for it," grumbled Brooke.   

"Then I'll say it! Only because I'm a pessimist and things are most undeniably not frickin' gravy! We are so fucked that we won't be able to walk tomorrow," she groaned, knocking her head back against the vintage pewter beads dotting the backrest. "So what are we going to do?"

Brooke fanned herself to blow away any trickles of hyperventilation and then held out her hand. "Okay, give me my cell phone."

 She chose to ignore the fact that Samantha's eyes bogged out like veiny ping pong balls, only continued to fidget. "You've had your damn phone the whole day!" She growled, nearly lunging at Brooke.

"Yeeeeeeees," she drawled, batting her eyelashes at Sam weirdly. "It appears that I've overestimated your intellectual capabilities to function as a normal human being, Sammy. When one makes a demand it is rude not to comply, are you getting any of this?" Pragmatic silence. "At all?" Blink. "Okay, sweetie, you just sit there and look ridiculous and I'll get it myself."

Sam callously slapped her hand away and dove for the phone, keying in Harrison's number while fending off Brooke's grubby fingers. "Owwe, Brooke, stop pulling my hair!"

"Give it to me, Sam!" She grunted. "Now!"

Samantha twisted away from her and Harrison giggled girlishly on the other line. "It's instances like these that rekindle my wet dreams," he sighed almost reminiscently.

"Ewe, Harrison, TMI," she scolded. "We need help." Her face scrunched up and she shook her head. "Not that kind of help, gutter boy, so don't make any lewd references to threesomes, and don't laugh--"

He bit his knuckles. "Scout's honor, but this better be at least chuckle worthy, missy. I'm afraid you've interrupted a spankin' new episode of Yu-Gi-Oh!"

"Sam, I mean it! If you don't give it to me right now I'll scream," she insisted prissily.

The brunette ignored her. "We're being chased by a bounty hunter and Oakdale's town mob!" She spilled breathily. "No, really, Harrison! Stop, stop laughing! No, I don't have Mr. Bong with me. Yes, they've got pitchforks and torches! Seriously, stop laughing, it's very unbecoming."

"Kudos, Sammy. I'll pass it onto Carm, my show's back on, later."

"Damn it, Harrison! We're not playing telephone!"

Click.

Brooke snatched the phone from Sam's laxing grip and immediately skewered Nicole's number into the key pad. It rang twice, before,"Brookie, is that you? Where the hell have you been? Everyone's talking about how you were impregnated by Josh and had gone AWOL somewhere in the direction of Tahiti. Oh my God, is that Spam?!"

"Yes, look, we're in Oakdale--"

"What ever are you doing in that little piece of Dorothy dementia, B? And with Spam frickin' McPherson! That bitch better not have pulled an interrogation number!" Her voice grated a few depths lower as she inquired,"This doesn't have anything to do with that disturbing thing you two had back in the--"

"No, Nicole! And for Chrissakes I did not have a thing with Sam in 1st grade, no one is capable of having a thing with anyone in first grade!"

"Contain yourself, B, you don't want Spam thinking how easy it is to rattle your crackers! If you're gonna deny the faux lesbian prodigy rejection do it with some dignity."

"But I--"

"Brookie, I have to click. The cavalry is here and I must defend those false allegations on your behalf. Oh, and don't do anything liable to damage your reputation, especially with that newsprint loser," she warned in one grave rumble. "Ciao, B."

"I-I ..."

"Wow, way of laying it on thick. You so obviously take the hands on approach in directing your evil cohorts, impressive with a side of chic. Now toss back the potato so I can call your daddy and get this situation resolved." She leaned over Brooke to pluck the dangling cordless, but Brooke shoved her back into her seat. "Don't be so damned hostile," she grumbled, rubbing her shoulder. "May I please have the phone, Brooke?"

"No," she gruffed.

"What is your ass impaled on? I'm trying to help both of us out, the sooner I make the call the faster we can return to the regularly scheduled programming, our daily routines, which, in part is getting as far away from each other as scientifically possible. Doesn't the prospect of that make your mouth water, or, at the very least make your tail wanna wag or, even just randomly twitch?"

"No," she grumbled.

"Okay," Sam succumbed. "What does Brookie want to do?"

"You said I had cooties," she whispered in baleful accusation.

"Umm, did I?"

Brooke nodded. "In Mrs. Johnson's class."

"Brooke, I was five," she justified, and then noted Brooke's quivery lip and added,"Not that it was the nicest thing to say, and I'll apologize for mini-Sam's outbreak, so are we okay?" She peeked up at the blonde. "Can I have the phone now?"

"No!" She recoiled. "You have no idea what that did for my ego."

"You're right, Brooke, I had no clue. I was five! Why the hell is this so important?"

"Because!" The whimper was barely audible, but Samantha could taste the vulnerability.

"Because what, Brooke?" she growled, languidly venting her frustration in a pronounced hiss as the blonde's name lapped over her tongue.

"Because it makes me hate us both," she rasped lowly.

"I don't get it, Brooke. Since when has the mention of cooties made you spiteful?"

Brooke laughed bitterly and sardonically. "You'll never get it Sam."

"Then explain it to me!" She glanced down at her lap. "Just explain it to me, because you're confusing me. And it's a scary place to be."

"I hate you because I found my soulmate when I was five and she didn't want me back," she sniffled and rubbed at her eyes as she glanced away in shame. "And I hate myself because you don't want me, because I can't make you want me, because, because," her voice cracked. "Because I'm not perfect enough, and no matter what the fuck I do I'll still be Brooke ... just Brooke. And it's not, I'm not good enough for you." 

"That's not fair Brooke, that's not fucking fair! You can't just say something like that without any damn warnings!" She bit her lip and steadily glanced away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered hoarsely.

"Yeah." Sam clenched her jaw. "It's getting dark, and I think if we're super stealthy we'll be able to slink our way through this dump and find some unsavory motel for the night. We'll call mom and Mike and then discreetly check out in the morning."

"I'm sorry."

"I heard you the first time!"

"Why won't you look at me?"

"Why do you keep pressing it?"

Brooke expelled a frustrated whimper and twisted the key. "We'll talk about this later."


Part Four

With a scant 15 room accommodation quota, a distressing occupancy of 93.4%, and a scruffy foyer stuffed with inopportune swashbucklers, the Rusty Knob Inn was still the herald Ritz-Carlton of Oakdale. After the clerk's bristled tussling and green crackpot calls Samantha had sluggishly hinted at a rational solution, and so began the frenzied auction for the final bit of vacancy.

The block was up for $150, a consumer's rights outrage when the norm for one night started at $20 and stayed at 20 for the most part, only straying during instances of freak family reunions, conventions or near-Armageddon-y-ness that always seemed to emanate from the even tinier, neighboring town of Sunnydale. They scrounged around their pockets and purses for a tangible counter offer, coming up with $34 and 58, no, 62 cents.

And when the portly man in the vulgar Hawaiian shirt and reflective nylon slacks began whooping his shrill victory mantra of: "Who's your daddy? Who's your daddy!?" something inside Brooke snapped like a stick of gum.

"Hold it, bucko!" She growled, intercepting a juvenile palm-slap with a platinum slip of plastic. "Charge it!"

Rob, the clerk, snatched the accredited economic novelty and zipped to the register. "What's the ticket price, ma'am?"

As a rabid, and vastly venerated connoisseur of style her eye ticked when it passed over fashion's blissfully ignorant roadkill, her competition looked as if he had been slaughtered near the vicinity of fashion's front fender, and at the elation of its trendy tires, over, and over, and over again, just one tedious circuit of drive and reverse. "What's it going to take, huh?" She asked.

His eyes shot around the room, and he threw his hand up in fickle armistice. "Awee, hell! Come on, Martha, kids, we're sleeping in the RV tonight," he grumbled through mewled protests.

Rob swiped the card and glanced at his standing, reputable customers with a quirked eyebrow. "So ... you wouldn't happen to be fugitives on the lam by any chance?" he drawled.

"Fugitives?" spluttered Brooke. "Do we look like fugitives?"

He shrugged and lazily nudged at the handcuffs. "I reckon."

"We're not."

"Then do you mind explaining why you've got the nifty jewelry?"

"Sam, why don't you tell Rob why we're attached," she spoke curtly.

"Right," she stalled, rubbing at the back of her neck. "We're, we're actually ... nuns."

He ogled them timidly. "Nuns?"

"Yes, we're nuns on a, on a sabbatical. The good Mother Superior ah, thought it best that we keep at a close proximity to, to serve as beacons of strength ... uh, weights, for ah, grounding our thoughts so that we may not turn to the, the evils of, of temptation ...?"

"Nuns," he grunted, mulling over the notion.

"Damn right!" Spat Brooke.

His eyebrows skittered higher as Samantha sternly reprimanded the blonde. "Oh my! Sister Brooke seems to have been influenced by the corruptions of life outside the convent already! May the gracious Lord have mercy upon her soul," she pocketed the key he slipped onto the counter top. "Excuse us, uh, we have to, er, pray."

"Apparently," he mumbled, watching them shuffle and shove each other outside.

The room was anything but color coordinated, but it had a soft, springy bed, and no lunatic locals trying to ambush them for a piece of the cash accolade. They readily kicked their shoes off and plopped onto the mattress. Sam scrunched up her face, something was wrong. "Why is the bed moving?"

"It's probably one of those vibrating mattress things." Brooke shifted a little to glance at the headboard. The Magic Motion coin cache was sealed shut with duck tape and tacked onto the bed post was a sloppy note. Out of order, she read. "Great, the bed's busted. Well, you know, there are worse things than vibrating furniture."

"I so don't want to know," she yawned, trying to curl away from Brooke without straining her wrist.

"What are you doing?" Brooke shot her an irritated scowl.

"Sleeping, or attempting to sleep, but failing miserably. Why?"

Brooke knelt next to Sam. "We were going to talk, remember?"

"About what? And anyway it's like one in the morning, I don't make for a good conversationalist at this wee hour, Brooke," she replied flippantly.

"About why you keep avoiding the issue just like you're doing now, and spare me the psychobabble, you'd be a good conversationalist in death."

"There's no issue. What do you want to hear?" She looked up at her with a frigid glare. "There will be no declarations of love or blatant eye gazing, okay?"

Brooke snorted, pressing the back of her hand against her eyes in an attempt to conceal the heavy leakage. "I'm not asking for that. I just want you to stop being a stubborn ass and acknowledge how I feel for once!"

"Whatever." She brushed her off and turned away, squeezing her eyes shut and willing sleep to come swift.

Hurt was not a good chaser for aggravation, humiliation ... rage, everything that had been jumbled together so fast--like some tart candy necklace, that a professional would have mistaken it for some type of chemical imbalance. Brooke was usually punctual when it came to things other than this with Sam, and she haughtily concluded that she had naively taken the wrong approach. All Samantha needed was a good thrashing, or, y'know, a really persuasive tyrannical cheerleading mogul to assauge all of her bland pigheadedness . It was the idealistic thing to do after all. So she deftly straddled her waist, all too eager for some good old fashioned hubbub.

"What are you doing?" she mumbled, eyes still vehemently shut. "Get off me, Brooke."

"Are you going to listen?"

Samantha bit her lip and nodded almost too solemnly. Brooke's insipid blue eyes bore into darting brown ones. "I don't believe you," she scoffed, pressing her weight more firmly against the brunette. "Why were you mad when I told you about," she faltered a bit, "--about my feelings towards you? Were you disgusted?"

"No," she grumbled, grouchily pissed at Brooke's antics. "I'm a journalist, Brooke. Being liberal is part of the job description ... well," she reconsidered, "if you've got any sense of ethics for the business anyway."

Samantha struggled to sit up against the headboard so she and Brooke were at the same level. "Then why?" Brooke cocked her head curiously.

"You're prying."

"With good reason."

Sam swallowed difficultly and averted her eyes from Brooke's concentrated ones; she was looking at her, peeling back layers with each patient blink and palpation of her rickety heart. "Will you get off me now?"

"No. Answer the question."

"What was I supposed to say Brooke? Oh, well that explains it? I was confused, am confused. I mean, God, we only spend our entire lives trying to agonize each other raw, and then you say that you don't really," she laughed nervously, "that you don't really hate me, except without the really and, and that you kind of," her voice dropped in embarrassment,"--like me."

Brooke smirked a little, she had resorted Samantha McPherson into an inarticulate little kid. "Just to clarify on this, you mean like you, like you, right?" she taunted.

"Shut up. I'm gonna ask you to get off me again, Brooke, please? I answered the stupid question."

"I'm just getting revved up, Sammy." She delicately smothered Sam's hand with hers and peeked up coyly, catching the brunette's wide mudpie eyes. "Would it be too presumptuous or rash if, if I were to ask you for one ... insignificant ... little ... kiss?"

"Y'know, in some cultures they'd call this harassment."

"And in some cultures we'd be the customary centerpiece of a random keg party," she snipped, itching for a fundamental reply, a verbal anything. "Yes or no?"

"What makes you think I want to kiss you?"

 Brooke's faulty smile dropped into a cocky leer. "Intuition?"

"You're the most condescending, self-centered egotist in like the history of pompous asses--"

Brooke abruptly pressed forward, fluttering her soft lips against Sam's for a brief, sweetly chaste irresolute moment. "And you're a hussy, so I guess we're even," husked Brooke with a wavering smile.

"Yeah," she squeaked, ducking her head slightly. "I, maybe we--"

The door popped open, and they reeled into a nullified panic. Five smarmy SWAT rejects swarmed the humid room with slinging hulking shotguns. "Shit, why does this keep happening?" groaned Sam, whimpering a little as Brooke abruptly jostled away to relieve them of their tactless position and gracelessly sent them screeching onto the fondue colored carpet.

"Oops."

TBC


Nix Popular Main Index