Author's Note: This story was born of my unending frustration with the writers of Friday the 13th, Killer Cut (2009) for not writing any love scenes for Clay Miller, the character played by the freakishly tall and unbelievably gorgeous Jared Padalecki. The chemistry between Jared and Danielle Pannabaker, who played Jenna, was sizzling to say the least and yet the filmmakers did not see fit to take advantage of it. Shame on them. So, this is my way of correcting that error. The first part of this is sort of an 'expanded moment' from the film, while the end is just my crazy way of trying to tie my little love scene into the whole picture without rewriting the whole picture, if you know what I mean. Anywhooo-this is my first full-fledged non-drabble posting in a very long time. I've been suffering from the most miserable case of writer's block in the history of the world and I am nothing short of thrilled to have been able to finally take an idea from beginning to middle to end. Hallelujah! So, enjoy, and as always, reviews are deeply appreciated.

Saving Jenna

by

Moviemom44

Clay Miller swung open the door to the dilapidated cabin and stepped inside. In his right hand he held a flashlight. In his left, Jenna Bradley's long, delicate fingers were entwined with his, making it damn hard for him to focus on what the flashlight revealed, which appeared to be the world's filthiest kitchen.

To his great disappointment, Jenna let go of his hand. He felt the loss of contact like a wound. Then, to his utter delight, she stepped in front of him. It took a sheer act of will for him not to stare at her denim-clad derriere as it crossed into the beam of the flashlight.

As he forced his gaze around the cabin's dust-covered interior, he reminded himself that it didn't matter that Jenna had the face of an angel and a body that was the walking definition of 'luscious'. They weren't here for a midnight tryst.

They were running for their lives.

As they moved from the kitchen into the cramped hallway, Clay noticed two things. The first was a small, short-handled pick ax hanging on hooks next to one of the closed doors lining both sides of the hall. The other was Jenna's incredibly alluring scent. Whether it was shampoo or perfume or just her particular magical essence he had no idea, but it was powerful stuff, damn near powerful enough to make him forget there was a machete-wielding madman on their tails.

He shook his head, trying to focus on the task of getting them the hell out of Dodge, but it didn't really help.

"Hold this for a second, OK?" Clay requested as he handed Jenna the flashlight so he could lift the ax off its hooks. As she took the light from him, her fingers brushed over his, sending a surge of heat from his knuckles all the way to his toes.

Sweet Jesus! Just don't look at her…Don't look…Don't….

He looked. He saw. And, oh, what he saw.

Desire, hot and wild, glittered in her blue eyes and he knew she'd recognized that same look in his. He had no doubt she felt the undeniable pull just as strongly as he did.

He forgot about the ax entirely as half of his brain shouted, Hot damn! - at precisely the same moment the other half whined, Oh, crap.

"Jenna—" he started. He wanted to say that she was the most beautiful girl he'd ever laid eyes on. He wanted to tell her how deeply her warmth and compassion had touched him, how easy it was to talk to her, how right it felt just to be with her when nothing had been right since his sister had disappeared. He wanted to erase the horrors she'd seen tonight at Trent's house and out here among Camp Crystal Lake's cabins. He wanted to tell her that if he'd met her on any day but today, he'd already have kissed her senseless – repeatedly.

But she didn't give him the chance to say any of that.

Because somehow her soft, warm lips were already on his, brushing, teasing, setting fires in his veins. He hadn't even seen her move, but he felt her fingers curl into the waistband of his jeans as she pulled him to her. He went willingly, if a bit clumsily, his hands clutching her shoulders to keep from knocking her backwards as their bodies bumped together.

"Dammit, Clay, what are you waiting for?" she whispered against his parted lips. The hand without the flashlight burned a path from his belt up his chest, around his neck and into his hair. She went up on tiptoe and arched into him.

Her taut nipples made a mockery of the thin tank top she was wearing. He felt them right through his t-shirt, like hot, hard pebbles amid the softness of her breasts as he crushed her against his chest in a fiery embrace.

He wasn't waiting anymore, not one single second more.

Surrendering at last to the passion crashing through him, he slanted his mouth over hers, taking complete possession of it, of her. His hands slid across her shoulders and into her long, wavy auburn hair, capturing her head and angling it so he could deepen the kiss. Slowly, tantalizingly, his tongue plumbed the dark, sweet depths of her mouth while at the same time his hips drove frantically forward, slamming her body backward into the wall behind her.

He mumbled an apology into her mouth, but he didn't back off an inch. He couldn't. Not if he wanted to keep breathing. She was everything—everything—he had ever wanted, ever needed. Letting go was out of the question.

Not that she wanted him to let go, not the way she was kissing him and clawing his back, grinding her hips against him as she rode his left thigh, which had found its way between her parted legs.

Jenna lost her grip on reality and the flashlight at the same moment. The torch clattered to the floor, startling them into breaking the kiss.

Slammed back into the clear and present danger of the moment, Clay couldn't gather his wits fast enough to form words, so his question remained in his eyes as he stared down at her in the moonlit hallway.

Why did you pick now to do that?

Jenna reached up and moved a lock of sandy brown hair out of his eyes while she caught her breath enough to speak. Her voice was tenderness itself when she whispered, "I didn't want to die without knowing what it felt like to kiss you, Clay."

Her words brought the gravity of their situation back full force into Clay's consciousness, like a rogue wave battering a tiny fishing boat at sea. He wanted her to the point of madness, but taking her here, now, was tantamount to a death sentence for both of them.

With more control than he ever dreamed he could possess, he leaned down for one more soft, slow, thorough kiss, one that he hoped told her all the things he didn't have the words—or the time—to say.

Still, the moment was too precious to leave to chance. He had to say something, had to make sure she understood how important she was to him.

"There are a whole lot of things I don't want to die without doing—and all of them include you," he whispered against her ear. "One or two of them even require clothing."

She smiled up at him with her heart in her eyes. "That's good, because—"

A desperate but oddly muffled shriek cut through the night air like a knife. The young couple jumped apart at the anguished sound.

"What was that?" Clay asked, as he yanked the ax from the wall and Jenna scooped the flashlight off the floor.

As if in answer, the sound came again. This time they realized it was coming from beneath the floor of the cabin.

"Oh, my God," Jenna gasped as Clay kicked at the debris littering the wooden floorboards, searching for a way to get below.

"Fuck!" he blurted in frustration just as his eyes lit on a small hole in one of the long planks of the floor. Dropping to his knees, he fitted the pointed end of the pick ax into the hole and pried backward on the handle, hoping to pull up the board. To his surprise, a whole lot of boards lifted up and Clay saw that he'd just opened a trap door that lead into a dirt-floor chamber about four feet below the cabin.

The screams continued, more distinct now since the floor wasn't dulling the sound.

"Heeeeeelp! Somebodyyyyyyy help meeeeeeeee!"

As he climbed down into the dark, cobweb-encrusted hole, Clay was glad that the pit was damp and cold. Had it been hot, he'd have felt like he was descending into Hell itself, complete with a chorus of tortured souls.

After helping Jenna climb down, he shined the flashlight into what appeared to be a tunnel running under the house. Roughly the width of the hallway, the tunnel was only about five feet high, forcing the six-foot-four-inch Clay to crouch uncomfortably as he led Jenna by the hand in the direction of the screams.

Quickly, the tunnel expanded in both width and height, opening out into a series of rooms hewn out of the rock and soil underneath Camp Crystal Lake. The walls and floors were littered with the oddest collection of artifacts – canoe paddles; license plates from several different states; wooden crates containing God knew what; and on one high hook, a well-worn wheelchair.

The rooms were connected without rhyme or reason, some leading into other rooms and others coming to solid rock dead ends. Clay chose their path by following the small glimmers of ambient light that emanated from one corner or another, or sometimes the ceiling, hoping that once they located the screaming girl, one of those lights would be a window or a door that would lead out of this nightmare and back to the real world. He also kept a cursory eye out for any weapons that might have fit the bizarre pattern of Jason's macabre décor, but his main focus was on reaching the girl.

Jenna followed him without question or complaint, trusting him to choose the right way, trusting him with her life. He silently swore he would not let her faith in him be misplaced. He vowed to keep her safe—not just here, but anywhere, everywhere—or die trying.

As they entered the next large chamber, Clay stopped dead in his tracks, unable to believe his eyes.

The girl whose screams had led them here was his sister, Whitney.

"Clay!" she shouted and tried to reach out to him, but the chain that held her wrists wouldn't allow it.

"Whitney! Oh, God, Whitney!" Clay dropped to his knees in front of her, hugging her to him, stroking her hair, babbling over and over again, "You're OK, You're OK. Are you OK? You're OK."

He sat back and brushed her long, damp hair out of her face. She looked thin and tired, but otherwise physically unharmed. Her eyes told a different story, one that would take months, probably years, to unravel and put behind her, if she ever could.

"Just get me out of here," Whitney pleaded pitifully, her voice wavering with exhaustion. "Can you break it?" She raised her hands, showing him the chains that held her wrists together and also bound her to the wall behind her.

Clay directed her hands to a metal pipe and told her to hold the chain tight while he pounded it with the pick ax.

"Don't move. I don't want to hurt you," Clay said.

Neither Whitney nor Jenna appreciated his caution at the moment.

"Just do it! Just fucking do it!" Whitney gasped.

"Guys, we gotta get outta here," Jenna chimed in. She was still standing in the archway, watching the tunnel for any sign of Jason.

Clay brought the ax down again and again, each time weakening the chain, but still not breaking it. As he raised it once more, he saw Whitney's face fill with fear.

He's here.

In the instant that thought formed, he heard Jenna say, "Clay, I can see him. He's coming."

Clay swung the ax with all the strength he could summon, determined to save the two women he cared most about in the world from the psycho in the hockey mask.

At last, the chain broke in two. Whitney was free.

"Grab onto me," Clay told his sister and he wrapped his arms around her to lift her to her feet. To his surprise, her legs worked just fine and she took off down the passageway behind Jenna who led the way with their only flashlight.

Clay admired Jenna's bravery. She wasn't waiting for him to do the rescuing, but instead took command and directed them around several more twists and turns in the underground maze. Whitney was right behind her, never missing a step, and Clay brought up the rear. Behind them, he could hear Jason's heavy footfalls growing louder. He was gaining on them.

"It's a dead end!" Jenna hollered, as she turned around to face Clay and Whitney. "What do we do now?"

Clay hesitated a moment, taking stock of their immediate surroundings. He hated to backtrack, but noticed a small room off to the left a few yards behind them.

"This way!" he called, taking the lead once more. Once in the small room, Clay could smell fresh air, could feel it wafting around him. Looking up he saw a metal grate in the ceiling and above it the clear night sky.

He climbed atop a stack of crates and pushed against the grate with all his might, but it wouldn't move. One more shove and nothing. Reluctantly abandoning what might have been their last best hope, Clay scanned the room for another way out. From his perch, he noticed a hidden gap in the wall on the right that was covered by a stack of various junk.

Jumping down, he started shoving the stuff out of the way to reveal a round opening about three feet in diameter and about two feet off the ground.

"We can get through here! C'mon!"

They all helped clear the entrance to the crawlspace. Clay boosted Whitney into it, then climbed in behind her and turned to help Jenna. Grabbing both her wrists, he steadied her as she raised her leg to climb in.

He heard the impact of the machete a split second before he saw it burst through Jenna's chest. She tried to scream but no sound escaped her gaping mouth. Her eyes, filled with pain and shock, locked on Clay's as he lost his grip on her wrist.

"Holy fuck! Oh, Jesus, God, no!" Clay tried to hold on to her, but Whitney was pulling him away, yelling at him to come with her.

NO! He wouldn't leave Jenna. She wasn't dead! She was still looking at him, her eyes pleading with him…

He tore himself away from his sister, lunging back toward Jenna. He could almost reach, just another inch…

This time-please, God-this time he would get to her before Jason ripped her torn and bloody body away from him…This time, he would save her…

1313131313131313131313131313

Beep, beep, beep…

The rhythm of the heart monitor next to the hospital bed changed from a steady cadence to a shrill, rapid screech.

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep…

Sally Jensen, the pretty blond nurse taking the handsome young patient's temperature, let out a defeated sigh as she noted the data from the thermometer on his chart. Then, while the heart monitor tones gradually slowed once again, she glanced at the machine tracking his brain waves, frowning at the all too familiar pattern of mountains and valleys that always accompanied a spike in his heart rate.

"Oh, Clay, not again," she said, reaching out to softly push a stray strand of sandy brown hair away from his perpetually closed eyes. "Not another nightmare."

"From the look of things, it's the same nightmare he's been having over and over since he got here," observed Dr. MacIntyre, chief of neurology, who had stepped into the room to study the wavy lines on the brain scanner's print-out.

"At least he isn't crying this time," Sally said. She'd had the bejeezus scared out of her the first time she'd seen the tears leaking from under his eyelids. Comatose patients weren't supposed to do things like cry or moan, but Clay Miller had done both countless times during the six months he'd been under her care.

"Any moaning with this one?" Dr. MacIntyre inquired.

"Just a little, in the beginning. You know, it never sounds like he's afraid then. It sounds like, well, like he's…" Sally was too shy to say what she was thinking, but Dr. MacIntyre wasn't.

"Like he's turned on?" At her gaping expression, he continued, "I've heard it, too, and I agree with you. The strange thing is there's no break in the pattern on any of the scans; it's all one long dream—anxious but happy at the beginning; terrifying and sad at the end."

Sally nodded, wishing there was something more she could do for him, some way she could stop the endless cycle of his nightmares. She'd had to remind herself many times not to let herself get too attached to him—his prognosis held no hope of recovery-but that was easier said than done. She'd held hundreds of one-sided conversations with him over the long months of his hospitalization, telling him about all sorts of things, from current events to her graduate nursing courses; from her recent family reunion to the latest summer blockbuster movies. And, while it was probably her overactive imagination leading her where she dare not go, she'd often mused that on some level he heard her, understood her, maybe even cared for her the way she had come to care for him.

But of course, that simply wasn't possible.

"He won't ever wake up, will he?" Sally said wistfully.

"I've seen miracles happen, so I would never say 'never', but don't build dreams on him, Sally. He's a bad risk, either way," he advised.

"Why would you say that? 'Either way'. What do you mean?"

"When he was first brought in, his sister was with him. She was still conscious and partially coherent for a while before she died. She didn't make much sense, going on and on about someone named Jason rising up from the bottom of the lake out at the old campground and attacking the two of them. But she also kept apologizing to Clay, saying she was sorry about Jenna, about not letting him save her from this Jason guy.

"I think Jenna was Clay's girlfriend, that she's the one he's, uh, involved with in the beginning of the dream. If he really was trying to save her from an attack, and failed, that could explain the fear and anguish at the end. So, Sally, even if he did wake up one day, it would be hard competing with the ghost of his dead girlfriend, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose you're right. I'd heard that he and his sister were attacked out at the old camp, but I didn't know about Jenna," she replied, grateful for Dr. MacIntyre's revelation. She certainly didn't want to wear her heart out on a man who'd spent every day for the last six months dreaming of his lost love.

Watching Clay, sleeping peacefully in the bed, she thought to herself that Jenna must have been a very special girl and that Clay must have loved her very much if his mind still refused to let her go after all this time…

Clay Miller swung open the door to the dilapidated cabin and stepped inside. In his right hand he held a flashlight. In his left, Jenna Bradley's long, delicate fingers were entwined with his, making it damn hard for him to focus on what the flashlight revealed, which appeared to be the world's filthiest kitchen…

… He tore himself away from his sister, lunging back toward Jenna. He could almost reach, just another inch…

This time-please, God-this time he would get to her before Jason ripped her torn and bloody body away from him…This time, he would save her…

THE END