I do apologize for such a long pause in the Brandon/Samantha story. But unfortunately Brandon doesn't like to talk, I'm trying but that guy is messed up. Please forgive the errors.

Brandon slid into the booth and glanced around the diner assessing the room, it was 4 a.m. they had the restaurant nearly to themselves. There were a few others inside keeping warm out of the uncooperative February weather. It had rained and continued off and on. The slick streets shone from the light the lamps, buildings and traffic threw at it. Brandon stared across the booth at Samantha, who stared back at him.

Half of him was trying to remember why he needed to see her why he needed to be here, the other half was trying to forget. Brandon sat shifting, waiting for the courage to tell her he needed her to get away from him. It has been months since he has seen her. His eyes pour over her warm tan skin, her dirty blond hair, and her brilliant eyes.

How has he done without her for so long? Every part of him aches to have her again. Run his hands over her skin, feeling the small imperfections her body held. The image of her laying on the table, her naked skin slick with sweat runs across his mind and refuses to leave. He longs to feel the sensation of himself buried deep within her tight warm insides. He needs to feel how her muscles tighten and press on him when she comes and the rush of wetness that follows. Drawn up next to her listening as her breath comes back to normal.

The bell over the door of the diner rings announcing the arrival of new customers into the restaurant breaking the spell of his fantasy. He looked towards the door, two police officers walk in, male and female, they take a seat at the counter. Brandon looks back at Samantha.

"I could have waited for you to dress," he said nodding to her cleavage.

Samantha looked down. Her raincoat was pulled over a lacy slip she had slipped on when she heard Brandon at the door. She tugged at the sides covering her bare skin.

"You sounded um, it seemed urgent." She muttered. She had left her apartment without donning anything more than her coat and a pair of rain boots. She was horribly exposed but needed to be, wanted to be with Brandon.

Her own fantasy ran through her mind. Brandon's head buried in between her legs, his tongue lapping and tickling her flesh. Hungrily attacking her with a ferocity she hasn't been able to match no matter how many lovers she took to her bed. He would wait for her to scream, jerk and release the fluid he loved so much. She would return the favor of course swallowing him down, tasting the salty and bitter cream he would pump into her down her throat as he held her head in place and his hips thrust up, his body stiffing. She holds on to this image she needs this picture.

"What can I getcha?" the waitress asks standing over their table.

They both shift uncomfortably, flushing at being caught in their own fantasy, when the object so close.

"Just coffee for now please." He ordered.

"Hot tea," she countered. "With lemon."

The waitress smiles pissy, another 10 cent tip she thinks and walks away from the table. She looks over her shoulder at the strange couple. She can feel the electricity between the pair but there was something deeper going on with them. She just hopes they don't explode in here and is glad for the cop company.

Samantha picks at a corner of the table, the metal strip around the edge is loose and it has become a distraction for her fingers. She's had so many things she wanted to say to him, so many things she wanted to tell him but suddenly the words are stuck in her throat and cannot come lose. Can he read her mind can she send him what she needs to tell him telepathically. He seemed to know he so well before, not backing down when she tried to set so many boundaries, why didn't he know her now?

"I've tried to call you." She manages to squeak out.

"Yes," he said looking into her face, "You've become the ghost on my machine."

She hangs her head. It's true she had called him several times. Hanging on his answering machine quietly holding hoping the right formation of words would come into her mind and she would be able to get her and Brandon back to the place that felt so good for both of them.

"I wasn't sure if you wanted to hear from me." She said, her fingers picking at the edge faster.

"I don't." he said flatly.

A cold shiver moved through her. It wasn't what she wanted to hear.

It was a lie he was trying to convince himself to be true, it wasn't how he felt at all. There was nothing more that he wanted than to be inside her. To fall asleep, wake up, to eat, drink and live lost in her. But she was wrong from him she had successfully broken him. Broken to the point that he lost all hope of being fixed, he had tried. How do you explain the only way you want someone was when they lay unmoving in your bed. It wasn't right. Seeing her was his last resort.

Her calls had become part of his nightly routine. Not the incessant sign song voice he had come to expect from Sissy when she had called but instead hers were a silent reminder that he could never be done with her, he would never be done with her, if he didn't do something about it. He thought it would be easier to look at her. Maybe not easier but nicer. He had dreamt about her and couldn't lose her eyes. Or the sweet smell of her skin, the pleasant sensation of running his hand over her leg and thigh to the soft tuft of hair that lay between her legs. He wondered briefly if she was still smooth. He hadn't been given the proper time to spend with her velvet skin before they were unceremoniously ripped apart. Which he had done, he took the blame on that one. He had been unable silence the condescension of Dr. Ezra's words which had led to him retreat from her world. A retreat that was premature or at least untimely. He hadn't had his fill of her just yet. But the forces that denied his return to her were as potent as those that were trying to bring them back.

Dr. Ezra had placed his words well. They needled into Brandon's world and attached themselves like an appendage. A constant companion that could be dulled but not sedated. They were usually joined by the silent reproaching looks he had received from Kathy in group and on bad days they could be followed by Davis's own berating at finding Brandon's computer. Brandon wore this humiliation like a cloak. It has surrounded him, enveloped him. It was his chaperon through life.

Ezra had hated Brandon from day one, jealousy was what Brandon continued to associate with the hatred he would get from time to time from those around him. Jealous they themselves longed for the freedom he had the liberating independence. That allowed Brandon to do and experience, anything and everything he needed. He would wonder occasionally if the jealously was directed solely at Brandon's lifestyle or who he to the fact that he was sleeping with the woman across from him.

Brandon's leg bounced as he assessed his continuing problem. Right now he wanted the woman seated across from him. No that wasn't entirely correct. He needed the woman in front of him. He needed her mouth on his, his hands on her breast playing toying teasing the nipples her hand in his lap, squeezing stroking him until he comes. He could not purge the sensation of her orgasm, the milking pulse of her inner muscles, the restraint she used to lay still, holding while her body betrayed clues to her delirium. The state of ecstasy he would send her too, he couldn't help but remember.

He slammed his fist into the table in frustration making her jump, her hand drags across the broken part on the table. The cops at the counter turn as well.

"You O.K. over there buddy?" the male asks.

"Yes," Brandon turns to them, puts on a friendly smile that doesn't quiet catch his eyes. "Sorry about that." He was about to make a comment about how he thought he saw a bug when the female officer nodded to Samantha.

"Are you O.K. ma'am?"

Brandon turned to look at Samantha, she had one hand cradled in the other. The cradled hand was wrapped with napkins from the cheap dispenser.

"I'm fine thanks, just cut my hand."

"Shoot," the waitress swore under her breath. "Ya'll need a Band-Aid or somethin'?"

"No, no I'm O.K. It's alright," she said smiling. She was better at faking it than Brandon was. Her smile set a sparkle in her eye reminding him how much he needed the days back with her as well as the nights.

"Samantha I'm sor-"

"No, it's O.K. look it just looks worse than it is." She said briefly lifting the napkins to peak at her hand. "Maybe you should tell me what you wanted." She said turning a quick worried look to the officers then back to Brandon.

She thought she read hatred on the male officer. She was pretty sure it wasn't directed at her. But of course there were so many reasons people could hate one another take you pick, she was dark skinned, plenty of people still hated your guts because of the color of that. She was pretty as well, there could have been a pretty girl in his history that had wronged him, so now he hated them all. Of course he could just be a woman hater regardless of what she looked like. He could also just hate the world. Cops were taught everyone else was the asshole, the bad guy. Some couldn't get past that.

"World Bad," she thought to herself in Frankenstein monster's voice. In truth it was the female officer concerned her a bit more. She had looked at Brandon greedily, it was just a flash and Samantha couldn't have been absolutely sure it was there but she didn't want to stay around to see it again.

"Why don't you just tell me what you wanted to see me about."

"I want us to stop. I want you to stop calling me. Leave me alone." His voice didn't sound certain and he looked down as he said it.

She narrowed her eyes and twisted her face to him.

"I find that hard to believe." She had promised herself if she was going to calm, demure, rational. Instead her words sounded bitter in her own ears, cocky and self-serving. She no longer wanted to be the bad guy, no longer wanted to shoulder all of the blame for this bad break up.

"Why do you find it hard to believe?" He asked.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked gesturing around. "You could have easily said your piece back at my apartment, you could have easily told me what you wanted me to hear with a phone call for that matter, why see me at all?" She stopped her speech, almost embarrassed to have said it. But she believed every word. There was a reason why he had to see her. She figured it was the same reason she ached to see him.

"I'm not that transparent." He said hotly, angry she was right. Hating her for exposing him. "You've done this to me. I thought you were here to heal me, to help me." He said throwing herwords back at her. The heat rose to his face, his voice a harsh spitting whisper. The woman he wanted to be inside of only minutes ago, he was now struggling not to reach out grab by her shoulders and shake until her teeth rattled.

"I came here because I didn't want you poisoning me. You're damaged and bringing down as many as you can. How many patients have you fucked?" She flinched looking wounded, he wanted to stop but he went on. "I'm sure I'm not your first, I'm sure I am in a long line of many." He reached out and snatched her cut hand. Blood dripped on the table and painted his hand.

"I don't want you near me anymore. I don't need you near me or around me. You've done enough damage to me." He squeezed her hand, she winced at the pain from how he held and pressed her hand as well as the sharpness of his tone. He pinched her hand, pressing and twisting it. Her faced contorted and she pulled back her hand struggling to pull it away from him.

"Brandon, I understand you are upset. If you would just talk to me-"

"Upset," he snapped. "You take my life and break me beyond repair and you think I'm upset?" he said pressing her hand harder still. "You've damage me beyond repair, do you think anyone wants me now, do you think I could have anyone the way I am?"

"I think you should let her go." The male cop stood at the head of the table, his flash light was out and pointing at Brandon, the other hand rested on the butt of his gun.

Brandon looked first at the flashlight leveled in his face to the hand that held Samantha's. His faced softened and turned a concerned look to Samantha. He dropped her hand quickly. Samantha took it back and clasped a fist full of napkins back to her injured spot.

Brandon expected her to make the same apologies she had previously, appease the cop so he would go away, but she stayed silent. She studied her hand for a few moments and looked to the cop standing near their table. They appraised each other silently. Samantha's mind made up that his interference was less a concern for her safety and more of an obligation, a duty to appear authoritative to the others in the diner.

She looked to Brandon, searching his face for compassion but finding none.

"Thank you officer," she said sliding out of the bench seat. Without another look to Brandon she stood, turned and walked out of the diner.