A/N: Okay, so it's been nine months since I've updated this story, and that's entirely inexcusable, so I won't even try. But I started reading it again and remembered how much I loved writing it, so here I am with chapter five, yay! Thanks for your patience, and enjoy!
Chapter Five: Choose Your Words Carefully…
"…police have barricaded the streets on either side of the bank, so if you have plans to be anywhere in the area this afternoon, you might need to find an alternate route. Police tell us that they are working to get the situation resolved as quickly as possible, but as it is with most cases such as these, it's impossible to determine when that resolution will come. Now we're going to take a quick commercial break, but when we come back: can drinking from the city's water supply give you stomach cancer? The answer when we return."
Richard Vernon huffed loudly and reached forward to change the channel to a different news channel. All of the basic stations were covering the robbery, but not exclusively, of course. He spent most of his time flipping back and forth between the channels, hoping for tidbits of information that could help him figure out how to get himself out of this mess. With a million dollars, of course.
Richard flipped back over to channel two, which was doing the heaviest coverage of the robbery. They'd been interviewing people all day, including people on the street, police officers, and even the owner of the deli across the street. Most of them thought he was a scumbag, which was predictable. It still made him angry, though.
"…have identified the gunman, Richard Vernon, as the same man we reported on last week when he was released from his teaching position at Evanston Township High School, where he worked as an English teacher. Vernon was fired when he was caught assaulting one of his students in the boys' bathroom during school hours. Sources at the school reveal that Vernon had an uncontrollable temper and this wasn't the first time one of his students caught the brunt of it."
The screen cut from the news desk to a piece of footage of a man standing outside of the high school. It was Harold Winston, one of the other English teachers, with his toupee all askew from the wind. He had a very serious look on his face, like he'd just been informed that his mother had died.
"Richard was very troubled," said Winston, reaching up to pat his hair. "He pretended that he had it all together, but I could tell that something was wrong. I once caught him yelling at a student in the hallway, berating the poor boy for being late to class. I confronted him about it, but he just pushed me away. I knew then that something was going to happen if he wasn't stopped."
The screen flashed back to the news desk, where the anchor was nodded solemnly, caught up in Winston's story. But Richard wasn't even listening anymore. That fucking prick! How dare he spread rumors like that about him? And in retrospect! Winston knew just as well as anyone that the kid in the hallway wasn't just some kid who was "late for class". He was mouthing off, just like all the punks at Evanston Township, and his tongue lashing had been well deserved. So typical of Harold Winston to turn it inside out just so he could say "I told you so" in front of a team of news cameras.
Enjoy your fifteen minutes, Winston, he thought bitterly.
The news anchor put a hand to her ear, and her eyes flickered back up to the camera. "We're getting news now that the boy's name has finally been released. Jacob Brown, sixteen-year-old sophomore at Evanston Township High School, was the victim of last week's physical assault…"
Onscreen, the boy's picture popped up. He was smiling innocently, hair combed back neatly, shirt tucked in. Richard almost didn't recognize him. He felt his hands curl into fists in his lap.
"…the student was checked into the local hospital and released a few hours later. His parents, John and Winifred Brown, have pressed charges against Vernon, whom they are calling a 'cruel and ruthless dictator'."
Oh, yeah? thought Richard, swearing quietly under his breath. Did you mention to the media that your son is a fucking drug dealer and that he was selling marijuana in the bathroom when he was supposed to be in class? Did you mention that he was a slimy little punk and that he practically dared me to hit him? His hands curled into fists so tight that his knuckles were probably turning white. Did you mention that he fucking deserved it?
Onscreen, the newscaster was back, reading from a piece of paper on the desk in front of her. "In light of Vernon's robbery attempt, the administrators at Evanston Township are expressing shock and concern, sending their prayers to the families of the five people still being held hostage at State Street Bank."
The woman kept talking, but Richard couldn't even hear her anymore. All he could hear were the words "shock" and "prayers" and "hostages". He blinked a couple of times, but all he could see was the television screen, which was showing footage of the police barricade outside of the bank.
What on earth have I done?
"Excuse me, sir?"
Richard glanced up, startled out of his reverie. The redhead with the expensive clothing was looking at him hopefully, hand raised to get his attention. "What?" he asked distractedly.
The woman lowered her hand slowly. "I'm really thirsty."
Vernon blinked, trying to figure out what she was getting at. "So?"
"So, can't we have something to drink?" she whined, scrunching up her nose.
It was the tone in her voice that irritated him the most. Like she was used to being waited on and couldn't quite figure out why he wasn't doing the same. Couldn't she see that he wasn't exactly in a position to carry out her every whim and desire? Couldn't she see that he was a little fucking busy right now?
"Oh, sure, why not?" he replied snidely. "I'll call room service and have them bring something down."
That shut her up. She blinked a couple of times, then settled back against the wall with a sigh.
Richard started to look back at the television, but then someone else spoke up. "There's a Coke machine in the employee break room."
Richard glanced over at the janitor, who was watching him closely with eyes that looked like they were more observant than Richard was comfortable with. "There's also a vending machine," he added, probably just to piss him off.
Richard glared at him for a moment, going over his options. The rich girl was used to getting her way, and if he didn't get her what she wanted then she would just whine all day, and then he might shoot her, just to shut her up. And that would completely blow all of his chances at getting out with a million dollars in hand. Also, he was pretty hungry himself and a can of Coke sounded pretty good right about then.
"Fine," he said finally, released a weary sigh. He glanced over at the customers – no way was he letting the janitor go wandering around a building that he knew better than the back of his hand – and his eyes settled on the guy in the suit. Clark something, the one he'd had answer the phone earlier when the cops had called. He seemed like a responsible guy, someone he could trust not to try something stupid. Richard nodded in his direction.
"You."
The man sighed, but didn't say anything, and Richard looked at the girl to the man's right. She hadn't said anything all day, which Vernon appreciated, and he didn't anticipate that she was likely to cause much trouble either. "And you. Go with him."
Both of them stood slowly, and the man in the suit offered the girl his hand to help her up. The girl ignored it and walked on ahead of him, heading towards the employee break room. Her knapsack bumped against her hip as she moved.
"Both of you know what's going to happen if you don't come back!" he called after them, just to be safe. Neither of them turned around.
"Hey, I don't know what's going to happen. It's not fair if you don't tell us, too."
Richard looked over at the wall, where the guy with the leather jacket was watching him, mouth curled into a lazy smirk. He had long hair and an earring in his left ear, and his pants were all shredded up like he'd gotten into a street fight just before he walked in.
"I'll tell you what I'm going to do," said Richard, standing up from his chair. He flicked his wrist, waving the gun briefly through the air. "If they don't come back, I'm going to put a bullet through your heart."
"Not the head?" The guy shook his head. "The heart's so messy. The head is a clean shot if you've got good aim." He paused, lifting an eyebrow. "Do you have good aim, Rich?"
There it was, that look, that fucking look, like the junkie in the bathroom with his ignorance and arrogance and that fucking look on his face! Richard felt his arms trembling with pure, white-hot anger as he lifted the gun so that it was level with the little snot's forehead.
"You don't need to have good aim when you're standing as close as I am," he replied stonily, keeping his eyes glued to the other man's face.
The guy grinned as if Richard had just said something amusing, and there wasn't a speck of fear in his eyes. What idiot wasn't afraid when he had a gun pointed at his forehead? What sad, stupid little troll couldn't even muster up a shred of respect for the one with his finger on the trigger? He wanted to pull that trigger, to watch the look on the kid's face in that split second before the bullet connected with his brain. Maybe then he would be afraid. Maybe then he would wipe the smug grin off of his face. Maybe then he'd realize that he was a worthless little shit with nothing but a big ego and a big mouth.
But Vernon didn't pull the trigger. He stood there for a long moment, gun still pointed at the kid's face, before he let his hand fall to his side. "You're not worth going to prison for," he told him.
The guy snorted derisively. "I thought you were going to Jamaica?"
Richard didn't know what to say to that, so he turned away and went back to his seat in front of the television. The guy with the leather jacket was saying something to the woman next to him, but Richard ignored him and turned up the volume, tuning everyone out.
Andy followed the girl down the hallway towards the employee break room, watching her knapsack bump against her hip with every step. She was walking quickly, with both hands clasped around the strap of the knapsack, like she was afraid that he was going to grab it from her and take off with it.
"Don't worry," he told her, trying to keep his voice down low so that no one in the lobby could hear him. "I'm sure we'll be out of here soon."
She turned to look at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. It was that same look from earlier, when the whole thing had just started and he'd asked if she was okay. Like maybe he was in on it or something.
"How do you know?" she demanded.
Andy blinked. "How do I know what?"
She cocked her head to the side, eyes searching his. "How do you know we'll be out soon?"
Andy paused uncertainly. Wasn't that what you were supposed to say in situations like this to calm people down? No one questioned it. They just nodded and said thank you and felt better. "I don't," he admitted. "But I didn't want you to be scared."
"Who said I was scared?" she asked.
It was Andy's time to narrow his eyes. What was she playing at anyway? All of them were scared, and he doubted that she was the one exception. Before he could open his mouth to point this out, she'd turned and entered the door to her right, which just so happened to be the employee break room.
"Do you have any money?" she asked pointedly.
Andy hesitated for only a second before reaching into his back pants pocket for his wallet. He could see her out of the corner of his eyes, watching him flip it open to reveal a row of credit cards. His fingers pulled open the section for the bills, and he removed one.
"All I have is a twenty," he told her, holding the bill up for her inspection. "Do you have anything smaller?"
The girl was staring at him, jaw clenched in what looked like anger. He sighed. "I guess we have to go back and ask him for some money."
He started to turn back towards the hallway, but the girl made a little squeaking noise, presumably to express her profound irritation, and jammed her hand into the pocket of her black trousers. He watched with curiosity as she rummaged around for a moment, finally pulling her hand out to reveal a huge wad of one dollar bills.
"Wow," he blurted stupidly. "Where'd you get those?"
"I stole them," she retorted, refusing to look up at him as she sorted the bills, smoothing a couple of them out on the table next to them.
Andy felt his face flush with embarrassment. "Are you a waitress or something?" he asked, remembering his earlier observation that her white button-down shirt and black slacks were probably a uniform of some kind.
The girl didn't look up. "What do you care?"
Andy scoffed, finally tired of trying to be nice. "I guess I don't. Forget I asked."
The girl ignored him and turned to one of the vending machines, where she fed a bill into the machine and pushed a series of buttons. It made a whirring sound, and a few seconds a Snickers bar fell into from its slot. She bent down to pull it out, then picked up her coins from the change slot.
"May I?" Andy asked, reaching for one of the bills on the table.
She shrugged and inserted a couple of quarters into the machine.
Andy took a handful of dollars and walked over to the Coke machine. He bought an Orange Slice and a Big Red for himself, then a couple of Cokes and Sprites for the others. When he was almost finished, he glanced behind him, where the girl was shoving a bag of cookies into her knapsack. "What kind of drink do you want?" he asked.
The girl looked up, smiling almost imperceptibly. "Do they have vodka?"
It took him a minute, but Andy found himself fighting back a smile. "No, I don't think so," he replied.
The girl sighed, but didn't say anything, just went back to purchasing their snacks. Andy watched her insert dollar bills into the slot, watched her jam her thumb against the bright red buttons. Her fingers were long and slender, like his sister's, and he wondered if she played the piano like Hannah did. Knowing it would only earn him a blunt insult if he dared ask, he turned back to the soda machine and scanned the names of the sodas available for purchase. After a moment of indecision, he guessed that she wanted a Coke and slid the bill into the machine.
Claire was definitely not enjoying all of this gun waving.
"You're not worth going to prison for," the gunman told the man sitting next to her. The gun was back at his side, but that wasn't doing much for her rapid heart rate.
In response, the guy snorted. "I thought you were going to Jamaica?" he replied, grinning at the last word. She knew how much he thought of the gunman's vacation plans, which wasn't much. She didn't really think much of them either, but at this point she was almost willing to pay for the plane ticket herself if it got her out of that godforsaken bank.
The gunman went to sit back down in front of his television, but Claire could see that the guy to her left was still watching him, eyes narrowed and mouth turned into a smug smirk. There was something else there, too. Something deeper, but she couldn't put her finger on exactly what it was.
"You're going to get yourself killed," she hissed at him.
The man pulled his eyes away from the gunman and glanced over at her. "Which one are you more worried about: my life or your blouse?"
Claire blinked. "What?"
The guy rolled his eyes. "If I get my head shot off, my brains are going to be splattered all over your shirt." He lifted his eyebrows in challenge. "It's silk, isn't it?"
Claire glared at him. "I've got more at home."
He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. "I'm sure you do, Princess."
Claire felt a pang in her stomach. Her dad used to call her Princess, even when she grew too old for the nickname. It felt strange to have someone else refer to her that way, especially when the name obviously held no affection for him.
"My name's not Princess," she told him flatly. "It's Claire."
The man looked over at her, a little more seriously than he had before. "Kah-laire?" he asked, pronouncing it as though he'd never heard the name before in his life.
"Yes," she said defensively. "It's a family name."
The guy shrugged and turned away.
But Claire wasn't finished. "What's your name?" she asked.
The guy didn't even look up. "Barry Manilow."
Claire glared at him. "Very funny. What's your real name?"
"What the hell does it matter?" he asked.
"It doesn't," Claire said irritably. "I just thought that if we're going to be stuck in here with each other for a while that we should probably know each other's names."
The guy rolled his eyes. "That's so sweet."
Claire scoffed and looked away. "Never mind," she muttered.
A few seconds passed, and then she heard, "John." She looked over to see that the guy was watching her. "Happy?" he asked.
Claire smiled. "Maybe."
John shook his head and leaned back against the wall, facing the door.
Claire sighed and looked back at the gunman, who was watching television again. He was still holding the gun in his right hand, but his finger wasn't on the trigger and it wasn't pointed in her direction, which was worth something, at least.
Claire noticed a movement out of the corner of her right eye, and she looked over to see that a few feet away the blonde bank teller was stretching his legs out in front of him. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his head back against the wall just like John was doing. But unlike John, the other boy didn't seem indifferent to the situation. He was staring straight ahead with his eyes glazed over, like there was just too much going on inside to process it all and he'd just given up on trying. She knew the feeling.
"Brian?" she said gently.
The boy glanced up quickly, eyes wide. The janitor, who was sitting to the boy's right, looked up also. She felt her face flush with embarrassment.
"Sorry," she said quietly. "It's on your nametag."
The boy glanced down at his nametag, as though he'd forgotten it was there. "Oh."
"Are you okay?" she asked. "You, um…you look a little pale."
Brian paused, then nodded quickly. "Yeah, I'm fine. Are, uh, are you alright?"
Claire nodded. "Yeah, thanks." There was an awkward silence, where both of them were looking at one another without knowing what to say. What, exactly, was someone supposed to say in a situation like theirs? She was pretty sure that Peggy Post had never written anything about hostage etiquette.
"I'm sure they'll be back in a minute with the drinks," she said just to fill the space. Plus, he looked really freaked out and for some reason her mothering instincts were kicking in and she just couldn't stop talking.
Brian nodded uncertainly. "Yeah, I hope so." He paused. "I actually have to use the bathroom."
"I'm sure he'll let you go when the others come back," she assured him, as if the gunman was a completely reasonable, predictable guy that wouldn't have any problem letting yet another hostage roam free about the building. "I mean, maybe if someone went with you, maybe," she finished. "Like John."
"I'm not a babysitter," John replied bluntly from behind her.
She turned around to glare at him. "Andrew went with you when you had to use the restroom," she pointed out.
John scoffed. "I'm sorry, am I supposed to be grateful? Because some ass wipe escorted me to use the potty? I don't think so."
Claire pursed her lips together. "You're not helping the situation at all. We're all stuck here together. The least we could do is help one other out."
"If you want to help me out, give me a blowjob," he told her seriously. "Otherwise, leave me alone."
Claire didn't even hesitate. Her palm connected with his cheek with an audible snap, leaving a large red mark on the side of his face. At least a small part of him must have been expecting it, because he didn't cry out. He just reached up to smooth his fingers soothingly against his cheek.
"Ow."
Allison watched Andy feed a dollar bill into the Coke machine, then pause for a long moment, scanning the names for the brand of soda that he wanted. He finally decided on root beer, which was the only drink that he hadn't selected yet from the machine. She realized that he didn't know what the others preferred and was getting a selection that would hopefully please everyone. For some reason, she found this oddly endearing, probably because she didn't expect it from someone like him.
He looked up from the machine, probably feeling her eyes on him. "What?" he asked.
Allison shrugged, feigning indifference. "Are you done?"
He looked back at the group of cans on the table. "Yeah, I guess." He reached for the sleeve of his button-down shirt and started rolling it up to the elbow, revealing a tan, toned arm covered in fine blonde hairs. Allison swallowed deeply and turned away, grabbing the bags of chips and cookies that she'd pulled from the snack machine. She stuffed all of the snacks into her bag, then turned back to help Andy with the drinks. He cradled three in each arm, which left her to carry the last three.
"Thanks," he said. "The rest of your money is on the table. I used five dollars."
Allison snatched the wad of bills – much smaller now than when she'd arrived at the bank – from the table and jammed it into her pocket, balancing the cans in the crook of her left arm. Andy grabbed his wallet from the table, along with the twenty dollar bill he'd removed earlier.
"So, are you really a waitress or not?" he asked, watching her swing her knapsack over her shoulder again.
Allison shrugged, adjusting her bag so that it fit snugly against her hip.
"Because you have all those one dollar bills. You're either a waitress or a stripper."
Allison looked up slowly, just to see if he was serious. Apparently he was, because he was watching her closely to gauge her reaction. He must have realized he'd said the wrong thing, because immediately his eyes widened and his cheeks flushed pink.
"I mean, you don't look like a stripper," he said quickly.
Allison just kept glaring at him. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Allison beat him to the punch. Before he could even move, she snatched the twenty dollar bill out of his hand and walked out the door.
A/N: If you like action-packed stories (and our favorite criminal, John Bender), then you should check out TWbasketcase's story Renegade, which is one of my current favorites. You can find it under the 'M' stories or on my profile under my list of favorite stories.
Thanks for reading. Please review!