Bare Her Soul (James Patrick March x reader )

Nineteen

"What can I get ya' lady?"

"Just a coke...please."

Your suitcase toppled with a thud onto the floor beside your chair. You reached down, dragged it upright by the extended handle and leaned it against the bar.

With a groan you turned back to the bartender "actually a vodka and coke."

The young bartender gave a light laugh and turned his back to prepare your drink.

The towering, bright letters that read "International Airport" had just come into view when you'd told the cab driver to turn around. Outside the hotel Cortez, you'd leapt into the first taxi that would stop for you. It was thirty minutes into the journey when your mind finally slowed down enough to think about home.

What would you say to your parents?

You sat in the backseat wearing your black slip dress, your makeup smudged across your face, hair a tangled mess - that you'd become a prositite on your holiday in LA?

Would you calm them down by assuring them that actually, you were only returning at two in the morning without so much as a text message because of a murderous psychopath you'd fallen for who - by the way - was also dead? Oh and don't worry mum, your tears were only for the man you may or may not have stabbed to death.

You'd tried a couple other hotels in the area, but it had either been too late to check in or they were fully booked. Though you expected your appearance had something to do with that.

It was early morning when you finally got a room somewhere - a small hotel on the outskirts of the city. It was brightly lit, modern and far enough from the Cortez that you'd managed at least an hour of sleep.

When you woke up, a heavy black cloud loomed over you. You considered going to the police but that was another 'what-the-holy-fuck-would you say' situation.

You had showered and scrubbed every inch of your skin until it felt raw, spent the latter half of the day with your head in your knees, trying not to vomit. When you could put it off no longer, you booked your flight home - eight o'clock that evening. You would tell your parents that it just didn't work out.

"Here, that'll be eight dollars" the bartender spoke, sitting your glass infront of you.

He snapped his fingers a few inches from your nose.

"Sorry" you murmered, pulling a ten from your phone wallet and handing it to him.

"S'okay" he chuckled "looked like you was in another world there!"

"Ha" you replied flatly as he handed you the loose change from your note.

"Got a flight booked?"

You narrowed your eyes at the man, hoping he wasn't going to keep you talking the entire half hour before your plane.

"Yeah" you muttered "home."

"I had a feeling you weren't from LA" he mused, and you noticed the way he flipped his boyish, blonde haircut when you looked at him. You sighed.

"First time in LA?" he pried.

"And last."

"That bad was it? Where did you stay?"

You locked eyes with him then "the Cortez..."

"No, I meant which part of LA" he laughed "but I know the Cortez!"

"You do?"

"Well I haven't stayed there. It's cheap though right? I mean, for the style of it ! I've got some friends visiting next week from Oregon but...from the look on your face...I'm guessing I shouldn't recommend it to them?"

"No!" you demanded, a little hysterically and the bartender's brow skyrocketed "I mean, no. It's shit, fucking terrible. Don't ever stay there, don't let your friends stay there."

The man nodded with a nervous smile, and his eyes fixed on the window separating the bar from the rest of the airport - hoping no doubt for another, less crazed customer to walk in.

At least you'd scared him off.

You took a sip from your drink, stomach complaining that the sweet taste wasn't food.

You rubbed your eye socket with the heel of your palm. The skin there was sore, raw from crying and you winced. The young man's words played out in your head.

Would Sally drug his friends? Would John, or worse James, kill them afterwards? What about that heartbreakingly stunning wife of his, was she a murderous ghost too?

Your suitcase toppled onto its side again, a stark clatter in the otherwise silent bar, you ignored it this time.
Your stomach knotted as you realised that, though the bartender's friends might make a different choice now, more people would inevitably stay at the hotel Cortez.  You'd walked out of there, only because James March cared enough about you to let you. Others wouldn't be so lucky.

You chewed at the inside of your cheek until you tasted blood. You couldn't just fly away to safety, turn a blind eye on what you knew. No, you weren't raised that way. 

If you were being honest with yourself, you knew from that first moment you met James that something was wrong. That dark energy you had deliberately ignored, had an ironic way of drawing you closer to him, to all of them. In some capacity, the priest at the confessional had been right - it wasn't natural to see a person's aura, to feel what you felt, even less for those feelings to be accurate. You weren't a thing of evil like he'd accused you to be, rather you were drawn to evil. There had to be a purpose for that, and perhaps this was it. That feeling you had that you were exactly where you needed to be. Police officers and guns couldn't do shit to ghosts. It had to be you. As cruel and abhorrent as James was, he cared for you. Somehow.

You knew how insane a notion it was that you might change him. You would die trying no doubt. But still, you had to try. Shame would prevent you from running away now, and in all honesty, your very soul felt desperate to crawl back into his darkness from the moment you left that hotel. It had to be you.

You felt corrupted, insane, but if there was the slightest chance you could change it all, to save somebody like you, you'd take it.