runaway

ELEVEN | ARE YOU IN

ELEVEN | ARE YOU IN

With amber still streaking the sky from the morning sunrise, Jett wakes to an empty bed and the shrill of a phone she thought long forgot how to ring. Groaning in protest of her slumber's disturbance, she still reaches into her bedside table drawer, blindly fumbling around the disarray of objects before her hand wraps around the abandoned cell. only a few have the number, none of which had contacted her in quite some time. Sleep still plagues her mind, though, preventing her from questioning how the device emits any sound after being in the drawer for months.

The brightness nearly blinds her when the phone screen lights from the motion, eliciting a regretful groan for not merely rolling over back into slumber after the ringtone sounded. Her thumbs fiddle to dim the brightness enough for her to see the words of the message displayed. She reads the six words once, then twice, then a third, each time growing more confused than the last.

"I have a job for you."

To say the message shocks her is an understatement beyond belief. Her departure from New Orleans was far from ideal, to say the least. After the mishap in London, Jett had simply returned to Louisiana for the sole purpose of collecting her car before disappearing without a word or trace. Nothing had been heard from her former employer since. Until now, that is. Now, the bridge she thought burnt to unsalvageable ashes all those months ago rebuilds before her eyes, and her soul petrifies at the reconstruction.

Shock turns to confusion, her being implicitly perplexed by all aspects of the message. More questions arise offering no guidance towards her own answer she needs reply. She reads the words again, struggling to fathom them, to fathom why he is reaching out to her after all this time, after all she has done. Almost as if he senses her confusion from the five hundred mile distance, the phone beeps in her hand once more.

"A returning client requested you specifically."

Her flabbergast continues to grow. Her months spent in New Orleans left Jett with quite an extensive resume, yet each name still rests in the back of her mind, waiting to be forgotten though never truly being. She mentally runs down the list of names of her frequent clients, though none stand out more than the rest for potentially requesting her now. Especially after word of her London job spread throughout the cliental, she fails to recollect anyone who would risk requesting her, even if only for a night.

"Which client?" she finds herself responding. Impatiently, Jett waits, staring at the screen obsessively as though doing so will make the notification miraculously appear. Soon enough, the now familiar ding sounds from the device.

"Palmer," the text reads. Jett reads it stoically, unsurprised in all honestly. Her dinner with Charles not too long ago flashes through her mind along with the young man who approached the table. She had questioned whether or not he recognised her like she recognised him at the time, and now, his request seems evidence enough of him doing so.

With a disheartening sigh, Jett combs her fingers through her hair. Evenings with Palmer were always enjoyable between his captivating personality and unsurpassed kindness and terrible jokes. Months have passed since she dabbled in that line of work, though. The money is good, company decent, but does she really want to return even if only for one night? Never before has she returned somewhere from which she once ran away, especially to cross a bridge she believed long burned to unsalvageable ashes.

Part of her missed her old life, the most recent one that is, which consisted more of luxury and lust-filled nights than secrets and sweet lies. Then again, part of her has come to enjoy this small town life, even if it lacks the same reckless havoc in which she once partook in creating. She has come to enjoy being watched and admired rather than touched and craved. Subtle differences, yet two different existences.