Chances In My Veins
"Hey."
Cassandra glanced up from where she'd been poking about Owen's sound-system and the surrounding shelves, face flushing hotly at seeing Owen standing in the doorway. "I was just admiring your extensive CD collection," she said abruptly, tossing her head back, only to wish she hadn't, the movement jarring. "I see you're a country music connoisseur."
"Well, I do love me some Dolly Parton," Owen said lightly, coming over, picking up some mugs from the kitchen table as he did, the insides ochre with coffee stains. "Are you a fellow fan?"
"Not really."
Owen set the mugs down on the draining board, beside a pile of dirty plates and cutlery that looked like they'd been there a long time. "Claire was saying you were an artist," he then said, glancing out of the window where Claire was now pacing the yard, phone clamped to her ear, "that you earned a crust out of it."
"I try."
"You must be good if Masrani wants you to paint his portrait."
"I suppose," Cassandra said, trying to control her growing panic at being alone with him, her gaze darting wildly about the bungalow, searching for escape. "Did you build this place yourself?" she said hurriedly, gesturing vaguely around her at their homespun surroundings.
"Pretty much," Owen shrugged, "not much to show for my efforts though. It's just four walls and a roof with a trailer tagged on."
"You live alone out here, then?"
"Again, pretty much," Owen replied with another shrug. "Doesn't bother me though, my existence has been pretty nomadic so far."
Cassandra just nodded, her frantic gaze then falling upon his makeshift mantelpiece, her attention immediately caught by the various photos and postcards he had haphazardly propped up on it, one standing out from the rest. Before Owen could react, she rushed over to the mantelpiece, snatching up a particularly battered postcard. "That's my painting," she gabbled as she turned around, holding the postcard up to him, where it showed a poorly executed reproduction of Distant Horizon. "I painted this."
"So you said," Owen drawled, coming over. "But take it easy, huh?" he said, gently plucking the postcard from her fingers. "You just fell headfirst into a raptor nest."
Cassandra tensed. "Sorry," she then said, turning away from him. "I shouldn't be touching your stuff."
"No matter," Owen said, putting the postcard back. "But it's kind of weird you painted that."
"How so?" Cassandra said, instantly on the defensive.
"Hey, I'm not insulting you, it's just I'm not really into art," Owen said awkwardly, "but that picture... I don't know, something about it just spoke to me. Picked it up New Orleans from one of these little touristy shop places."
Cassandra stared at him, tears pricking her eyes as she remembered painting Distant Horizon during her pregnancy, her mind full of a man she didn't even know the name of until now.
"Uh, you're looking at me kind of weird, Cassie," Owen said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, "I remember you doing it back at that dive bar. Still freaks me out to be honest. It's like being looked at by lasers."
"Don't call me Cassie," Cassandra snapped, only to instantly regret it. "Sorry," she then said tiredly, shaking her head, every inch of her aching afresh with the movement, "I shouldn't have said that."
"No," Owen agreed, "maybe you shouldn't have."
Cassandra looked at him for a long moment, still feeling like the world had been turned upside down. "Forsooth, this is just so weird," she winced, "I – I just can't deal with it."
Owen arched an eyebrow. "Ezak, did you just say forsooth?" he said, amused against his will. "And you're staring at me again," he added, making Cassandra roll her eyes. "I know I'm a handsome son of a gun, but even my ego doesn't demand this kind of reverence."
"I'm not worshipping at your shrine," Cassandra snapped, "I'm just trying to deal."
"Deal with what?" Owen now grinned. "How overwhelmingly attractive I am?"
"Did I not just nearly end up getting eaten by some dinosaurs?" Cassandra retorted. "Gee, get some perspective, man."
Owen contemplated her, eyes narrowing. "Is all this aggro because I happened to go on a date with your sister once upon a long time ago?" he said, tilting his head to the side. "Are you actually jealous, little Cassie?"
Cassandra's face immediately flamed with impotent fury. "No, I'm not jealous," she said through gritted teeth, "why would I be!?"
"I'd sure be jealous if my sister dated me," Owen grinned crookedly, "if I had a sister that is."
"Do you realise how wrong that sounds?"
"Uh, yes, now you come to mention it."
Cassandra turned away, rolling her eyes again, feeling Owen's gaze burning into her back.
"Hey, I never told Claire how I knew you," he said suddenly, grabbing her by the arm, forcing her to face him, "I didn't think you or her would appreciate it. I might be crude but I'm not crass, no matter how much Claire rants about my dirty fingernails."
Cassandra tore herself out of his hold, his touch scorching her bare skin. "Yeah, she mentioned that," she snapped, trying and failing to keep her composure, "and how you turned up at the restaurant wearing board shorts."
"It was warm out!"
"That's not how she sees it."
"Did she tell you she printed out an itinerary for our date!?" Owen exclaimed. "What kind of crazy person does that!?"
"Claire?"
"That's putting it mildly."
"Hey, you told her she reminded you of this 'crazy neurotic chick who flung you over!' " Cassandra flared up, curling her fingers into quotation marks. "And that was why you had asked her out. But I'm not crazy and neither am I neurotic. I never threw you over either!"
"No, you just walked out the next morning, as if it never meant anything!" Owen flung back, startling her. "I woke up and you were gone. Talk about a kick in the cajones, man."
Cassandra stared at him. "It... it was a one night stand, Owen," she then said uncertainly, his name still feeling odd on her lips, "of course it didn't mean anything."
Owen looked away, brow furrowing. "Yeah, I know it didn't," he said brusquely, "it just offended my aforementioned ego. No woman has ever achieved that feat, not even Claire. She just offends me in general."
Cassandra rolled her eyes for the third time, before freezing, her attention becoming caught by a faded photograph on the far end of the mantelpiece that she had missed earlier. It was a studio portrait showing a dark-haired woman with grey eyes and dimples, her red dress falling in elegant folds around her ankles. She was smiling crookedly at the camera, whilst holding a little blonde boy with chubby cheeks on her lap, her resemblance to Morgan uncanny to the extreme, making Cassandra stare.
"What is it?" Owen asked, frowning.
"Nothing," Cassandra said hurriedly, shaking her head, setting off the pain again, "I was... just – that picture. It's something I would like to paint – I mean, it's like the stuff I paint, that's all. Just reminded me of my work and stuff."
"Sure," Owen said, shooting her a funny look. "It's just a picture of me and my mom. Only picture I have actually."
"Oh."
"My dad bailed," Owen said, shrugging his shoulders again, "so it was just me and her. She died when I was ten. My aunt and uncle brought me up, but we were never close. So it's just me now, really."
"And your raptors," Cassandra said slowly, remembering. "You raised them, right?"
"Pretty much."
"What you did in the training enclosure, that was... amazing."
"Saved your sweet little ass, didn't I?"
Cassandra flushed hotly for the umpteenth time. "I was getting round to thanking you," she said stiffly, "so... thanks."
Owen merely cocked an eyebrow again at this. "We should get going," he then said abruptly. "I need to check out this paddock Claire's harping on about, and then we'll head back to the hotel so you can rest up."
"Sounds like a plan," Cassandra said equally as abruptly, before turning and leaving, Owen watching her go, his gaze distant like the horizon.
Wish that you would hold me or just say that you're mine
It's killing me slowly...