Life Insurance

Life Insurance

Chapter 1: It's About Time

Author's Notes: This is an original science fantasy story. This chapter was written for the Classy Insults and Awful Analogies Challenge at Moonshadow.

* * *

"Look, Red. Over there, at the bar. That's the right man for you," my friend Larry shouted over the music that, on that Friday night at the gay club called Wells, as usual, was turning a discussion into a waste of time.

Larry was talking about Paul Miller. At the same time, he was making fun of me. For some reason, he finds it hilarious to imagine me in a relationship with the man. I’m not entirely sure whether Larry thinks that I would make a hilarious wife for Paul or that Paul would be a hilarious husband. Most likely, Larry finds the fault in me; most people think that Paul is a catch. He is wealthy, he has a steady job, and he has an even temper. Of course, I’m not a woman looking for a husband. I’m not even a man looking for a husband, so what do I know?

"Paul has all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire (1)," I said as I let my eyes settle on the man that had none of the virtues I didn't like and all the vices I found irresistible: Paul Miller's boss and the owner of the club, Connor Rawson. In contrast to Larry who was perplexed, that man would have appreciated the sarcastic wit of Winston Churchill. Why can't I have friends that read something more challenging than Grisham and King? I wondered in the silence of my mind. But, considering that I don't want to have Rawson as a friend, maybe there isn’t anyone else to blame.

In Rawson's trendy club filled with twenty-something’s, at 31, I felt completely out of place. I would've come alone–it was my idea that Larry and I should come to the club that night–but I was glad that Larry agreed to come with me. Alone, in Wells, a man of my age is a pathetic sight. I didn't enjoy being there, and Larry wasn't enjoying himself either, but Larry is a good friend.

I had no choice in the matter, though; I was on an assignment. I'm an employee of the insurance company that Rawson's father's international entertaining company uses, and thereby, also Rawson's token business is our client. Everyone in the town knows that, even if daddy Rawson lets his son play the owner, daddy Rawson and Paul Miller in actuality run the club. It's also a commonly held truth that daddy Rawson bought the club so that his son would seem to have a better reason for frequenting the club than the sorry fact that, even at the ripe age of 35, Rawson junior couldn't give up the club scene. So, there I was, at Wells, feeling like a fool.

Due to an accident at the club, our company was about to lose a fortune. I was sent to investigate the business and, if possible, to reduce the costs for the company. I admitted that I was needed there, but I didn't need to like it. At least, our visit to Wells was about to be over; the closing time was less than an hour away.

"Red!" Larry's amused voice was accompanied by a punch on my arm. "You're incorrigible. Staring at Rawson again, weren't you? I guess you have a reason. As wide a variety of men as Rawson found interesting back in his wild days, you were not his type. You never got to satisfy your lust for him."

I didn't waste breath on gainsaying Larry's claims. Undeniably, he was right. My flaming red hair and heavily freckled face weren't what Rawson looked for in a man. From a very young age, Rawson was into mature men and, as twenty-something, I looked like a snot-faced brat. Unfortunately, Larry was right about the other thing, too: I lusted for Rawson. The man was a handsome devil.

"Poor thing," Larry said patting me gently on the top of my head. "You should do something about your unrequited love for him, you know. Why don't you dye that hair of yours dark, or something? Even a good tan might help. It would make your freckles less visible. Now that his lover left him, Rawson has to fuck somebody. Who knows? Even you might get lucky. If Rawson kicked you out of his bed you would be as mad at him as I was. Maybe you could then put that obsession behind you. I sure did."

Larry was showing his meaner side, out of friendliness, not out of malice. During the decade he has known me, he has watched me making myself ridiculous because of Rawson, he has seen me envious of the guys the man took to his bed, and he has seen me out of my mind with jealousy when I found out that Rawson had a romantic partner. Larry laughs at me, but he does it to keep my feet on the ground.

Because of Larry’s cruel comment, my contact with the ground turned into the mental equivalent of falling on my ass. For a second, my mental state just sat there, feeling sorry for itself; then it gathered its smarting ass from the floor and took hold on its emotions. There was nothing to cry about: quite the contrary. How could I not end up laughing at myself when I'm told that, now that Rawson is way too old to be the desirable bed partner he once was, even I might get lucky?

Be my chances as they may, I wasn't there to find out about Rawson's current preferences in bed partners; I was there to perform in my job as a damage controller. It was time to act.

"I'm going to fetch us another round of beer," I told Larry and walked to the bar. I settled on the stool next to Rawson who didn't take notice of me.

"Miller. Did you get those---" Rawson was saying as I took a look at my watch. I was right on schedule. Fleetingly, as I tried to get the attention of the bartender, I touched one finger on the back of Rawson's hand. He turned his eyes on me, and for a fraction of the second, I held his gaze.

After the briefest pause, Rawson turned back to Miller and told him: "---tell the doormen that it's fifteen minutes to closing time."

"But, Mr. Rawson…" Miller started but was silenced by Rawson's glare.

Miller dug out his cell phone and conveyed Rawson's orders not to let more people enter the club that night. I smiled at the bartender and paid for my beers. The smile stayed on my face all the way back to Larry.

For the fifteen minutes, Larry and I talked about nothing. Then, as the usual sign that the night was over, three times in a row, the room was darkened for a second. A great fuss ensued as the patrons wanted to have another drink, another dance, another fuck. But the bar was closed, the music had stopped and the backroom lights were lit. The night was definitely over. Larry and I joined the people heading out of the room.

"According to my watch," Larry said, "the club should be open for thirteen more minutes."

"Don't tell that to these people, Larry," I chuckled. "They might never leave the club."

Suddenly, the lights went out again. A few startled yelps sounded as people stumbled on each other in the darkness. Then the lights started to flicker; the people seemed to be moving brokenly. Many faces showed uncertainty.

The lights kept acting up. Then a series of loud thumps came from above. In the flickering lights, many eyes were staring at the dark ceiling, but still, people were moving towards the checkroom and the way out.

"This is spooky," Larry said. Promptly, from the attic came an unearthly howl (2). Larry let out a giggle. "The whole fucking scene has an eerie, surreal quality…like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 instead of 7:30 (2)."

I couldn't help smiling. Jeopardy, indeed.

"Will you get our coats?" I asked Larry as we came to the entrance hall. "I need to take care of business. Wait for me by the car, will you?"

Larry headed for the checkroom. I turned around and walked back to the main room of the club.

In that part of the building, I could see properly; the lights were working as they should. Despite the efforts of the personnel to the contrary, I found my way to the door of Rawson's office. As I expected, the door was closed. Nevertheless, I heard Rawson. He was inside, and he was mad. I opened the door and stepped over the threshold.

"…the fuck is it with everything?" Rawson was growling as I stepped in. He turned his smoldering eyes on me, and I shivered.

"Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing in my office?"

"I'm Dane Norris, and I'm here to…"

"I know you!" Rawson’s words came out on top of my words. "I can't place you, your name doesn't ring a bell, but I know you. Who the hell are you?"

"Does it really matter, Connor? You invited me here, and here I am."

"Bullshit! I did no such thing."

"You were talking to Miller, you turned to me, and you told me to come here as soon as the lights went out."

"What the…?" Rawson was perplexed, and I didn't blame him. "I can't rem…"

I smiled at him as enticingly as I could. He just looked at me, the vertical line between his eyebrows getting even deeper.

"What the hell is happening tonight?" Rawson rushed up from his chair and started towards me. I took a step back, almost stumbling at the threshold. "My employees are late with their reports, my computer is out of time sync, and apparently, a doppelganger invites tricks to my office."

"The reports won't be coming. I sent your personnel home, in your name of course."

"You what?!"

I took another step back.

"You wanted to be alone with me, Connor."

"The fuck I wanted!"

"I know," I purred.

"I don't know what game you think you're playing, but I know that it's your time to leave the board!"

Rawson grabbed me by the arm, and then he was forcing me to the backdoor and through it. As he drew me through the door I kicked it shut behind me.

"Get lost," I heard the man say before he turned back and noticed the closed door. Then I heard him utter some quite impressive expletives. Rawson was standing there without his coat, money, cell phone or keys. Behind his back, I grinned.

"I've got a car, Connor," I started, but as he turned around again, he didn't stop to listen. He passed me by as if I wasn't there. I followed as he walked around the building to the front door and opened the code operated lock. It was my time to utter expletives. I didn't let Rawson hear them, though.

I was running out of ideas. I rushed into the building behind Rawson and, as he swiveled around, let myself collide with him. It wasn't too bad to bury my nose into the skin at the base of his throat. Of course, he didn't let my nose get more than the briefest contact with him, but it was enough. As quickly as he grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my head back, the brief touch was enough, and right according to my hastily concocted plan, I ended up staring Rawson straight in the eyes.

I took him back. Suddenly, the lights went out again. A few startled yelps sounded as people stumbled on each other in the darkness. Then the lights started to flicker; the people seemed to be moving brokenly. Many faces showed uncertainty.

"Why are all these people still here? And what the hell is wrong with the lights? Some sorry fucker must've found his way into the attic. This is spooky," Rawson said. Promptly, from the attic came an unearthly howl (2). Rawson let out a giggle. "The whole fucking scene has an eerie, surreal quality…like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 instead of 7:30 (2)."

I couldn't help smiling. It was hilarious to listen to Rawson's words starting to mix with Larry's. But, he was getting too involved. I had to let him out of my past.

"What the hell am I talking?" Rawson shook his head. "Fuck this!"

Before I could blink an eye, the unpredictable man was rushing towards the stairs leading to the upper floor. I ran after him, but I was unable to prevent him from running up the stairs. I reached him only when he stopped to turn on the lights. By then, we already were in the attic.

There weren't horny homos in sight. We found the cause of thumps and howls and flickering lights, though. A gas pipe had come loose from the ceiling and was lying at the floor. The pipe had pulled a few electric wires to the floor with it. I grabbed Rawson by the arm and pulled him back to the stairs and down them. As soon as we had cleared the stairs, I tried to drag him out of the building. Rawson wasn't cooperating. He was starting towards the nearest phone.

"Let go of me! I need to call 911!"

The fucking mule kept pulling to the opposite direction, but I didn't let him go. He stumbled out on the street behind me.

"Fuck you!"

Rawson tried to wrench his arm from my grip. I put my cell phone in his hand.

"Call!"

He did. Then he wanted to wait for the help to get there. I couldn't afford the battle of wills; already, I was running out of time. I grabbed his chin and forced him to look me in the eyes. I took him three hours into the future. I was lucky: in a second, Rawson was asleep. Then, on my shoulders, I carried him to my car where Larry was waiting for me.

"It took you more time than usual," Larry commented. "What happened? Why are you carrying that guy around?"

"He's a stubborn bastard. Give me a hand. I have to get him in my car."

"Rawson! Was it him you were sent here for, tonight?"

"It's ironic, isn't it? But the mission isn't over yet. Give me my coat and get out of here. There's not much time left."

I watched Larry pull out of the parking slot before I followed his example. Like Larry, I took off with haste; less than three minutes were left. But, it was all I needed.

In my mind's eye, I read once again the reports that had brought Rawson's file onto my desk that afternoon and sent me to Wells. "In an explosion and the ensuing fire at Wells 05:12 AM, 752 people will die, one of the victims will be Connor Rawson, and 371 people will be injured" read the first one. The second stated that "in an explosion and the ensuing fire at Wells 05:12 AM Connor Rawson will die." The third gave the warning that "an explosion and the ensuing fire at Wells 05:12 AM will destroy the club. Connor Rawson will die crushed by a falling piece of the wall at 05:16 AM". It was 05:18, and Connor Rawson was very much alive at the passenger seat of my car. The bastard was snoring.

As I drove home, I tried not to think about the fourth report. In vain.

"At 07:54 AM Connor Rawson will be found dead in front of Manning Street 14. He will be found without his coat, money, cell phone or keys. The cause of death will remain a mystery."

That morning. My passenger. My address.

1) Winston Churchill

2) an unknown US high school student

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