Reclutant Gifts

Who: Brett
Where: Florist in town
When: Mid-afternoon

Brett told himself once again that it was only sensible as he pushed open the door to the florist he'd found. He didn't crack a smile, in fact, he looked incredibly uncomfortable. It might be sensible - after all, the police were more than likely watching where she worked and where she lived and, now that Jackson had Ginger's details, it was possible his building was being watched as well. When he actively thought about it, he felt cornered. Cornered and glad he'd checked out Gray's place a couple of days ago. They'd needed a place they could meet up then, but they really needed it now.

Working on Gray's place hadn't been hard. When he'd brought her out of there before the new year, Brett had had to break in to do so. And he'd left behind a house that had been in pretty okay order. It was amazing what a few weeks could do. He didn't know what had happened, but he could imagine. Probably the neighbourhood kids had clued in first - worked out that the property was abandoned and gone in to 'play'. And playing for those kinds of kids meant wrecking the place - breaking windows, writing on walls, maybe destroying some furniture. Maybe. Really, Brett figured that the adults followed on after the kids in pretty short order. There was no word on the street about what had happened to Gray, but everyone who knew him knew he was missing. And that meant his house was empty. And one things Brett knew for sure was that most of his furniture had been gone. Kids destroyed things - adults just stole it. Put it to use elsewhere.

Really, by the time Brett got there, it was a clean up job. Sweeping up the glass, boarding up windows, replacing locks. It had taken him only a few hours to seal the place off. It was little more than an empty shell, but on that day, he hadn't thought of using it for anything other than a contact point.

But, as of last night, as of meeting with Jackson, as of realising how this could possibly go, Brett had moved some of his things in. It suddenly felt good to have a bolt hole.

Not that it was a grand palace or anything, far from it. 'Moving some things in' in Brett's world meant that he'd ensured there was a mattress in the basement - not much, it was stained and old. Looked at first glance like someone had dumped it in a corner, rather than put it there with an eye to sleeping on it, which was the point. A couple of blankets heaped off to one side maybe raised it to the level of an occasional squat, but not much more. Upstairs, things remained the same - unless one counted the tins of food and a couple of pans under the dresser. Not in a cupboard - too obvious. And not stacked. Scattered - as though they had somehow ended up there by mistake when someone had moved out. He'd left single change of clothes hanging in an upstairs wardrobe. Again, something someone could have left behind.

And now, now he was standing in a florist, listening to a young girl witter on about the different colours of roses, and what 'spray' was and why lilies weren't what he was after. Really, he didn't care what he was after. The flowers weren't important: getting someone anonymous to deliver a message without remembering which of the dozens of messages they delivered daily it was was what was important. That was why he was here. that was why he'd overridden his gut instinct that told him that the first contact with a woman you'd screwed being with fucking flowers was a bad fucking plan. That it would give her fucking ideas. That she needed not to fucking well have those, because it wasn't happening. Whatever 'it' was.

Brett grunted his way through the conversation with the florist, giving her only what information she needed. Some roses, carnations, he didn't really care. He wanted eye catching, but not too big. Something that would get attention, but not too much. He new what he wanted. he wanted to make sure she read the note. Dammit, he didn't know how many flowers she got in that job! For all he knew, she had men falling over themselves every night for her - and why wouldn't she? She'd surely seen herself! So, it was possible that his note would risk getting lost in a sea of blooms, so he needed to make sure that it stood out. But, he didn't want it to stand out too much. He didn't want people asking too many questions about who'd sent them. he didn't want other people wanting to read the note. The note that was really very plain - no more than a street address. The note that was merely addressed, in the florist's handwriting, to 'Princess'.