Sick Child - MarkoxOC

Part 50: exiled

The ride is tense. Sofie feels like she's going to throw up with every turn Marko takes. David leads, apparently Max gave him an address. They stop in near a cluster of trees on a small, quiet, and mostly dark street save for two flickering street lamps. The atmosphere makes Sofie nervous, despite the fact that she is the very thing that goes bump in the night; the very thing that anyone walking alone should be afraid of. For the most part, her vampirism is barely a thought, a forgotten second nature. Marko tells her it's because she's still so young and human habits die incredibly hard. David climbs off of his bike and motions for the others to do the same. He stares down Sofie until her equally steely exterior breaks and she bites her lip out of sheer nervousness. Paul and Dwayne's gazes are locked on hers with expectant looks on their faces like she's suddenly in charge. Marko's grip on her hand becomes vice-like.

"Well, princess?" David asks as he motions toward the house.

She blinks.

"Well, what?"

"Do your thing, chica," Paul laughs.

Sofie takes a deep breath, lets go of Marko's hand, and starts toward Ridge's house. There's only one light on in what appears to be the den closest to the entrance. There are no cars in the driveway. Ridge is inside. She can hear his heartbeat, she can smell him - cigars and pure rage. Sofie stops for a second and whips her head around. She can see her brothers behind her, their silhouettes outlined in the moonlight. She can feel their gaze on her. Nimble fingers reach into her jacket pocket and pull out her lipstick to expertly swipe it across her mouth. Sofie can almost see Marko's Cheshire grin in the darkness and the jolt of his body as he holds back a snicker. Just before she tucks the tube back into her pocket, she pulls her tank top just a touch further down her breasts. It's uncomfortable, but she's got to get him out of here somehow. Then, she takes the long slow march down the barren driveway. The lawn is unkempt, not atypical for Santa Carla, or a workaholic like Ridge. There are children's toys scattered about that have clearly been there for a few months. The house itself is quite unremarkable. Brown and white, fairly new, or recently renovated. Sofie notices a large, gold door knocker on the front door and grasps it with a shaky hand. She pounds on the door three times before stepping backward and roughing up her hair to make herself look panicked and disheveled.

And then she waits, with her metaphorical heart in her throat and a bowling ball in the pit of her stomach. This could go very wrong in so many ways. She hears footsteps followed by soft cursing and a dog barking. The door whips open and she's confronted with the sight of a very drunk Ridge standing in front of her. He snarls immediately and goes to shut the door, but Sofie puts her hands out.

"Detective, please don't."

"Fuck you," he mumbles.

"Detective!" She calls and unconsciously goes to step into the threshold of the house, but is immediately flooded with pain and doubles over, stumbling backward. It's white-hot and burning through every nerve ending in her body.

You need an invitation, stupid, she scolds herself.

Ridge immediately looks concerned and cautiously takes a step toward her.

"Are you okay?" He asks hesitantly.

The pain is so bad that the answer that falls out of her mouth is completely honest.

"No," she chokes out.

None of the boys told her about this. She has a mind to slap all four of them once this is all over. Ridge puts a gentle hand on her back.

"Come inside and sit down. We can fight later."

In an instant, the pain is gone, but Sofie keeps up the facade. She was horrible in drama classes as a kid, but he doesn't need to know that. Ridge slings her arm over his shoulder and draws her up to full height. Sofie winces convincingly enough and he glances over at her. She can smell the whiskey on his breath. He's at least three-quarters of a bottle deep. This might be too easy.