As she lies in the darkness, she can feel him nearby. Her body calls out for him and she bites her lip in frustration. She knows he's not sleeping either. He doesn't trust her, and he's right not to.
Every fiber of her being says that now is the time to go. To run, to call Stefano and just escape from this torment. And yet, she looks at him and she can't. She's drawn to him, she's bound to him in this game they're playing and she can't just give it up.
She takes a deep breath and wills her pounding heart to settle.
That's right Grace. The game, you've lost sight of the game. Get it together, because right now you're in danger of losing it all together.
It was those damn strawberries that had unsettled her so. The stray memory that belonged to another time and another woman. It was the sweetness of it, so beguiling, that disturbed her. The passion, she can deal with. Passion she can relate to. But sweetness? Goodness? That's foreign and she doesn't want a bar of it.
Sweetness only leads to weakness. Love to loss. She won't suffer the way Marlena did. She won't ever feel that agony again.
A memory tugs at the corners of her mind. A memory so vicious and cruel that it is tucked away beyond remembering. Just a hint of the pain is enough to steel her against the intrusion of the sweet, contented memories.
She won't succumb, not again. She has a game to win.
The following day is spent mostly in a silent fog of their own thoughts. They walk across fields and roads until they stumble upon a small town. Neither of them is even sure where they are, but this seems like manna to them, with the opportunity to find a meal and maybe even a ride.
It's late afternoon as they enter the local greasy spoon. The woman behind the garish orange counter is a study in Southern inhospitality. She smacks on her gum as she eyes them suspiciously.
"Whatdya want?" Her demand is accompanied by the sweeping back of her scraggly red hair with one unkempt hand. Grace shudders at the sight of the woman's filthy fingernails and her enormous girth and she looks studiously at the menu as John orders them coffee and bacon, eggs and hash browns.
They sit down, acutely aware of the hostile stares of the townsfolk gathered at the tables near the counter.
"Do we really have to eat *here*?" Grace asks, her distaste hanging in the air.
"Look, you can go on and try and find somewhere else, but I'm tired. I need a break." John drops his head into his hands and rubs his forehead. He's been battling this headache all day and it's gathering in intensity. With no more indications from Grace that Marlena is anywhere close, he is finding it hard to maintain the hope he'd had the previous evening.
Everything seems to be fading. His hope, his strength. Everything except for this damn headache. It's threatening to engulf him and he's almost beyond fighting it.
Grace's reply is forestalled by the waitress slamming their coffees down on the table. The black liquid sloshes over the side of the cup and Grace glares back after her.
"So much for service with a smile," she mutters.
John ignores her and reaches for the stewed black liquid that passes as coffee. He gulps it down greedily, pausing only to grimace at the bitterness before he drops the cup back to the table.
"God you're a miserable bastard," Grace observes. "What the hell did Marlena see in you?"
"Maybe it's just that I've got nothing to be happy about." John snaps back. "I've lost my wife, I'm stuck in the back of beyond with you and I have no money. I'm on the run from the law because you killed a man that is like a *brother* to me, I have DiMera on my tail probably trying to extract some new kind of twisted and evil revenge and by now, I'm sure our whole family hates me." He looks up at her, his blue eyes sodden with misery. "So what have I got to smile about, tell me that, would you?"
Grace says nothing, just looks at him dispassionately. "Self-pity isn't a terribly attractive quality in a person," she raises her eyebrows. "So, you've lost what was never yours to begin with. Where's the problem?"
"Never mine....?" His forehead folds into creases of pain. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"The only one who tells the truth, apparently." Grace hisses viciously. "You're not part of that family. All you'll ever be is an outsider looking in. They only accept you because they think *have* to. Because of their darling, precious Marlena."
"That's not true," John growls, the pain pounding the insides of his skull envelope him as her words drill through him. "It's not true..."
"Of course it's true," she laughs scornfully, ignoring the massive bulk of the waitress as she flings plates of congealed potato and charred bacon in front of them. "You saw the way they looked at you when they found out about you and Hope. They couldn't *stand* you. The moment they thought you'd betrayed Marlena, they were ready to feed you to the lions."
"No..." John's whisper is barely audible as his eyes drop to his meal.
"And as for *Roman*..." she continues. "Don't bother shedding any tears for that miserable excuse for a human being." She shudders as she picks up her fork. The remnants of rage she bears toward Lamont cling to her still. Even extinguishing his miserable life hasn't erased the memory of his touch. Her skin crawls just thinking about him.
"No!" John's reply is more forceful. He looks up to find her eyes, golden and predatory, staring at him. "Roman is a... *was* a good man. I won't let you talk about him like that."
"Roman's not the man you thought he was John." Her mouth is fixed in a thin, hard line. Her expression speaks of her hatred and John shivers.
"Wh...what are you saying?" he stutters as the waitress splashes more lukewarm coffee into his mug.
"Do I have to explain *everything* to you?" She asks in exasperation as she picks up a fork and stabs a lump of shriveled bacon. "Honestly John, sometimes you are so dense."
"Or you just get a kick out of being deliberately vague," he mutters as he spears some shredded potato. It’s obvious he's not going to get anything more out of her as she retreats to the safety of silence and he turns his concentration to the unappetizing mess that is his meal.
After they've finished, Grace tosses a few bills on the table and they walk out into the dying afternoon. Grace shields her eyes against the sun and looks down the street.
"Oh my Lordy, I think I see sal-vay-shun," she says in an exaggerated southern drawl. John's eyes follow to where her finger is pointing and he feels his spirits inexplicably rise at the sight of the podunk little car lot down the street.
The owner is just as distrustful of them as the waitress, but he accepts their offer on a rundown old jeep and his eyes brighten considerably when Grace hands him an array of bills to conclude the deal.
"Well then," he hands her the keys in exchange. "Mighty nice doin' business with you ma'am. You be sure to stop by if you're ever this way again."
"I very much doubt we will be," Grace says derisively. If she never sees another hick town like this it will be far too soon.
By the time the sun sets, they are far away from the town. John is dozing in the passenger's seat when Grace pulls off the interstate. He struggles to consciousness, his eyelids assaulted buy the violent blinking of neon above him. He cracks an eye open and looks across at her.
"Where are we?" he asks wearily.
"Well, I don't know about you. But I need a comfortable bed, even if it's only for one night." She looks almost as tired as he feels but she manages a flicker of a smile. "And a hot bath. What I wouldn't give for a hot bath."
"Can we afford it?" he asks cautiously. They've discussed money already and his lack of it. She has quite a bit of cash and she has credit cards, but she's not prepared to use them unless they get desperate. Cards are far too easily traced while cash affords them the luxury of being nameless faces for as long as possible. At least until she gets what she wants from him.
"Not every night," she says airily, "but tonight won't break the bank." She opens the door of the old jalopy and slides out. "Why don't you stay here, stud. I'll get us a room."
It's hardly the most salubrious of motels, but when they open the door to their room, it seems almost like luxury. John stops when he sees the double bed and he turns and looks at Grace, pointedly.
"What?" She shrugs. "It's all they had. Anyway," she grins, "it's nice and cosy, right?"
"Go and have your bath," he growls as he collapses on the bed. His headache has abated slightly, but it's left him drained and bereft of fight.
"It's big enough for two..." she calls from the bathroom. "Wanna come and soap my back, big boy?"
He chooses not to answer, just groans and rolls over, burying his face in the harsh synthetic fabric of the bedspread.
In the bathroom, Grace grins as she sets the bath running. She watches the water collect in the bottom of the tub, wisps of steam drifting lazily from the rippling surface.
When it's full enough, she sheds her clothes and steps into the water. It's almost unbearably hot, but she likes it that way. She leans back against the end of the tub and sighs contentedly. The heat strips away her aches and pains and soothes her tired muscles.As she relaxes, she allows her mind to wander into a fantasy where John is in the bath with her, stroking her shoulders, moving his hands across her slippery skin, kissing her... entering her...
Suddenly, John's face turns into Lamont's and she can feel him with her, touching her. He slides against her and she can feel him inside her, thrusting into her....
Her eyes snap open in terror and she screams, short and sharp.
Almost instantly, John is in the bathroom with her, sliding in his sock clad feet to her side.
"What is it?!" he demands breathlessly. "Grace, what's wrong?"
"No...." she whimpers, "Oh god, *no*!"
"Grace?" He crouches beside the bath, studying her as his heart pounds in his chest. It's almost as if she's completely unaware that he's even there. She's hunched over in the bath, her arms wrapped around herself and she's staring at the surface of the water, a tortured expression marring her beautiful face.
Gently he reaches out and touches her shoulder. "What is it, baby?"
"Don't *touch* me!" She snarls as she violently bats his hand away. "Dear God, don't touch me, *ever* again."
"What?" The skin between his brows deepens into well-worn furrows.
"Bastard!" she whispers, a tear trickling down her cheek. "How *could* he? How could he do that to me?"
"What are you talking about?" John is even more confused. He eases himself onto his knees and shakes his head. "Grace, you're not making any sense."
Suddenly she seems to see him and angrily she flicks away the tears with slender fingers. "Get out." Her voice is low and vicious. "Get out and leave me alone."
John doesn't say anything, just looks at her in confusion and concern.
"I *said*," her voice rises as she grabs the bar of cheap, complimentary soap. "GET OUT!" She hurls the bar of soap and it flies at him, catching him above the eye.
"Okay, okay!" He raises his hands in surrender and then pushes himself from the floor. Shrugging, he rubs the tender spot on his forehead as he heads for the door. "I'll be out here if you need me."
In the bath, Grace shivers fiercely, despite the heat of the water. She feels like weeping, but she will not allow herself the weakness. She will not allow *anyone* to get the better of her, least of all Lamont or Stefano.
"God, you *bastard*!" she curses again. She's furious at Stefano for putting her in close proximity with that animal. She doesn't care if it was Marlena, they share the same body and as such, Lamont has as much defiled her as Marlena.
She shudders. How could Marlena have thought that *creep* was Roman Brady? How could she have allowed him to touch her? To fuck her like the whore he thought she was.
"Oh God," she moans, the nausea welling up inside her. She drips water all over the tiles as she stumbles to the toilet and retches uncontrollably.
Sinking to the floor by the white porcelain, she leans back against the dirty white wall and shivers, her vision growing dim and porous. It takes only seconds for a nebulous gray fog to smother all thoughts in her head and she slides down the wall, coming to a rest on the frigid white tiled floor.