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Blown
Chapter Twenty-Seven
"Don't Say No"

Las Vegas, Nevada
May 21, 2005
7:10AM

When Stefan steps into the suite, the first thing he smells is the coffee--rich and strong wafting through the air. He closes the door behind him, swaps his keys for a towel he left on the nearby table on his way out. He walks through the foyer, mopping the sweat off his forehead, trying to cool down from his run. He follows the strong aroma into the kitchen, finds Gia there, a spatula in her hand. She swivels around from the stove and flashes him a smile. "Look who's back..."

Amused, he leans against the center island. "What are you doing?"

"Man, you must be pampered if you don't know cooking when you see it..." She turns back, eases her spatula under the omelet and transfers it from the frying pan onto a plate. She turns off the stove.

"I didn't know you knew how to cook," he explains.

She shakes her head vigorously. "I don't--like, I'm not a cook. There are only certain dishes I know how to make. I have specialties, if you will. I haven't actually been near a kitchen in months, but this morning I got excited and I was dying to make you an omelet." She brings the plate, complete with wheat toast and a side of bacon with her over to where he is standing. She sets it in front of him. "Here you go," she says, "Bon appétit."

Much to his surprise, it looks just like an omelet. He raises his eyes to meet hers. "What else do you include in your list of specialties?"

She reaches for her coffee mug. "My macaroni and cheese is to die for. I'm good with cookies. My pecan pie is terrific. You know, anything you might want to FRY--but that's about it. My mother could make just about anything. She really had a knack for it...sometimes I'd watch her, pick some things up."

Stefan drapes his towel around his neck. "This is not something I've ever considered about you."

She shrugs. "I don't really give off domestic vibes." She finishes the last of her coffee and places her mug in the sink. "Okay, so, try the omelet. If you don't like it, trash it. You won't be hurting my feelings. Just make sure you eat something, though...I don't think you eat enough."

He notes that she is fully dressed--designer jeans, red blouse, matching red, high-heeled sandals. Her face is made up and her purse is perched on the far end of the marble countertop. He looks at the digital display on the microwave. It's not even eight o'clock, but she is obviously on her way out. He gestures toward his plate. "Aren't you going to join me?"

"I can't," she replies, "I've got to jet. I've been out of town all week and I have a million errands to run." She reaches for her purse. "I could do lunch...if you're not going to be busy all day..."

He thinks about it. "I am not really sure. I will have to call you midday."

"Sounds good..." She smiles, stalking over to him. "Kiss me goodbye?"

"I just ran six miles; I'm none to pleasant to be around..."

"Don't care," she replies, leaning in and kissing him.

When she pulls back, he latches onto her arm. "Before you go," he starts, "I have something for you." He lets go, and then disappears from the kitchen.

She fills the time, fishing through her purse for gum. She pulls two sticks of Juicy Fruit out of their wrapper and stuffs them in her mouth. Gum, she knows, is not going to hold her. Right now, her whole body is twisting itself in knots, wanting a cigarette. She needs something more substantial to quell that urge. She thinks maybe she will find a bakery before her manicure and grab something. A donut. A bear claw. A giant cinnamon roll.

Something.

Stefan returns with a thick white envelope. He hands it to her. She takes it-- her eyes alight when she slides the contents out on the center island. She takes inventory: two platinum Visa credit cards, a Black American Express card, a checkbook, and a set of keys. She lets out a low whistle. Black American Express cards are very rare, she knows. A person has to spend a quarter of a million dollars a year just to be considered for one. Nikolas didn't even have one. She lifts that card into her hands, reads her name in raised gold lettering. "Money!" she exclaims, "Just what I always wanted."

Serious, he replies, "You should know I don't care what you buy or how much of it, but no real estate. I don't want any more holdings in Nevada."

He is the most curious man, she thinks, standing there in his black track pants and his Nike Shox. He recognizes that she loves money--loves his money--and still wants to indulge her every whim. She sees now why David Pedrosa is concerned for him. Just because she isn't a gold digger doesn't stop her from looking like one from the outside. Suddenly melancholy, she nods.

"Also, you should know I pulled your credit record. I was looking for a list of creditors so I could pay off your outstanding debt--much as I did before when you and Nikolas became engaged. But, other than a credit card or two, you didn't have any."

She scoops everything but the keys back into the envelope and shoves it into her purse. "Why do you sound so surprised? Did you think I was broke?"

"I put Alexis through law school, Gia. It's an expensive endeavor for a young, single woman."

"Ah, well I went to Northwestern on the Smile-and-Look-Pretty Scholarship Fund. And my mother thought modeling was a dead end..." She shakes her head. "Besides that, I HAVE money."

"Yes, I know."

Her eyes narrow. "Is there any part of my finances that aren't just open to your perusal whenever you feel like making a phone call?”

"No."

Carte blanche, she thinks. She picks up the keys from the counter. "Eat your breakfast before it gets cold," she orders, "and call me later about lunch." She strolls from the kitchen, her heels clicking on the tiled floors.

Stefan picks up a fork, tentatively saws free a piece of Gia's omelet and raises it to his mouth. He chews thoughtfully for a moment, mulls over the concoction of egg, cheese, spinach, and mushroom. It's certainly not bad. He pulls a stool over to the high counter and sits--eats his breakfast.

9:26AM

Gia exits the Roberto Cavalli store, two big bags in each hand. She walks through the corridor of Caesar's Palace, studies passing tourists--all of whom look more like they're just dragging themselves to bed rather than getting up to face the day. Two weeks ago, that would have been her stumbling in just before ten, tipsy and half-asleep. But, now, she's married. And, living with Stefan Cassadine doesn't really lend itself to late nights at after-hours spots.

She purses her lips, thinks of how she spent her Friday night. She unpacked Stefan's things from the trip, balanced her checkbook, polished off a container of cottage cheese and two Snicker's bars. She spent the rest of the night sitting around, staring at the walls until Stefan finally came home at one in the morning.

She didn't use to be this pathetic.

Of course, it's Saturday. She can rectify the previous night's lapse by making tonight a night to remember. She could slip into some party clothes, go down to her favorite nightclub, and have a few free drinks. Certainly, Stefan wouldn't miss her for a few hours.

Certainly, Stefan would understand. After all, she's married--not dead.

Maybe, he could come along.

She sidesteps a toddler waddling away from his mother and walks into Cartier. She's greeted promptly by a gaunt looking young man with high cheekbones and blonde highlights. "Welcome to Cartier," he says, his voice thin and nasally. "My name is Sean. Is there anything I can help you with?"

Gia nods in his direction and then walks passed him into the empty jewelry store. She glides over to one of the numerous glass cases. Exquisite necklaces of diamond, emerald, and ruby glitter brightly in strong overhead lights. It's almost hypnotizing. She calls over her shoulder, "I need something, Sean--something very special."

He crosses the room, falls in-step beside her. "Whatever your needs, I'm sure we can accommodate you," he replies, his tone reserved, as if he doesn't want to expend too much energy talking her up if it's not going to be worth his while.

Gia stops, swivels around to face the salesman. She juggles her shopping bags, manages to open her purse and pull out her brand new American Express Card. When he sees it, his eyes grow so wide she thinks they might pop right out of his head and splatter goo all over his immaculate pink shirt and tie. This was the intended effect. Now, they can get right on to the matter at hand--Sean bending over backwards to earn his big fat commission check. She taps the card against her chin. "Well, that's good," she replies, "because I like to be accommodated..."

11:15AM

"Make yourself useful," Stefan says, walking out of the closet and handing him an armful of Armani suits.

David frowns, draping the suits over his arm. "What are you doing?"

Stefan walks back into the closet. He reappears seconds later, a similar load of dark pants and shirts in his grip. "I am moving half of my wardrobe to the closet in the spare room." He looks down pointedly at the small mountain of Louis Vuitton luggage piled by the door.

The younger man nods knowingly. "Ah...she's cracking the whip already..."

Stefan walks from the room, turns down the long corridor to the spare bedroom. David trails along behind him. The two men enter the narrow closet, set about hanging the clothing on the thin brass rack.

David says, "I found Pace Hewitt."

Stefan turns to face him. "Where?"

"He's in San Francisco, staying in a small apartment over a dance studio owned by friends of his sister. He won't be there for long, though. He's booked--under his real name, mind you, so it could be a ruse--on a flight out of the country tomorrow night."

Stefan turns back to his task, hangs each suit, each shirt, each pair of pants with delicate care while his mind races with the possibilities. "Call Nathan," he says finally, "tell him I'll want to be in San Francisco by five o'clock tomorrow morning. He can file the flight plan accordingly. Also, I want a copy of everything you have on the man--including a current picture."

Dumbfounded, David drops a shirt. "What? I don't understand. You're going to San Francisco?"

"Yes."

"Why? What are you going to do?"

Stefan releases a breath. "I won't know what I'm going to do until I get there."

"I'm going with you," the younger man intones.

"No, you're not. You're going to Mass with your daughter just like you do every Sunday morning. I'll take care of this."

"We'll go now--that way we'll be back tonight--"

"David--stop. I've made the decision. Just do as I have asked. Keep an eye on the man. If it looks like he’s going to leave ahead of plans, I want to be informed immediately. And make sure Nathan understands that I don't want to be in California any longer than absolutely necessary. When I get back to the airport tomorrow, I want to be in the air twenty minutes later."

David bends down, picks up the clothing he dropped. "Of course," he replies, "I'll tell him."

12:32PM

The manicurist gives Gia a dirty look, but helps her settle the cell phone against her ear anyway. She gives the woman an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Tiffany, it'll just be a second..."

"Just keep your hands under the light," she orders, screwing the lid back on the bottle of nail polish.

Gia nods, shifting the phone into the crook between her ear and shoulder. "Hello?"

"Where are you?" Stefan asks in lieu of a greeting.

"I'm getting my nails done."

"Do you still want to have lunch?"

"Sure. I just need ten minutes to let my nails dry. Come pick me up..." she replies, offering him directions to the salon. He hangs up, but she is still stuck with the phone wedged up against her ear. As if sensing her problem, Tiffany trudges over from her kiosk. She moves the phone and closes the lid. "Can you just shove it in my purse?"

Tiffany glares at her. "Yeah. Whatever." She then slips the phone in the side pocket of Gia's purse and walks off.

"Thanks," she calls after her. Gia sits in the uncomfortable chair, her hands splayed wide under the intense ultraviolet light. It's several minutes before the door chimes and she turns in time to see Stefan come striding inside. He's wearing a navy suit with a white and navy striped shirt. His eyes are obscured by a pair of dark sunglasses.

The receptionist stands up, sticks her chest out. "Is there anything I can help you with, sir?" she asks, sweeping her long blonde hair back over her shoulder.

"I'm looking for someone," he answers absently.

Gia almost gets up then, almost walks over there and makes him substitute the word someone with the words my wife. She doesn't. Instead, she sits in her hidden corner and continues to watch this other woman try to get Stefan's attention.

The woman says, "Did you have an appointment or..."

He stops scouring the room, turns toward the woman. "No, I'm sorry, I'm not a customer."

"No, I'm sorry," she smiles, laughing, "when you said you were looking for someone I thought you meant someone who worked here...But, you meant a customer." She leans against the desk and her hand knocks into a stack of papers. They all go floating over the edge onto the floor. "Oh, no!" she yelps, rushing around the side of the desk and squatting. She starts gathering the papers into a pile. Stefan, ever polite, bends down to help her. The whole time, the receptionist's very admirable chest is bouncing up and down, barely contained by the plunging neckline of her fashionable jersey wrap dress. "I'm such a klutz," she mews, her hand brushing Stefan's as she picks up a stack of pamphlets.

He starts assuring her that she is not a klutz. It could happen to anyone.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

"Are you kidding me?" Gia mutters to herself. Dry or not, she pulls her nails back from under the light. She grabs her purse off the floor and heads toward the front of the salon. "Oh, there you are," she says to Stefan, all the while looking at the receptionist. "I didn't make you wait too long, did I?"

The receptionist retreats back behind her desk, starts rearranging her papers.

Stefan, oblivious, answers, "No, not at all. Are you ready?"

"Not yet, could you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"My nails are still sort of wet and I don't want to have to open my purse. Could you go back there and pay my manicurist? She has the black hair with the blue streaks in the front. Her name is Tiffany."

He walks off--with a limited amount of scowling-- to do her bidding and she turns to the receptionist. She spreads her left hand out over the appointment book on the far corner. "Can you schedule me another appointment the week after next?" she asks.

The woman looks from her ring, up to her face. Understanding registers on her face and she realizes there was another witness to her little show. She recovers quickly. She flips her hair again, then replies, "Sure thing, Gia...I'll pencil you in that Saturday..."

"Thanks," Gia smiles, satisfied that not only has she marked her territory, but that the other woman has been sufficiently warned. She backs away from the receptionist's desk just in time to see Tiffany trailing longingly behind Stefan.

"Oh, thank you," Tiffany is saying, clutching a handful of money to her chest. "You're really too generous." Tiffany stops by the door, shoves her chest out and flashes an adoring smile. "Really, I don't know what to say."

Gia grabs Stefan's arm and leads him out the door. "I can't take you anywhere," she groans.

1:20PM

"Do you really believe those women were flirting with me?"

Gia looks up from her shrimp scampi. "Are you serious? Of course, they were. Half the universe is flirting with you on a daily basis, Stefan. I mean, just because you ignore them, doesn't mean they're ignoring you. I've seen many a dizzy looking woman fluttering her eyelashes at you."

As usual, he has no idea what she's talking about, so he changes the subject. "So, there is something I need to discuss with you. I have to leave town tonight." He pauses, then very easily begins to weave his lie, "The hotel is having a problem with one of its vendors and it needs to be rectified before Monday, so I'm just going to fly out to Denver--take care of it Sunday morning.”

"You're leaving tonight?" she asks, disappointed.

"Not until very, very late," he assures her, placing his fork on the edge of his plate. He reaches out, places his hand on top of hers. "You'll be asleep by the time I leave, I promise. You'll barely notice I've gone."

She hesitates for a fraction of a second before she nods. "You've got to do what you've got to do."

"Come now, don't look so sad...I'll be back Sunday afternoon at the latest."

She raises her eyes. "Do I look sad?"

"You do..."

"Cheer me up, then," she says, forcing a smile, "say you'll be my escort for tonight."

"Hmm...Let's see...The last time I played your escort, your father punched me in the face," he reminds her, pulling his hand back, picking up his fork. "It seems like a dangerous assignment."

"Well, I can promise you that no one will punch you in the face tonight. It's just that it's Saturday night and I want to go out-- out--to a club where I can commence to get down with my bad self. "

"I assume you're referring to a discotheque--"

She cringes. "It's a club, Stefan. Club. Do not say discotheque. When you say discotheque, you sound like some reject from the 70s. "

He leans forward, replies, "I am a reject from the 1970s, Gia."

"You totally are," she says, her tone teasing, her eyes flashing with amusement. "And, that's why you need me, isn't it? I'll just have to be your interpreter for this new, wondrous age of fire and indoor plumbing. So, first lesson, Clubbing 101--you're going to hate it. It's full of half-dressed, drunk people. Not one of them is going to have any breeding, any blue blood. Less than a third will know anything at all about Dostoyevsky. The music will be loud and there'll be lots of annoying bass. The drinks will be over-priced. Like I said, you're going to hate it--but it would make me SUPER happy if you came anyway."

This is something Stefan has to consider. Clubbing? He hasn't been out to a club in years. Sure, in 1973, he had a small group of acquaintances and they used to frequent certain popular nightspots. But, Gia doesn't know that--doesn't know about his friends. They were mostly like him--privileged, overindulged--and they didn't go out for the music or even to drink. They spent most of their time in the bathroom, snorting cocaine up their noses. He shakes his head. "I am not sure this is a very good idea."

"Don't say no."

"I'm not saying yes..."

She takes a sip of her ice tea. "Okay, just don't say no."

"I reserve the right to officially say no later on in the afternoon..." he says, taking a bite of his grilled chicken. He makes a face. "The chicken's dry."

"Stop getting chicken. Everywhere we go...there's you and the dry chicken. "

"I like chicken when it's made correctly."

"Well, try my scampi." She pushes her plate towards him.

He takes his fork, spears a shrimp doused in garlic and butter. He puts it in his mouth, savors the flavor before addressing her. “It’s excellent."

"Good," she says, reaching for his plate and lifting it over to her side of the table. "I'll eat yours and you'll eat mine."

"What? What are you doing?" he demands, bewildered.

She shoves her plate in front of him. "You like the scampi. Eat the scampi."

He's disturbed by the idea that she would be willing to eat chicken that tastes like rubber just to please him. She should know better. “You ordered the scampi, Gia. I wouldn't dare take--"

"You can be such a baby about stuff like this and I really don't want to listen to you whine about how dry the chicken is--especially when it tastes perfectly fine. If you send it back to the kitchen, that's an extra twenty minutes tacked on. Plus, when the new chicken arrives, I won't be able to watch you eat it because I'll know that the chef spat in it before he sent it out. So, I'm just going to eat the chicken, okay?" She picks up her knife and fork, slices off a piece of chicken, chews quickly. "Delicious," she says, smirking. "I'm so glad I got the chicken."

He has never been in a relationship with anyone like Gia before. He has no idea how to categorize it, how to manage it, what to do about the chaotic whirlwind it's created in his life. She speaks to him any way she pleases. There's no deference, no sense of boundary. "Do I not intimidate you, at all?" he asks.

She looks up, a fork full of brown rice lifted halfway to her mouth. The expression on her face is one of great annoyance. "Eat your food," she orders for the second time that day. "It's getting cold."

2:20PM

"You're mad at me," she says. The limousine is double-parked outside of Gia's salon, right beside where she left her car earlier in the afternoon. She hesitates, her hand on the door handle. "I know you're mad at me..."

"I'm not angry with you," he replies, pushing buttons on his cell phone. He notes he's missed two calls. "Why would I be angry? Because you said I was a whiny baby?"

"You ARE angry!"

"I AM not," he protests.

She pushes open her door. "Well, be angry. I didn't do anything to you, but go ahead and BE angry." She slides from the car and slams the door shut.

But, just as quickly, she is back, tapping on the darkened glass. He reaches across, flicks the button to let the window down. He gives her a reserved look, eyebrow arched. "Yes?"

She leans over, sticks her head through the window. "I did not call you a whiny baby. I said you whine LIKE a baby. And I'm not apologizing because it's true. Also, I got you something and I don't want it in my purse any longer. I want to be rid of it." She plops her large leather satchel on the window ledge. She rifles through it for several, long seconds. Finally, she produces a small, white box. She tosses it at him. "There you go!"

"What's this?" he asks, turning it over in his hand.

She glares at him and then marches away from the limousine. She hops in her car and before he knows it, her engine roars to life. She lays on her horn and he almost jumps at the aggressive sound. He hits the intercom button, tells the driver to proceed back to the hotel. The limousine pulls forward slowly and Stefan lets the window back up. Gia flies out of her parking space, ducks out from behind the limo, and is gone down the street.

And she says he drives like a maniac...

He turns his attention back to the box. He lifts the lid, finds a smaller satin ring box nestled inside a palette of tissue paper. He opens this smaller box. He plucks the platinum ring free from its confines and holds it up. It is a smooth, wide band. It is far more expensive than the gold one he wears now. He rolls it between his thumb and forefinger--pauses when he makes out the faint impression of letters along the inside.

It's engraved, but the inscription is much too small. He fishes his glasses out of the inside pocket of his jacket and puts them on. He turns on the overhead light and tilts the ring for a better angle. There, written in a swirling script, is the word Reciprocity.

"Reciprocity," he whispers to himself, the touch a smile at the corners of his lips. Hasn't that been their deal since the beginning?

He pulls the old band from his finger, slips it into the Cartier jewelry box and stows them on the seat. He slips the new band on his finger, not the least bit surprised that it fits perfectly. The more he's around Gia, the more he realizes that she is very cognizant of these sorts of things.

Before he can stop himself, he dials her phone number. It rings twice and then she's on the line. "I don't want you to leave town mad at me, Stefan..." she says in a rush.

His breath catches in his throat. It's guilt, he knows. He's lying to her about his trip and she has no idea, does not even suspect that he is not being forthright. "I'm not mad at you," he replies, his voice husky. "And you're right. I am a baby..."

She laughs. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"Don't be sorry."

"No, I am sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he stresses. "Don't give it another moment's thought."

A pause. "Did you open the box?"

He presses the phone closer to his ear. "I love it, Contessa. The ring. The inscription. It's perfect. Thank you."

"You're welcome." There is silence, then, "Have you given any more thought to taking me out tonight?"

"Gia," he groans.

"Don't say no."

"I'm not saying yes."

She laughs again. "Okay--but, just don't say no."

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