This is a work of fiction, very, very loosely based on the real person, Russell Crowe. I wrote it for my own entertainment, and entertainment is its only purpose. No insult or injury is intended.

This story is for readers over the age of 18 only, and contains explicit adult language and sexual references.

Twist Of Fate

…what’s meant to be will come to pass

A Quentin Finch story

by: Jackie

©2008

Chapter Fifteen

Quentin

He downed the double whiskey and extended the arm holding the glass, waving it about until the air hostess noticed and poured him another one. The service on this bloody flight was appalling, private charter or not; he might as well have flown Budget Air.

His mood was as black as the night they were flying through and with every drink he downed he again and again hoped to attain a certain amount of numbness, but all he achieved was that he felt even angrier, even more betrayed.

It hurt, it hurt like hell. He didn’t even know he could hurt that much. When things went wrong between him and Taz the first time, it had hurt as well, but he’d been part of the problem, and he’d been very well aware of that. Now, he thought all he had been was part of the solution. He’d done his best to do everything right this time – he bloody well had, too, hadn’t he, with his video diary and his self analysis - to understand his own motives, to change for the better, but in the end it had been just a phenomenal waste of his time. Tazzie had left him just the same. She’d stopped picking up the phone, and she had not met him at the airport. She had stood him up. And without a word of warning. 

Part of him was still struggling to come to terms with this; part of him still wanted to get his mobile out and try to call her. Maybe she’d answer this time round and it had all been a terrible mistake... but as time dragged itself painfully on, the possibility of that being the case seemed slimmer and slimmer. He just had to conclude that he didn’t understand women. At all. Be that as it may, there was only one conclusion to be drawn, whether he understood it or not.

Tazzie had left him.

Fuck, she’d left him!

Another part of him shouted: there, toldya you weren’t worthy of a woman like Tazzie, ya bloody fucker! Who in their right mind would even contemplate having a serious relationship with the likes of you, unless they were fellow actors or stalker bimbos who were only after your money or your fame? Huh?

The thought of not being worthy of Tazzie hurt and rankled, but he couldn’t help himself and brooded that he was basically no more than a simple bloke with an inordinate amount of luck, a little bit of acting talent and a big, continuously filth-spewing mouth. Of course he wasn’t bloody worthy of a sheila like Tazzie.

‘F-fuck..’ he slurred, sadly toasting himself in the airplane window and downing another large gulp of whiskey.

The plane dipped and roared into its descent and Quentin waved his glass about for more, but the stewardess politely but firmly told him to buckle up, and she took his glass away. Bloody cheek, that! He scowled at her but she seemed immune, and then he just hung limply in his chair until they touched down on the runway and came to a standstill.

Getting up proved more difficult than he had anticipated, but he eventually managed with the help of a burly camera guy named Tom. He liked Tom, and had gotten drunk with him a couple of times during the production. Tom was all right.

‘What’s the matter with you, bro,’ Tom asked with a friendly grin, hoisting Quent out of his slump and keeping him upright by sheer force, ‘you’re normally a lot happier when you’re plastered. You look like someone just died, man, what the fuck?’

Quentin needed what few brain cells he still had that weren’t drowned in whiskey to get down the stairs without doing himself an injury, but once on the tarmac he turned to Tom and slurred, ‘don’t tell anyone, but I was... sup-supposed to be engaged to this s-sheila... it was a secret... and she...’

‘Oh I see,’ Tom grinned. ‘You had an argument. It’ll blow over, man, I mean come on, you’re Quentin Finch. She’d be an idiot to let you go.’

‘N-no... it’s not like... fuck, mate, this is Tazzie, she doesn’t care about all that... fuck... fuck...’ Quent muttered, shaking his head. He had the feeling everything kept shaking long after he’d stopped moving his head, and he moaned softly.

‘Hey, you gonna hurl?’ Tom inquired, eyebrows arched. ‘Better do it now than when you’re in the car, you know?’

‘Nah... be fine... thanks mate,’ Quent insisted, breathing through his nose a couple of times until the shaking subsided.

‘I’ve never seen you like this man, you must really like this chick,’ Tom squeezed Quent’s shoulder in comfort and helped him get into his car.

Quentin just lifted his inebriated gaze up to Tom’s face and nodded, his lips a narrow line. Then, he closed the door and the driver sped out of the airport.

Arriving at the hotel, Quentin woke up from a doze that was in danger of becoming a coma, and he staggered into the marble-lined lobby blinking like an owl. He rubbed at his eyes while he made his way over to reception, but was intercepted by a light hand on his arm and a faintly familiar voice in his ear.

‘Come with me, Q, I know where you’re heading. This way...’ The voice was feminine, American, and... had a certain... whine to it... Quent removed his hand from his eyes, blinked once more to focus and yeah, there she was: Brianna Roberts, his old lover and his new co-star. The woman he hated with all his heart, because she was a self-centered bitch who thought of nothing but her career... She didn’t look so bitchy now.

She had a gray velvet tracksuit on, and her hair hung down around her face, softening her looks. She didn’t have any make-up on but she was still breathtakingly beautiful, Quent dimly noticed, as he quietly staggered after her to the bank of lifts in the corner.

‘Boy, you’ve had a few on the trip over, didn’t you?’ she said, all friendliness and smiles, guiding him into the lift and punching a button. ‘Well you’ll be happy to hear that tomorrow we’re reviewing a couple of locations, so you’ll have time to detox before we’re called to arms.’ She patted his arm reassuringly and stood very close. She seemed to capitalize on a past familiarity between them that Quent probably didn’t like very much, but he was too far gone to be able to see it for what it was, or to act accordingly.

‘Here’s where we get off,’ Bree said to him as the lift dinged and opened its doors, and she pulled him out by his arm, chatting to him about this and that as she brought him to a room. She produced a card, opened the door for him and steered him inside where he stood swaying and blinking. Behind him, the door clicked close. Quentin turned around at the sound and found to his surprise that Bree was still there.

‘Uh... is t-this my room...?’ he said, not understanding why she’d come in with him.

‘If you want it to be,’ Bree murmured, and she stepped closer until she was right up against him. Then, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

First, he didn’t respond, but then, slowly, his body took over and it remembered for him that it was quite nice to have a woman in his arms, a woman’s mouth under his, especially that of a beautiful woman like Bree. His arms came around her and he responded to her kiss with an alcoholic, dreamy slowness, trying to ignore the voice at the back of his mind which was trying to make itself heard through the fogginess.

This is not right, the voice seemed to say, this is not the right one... that special glow is missing, you have to stop it... stop it... stop it...

‘...stop it,’ Quent muttered in between kisses.

‘Do you really want to?’ Bree inquired, smiling, and she slowly but determinedly pushed him backwards. When something touched the back of his legs his knees gave and he fell backwards onto the bed with a surprised grunt, and lay there fairly helplessly, looking at the ceiling. It spun slowly.

‘Come on, Q,’ Bree whispered in his ear, but he was just too drunk to move. He felt her tugging on his arm, but then he turned onto his side and quietly slipped into the coma that beckoned.

Morning arrived with a harsh wedge of sunlight slanting across his face, and the voice of Bree in his ear. ‘Morning, lover...’ she sang, and he blinked his eyes open in alarm.

Lover? What the fuck? He groaned and turned over to find Bree right beside him. She was naked. He quickly checked and found that at the very least he had his tee on, which gave him a little reassurance, but he just couldn’t seem to remember what had happened. How did he end up in bed with fuckin’ Bree? He remembered getting off the plane, talking to Tom, getting out of the car at the hotel, but then he hit a big, worrying blank. And during that blank he apparently ended up in this bed with the woman he’d sworn he never wanted to have anything to do with for the remainder of his life. And apart from the tee he was wearing, the rest of his clothes were missing. No shoes, no socks, no jeans... he remembered not wearing anything underneath the jeans, the way he preferred it, but also on the off chance he’d get together with Taz at the airport and they found a spot suitable for a quick...

Taz!

Tazzie had left him! Fuck, fuck, fuck...

He groaned again, louder and much more heartfelt, and Bree murmured sweetly, ‘...ohh, are you hung over, honey?’

With a wild shake of his head he scooted up, got out the bed and fled into the bathroom. Slam, the door closed behind him and he winced. He was hung over and his head hurt like hell. And what the fuck had happened between him and Bree? He wasn’t even sure whose room he was in. Was it his, or hers? He had no clue, and he quickly splashed water on his face and drank as much as he could manage. Headache meant dehydration and the sooner he fixed that, the sooner he’d feel better.

He stood looking at himself, leaning on the basin, and he saw a dripping, worn-out, unhappy, tired and displaced Aussie who just wanted to go home, rest, and be with the woman he loved. None of which he could do, at the moment. Fuck, fuck, fuck... he needed another drink. The only way to get through this day was probably to get drunk again as fast as he could.

A towel wrapped around his lower half, he emerged from the bathroom as soon as he’d gathered his courage. Bree laughed when she saw him and said, ‘...when did you become a prude, Q? You’ve changed...’ She slunk out of the bed and moved close, her hands outstretched towards his terry loincloth. ‘Come here...’ she said flirtatiously, ‘I’ll help you remember what you were like when we were still together...’

Quent backed away and looked around for his clothes, and when he spotted them he made a dash for them and quickly put his jeans back on. He could do with that drink now, right the fuck now. Why, how had he ended up in a room with Brianna fuckin’ Roberts? And the question that drove him mad, the question that he just didn’t seem to be able to answer was, yeah... fuckin’ Brianna Roberts... he certainly hoped there hadn’t been any fucking going on while he had been out for the count, so to speak, because that was a mental image he just couldn’t seem to handle at the moment.

‘Bree... I’m in your room.’ He stated more than asked. She nodded and smiled, and stood there naked in the sunlight posing for him. She was in perfect shape, there was no doubt about it. Still he couldn’t imagine... ‘Did we...’ he asked, frowning, circling his finger through the air, not even wanting to say it out loud.

‘Don’t you remember?’ Bree replied with a question, pouting. ‘I must be losing my touch...’

He sighed. She wanted him to believe they had, which almost certainly meant they... hadn’t? ...or had they? Fuckin’ hell, what a bloody nightmare! ‘I need some breakfast,’ Quent grumbled, ‘and another shot of scotch. And I need to be on me own.’

And with that, he marched out, determined to find Alfie, to get into his own room as soon as possible, to get some tucker inside him and then another liberal dose of grog. And then he might, just might make it through the day.

Taryn

They had driven for ten hours straight, taking shifts, and then they had found a motel that had a computer Tazzie could use to access her old webmail account. So while Sally yakked away on the phone to her assistant, giving the poor girl a long list of things to arrange first thing the next morning, Taz scrolled through stacks of old emails, her heart thumping in her chest. The whole day she had practically been paralyzed by the dread of not being able to get back in touch with Quentin, ever, ever again... And what would he be thinking... what would he be doing now that she hadn’t been able to meet him at the airport? She couldn’t ring him; she couldn’t do anything at all. Her chest contracted with worry and without knowing she did it, she softly moaned in agony, but then...

‘Whooooo! I can’t believe it, oh my goodness, oh my... look, Sal, look!’ She pointed at the screen excitedly. There it was. Jo’s very first message to her. It was from almost a year and a half ago, and the moment Taz saw the addy she recognized it: she was sure Jo still used it. She quickly clicked reply and typed:

From: tarynarcher@nixiecycle.com
Sent: 15 September 2008 23:16
To: jo.nana@eaia.com.au
Subject: Emergency, Jo, help!

Jo,

Sorry to get in touch with you this way but I really have no other option at the moment. Yesterday, I was robbed while I was asleep in my motel room and they took everything, my mobile, my laptop, my passport, all my money and cards... I am unharmed, but I have no way of getting in touch with Quentin. I don’t know if he’s phoned you recently (I know I should have, I’m sorry, my only excuse is that I’ve been so absurdly busy promoting my new book), so I don’t know if  you know this already, but we’re kind of back together...

He came to see me unexpectedly and we just, well I suppose we fell right back in love. If, in all honesty, we’ve ever been out of love. Only we’re so busy the both of us that we really can’t see each other and so we were on the phone constantly, and we were supposed to meet up at LAX right before he went off to the Azores for his film and I was supposed to fly back to Europe, and then all my stuff got nicked and I couldn’t phone him and I couldn’t fly out because my passport’s gone, and now it’s just me and Sally, my publicist and we’re driving across the country to Washington DC because that’s the only place where I can get a new identity document, and I don’t know how to get in touch with anyone any longer because all my contact details for everyone were in my phone and my laptop.

Jo, I’m sorry to ramble so but I’m so stressed out and I just can’t get in touch with Quent... please help me, I don’t know what to do, please ring me here -

Taz quickly reread what she has written so far and added the phone number for the motel. Then, she added Sally’s mobile number as well, and sent the email, her heart pounding. She counted on her fingers: it was probably something like six or seven in the evening at Nana, so if with a bit of luck Jo would check her email before dinner... She sighed. There was nothing more she could do really, so as soon as Sally got off the phone, she said goodnight and went to her room.

She was just about to undress and hit the shower when Sally knocked on her door, softly calling, ‘Taryn... open up; I need to ask you something...’ Sal was on the phone again, a healthy blush colouring her cheeks, and Taz quickly ushered her in and looked at her, hiding her disappointment that apparently it wasn’t Jo... Well that would have been too much to ask for, surely... But the question was: who was it Sally was talking to?

‘It’s Dean!’ Sally mouthed, answering that question right on cue. ‘All right, Dino, let me ask her, okay?’ she continued into the phone, and then to Tazzie; ‘Taryn? He says that he and his pal Terry, remember him? They might be able to help; apparently they know someone at the consulate in DC. Would you like for them to make a call on your behalf?’

‘Oh... I wouldn’t want to be any trouble...’ Taz politely replied, all British all of a sudden, but Sally wasn’t fooled.

‘She’d love it, Dino, and while you’re at it, could you and Terry get a hold of her boyfriend’s phone number for her? She can’t get in touch with him at the moment and she’s really... yeah the Australian guy, Terry will remember; they spoke at length. He’s this actor? Yeah...’

‘We’re supposed to be engaged, even,’ Tazzie softly added, although for some reason it sounded so absurd right now.

Sally’s eyes almost popped out of her head. ‘You never told me that!’ she squealed, full of disbelief. ‘You hear that Dean, they’ve gotten engaged! Taryn, you could have said something sooner, I mean really.’

‘Sorry,’ Tazzie said, ‘didn’t think it was that important, and besides, Quent is always going about how he thinks we should get married; it’s becoming a running gag almost...’ she walked out of earshot and softly continued, ‘and the way things are going it’ll stay that way... bloody hell, he’ll think I’ve dumped him... Wish Sal would just get off the phone, just in case Jo’d ring...’

But nothing of the sort happened. Sally finished her conversation with the intrepid Dino, sitting on Tazzie’s bed; Taz herself had her shower, and no word from Jo. Well maybe she was busy, or maybe she wasn’t in; maybe she hadn’t had the chance to read her email. Who could say? Taz’s hope, which had been carefully mounting after finding Jo’s email address, was now back at rock bottom, and she wistfully said goodnight to Sally, who left to let Taz get some sleep. It was past one in the morning already, and they had another long day of driving ahead of them.

After a fitful night, Taz woke up while at the same time an intense feeling of dread descended upon her. The whole disaster made itself known the moment she regained consciousness, and it practically took away all the peacefulness and rest she had been able to gain from sleeping.

All her stuff was gone. She couldn’t talk to Quent. He had no way of knowing why she hadn’t shown up at the airport. He was probably furious with her, or completely disappointed, or... He’d probably fallen out of love with her. Yeah, probably had. It was just the worst thing that could possibly happen to her at this point in time, where everything was still so precarious between them... Tazzie felt desperate. If she didn’t manage to get word to him soon of what truly happened, all would be lost... all would be lost... all would be...

She sniffled and a couple of big fat tears ran down her cheek, to be absorbed by the pillowcase. She loved Quent, and she wanted to be with him, and she was worried beyond belief that she’d done something disastrous... She knew rationally that it wasn’t her fault, that she couldn’t have prevented this from happening, that she was no more than a victim of circumstance, but all the same, she felt horrible. Responsible. Guilty.

For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to just sink down into the deepest depression, to just drown in her guilt, but then something seemed to jell and she dragged herself out of bed and back into the shower. And the hot water pounding on her head brought back two things. One was a string of memories of her and Quent in the shower together, of spectacular, steaming sex with the man she loved and couldn’t get enough of, and the other was her fighting spirit.

She would find a way to get in touch with him, and she would find the right words to tell him what had happened. She simply had to.

Over breakfast, she asked Sally if she’d heard from Dino again, which she hadn’t, but when Sal produced her mobile it did say she’d gotten a text while she’d been asleep. Sally quickly opened the message and to Tazzie’s immense relief and delight it was from Jo.

What wasn’t so good was that it said that she hadn’t been able to reach Quent on his mobile. Perhaps he had switched it off altogether, although normally you’d still be able to leave a message, but what also could be the case was that it just didn’t work where he was now. And that was much more likely and much more troublesome, because although Jo had texted Sally her son’s mobile number for Tazzie, she had just as little of an idea how to reach him on a land line as had Taz.

But then something really amazing happened. The small, diner-type spot across the road from the motel where they were having their breakfast was startled out of its sleepy routine when an enormously loud noise descended out of the sky, immediately followed by a dust cloud. And in the centre of that dust cloud, a small helicopter landed on the motel parking lot.

‘Shiiit, it’s ‘Nam all over,’ a gray haired regular at the counter grinned, obviously delighted with the excitement.

Before the rotors had completely stopped, two men climbed out and Sally jolted with happy surprise. ‘Look!’ she squealed, ‘it’s Dino! Where the hell, I mean how, I mean... Oh my God! And Terry, look, Taryn, it’s Dino and Terry! In a helicopter!’

‘Bloody hell,’ Taz whispered, her fork hovering in the air and her eyes huge.

Sally was out of her chair and out of the diner in a flash and she ran across the road waving her hand. Tazzie grinned when Dino opened his arms and gave her a mighty hug and a resounding smacker of a kiss, but her heart balled up as well. If only it would have been Quent, hugging and kissing her like that…What would he be doing now? Would he be in the Azores already? How would he be feeling? Would he be as sad as she, or would he be angry? It was painful to the extreme not to know.

Slowly, Tazzie set her fork down and walked towards Sally, Dino and Terry, who were waiting for her.

‘It’s all taken care of,’ Terry calmly reassured her, ‘I’ve been in touch with the bloke in DC that I know, and your travel document will be ready for you when you get there. I’ll drive the rental back to LA, you and Sally get into the chopper with Dino and you’ll be there before you know it.’

‘We’re… flying into Washington?’ Tazzie said incredulously.

Terry smiled. Dino grinned, ‘…beats driving, doesn’t it? And you get the front seat next to the pilot, and I’ll ride shotgun with Sal, how’s that sound?’

‘Sounds fantastic,’ Tazzie whispered, close to tears.

‘So why do you say it like you’ve just been condemned to death?’ Dino inquired, still grinning, but Terry wrapped an arm across her shoulders and walked off a little, giving her a comforting rub across the back.

‘Heard about you and Quentin… He’s a smart bloke, he’ll know you’d never pull a no-show on purpose… He’ll be dead chuffed once you ring him and tell him how much you love him.’

‘That’s just the thing…’ Tazzie said, and she couldn’t keep the tears in, both from Terry’s gentleness and his accent, that reminded her so strongly of Quent that she shivered. ‘I can’t ring him. I managed to get word to his Mum, she’s a very good friend of mine, and she’s given me his mobile number, but apparently it’s impossible to reach him on his mobile. He’s in the Azores and it looks like his phone isn’t working… I have no idea how to go about to start finding him there, he could be anywhere really…’

‘Shh,’ Terry said, ‘no worries mate,’ and he handed her a piece of paper from his inner jacket pocket. Tazzie looked up at him inquiringly.

‘The hotel where he’s stayin’. Wasn’t hard to get the details really, once you know how to go about such things...’ Terry smiled enigmatically. ‘Just give him a bell tonight, explain to him what has happened, hey?’

Tazzie whispered her thanks and then, quite suddenly and completely contrary to her normal behaviour, she wrapped her arms around Terry and kissed him on the cheek. And then she blushed.

Five minutes later she was still blushing; however, she was up in the air and on her way to Washington DC.

TBC