Part Two
By Alisha

Disclaimer: Pacey a bitter, bitter man? Now would the real owners of him do that? Nah. He's not mine, and neither is Joey.

Author's Note: I'd love to hear what you think, so please take a few seconds and drop me a note.

Recap: A rather disenchanted Pacey is living in Puerto Rico as a bartender. Joey makes an appearance, not recognizing Pacey as she downs several Gins until she gets drunk as skunk. At that point she explains she was supposed to be on her honeymoon, but her finace left her at the alter because she "screwed his best friend."

"Is this just a silly game
That forces you to act this way
Forces you to scream my name
Then pretend that you can't stay."
-Lauryn Hill

Joey fumbled with her sunglasses, desperately wanting relief from the hot Puerto Rican sun. She was sitting in one of a row of lounge chairs on the beach, looking over the ocean. Finally, they were rested firmly on her face. She grabbed her bag, dug out three Advils, and choked them down with a swig of her Mai Tai. Suddenly she saw it . . . he was coming, walking down the beach.

He stopped at a couple about ten chairs down, handing them each a colorful drink from his tray. He looked slightly different today. His bronzed legs were exposed by his long white shorts, and his bare feet were kicking up sand as he walked. He was now wearing a navy polo shirt made of a gauzy material which clung to his muscular chest in some places, and blew lightly in the breeze in others. No doubt, he was conforming to some sort of employee dress code. She noted that his hair looked combed today, his goatee trimmed. There were sunglasses covering his eyes, which were probably as bloodshot as her own after last night.

She didn't remember a lot about last night. Just getting very drunk, and talking to the handsome bartender. She didn't even really remember what she'd said to him. All she knew was that there was something animalistic inside her that craved him. There was a static attraction drawing her to him: the rough, troubled bartender.

He walked toward her, and she was surprised that he didn't seem to notice her. "Hey," she said, to get his attention.

Startled, he turned to look at her. He moved closer to her, standing so he blocked the sun from her eyes. "Well if it isn't Ms. Gin and Tonic herself," he said. "You feeling okay today?" he asked, sitting at the foot of the lounge chair beside her. "I'm surprised you can be more than thirty feet from the toilet." The corner of his mouth twisted into a little half-smile. Smiling was something he didn't do often enough.

She would've rolled her eyes if she wasn't sure it would hurt her head more. "I'm alright," she said. "Don't think I didn't see you down that bourbon like nobody's business."

"You get used to it after a while," he said.

"So," she said, searching for something to keep him there. She pushed her sunglasses up to rest on the top of her head. She wanted, for some reason, to see his eyes, and thought that may prompt him to remove his. He didn't. "They letting you serve the drinks instead of making them?"

"Can't stay inside all the time, so I traded shifts with someone. Speaking of which, I've gotta go," he said, returning to his feet.

"Wait," she said. "What's you're name again?"

"Mike," he said.

"That's right," she said. "I'm Josephine."

"I remember," he nodded.

"Well, Mike," she said in a soft, seductive tone. "You should've taken advantage of me last night."

"Excuse me?" he said, not quite allowing the words to register.

"You are an attractive man," she said. "I was a woman scorned, looking to drown my sorrows in alcohol." She smiled at him devilishly. "I wanted you to fuck me," she said.

He twisted his mouth a bit, ready to play along with her little game. "You're not the only woman here who does," he said simply, while still oozing confidence. "I hardly need to take advantage of anyone."

She raised her eyebrow inquisitively. She had to admit that his attitude was making her want him more. After moments of silence, she nodded. "Then I won't be so drunk tonight," she proposed.

He tilted his head to the side and began chewing on his bottom lip as he examined her expression. "What are you saying?" he asked.

"Do tonight what you didn't do last night," she stated smugly.

He shook his head, and sighed. "Maybe some other time," he said, walking away.

* * * * *

He thought about the sand moving through his toes as he walked back toward the hotel. She had made him so angry, because she acted just like all the others. She looked at him and just saw someone to screw. Some distraught, frail woman looking for a little action from the help on her vacation.

He saw it all the time. Women came on to him regularly to no avail. Just wanting some young, blue-collar man to satisfy their needs until they returned to their investment banking fiances and husbands.

It had always been okay with him, though. Until now. She was the exception. She was not supposed to be like that. The Joey Potter he had known would've never told some stranger that she wanted to fuck him. Hell, she probably wouldn't even say the word "fuck."

He walked into the near-deserted kitchen frustrated with everything. Violently, he picked up a glass bowl, and sent it barreling to the wall. It crashed, and shattered. One chef watched him. "Come on, Mike," he said, acting as if he was accustomed to such outbursts. Silence. "You okay?" he asked.

Pacey just shook his head a bit, and walked out. He wasn't okay. That was the last thing he was. Because he wanted her too. Seeing as she had no objection, he wished he had taken advantage of her. He daydreamed all the time about ravaging her long, lithe frame again. Now the opportunity had presented itself, and she had to make him remember who he really was: a quick piece of ass for women on vacation. He hated being that, but it was all he knew how to be.

* * * * *

Pacey sat outside the row of French doors on the back of the hotel at a cast iron table overlooking the beach. He was dressed in his normal off-work attire: a pair cream-colored twill pants, and a black silk shirt buttoned only halfway. He was examining the colors of the sunset, as he took drags of his cigarette. A near empty bottle of vodka sat in front of him on the table as he played with its cap.

Today the cigarettes and the liquor had a purpose. He needed to forget about what happened on the beach. For a long time the alcohol had been making his emotions less evasive, and he figured it wouldn't be long before it took away altogether.

"Not used to a woman being so forward?" he heard from behind him. He didn't turn around, because the voice was familiar.

Finally, Joey appeared in front of him wearing a sundress, with her hair falling down her back in loose curls. She looked at him thoughtfully. "Am I not attractive enough?" she asked, as she sat across from him at the table.

He looked at her for a moment. For a few seconds he saw the same old insecure girl he knew in high school. "No," he said huskily. "You're one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen."

She raised her head a bit, and slightly tilted it to the side. "So what is it, then?" she questioned.

"Nothing really," he said.

"Do you want to be with me?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. He nodded his head, not uttering a word. She smiled. "Room 512."

He nodded once again, taking another drag from his cigarette as he watched her walk back inside. He took another drink, as he concentrated on the falling sun again.

He didn't care about what she thought anymore. He stood, dropped his cigarette to the ground, and returned inside.

* * * * *

Pacey stood outside the door, looking at the round brass plaque that read "512." He started making a mental list. He knew that he had downed a bottle of vodka, but he didn't appear drunk. If anything, it had just settled his nerves, his emotions. Finally he realized that he didn't want to rationalize this, he just wanted to do it. He told himself that it was no different than the times he had done this with other women. He kept telling himself 'She's just another woman. She's just another woman.' He knocked.

Joey opened the door, feeling a wave of relief that he had arrived. She was unsure of how this whole vixen persona played out on her. She figured it must've worked, because he was there. Staying true-to-form, she moved to side, allowing him in the room without saying a word.

He looked around the room, noting it was one of the nicer ones. He should've figured that Dawson wouldn't have settled for anything less. His gaze returned to her, where she was examining him seriously. He could see in her eyes what she wanted, and decided that he shouldn't waste anytime giving it to her.

He walked to her slowly, looked into her eyes, and began kissing her hungrily. She returned the kiss with full force, feeling energy and adrenaline rush through her body. Before she knew it, he had her back up against the door, pinning her between it and himself. She began fumbling with the fastened buttons on his shirt. As she slid the silk off his shoulders, he began to unbutton her dress. She twined her fingers in his hair, as he began to move down her chest, kissing each new area he exposed.

She let out a soft moan, but still said nothing. Suddenly she was shocked by that same familiarity. She let out a deep breath as she shut her eyes tightly. It was almost like she had been transported back in a time machine. She was with the man she had envisioned Dawson to be every time she had slept with him. It was like she was with Pacey all over again. 'That's insane, Joey,' she scolded herself. 'This is probably just because Dawson was such a horrible lay.' She didn't want to think about Dawson anymore, and forced every thought out her mind.

She placed her finger under his chin, prompting him to move from her stomach back to her lips. He reached to the side, and turned the dead bolt lock on the door, while she reached over her shoulder to flip off the light switch. Her fingers undid his pants, as he slid her dress to the ground. She tried to entice him to move the bed, but she was trapped. His kiss deepened, as he was determined to make this something she wouldn't easily forget.

He felt her slip a condom into his hand, and complied with her silent request. As he lifted her body, she wrapped her legs around his waist. He maneuvered her until their bodies met as she feverishly continued to kiss him. She cried out in pleasure as he continued his rhythmic motion with her back pressed against the wall. He was being especially rough, pounding her with a mixture of aggression and long-held passion. Her nails were digging into his back as she tried in vain to stifle her cries.

Once she was able to regain her composure, she slid a short distance down the door, continuing to kiss him. Finally breaking away, he looked down searching her eyes, and she gave him a smile of satisfaction. As she looked at him, she could see that his eyes told a story. Familiar eyes.

A wave of regret overcame him as she watched him, unaware of what he was thinking. He knew that he should not have done it; that she was just some lonely woman not thinking straight. He had gotten something out of this that he had been missing for a long time. No one had ever gratified him in the way that she had. He had just taken advantage of that.

She longingly looked at him, hoping to encourage him to somehow to do something. She wasn't sure what the something was, but she wasn't ready for him to leave. It was too late to break the silence, so she just watched as he continued to stand there. He bent down, pulling his pants back on. He held his shirt one hand, and placed his other on the doorknob. He let his eyes fall back to her, and heard her whisper, "Stay."

She wanted him to stay. They never wanted him to stay. Never. He watched her for moments, entranced by her face, her body, recalling their encounter. 'She's just another woman, Pacey. She's just another woman.' He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I can't, Joey," he whispered, opening the door, and manipulating his way out.

She sighed as she rubbed her face with her hands.

"Joey?" she whispered, suddenly realizing that her mind hadn't been playing tricks on her after all.

* * * * *

To Be Continued . . .

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