Desperate Measures

By Bardvahalla 2005

Cameron attempts, and fails, to be more like House

Cameron fluffed a sofa pillow. She positioned it in the corner of the chair, frowned and repositioned it. Fidget. Decorate. Fidget. Redecorate. Fidget. Fluff.

There was no reason to feel awkward. Fluff.

She was a mature, modern woman. Fluff.

Men did this sort of thing all the time.

Fluff - fluff - fluff.

The pillow ricocheted off the wall, bounced onto the floor and lay still.

Stupid pillow.

Stupid House.

The newspaper was still on the table. The number she circled in red marker blazed out at her. Her eyes flicked over the classifieds. It wasn't a circle really. It was more in the shape of a heart.

What the hell was she doing?

Her eyes sought out the clock. Two minutes to eight. He would be here any time now.

She wondered what he would look like.

Tall? Blue eyed? Scruffy?

She hoped so.

His voice was nothing like Greg's. It was sharp, to the point. No hint of sarcasm, no patronizing airs.

Her eyes sought out the mirror. Pretty face. Perfect figure. She knew Greg liked the package. He'd often said as much. It was the contents he'd had a problem with.

Pillow on the floor.

Dust on the pillow.

She brushed it clean and put it back on the sofa.

How could she have been so stupid? Throwing herself at him like some idiot girl. Forcing him into a dinner date, then blabbing about it to the others - breaking his trust. Stacy broke his trust to save his life, but she broke his trust to save her pride.

Idiot.

Stacy moved on and found a new love. Once that trust was broken there'd be no future with Greg.

She tried to coat his caustic exterior with romance and he slashed her desperate illusion away. Her fixing fixation - a sharp observation that brutally stung because it was completely true. Cameron's tactics had been so unprofessional, so emotionally infantile, that she cringed at the memory.

She picked up the paper and looked at the clock. Five minutes after eight. He was late. The paper made a thud as it hit the bottom of the wastebasket.

Foreman. Why hadn't she gone for Foreman? Nice guy. Smart. Hot as a two dollar pistol. Why did she always chose the broken ones and try to fix the unfixable? Didn't she have enough of that in her job?

Hindsight. 20/20. Live and learn. Other fish in the ocean. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Fluff.

Eight minutes after eight.

The bell rang. Cameron took a deep breath and opened the door.

He wasn't tall, or blue eyed, or scruffy. He wore a hat that had been out of style since the 1970's. His practiced smile slithered greasily across his face.

"Hi." Cameron felt nauseous. What the hell had she been thinking - calling this man? "Look – uh, I'm not so sure about this anymore."

He strutted into the room as his eyes roamed over her. "It's alright. I'm a professional." His head jerked to the side as he proclaimed to the wall. "I'm Fred Garvin, ma'am - male prostitute."