Disclaimer: I don't own 'em…
"So let me get this straight. She asked you out and you turned her down?" Greg asked in disbelief.
"Why's that so hard to believe, Greg? She's not the first woman I've turned down. And chances are she won't be the last."
I couldn't help but smile. Greg loved to hit the clubs with me for no other reason than to see how many numbers I'd leave with before the night was over. He was even more shocked when we'd work a scene together and someone would slip their number in my vest or my jeans.
The woman today hadn't been so subtle. We had just put our kits in the back of the truck and I was walking back around to get in the driver's seat when one of the witnesses pushed me against the side of the truck and pressed herself against me. The offer she made was inviting, but my desire has long been elsewhere.
"I don't get it. Week after week you turn down one beautiful woman after another. Either you're not as gay as you claim to be—which I'm really beginning to wonder about considering that as long as I've known you you've never once been out on a date—or you've got a piece I don't know about it. And if that's the case, you better spill."
I just laughed him off—as always. I was gay—no doubt about that. And I definitely didn't have someone that he just didn't know about. I was simply lusting after the merely unfathomably unattainable. In other words, I was saving myself for Catherine Willows.
Not to say that I had always been saving myself for Catherine. No, I had a blast in Frisco and in Boston. When I first moved to Vegas I definitely built quite a reputation for myself. But when I figured out that my problem with Catherine was that I was attracted to her—no, scratch that. I wasn't attracted to her. I wanted her. She filled my dreams (and not those Disney G rated dreams either). These were the kinda dreams that made you certain that you could either be a porn star or direct some serious hardcore porn movies yourself. I stand there and imagine the things I would do to Catherine if given the green light (hell, the yellow light work).
I'm brought out of my fantasies by fingers being snapped in front of my face.
I shake Catherine off the pole in fantasy and look dumbly at Greg. "What?"
"You just had that faraway look and I swear you were drooling," he says as he lets his bottom lip sag and his tongue hang out of his mouth in a paltry impression of me.
I took the open bottle of Coke in my hand and tossed it in his direction, soaking his shirt in the amber liquid.
His grin fades and something that I've never seen before happens—Greg is pissed.
"What the fuck, Sara? I don't have another clean shirt and we have four more hours on our shift! Now I have to walk around all sticky and covered in your soda because you can't take a damn joke!"
I closed my mouth and tried to figure out a way to assuage his anger.
"So you're just pissed that your shirt is wet and sticky?" I asked him.
He nodded.
"Fine, go look in my locker. There are a few concert tees in there. You can borrow one of them."
He giggled like a school girl, jumped up and down and disappeared into the locker room.
Ten minutes later he swaggered back into the break room wearing one of my Pink Floyd shirts.
"Nice shirt," I said as I kicked back on the couch.
"Thank you. I want to compliment you on your choice of underwear. Black lace v-string. I didn't know you had it in you, Sidle," he said as he slingshot the aforementioned underwear at me.
The underwear shot out of my reach and landed in one of the chairs on the opposite side of the table. I turned blood red and lost my voice. I tried to speak, opening and closing my mouth several times, but nothing came out.
"At least I thought they were your undies until I found this little Polaroid." He pulls out a photo and waves it in my face.
I know I died and ended up in one of the distant circles of hell. He knew.
"You have been holding out on me, Sidle. You and Cath? How long?"
I did my best imitation of a fish.
"No wonder you turn down every woman who hits on you. Come on, how long? And please tell me you took those off of her here at work. Maybe in her office? Or in the shower? Or even better, one of the labs. That would be so hot." I swear he sounded like Paris Hilton when he said that.
He reached over and grabbed the undies and turned around. The v-string was in one hand and the Polaroid in the other. As if perfectly timed, Catherine strode through the door.
Greg turned ashen and tossed the items at me as he ran out of the breakroom. I caught the
v-string, but the Polaroid landed at Catherine's feet. She bent down and picked it up, studying it. Slowly, she leveled her gaze on me and the black lace in my hand.
A smirk began to curl her lips and she raised an eyebrow as she bent over and whispered in my ear.
"I don't know where you got either of those, but," she blew against my ear as she ran a finger up my arm, "the red ones I'm wearing right now are much sexier. Maybe after your shift is over you'd like to help me get out of them?"
She straightened up and walked toward the door, "And I'd be happy to give you a lap dance. That picture doesn't do it justice."
With a wink, she disappeared and Greg popped back in.
"Please tell me you're not going to turn her down."
I stood and walked toward the door, pausing to stretch. "Not a fucking chance in hell, Greggo. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to run pick up some blank tapes for my camcorder. I'll be making a movie tonight."
A/N: Sucks, I know. But Frosty challenged me and it was the best I could do.