She could tell he was dangerous the second she'd laid eyes on him. Not dangerous in a break-your-heart type way, but she'd suspected he was probably like that, too. No, it was something a lot more serious, more deadly than that.

She had had the terrible misfortune (or was it luck?) of meeting his eyes from across the room, and that's when she could tell. It was in his eyes. Blue, blue eyes that were sweet but treacherous, and why had she wanted to know exactly what he was hiding?

"Can I get you a drink, sweetheart?" he had said. She could tell from his voice that he was older than her, maybe five or six years her senior.

"I don't know. Can you?" she'd answered. He had smirked at her.

"I like you, Miss…?"

"Castillo. Laurel Castillo."

He'd nodded. "I'm Michael. Michael Reston."

They'd gone home together that night. He'd pressed hot kisses up and down her neck as she'd fumbled with the keys to her apartment door.

"If you keep doing that we're never going to get inside," she'd told him, letting out a whimper as he nibbled at her ear.

"That'd be fine with me, sweetheart. I'd love to take you right here, in the middle of the hallway. I want everyone to hear us, hear how good I can make you feel," he'd whispered, his breath hot against her ear.

She hadn't been able to take it anymore, turning around and grabbing the collar of his shirt to pull him in for a searing kiss. He'd pushed her against the door, hands everywhere all at once. He'd started another passionate assault on her neck, wet, needy kisses that had driven her insane.

"Oh, God, Michael," she'd breathed, sinking her hands into his hair. "Michael."

"Don't call me that," he'd murmured into her neck. "That's just a nickname. Call me Frank."

"Frank," she'd moaned as he'd resumed his delicious activities with renewed vigor, his hands reaching up to cup her breasts. "Frank, we have to go inside," she'd managed, breathing labored and heavy. "I've got a clean record. I don't want to get charged with public indecency," she'd said, giggling softy as she rested her forehead against his.

He'd just smirked at her. "Well then we'd better go. I wouldn't want to ruin your perfect record."

She'd woken up the next morning feeling unusually sore, a reminder of her activities from the night before. She'd rolled over in bed, looking to see if Michael (Frank?) was still there, but found nothing but a pillow and rumpled sheets. She'd sighed. She had never done anything like that before - she'd only been with two men (now three) in her life, the inevitable product of being barely nineteen and growing up devoutly Catholic. She should've listened, she'd told herself, to what they say: older men only want one thing, and then they –

She'd stopped her self-deprecation mid-thought. He had left something on his pillow. A note, she'd realized, picking it up and unfolding it with greedy hands. His handwriting had been messy. He'd clearly been in a rush of sorts, she'd thought, as she read what he'd written her. There was a phone number, followed by one, lone sentence:

Call me if you're willing to have that clean little record of yours ruined. – Frank

She'd only hesitated for a moment before rushing to the telephone.

A/N: Thanks for reading! This is the prologue to a fic that I just had to write after seeing flaurelfandom's post on tumblr about Frank and Laurel being the new Bonnie and Clyde, so shout out to flaurelfandom for the inspiration! Future chapters will most likely be longer, considering that this is more of an introduction to the story than anything. Hope you liked it! Please review if you feel so inclined :) - Sara