Charlie DeMarco did not want to go to California.
She hated the sun. She hated preppy girls. She hated yoga and juice cleanses and kale. She did not want to go to California and work long days and even longer nights in trucks and hotel rooms and on the carpal-tunnel end of a laptop with some overgrown frat-agents. Charlie was from Brooklyn. Charlie was tough.
But one of her guys, Slimy (do not ask) had shown up in a Southern California drug trafficking racket and now she had to go and share Intel or something with one Special Agent Paul Briggs. Charlie had been told to wait at arrivals for Paul Briggs to come and pick her up.
Oh, she had heard all about Paul Briggs. She had heard of the stats, heard of the arrests. He had infiltrated the Sinaloa Cartel and done some serious damage to one of their shipping lines. He had bedded half the female agents in the Southern California Bureau HQ, if the rumors were true.
She was not so easily overawed. She had her own reputation back in New York to keep clean. Falling in with the likes of Agent Briggs (unconventional, creative, risk-taker, womanizer) wasn't really an option. Not that she was so straight-laced herself, but she had worked hard for the respect she had in Brooklyn and she wasn't willing to jeopardize that.
She had her fair share of victories, had been her team's go-to gal for cover identities, but this was a whole different kettle of fish. Just looking around she felt self-conscious about the colors in her make up kit. Damn these people were tan.
Standing under the stinky, prickly-hot Los Angeles sun, Charlie crossed her fingers that there were other FBI agents on the team to divide the burden. She was excited to see him work, yes, to get her fingers dirty with the SoCal drug trade, but she knew she was not going to come off looking like the better agent of the two, and damned if she would let him know that. Charlie had met agents like that before - superstars, thought the world only existed because they kept saving it from extinction. God forbid she let him think she would be another fawning acolyte.
A beat up rust-orange Bronco pulled up in front of her. A dark-skinned man with aviators and the smile of a much younger man turned to her.
"You must be Demarco."
Strike that. A man with the smile of a much younger, gorgeous, entirely kissable man. Shit.
"Charlie." She corrected him. The only person who called her Demarco was her control officer, and only when pissed (both angrily and drunkenly, which lately had been pretty much always).
"Call me Briggs."
"Sure thing, sugar," she said, swinging her duffle into the back and hopping up into the cab. He pulled away from the curb and into traffic.
"You're late," she said, as an awkward introduction to conversation. Good lord, the heat must be getting to her.
"Accident on the 405." He said, by way of explanation.
See, this was the exact thing she couldn't stand. "Do people seriously talk like that?" She asked, not a little snarky.
He chuckled, "Eh, you'll be one of us in no time."
Doubt that.
"So," She said, putting her feet up on his dashboard. "Can you tell me what I'm doing here?"
"We picked up your Mr. Slimy on the comm intercepts. Your files are great but I hear your brain is better."
Oh, he was a flirt.
The Bureau put her up in a crappy, questionable hotel, but it was close to the beach and close to the rest of the team and so she spent as little time in the likely bedbug-infested room as possible, and much more in the sun.
Maybe this was why Californians were all so tan. It wasn't that Charlie didn't like the sun, it's just that after five hours of stakeout in Paul's ugly ass truck, which first stank of Hector's (excellent tacos) and then later stank of post-Hector's flatulence (worth it, perhaps, on a day not spent in such tight quarters), she needed the sun. She wondered not a few times if this was how flowers felt in the morning, raising their petal-y arms to the sky and drinking it in.
Every time she thought that, she found herself physically shaking her head as if to get the hippy out of her. It must be contagious.
Charlie had realized that there was only so long she could sit in Briggs jalopy old truck without wanting to jump out and punch something. Maybe the truck. The bench had a spring poking out on the left side of the passenger seat, and the only comfortable option was to fold herself up by the door. She's taken to putting her feet up on the dashboard – Briggs didn't mind, though sometimes he'd take the chance to tickle them (she was wearing flip-flops these days, so sue her – it's hot in LA).
There was a half-drunk root beer in the single usable cup holder, and taco wrappers littering the floor. It looked like there might be a hole in the floor – occasionally the wrappers disappear on the road and these federal agents aren't tossing them out the window, and she really doubted Briggs was cleaning them out every night.
The car says a lot about Paul Briggs. He was a strange mix of passion and nonchalance. The truck, Agent Orange, was a work of art, he told her, and "it gets me where I needs to be," and Charlie tried not to mull over the implications of that too much.
He certainly did fit in with the hipster beach crowd. He wore aviators and t-shirts that were so old and so soft she'd contemplated stealing them. He wore a Buddhist amulet – just subtle enough to indicate that he cared about something, all zen and the universe – without violent drug-dealing criminals taking him too seriously.
They'd been watching this house every day for a week, and Charlie was convinced there had gotta be a better use of their time, but Paul has enough patience for the task and his unwilling partner. Eventually, it paid off; Slimy's brother-in-law slinked out of the house at dusk, a half-empty pack of cigarettes in his hand, and jangling car keys swinging from his back pocket. By the time Slimy's boy had driven to the end of the block, Agent Orange was creeping, loudly, behind. Briggs turned up the music – some beach boys knockoff band – and took her hand, leaning back against the seat. To any passersby, they are a couple out for an evening drive. Not worth a second glance.
They made it to the freeway entrance and Paul drops her hand, practically yanking on the gear lever, and suddenly the chase is on. The car was ancient and usually coughing and spluttering, but now it seemed to be in its element, as is Paul who hadn't said a word through this whole exchange. They follow their man to a bank – a little local credit union type – and watch as he wanders in with a bit of a swagger, then Charlie jumped out to plant a tracker on the bottom of his Hyundai. Their guy wandered back out with a security bag.
Charlie was tempted to drop it there – they had the tracker, and keeping up in Agent Orange is a difficult task, not the least because it's a bit of a distinct car, but Paul insisted.
"We've come so far," he said, taking a sip of now-lukewarm root beer while they trail the guy to a bar. That's one way to spend your hard-earned illegal cash, Charlie thought.
It was easy to play a slightly drunk couple in a bar. Their guy is apparently pretty bad at this being-a-criminal-thing, not noticing that they had been following him for hours now.
They hang around the bar for maybe an hour, pretending to get very wasted off a single shitty beer, and playing pool. Paul placed his hand on her shoulder as she lined up a shot, ostensibly an intimate gesture but she could feel him watching, down toward the other end of the table.
Seconds later their guy is just walking by, and then Paul is punching him in the face, in the gut, yelling, cursing. Not a minute goes by before Paul has reconstructed the perps face and they've both been kicked out of the dive.
"What the hell was that?"
"Got a couple of bills out of his jacket. And a good look at the guys face." Paul explains.
"Destroyed the guys face," Charlie counters. "I don't like having to explain that to your boss."
"Explain what?" Paul responded. "The guy threw a punch. I was defending myself and my partner."
She gave him an "Oh really?" eyebrow raise.
"You wanna help me trace these counterfeits, or you wanna tattle on me to the bureau?"
It's not till later that Charlie is shocked by how easy the decision was.
One morning, she got a text from Paul with the name of a beach and instructions to park "on the road, past lifeguard house 3, do not pay for parking" and it still boggled her mind that people really conversed like that, but she followed instructions, and tucked her gun into her waistband, assuming this was going to be the weirdest midday stakeout she'd been invited to (and she'd been to some doozies).
About halfway down the beach toward the water, she found Paul, wetsuit clad, standing next to two surfboards, looking so pleased with himself, a goofy grin lighting up under his aviators.
"No perp?" She asked. She could see where this was going, and she didn't like it.
"No."
"Then what the hell am I doing here?"
"I'm teaching you to surf."
Oh my God… this guy just… "What makes you think I don't know how to surf?"
"Sweetheart, when was the last time you went to the beach?"
"Yesterday." They'd followed Slimy's second-hand guy out here all the way to Malibu.
"For fun." He emphasized.
Charlie didn't answer. She didn't really need to. Paul Briggs had this way of seeing right through people's excuses and fronts. It was great when you were a criminal; not so great when you were a colleague.
"Is this…" Charlie searched for the right word, "appropriate?"
"Surfing on a beach? Nah, we're gonna do it in the water."
Not what I meant. "After school activities." She clarified.
"Why wouldn't it be?"
And that, it turned out, was the fundamental difference between the boss that was driving her up the wall back in New York, and the partner that had a boyfriend - then didn't have a boyfriend - and then had a boyfriend again and to be honest Charlie had stopped saying yes to post-shift drinks because she'd much rather sit at home with cheap beer and a Rangers game than spend another second with her colleagues - and these agents in California, most of whom Charlie actually liked
Maybe she was going soft.
"Alright." She said. "But I'm not dressed for the beach."
Paul tossed her a wetsuit. Charlie looked at it, curious; even she could see this was a quality brand, and it would fit her. "Whose suit am I stealing?"
"My ex's," he said, and she decided not to follow that one up.
And it turned out that Charlie wasn't so bad at surfing. The water was frigidly cold, but Paul was helpful, and didn't even try to flirt with her that much considering how skintight the wetsuit was, and even though she was pummeled by the waves and her own instability more than a few times, she scrambled up the beach an hour later feeling better, without having realized that she needed to feel better in the first place.
Paul flopped onto a towel next to her, pulling his wetsuit down halfway and groaning. "Nothing like it, huh?"
"I guess not." It was true, but she was a bit reluctant to give him that win. "But I've never been hit by a truck, so I can't be sure."
At least he had the good nature to laugh. "You did pretty well for yourself out there."
Charlie would have been content to lie in the sun for a little while, but her erstwhile partner had different plans.
"So, Chuck," he chuckled and she cringed, "care to explain what, exactly, is your beef with me?"
"Huh?"
"Girl, you have quite some chip on your shoulder."
Charlie grunted and purposely stared a little too close at the sun for a while. Not a conversation she wanted to have right now.
"I have to go back to New York eventually." She said, as if that explained anything.
"And?"
"I guess I don't want to become a fan of California."
"That's great and all, but I get the feeling there's something more specific going on. About me."
"Wow, you think so well of yourself, huh?" She countered, and he flinched. Huh.
"That's the sort of thing I'm talking about."
Charlie was tempted to resist, to be snarky again, but knew it would be fruitless. "You have a reputation. And I've got to go back to New York with mine intact."
She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but it wasn't the guffawing laugh that she got.
"What?!" Maybe she was a little hurt.
"Catherine Demarco," he said, sitting up and looking at her straight.
"Don't call me Catherine."
He flashed her that million-watt smile "I promise, you don't have a thing to worry about from me."
"You sure about that?"
"It's just a reputation, hon," he said, and there was something in it - the way he wouldn't look at her (in his ex's wetsuit, she remembered). "We both do what we gotta do to get people to buy into the story, right?"
She pretended like his guard hadn't dropped, "gets you places in HQ, right?"
"All sorts of places." He grinned.
Slimy was pretty easy to take down in the end; he was out of his depth in Southern California's endless networks of cartels and gangs and small criminal enterprises (and large criminal enterprises). Charlie was surprised to find that she was going to miss California. Briggs was cool - very smooth with the ladies, very easy on the eyes - but also very good at his job, and his brain worked quickly, coming up with solutions to problems she hadn't even anticipated yet.
They sat, feet in the sand and a bottle of rum between them (her per diem was out and he claimed to be "federal broke"), eating beach cheese fries and watching the sun set over the waves of the beach near his safe house.
"Looking forward to getting back to your comfy New York digs?" He asked, leaning back on his arm and tossing her a casual, easygoing smile.
"You mean my cramped, old, fight-with-the-landlord, piss-poor-heating, hole-in-the-wall?" She laughed and took a swig of the rum. "Oh, I've been spoiled gthese past few weeks."
"You like it out here?" He asked.
She leaned back to join him and nodded. "Didn't think I was gonna - but the company is good."
"Now what do you mean by that?" She could see that he was teasing, but she felt her chest tighten a bit anyway.
"No alcoholic boss breathing down my neck. No obligatory Sunday family dinners. And it's good work out here, ya know?"
Paul nodded and took the bottle from her.
She fell silent, watching the waves for a moment. She truly had enjoyed the work - it had been stressful, crazy, dangerous, and damn near more fun than she had in years. How did that happen? This place had been everything she was dreading and now she was dreading leaving it behind. It turned out the sun and the beach and flip-flops suited her.
They say that great minds think alike (and fools seldom differ), and so she should not have been surprised when Briggs broke the silence. "Ya know, we've got this safehouse for local undercovers, and we could use another bureau agent repping in there."
It would mean she didn't to go back. Better; it would mean she didn't have to leave.
"I barely met you, and you're already asking me to move in with you?"
He grinned. "Yes, I guess I am."
It turned out that she was the third one into the house. Right now, it was just Briggs and a grouchy ICE agent named Jakes, and it was bachelor central. No furniture beyond a beer-stained couch, nothing in the fridge, just surfboards, wax, and beer bottles spread out over the living room floor.
"This is awful." She found herself stopped in the foyer. Truly disgusting.
"All the furniture is holed up in evidence," Jakes (Dale Jakes - DJ, as he introduced himself) explained. "We're making do."
"I lived in nicer places in college."
"Well, on a federal paycheck…" Briggs drifted off.
"Well, we've got to at least make it livable." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Show me to my room. Paul, bring my bag."
"It's Briggs- " he protested but Charlie was already heading up the stairs.
Her room had a bed - that was good - but not much else. It had a utilitarian set of sheets - Briggs' spares, apparently - and a plastic set of college-dorm drawers that had definitely seen better days.
She must have been making a face, because Briggs' commented, "I'm sure you'll make it your own."
That night, she sat with her new housemates around a "welcome" bonfire, beers in hand with a hearty dinner of tortilla chips and guacamole ("It's all we have," Paul had explained, and she hadn't even tried to hide her eye roll).
"So," Jakes asked, fire flickering in his eyes - and a few beers more she would have been enchanted by it. "Tell me what brings you here to sunny Southern California, Agent Demarco."
She took a sip of her beer - ugh, cheap IPA - and sat back against a rock. "Agent Superstar over here asked me to move in with him and I was just tripping all over my feet to say yes."
Jakes raised his eyebrows. Oops, maybe too much sass right there for so little beer. "Paul roped you in?"
"We worked a case together," she said. "Lord knows why he wanted me to stick around."
"Any words from Agent Superstar here?"
Paul's voice traveled over the flames, where she could barely see him in the dark. "I heard plenty of good things about the girl who brought down the Italian Undertaker" - Slimy's father, oddly enough - "and we need good people in this house."
She shook her finger at him. "Wasn't no girl that took him down."
She saw his head move, eyes sparkling at her over his bottle. "Oh, I can see that."
She took a sip from her own. Cool as a cucumber. Just because she agreed to move into his house didn't mean she was moving into his room. No matter how kissable he looked right now.
Paul continued. "Needed another FBI agent in the house, and Demarco wanted some more of the beach. So here she is."
Later that night, as she dumped the remnants of tortilla chips and guac in the kitchen, she pretended not to hear Jakes stop Paul in the foyer.
"Really, man, her? Last time..."
Paul's voice was quiet, but she could have sworn he said, "It's not like that."
Lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, Charlie wondered why she was disappointed instead of relieved.