Internal Affairs
Chapter 1
The name plate on the door read Dr. Chase Strathorn.
You hesitate with your hand just inches from the door knob. Were you supposed to knock? Or just go in? It had already been an exhausting week and this "evaluation" on Friday might just take you over the edge. So much had happened since Monday. The shooting and then the victims' families you had to speak with and then the media hype and now this. Talking about feelings of the event. Reliving it out loud with a person who has undoubtedly only lived this kind of life from behind a desk listening to other people's stories and reading about it on reports.
You had to fire on Tremont Williams or you and your partner could both be dead. So why in the world do you have to go to talk to a police shrink about this whole thing? You fired the gun but it didn't take the life of Williams. Your partner had taken a bullet in the arm. It all had happened so fast that you were lucky no one died at the scene although you understand Williams was in critical condition. You are still nursing a bruised head from the pistol whipping you received when your back was turned but you are more than thankful you were still able to walk away from the scene and not be carted off in an ambulance or worse yet, in a body bag.
Your report of the events was now a matter of record but you still find yourself carrying it with you for this meeting. You opened the folder as you leaned against the wall of the hallway by the door of Dr. Strathorn.
"It had happened just before midnight on Monday. I, Detective Brittany S. Pierce and my partner Sam Evans were stopping by an apartment in the 4700 block of Winchester to respond to a domestic disturbance call we received on our radio."
Nothing is ever routine about any call you get but usually domestics meant the husband/boyfriend was drunk or high and the wife/girlfriend was getting yelled at or smacked around. They seldom pressed charges and it makes me sad. This was the one part of my job you never cared for... seeing others feeling like they had no other option but to remain in a volatile situation.
You remember everything like it was happening now. You don't even need to read the report. It is still so vivid in your mind.
"Are you ready to go in?," Sam asked.
"Yes," you had answered with your hand close to your hip where your Glock was holstered.
Sam knocked and identified us as police. A woman answered the door with a cigarette in one hand seemingly confused. "Why the hell are you people here?"
"We are responding to a call of domestic disturbance," you had stated. "What call?" the woman replied but it was all she had time to get out before you saw a shadow pause at the end of the hallway leading toward the door where you and Sam were seeking interest The figure had taken off down the hall opening the door to the stairs.
You had pushed back from the wall and ran after the figure, Sam right behind you yelling "Stop, Police". You reached the door to the stairs before he did and you had kicked the door open with your foot, gun in hand.
"Are you Detective Pierce?"
You jump as the voice interrupts your trip down a hellish memory lane. Once you refocus you notice a very short woman with long dark hair standing next to you. Masculine hands on either side of her hips and a kind but guarded look in her eyes. She wore an argyle sweater and skirt that came just below her knees with socks pulled up and flat shoes. Fashion was obviously not her forte. Brown eyes, pale skin. No purse. No coat. She wasn't arriving for the first time to the door you surmise. Instant thoughts like this always fill your head quickly. Subconscious part of the job. Take in the scene. See things others don't. Even if things seem on the up and up, your gut can sometimes tell you when something seems a bit off. Always follow your gut was one of the first lessons you learn as a police officer. And that's how you make Detective as fast as you did.
"Excuse me, hello?" There was a slight edge of annoyance to her voice... but you somehow immediately got the gut feeling she was always like this.
"I'm sorry. Yes, I am Detective Pierce."
"Then you must be the 4:00 appointment," the woman replied. "Please come on in," she continued and held the door open gesturing with her head for you to go on through in front of her.
"I'm Rachel Berry. Assistant." The woman held her man hand out and you reach to shake it. "They're running a few minutes late. I hope you don't mind waiting here in our lobby," the woman continued as she waved her hand across the room.
"They," you inquire with an eyebrow raised.
"Oh, um, the doctor. Please feel free to sit anywhere."
It wasn't expansive...just a few chairs and magazines on a table. A desk in the corner by the door was where the assistant now sat. "I'll let you know when you can go back," she states and begins to type away at the computer on her desk. You take it as a sign she is done talking. You settle into a chair in the middle of the room and find yourself taking a deep breath. To sit for a moment feels good... you feel like you have been in a constant state of motion since Monday afternoon when you went on shift. You wish you could rewind the clock and then none of this would be happening. You could be wrapping up for the day and going home to your apartment and your cat and your life, such that it is. Familiarity was escaping you now when really all you want was to be back in your normal routine. Before everything was so complicated. You try to flip through a magazine but it doesn't hold your interest for long.
"I'm really not hungry," you told him again as we walked out of the precinct.
"But Britt you know Breadstix has a great special on Mondays. In addition to all you can eat breadsticks they have the all you can eat angel hair pasta," Sam exclaimed lowering his head to be able to better utilize his puppy dog eyes.
You sighed because you knew how much Sam loved pasta, regardless of how hypocritical it was since it was loaded with carbs and Sam was always trying to let you see his ridiculous abs. "Ok, let's go," you had told him. "But I don't want to stay more than 45 minutes. I have some errands to run during my break today and I want to make sure I have the extra time. Why don't I drive my car and you take ours and that way I can run out when I need to and then we can meet back up at the station and see what's going on."
Sam nodded agreeably, visions of Breadstix undoubtedly dancing in his head.
You opened the door to my BMW, one of the few luxuries you allowed yourself to purchase with the money your parents had left you. The things you would do for Sam you thought with a slight smile. You had been working together for 7 years now and were friends. You didn't hang out much during your time off together - which didn't seem to be very often - because you got enough of each other at work. And while you knew you could talk to Sam about anything and felt confident the feeling was mutual, you both maintain a slight professional edge to your relationship. Especially after you turned him down when he asked you out during your second year together as partners. It took some adjusting to his ego but you both got through it. And now it was about knowing either of us would take a bullet for the other and that was enough. There was no need to actually converse about such intimacies.
It was a 10 minute drive to Breadstix that you had managed to make in less than 6. Pulling into the parking lot, you had heard your phone chime signaling a text message had been received. You grabbed your phone and looked at the message but noted the number was blocked. "8p at the Cherokee Park fountain." You had made a mental note that it must be one of your C.I.s who perhaps had some information. They liked to meet more face-to-face mostly so they could get some cash out of the deal. The better the info, the more likely they were to see $20 or so.
You sat down on the booth and mulled over the message waiting for Sam - a much slower driver. "Hey did you order for us yet?" he said as he slid into the opposite seat.
"No, I told you I wasn't hungry so I am just going to get a bowl of the minestrone or something. Go crazy though," you grinned.
"Amazing how life can change in the blink of an eye," you find yourself thinking as you stop the memory and come back into focus on where you are and what had occurred in the past 5 days. A quick glance at your watch confirms it is 4:15. Dr. Strathorn was more than just a few minutes late and you are more than annoyed. You're tired and you don't want to be doing this. You don't need to talk to a shrink about the shooting because it was legitimate. No PTSD for you and hell you wonder why this is even part of the department guidelines. You're a fucking detective with 4 years on the job. A spotless record. You want to go home and take a long, hot bubble bath and put this week behind you. Now you're getting angrier. You began to get up from the chair to express your displeasure with this whole thing when you hear the phone that sits on the desk ring. The assistant Rachel answers it.
"Yes?" she speaks into the receiver. "Ok, do you need me to stay or to bring the file in?" she states after listening in silence for a few minutes. "Ok then," she finishes and lightly puts the phone back in the cradle.
"You can go back now," the assistant says her tone and face a little more serious than before as she points to the only other door in the room besides the one we entered together.
You are halfway out of your chair already so you rise fully and head to the door, opening it. You're even more annoyed because no one has entered the waiting room the entire time you have been sitting there. Had Dr. Strathorn been in the room the entire time and kept you waiting? If that was the case you and the doctor were definitely getting off on the wrong foot. Which you would be sure to convey. Loudly. Your patience is gone. Upon entering you pull the door closed with a slight slam trying to make sure you set the tone for the first conversation the good doctor and you are going to share.
You quickly survey the room. Habits you know. The room is large, larger than the waiting room. A desk is on the left hand side with what appears to be a comfortable chair behind it along with papers and a calendar in plain view. A laptop sits atop the desk but is closed. There is a large couch that could seat three people comfortably on the right side of the room. Two chairs face the couch slightly along with each other. A small refrigerator is next to the desk and has a coffee maker on it. And at the back of the room there is a door. You can hear water running and determine it must be a bathroom. You pace for a moment and then take a seat on the couch. You hear the water stop and you sit up a little straighter on the couch waiting to meet Dr. Strathorn, preparing to give him a piece of your mind.
What you aren't prepared for is the person who stepped out of the bathroom. A woman. With long black hair that is swept back into a ponytail that gathered at the base of her neck. She is wearing a red shirt that has the first two buttons open allowing a tasteful view of her skin to show, a tan skirt that reached just above her knees - tight but not tacky - and some tan pumps. She has no rings on her hands but wears a necklace that appears to have a round silver ball on it. Small earrings that are also silver and hands that appear soft and well-manicured. The job trains you to notice a lot of things about people right away. Clothes, jewelry, any identifying marks. Sizing them up just like a room. Superficial review of people and surroundings. Quick and sans emotion. No real judgment enters into it. Just facts.
And the fact is this woman is simply stunning.
You feel your breath pick up a bit, your senses a bit heightened like you just opened a door to a room where you are not sure what is going to be there to find.
She walks right up to you. You rise to your feet from the couch with a slight look of confusion. The woman's heels allow her some height but she is still a few inches shorter than you even with them on. She is even more stunning up close if that could be possible.
"I...I'm sorry," you stutter. "I guess I'm in the wrong place. I was supposed to have a meeting with Dr. Chase Strathorn," you finish as the woman tilts her head to the side and gives you a slight smile. "You are clearly not him." No kidding, you think.
The woman looks at you for a moment longer, just enough to make you almost start speaking again, almost like she is sizing you up as well before extending her hand. "My name is Santana Lopez," she says as you close your hand around the smaller woman shaking it but never losing eye contact. You feel a little off center as you look into the chocolate eyes that meet your own. Probing almost with the depth of them. You admit silently to yourself that you are taken aback by the woman's presence, her aura. Because you aren't expecting it.
Not because she is gorgeous.
Even though in your line of work you know you should be more prepared for the unknown... but in all honesty this woman has caught you off guard not just because you were expecting someone else. The room feels charged with electricity. You pause for a moment realizing you haven't yet let go of the woman's hand.
"And I gather you are Detective Pierce," the woman continued as your hands finally part. She sits in one of the chairs while motioning for you to resume your place on the couch with a subtle nod of her head.
"Well ma'am I don't know where the misunderstanding has occurred but I will be happy to find out and determine where I...," you begin.
"No, there's no mistake Detective Pierce. This meeting was scheduled so we could talk."
"So you are the one I am supposed to talk to about the shooting," you continue as you sit a little deeper into the couch. You begin to gather your file from the table in-between the two of you.
"Yes Detective, we are going to discuss the shooting."
You sit still for a moment collecting your thoughts. The woman is sitting across from you with a warm but distant smile on her face and her hands clasped in her lap. Typical shrink you think to yourself. Not giving anything away - expression unreadable.
"Before we start, I want to review your file with you so we can skip over what I know about you Detective."
"Really," you reply with the slight smile and an arch of your eyebrow, "Just what exactly do you know?" You are trying to relax, to regain some sort of control over your heart that is beating a little too fast. Nerves, you think to yourself. Must be nerves over talking to a shrink. You never were a very good liar….even to yourself.
The woman stands from the chair and walks over to the desk grabbing the laptop and returns to the chair across from you. She hits several keystrokes and then begins to read from a screen you cannot see.
"Lets see," she begins, 'I know you are one of the more highly decorated detectives in the division and that you have a very high conviction rate. You were made Detective within 18 months on the force, one of the youngest females to so do in the state. I know that you just were at a scene where two people were shot. The one you shot is in critical condition. The other is your partner Sam Evans," she states without much inflection.
You look at her closely and consider rising from the couch. Even in her sitting position she seems in charge of the room. You are actually breathing a bit heavier trying to keep your emotions in check when you reply, " Yes but with the news media coverage you aren't telling me much that everyone doesn't already know."
The woman considers you for a moment before going back to reading from the screen.
"I know you spend most of your nights at home alone or at the bar across the street from your apartment. I know on Saturdays when there is a DJ at said bar that you like to dance but only by yourself. I know you have a BMW but I also know you own a red crotch rocket that you rarely ride. You have few friends but the ones you do spend time with are close to you. I know you are sexually active but that you aren't seeing anyone exclusively at this time. I know that you have a sister that you barely speak to except on holidays. And I know that every 17th of the month after your work day is done you take flowers to the cemetery and place them on the gravestones of your parents who died when you were 21."
You stand up, your mouth open. Your face is flaming with emotions you don't quite know how to define: anger, embarrassment. You almost feel violated. You step forward without thought, thankful the table is between you so you don't end up in her face. Your blood pumping through your veins and your adrenaline matching it beat for beat. You are completely caught off guard again with her and you react.
"What the fuck kind of shrink are you?" you growl through gritted teeth.
Her eyes soften but she still holds her authoritative demeanor. She closes the laptop and places it on the table before standing from the chair, keeping her eyes on you the entire time.
You start to talk before you even really know what you are going to say. " I….I thought the whole point of this was for me to come here and talk about the shooting, get my 'feelings' about the shooting off my chest so that you could evaluate me and clear me to get back on the streets. I get paperwork that states I am to meet with Dr. Chase Strathorn and I'm at his door and instead find you here. Then you pull a file on me and recite back to me personal information that a police shrink could not know unless they have either been talking about me with others and they have been snooping around my personal life. Either way this is complete bullshit and I am done listening to it."
You begin your way around the table opposite where she stands and toward the door.
You are almost at the door when you hear her speak again
"Please wait Detective."
"You fucking doctors are all the same," you say and reach for the door handle.
"I'm not a doctor, Detective."
You slowly turn to face her and see she has taken a few steps in your direction.
"I'm Lieutenant Santana Lopez. Internal Affairs."
You stand there yet again with your mouth open.
Her eyes hold yours steady.
"But please, call me Santana."
You stand at the door for what seems like hours but in actuality was only 30 seconds.
"Please if you will sit down I will explain to you what I can," the woman I now knew as Lieutenant Lopez said in a soft voice.
You walk back to the couch slowly, not even conscious of your legs taking you there. You are trying to wrap your head around what could possibly be going on. You sit down and look at her, your eyes meeting hers for a moment. Electricity again. She begins to speak.
"We first took interest in you when you scored so high on the Detective exam. While it has occurred before your scores coupled with your quick rise in the department flagged you on our radar. We watched your career as it developed, keeping tabs on your training, on your arrests, on the professional relationships you gathered along the way. It is unusual for a female to perform so well within the department. Unfortunately this job has its silent prejudices about women and their role. So when you seemingly broke through the unspoken barriers we wondered why it appeared to be easier for you to accomplish than we usually note."
She continues as you sit still on the couch, your muscles tense, your eyes looking at everything but seeing nothing as you try to piece this together in the back of your mind.
"We kept the information on you in a file and we would add to it when something happened. A new arrest, a change in your relationship status, an event that might be worth noting. Something we thought was a little out of the ordinary in what mostly was an ordinary life." She continues to look at you and she talks. Never breaking eye contact. It's becoming unnerving.
"We kept this up for the 3 years you had been a Detective until July 27th of last year and we moved you into what we in Internal Affairs call a 'Condition Status.' It makes you a more," she hesitates only a moment to seemingly try and find the right words. "A more controlled candidate for lack of a better term."
"July 27th? That was almost 10 months ago," you state.
"Yes, I know," she replies. "Once you move to a Condition Status you are assigned a specific handler that digs a little deeper into your everyday life and happenings. But before that your past is further explored and the information previously on file is reviewed by people that provide an opinion as to your overall well-being. They predict who you are, how you operate. And as a handler we make sure the predictions match what we see in every day work and personal operation."
"Handler?" You are so taken aback by all of this you can't even formulate a full question but she seemed to understand and nods her head.
"I was assigned as your handler on August 1. I have been documenting your life since that time. It is my job Detective Pierce and in no way as your handler is anything I document shared with anyone else. I was given your file with the synopsis of your character, the predictions of your responses to certain events that may occur moving forward. How you might respond in a stressful setting at work, a difficult situation in your personal life. Those type of things. But my notes on you are not read by anyone. They are my notes in my laptop and they are not shared."
"I tell you this because I know it is a lot to take in right now. And while I know trust is the furthest thing from your mind when it comes to me, you can indeed trust me Detective. I am your Handler."
You take a deep breath in the attempt to get your emotions back under control. To wrap your head around what you have just been told. She seems to sense your demeanor shift from anger to confusion. You see her rise from the chair and head over to the desk, reaching to open the small refrigerator. You can't help but watch her the entire way. She pulls out something and brings it to you.
It was a Snapple Green Tea. You look at her hand holding the bottle in front of you and then back to her eyes. Fucking Snapple Green Tea. What you drink nearly every day. You half huff with a grin that holds absolutely no humor in it but you don't take your eyes off hers. It's like you can't. You unconsciously feel yourself allow her to place it your hand. The bottle feels cold against the heat of your skin.
"Jesus, you know what I drink? What else do you know?"
She simply resumes her seat. But she then looks at you intensely, as if she is not sure what to say next. But her eyes hold yours steady and show no fear.
"I know we need your help, Detective."
You just sit there, your brain firing in 100 different ways. Responses and scenarios in your head occurring faster than you can process. Your breathing is shallow, your heart pounding, your hands sweating. You can't focus.
You have to get out of here. It's like the attacks you used to get for the first six months after your parents died.
You stand. You look at her but you don't really see her. You cannot figure out what to do, what this means, what is going on. "I have to go," you tell her as you walk briskly toward the door and open it.
"Detective," you hear her begin but you hear nothing else as you shut the door behind you.
Rachel must be gone as her desk sits empty when you come through the waiting room and out the main door. You walk down the hall and out the front of the building toward your car. You half expect to hear the Lieutenant behind you. But no one is coming through the front doors of the building as you put the key in the ignition and drive away. You only live 15 minutes from the precinct but you don't even recall the drive home. Before you know it you are parked in your assigned spot in your apartment complex. You enter the apartment and place your keys in the dish by the front door and your purse on the hook of the hall butler that rests just inside entrance.
You go to the kitchen and open the refrigerator to grab a beer and see the Snapple Green Tea bottles on the door. You immediately close it without grabbing anything and lean against the door, your head back and eyes closed. This is not a beer kind of night, you think to yourself. This is a night that calls for tequila. You go to your room and put your gun and holster in the nightstand drawer next to the bed and sit down on the purple duvet. You take your fingers and massage your scalp, pulling your blonde hair back with each stroke. You cannot think about this tonight. You don't even know what it means let alone what Santana Lopez wants from you.
You change into jeans and a white tee shirt, some flip flops. Your cat Lord Tubbington saunters in and rubs his head against your legs before jumping up and lying in his usual spot at the foot of the bed. You give him a few strokes under the chin like he enjoys but your mind is a million miles away. Jesus this week has thrown you completely off center. You can't think about it now. You'll think about it tomorrow.
Tonight you're getting shit faced.
You grab your keys and your wallet and lock up, heading to Seasons. The bar sits only two blocks down and a street over from your apartment which is important when your plan is to get drunk. DUIs don't reflect well on people who are supposed to uphold the law and everything.
It's Friday night and Seasons is already filling up. People often come in after work on Fridays. People with normal Monday through Friday, 9 to 5 type jobs because what better way to unwind from your week of staring at a computer in your boring office job then meeting your friends coming from their boring office jobs.
All you wanted was to unwind yourself from this hell of a week with a hot bath, lit candles and a bottle of wine. Instead you walk into the bar and sit on the first open stool you find by the door and give John behind the bar a slight wave. Terry may own the place but John really runs it. He is the main bartender but he really oversees everything out front on the weekends which is their busiest time of course. Terry works more in the afternoons. John's shift starts at 6 and when he gets here Terry heads to the back. Katie is the other regular weekend bartender but she really just follows John's directions.
John sees your wave and acknowledges you with a nod of his head but he is busy getting an order together and holds a quick finger up letting you know he will be there in a second.
You drop your keys and wallet on the bar and fish your phone out of your back pocket. You see it shows 6:20. Two hours ago you were sitting in a waiting room worrying about sounding good to the shrink so they could approve you and get you back on the job. Two hours ago your life made sense, your future a little gray with the shooting and all but it comes with the job and you knew it was justifiable and in the end you weren't all that concerned about what was next. Now you have no idea. You look further on the phone and see 2 missed calls. Both are from Sam. You had placed your phone on silent for the appointment and failed to put your ringer back on in your haste to get out of there. There is only one voice mail and after punching in your code you place your phone to your ear and put your finger in your other so you can hear well.
"Hey Brittany, it's me. I wanted to see how the shrink appointment went. Did he note you as certifiable because we've all been taking bets." Sam chuckled a little. "Nah, seriously I was just checking in with you. I guess one of the benefits of getting shot is that I don't come back to work for another 4 weeks. And only then after they make sure my arm is ok. I heard they were giving you the weekend off. I'm glad. Try to enjoy it... and Brittany if you need to talk you know I'm here." You smile slightly and delete the message. You put the phone back down and see John in front of you, his grin a little too contagious as yours widens.
"Hey there stranger...what'll it be tonight babe?"
"Stranger?" you reply. "Jeez John maybe I come in here too much if it's been a week and you are calling me stranger."
"You're right. I should be asking for your autograph or something huh? I saw you all over the newspapers on Tuesday. Actually I should swing around the bar and give you a hug. I am glad you're ok," he said as he absent mindedly wiped the bar with a towel and placed a napkin down. "First round on me ok? So what'll it be?"
"Well you know I love Don Eduardo Anejo but I won't make you pay for that so make it a Patron please. Salt and lime as well if you could."
"Of course but I couldn't have bought you the Don Eduardo anyway," he said pointing to an empty place on the shelf. "We're out."
Probably a good thing you think and immediately feel tired. Exhausted. You look in the mirror above the bar to see what was going on behind you. White collar workers abound. A large party celebrating someone's birthday was close to where the band would be setting up in about 2 hours. Couples sharing glasses of wine and some college aged kids with pitchers of beer littering the tables. The place was pretty full even at half past six. The bar stretched nearly the length of the place...so long you really couldn't see the end of it. As you glance to your right you can see mostly single people sitting here, watching the TVs to see the local news and waiting for the latest sporting event to begin. There are some regulars that you know from frequenting the place but only for meaningless and quickly forgotten conversation about weather, politics and scores of the most recent ballgames.
During your quick review of the place John had come and gone with your drink. You lick the webbing of your left hand, sprinkle some salt, lick it off and take the shot back. It was a "John shot" meaning it was the equivalent of two but you manage in one easy swallow, relishing the burn on the back of your throat as you follow with the lime. He left you an ice water as well and you sip on it allowing the tequila to take effect. You look up toward the TVs but your mind plays back that what you were trying so desperately to forget.
"We need your help." The mantra played back in your head over and over. Along with her eyes. How they looked at you with such intensity. Intrigued by her the moment you saw her. Feeling some sort of pull toward her even after she said who she was, when she told you to call her by her first name. Santana. That was before the fear and confusion took over. Before you walked out the door without looking back,
"John, another please." You don't want to think. Not tonight. Tonight was about drinking it away. The shooting, the meeting, the fear, the confusion. You don't want to think about her. Her eyes. Her name.
He brought another down. Another "John shot." Another lime. Another burn down the back of your throat. You feel it as you sit and listen to those around you talk. You continue to stare at the TVs, but your mind still sees her. You check your phone again and it reads 7:40. Time is flying and you are buzzing.
You see John busy at the other end of the bar but still manage to catch his attention with a nod of your head toward the empty shot glass. He frowns almost imperceptibly but nods and pours another handing it to Katie and pointing to you. She turns and looks, seeing you with the empty glass and heading down your way. She sits it in front of you and asks if you need anything else. You shake your head and began your routine of the lick, shoot, suck. It is loud in here but the bar area is starting to clear out a bit. The tables are still full though since they are more conducive to conversations with friends. As a result John is hopping at the far end of the bar as the servers come to pick up the orders from the tables. Katie was hanging around down by where you were seated, the front door of the place fairly close to your left since you are at the farthest end of the bar.
"Well, it wasn't Don Eduardo but it will do," you say to Katie. Not slurring but a little loose lipped. She grins wiping down the bar area even though there really wasn't any mess to clean.
"Yeah, you know we don't keep much of it here because really you're the only one that ever orders it and even then only occasionally," Katie says as she refills my nearly empty water glass.
"I only get it when I have had a particularly tough week," you reply making small talk.
"Yeah that's why when Terry told me someone had bought the entire last bottle I thought it might be you," Katie says washing out some glasses. "John has been talking about you being on the news and in the papers so I figured this would be the definition of tough week for you."
"Someone bought the whole bottle?"
"Yep. Came in around 5:30, before John's shift and got Terry. I knew that John wouldn't have done that because he was telling me earlier this week he thought you might be in sometime soon and want it. But that's not what was odd..." Katie trails off.
"What was odd?"
"It was that they had us bag it but has spent the whole night down at the far end of the bar all night just drinking water. I mean why buy it here when you could have easily gone to Liquor Barn and gotten it for probably half of what Terry charged," Katie continues.
But you barely hear anything more. You go rigid and slowly turn your head to the mirror to better see the end of the bar. As people have cleared out it has become easier to see to the end so it was only a few seconds before you spot her eyes in the mirror. Looking right at you. Her lips around a straw as she sips her water. Her eyes still not losing contact when she sits the glass down, puts her elbows on the bar and clasps her hands under her chin.
You gather up your phone and keys, drop a $50 bill on the bar counter and stand up turning to the door. You stand there for just a moment. You turn around. She turns slightly on the stool and watches you as you walk toward her. She moves her purse off of the barstool next to her and looks back toward the TVs. But somehow you know that she isn't really watching them just like you weren't. She is looking in the mirror at you as you slide onto the stool next to her that she just freed for you. You can't help but hold eye contact with her - but only through the mirror behind the bar.
Fucking electricity again.
She opens her purse and takes the recently purchased bottle of tequila from it, sitting it on the bar. John comes over to where you now sit with unasked questions behind his eyes.
"Two shot glasses please," you ask him. "A salt shaker and plenty of lime."
"Hello Detective," the dark haired beauty says while John goes to get the tequila accoutrements you requested, never losing eye contact through the mirror.
You break the eye contact as you turn to the right but only slightly facing her. She does the same. You see she has changed clothes. Skinny jeans, gray shirt with a low scooping neck revealing the necklace. Hair now out of the ponytail and hanging in loose curls down her back. Red lipstick, some of which has come off on the straw in her water. Gorgeous.
"Hello again," you reply as John opens the bottle of Don Eduardo and pours a healthy shot in each glass before putting it down and sliding the salt and a number of limes on a napkin between the two of you.
You lick the webbing between your thumb and forefinger again and apply the salt. You suck it clean, shoot the tequila and suck noisily on the lime before slamming the shot glass back on the bar. She hasn't picked up her glass yet.
"Is it really that good of tequila, Detective?"
You turn and fully face her, shoulders squared to her body next to you. She closes her eyes in merely an elongated blink and matches your movement, your knees nearly touching. She meets your eyes again with such intensity you are almost at a loss for words.
Almost.
You breathe out, tasting the tequila on your tongue as you swipe it across your lips. Your eyes lock with hers. Electricity.
"If we are going to be working together Santana," you say making sure you don't slur. " I guess it would be better if you start calling me Brittany."