a/n: This is a new story jointly written by me, sunny d. and Tuck. You can find Tuck's other JE stories here: /u/1654937/tuck
It is both a Mercenary Ranger story and a Merry Man fic of sorts. If you need background on my version of Ranger, please check out my other stories here on ff.
Babe,HEA. Ranger and Stephanie are married. Joe Morelli is not in this story at all.
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We hope you all enjoy!
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Standard fanfic disclaimers apply for entire story.
Jane's Dilemma~ Chapter One
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Jane
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"I feel pretty! Oh so pretty! I feel..." I grinned at myself in the mirror and shut up long enough to plug in my hair dryer. I played Maria in West Side Story, back in high school in Newburg. I suppose the musical is politically incorrect nowadays, but what the heck, I do feel pretty! I, Mary Elizabeth Jane Smith was goin' to the ball! I smiled and began humming the old Cyndi Lauper tune: Girls just Wanna Have Fun. I jiggled my hips and swung my ass— "Uh justa wanna have! uh justa wanna have, Girls just a wanna have...fun!"
Overexcited? Who, me?
My name is, as I mentioned, Jane Smith. I'm from Newburgh New York, aka Upstate New York; I am 27, single and boring —most of the time anyway. I moved here to New York City after I graduated from SUNY Binghamton with a master's degree in library science and a double minor in physics and mathematics. I work at the reference desk in the Main Public Library in Manhattan—you know, the one with the famous lion statues?—and with my godparents' help, I rent a tiny walkup flat in the West Village. I moved to the city for excitement, imagine that. But until a few weeks ago, life in the Big Apple was no more amazing than life on the farm. So to speak, back home in Newburgh, I mean.
I finished my hair—sleek and straight and shiny black and began doing my eye makeup. My big violet eyes are one of my best features, along with my little nose and big, ah—nice boobs for my size, I think is what "they" say. I'm a bit too short, just 5'4" and my complexion is very fair, the paleness enhanced by my career in the bowels of the library system.
Another coat of mascara and I was almost done. My dress, a gorgeous turquoise silk from Laundry by Shelli Segel, hung on the outside of the closet and I admired it for a moment. It was a gift from my godparents, really my aunt and uncle who took me in and made their home my home, when my parents were killed in a car accident while I was a freshman in college. When they heard about the invitation to tonight's gala charity ball, I think they were almost as excited as I was. And when I told them about scouring the thrift shop websites for a gown—a gown! Janey in an evening gown!—they insisted I go to Saks and choose an early Christmas gift.
... ... ...
The weekend after Thanksgiving, just three short exciting weeks ago, I was at St. Vincent Hospital, heading for my every-Saturday stint with the children in the pediatric ward. I had a big tote filled with a selection of books for a variety of ages and I think I looked forward to my reading circle performance as much as the children did. I love small children, their minds are so blessedly uncluttered and open. They want love and security and kindness. I run the children's reading hour at the library too and I hope my storytime visits give the kids as much joy as they give me.
Today, sadly, the hospital was fairly quiet, holiday weekend and all. I got on the creaky lift with a couple of young women and a man stepped quickly in behind me as the doors lumbered closed. We all faced front. One of the girls—late teens? early twenties?— said, "Could you like press 5, that's the cardiac floor."
The man pressed the button and glanced my way. He was young and muscular and handsome, I noted briefly. I said, "Oh, seven, please." He smiled at me, chose my floor and then his—8, ICU, poor guy. Someone he maybe cared for a lot was very ill.
The girls began chatting loudly as if they were alone. I dragged my eyes from the hot guy and uncomfortably eavesdropped.
The girl who had spoken to us, a scrawny blond with dark roots cocked a hip and said to her friend, "Omigod, I was just so pee-ohed the other day!"
Her girlfriend, dark wavy hair, too much lip-gloss, ten pounds overweight, said, "Oh yeah? Like what happened, Bree?"
"Remember I had to see the family for Thanksgiving dinner? My cousin was like, I don't get why you date a guy for 3 months then break up with him, then date another guy for 3 months, and so on. And I'm like, well I'm 19, I don't want to really be with any one right now."
"What a bitch! Probably she's just you know, jealous...?"
"Well it is SO none of her business..."
I gritted my teeth and tried to tune them out. Their voices and attitude rubbed me the wrong way, chalk on a blackboard, car alarm blare at 3 AM. They were so annoying to listen to...and I work with teens every day!
They giggled and snapped their gum. I thought, Oh just shoot me now...I can't stand this.
The man jerked his head around and looked at me as if he had heard my thoughts. He nudged his black leather jacket aside and let me see the gun on his hip like an undercover policeman might wear and raised an eyebrow. And then he smiled at me. Omigod—the gun, the smile. The girls got off on 5 and I stared at him and he calmly gazed back at me, more than a hint of laughter in his eyes. I am mildly empathic but it is very rare that someone else picks up on my thoughts.
The armed and possibly dangerous stranger was maybe in his late twenties, early thirties, an athletic build with bulked up shoulders and arms, like he lifted weights—or spent time in prison. Geez.
He met my eyes again and I am sure I blushed.
He said, "Visiting someone?"
"Not exactly. I read to the children in the pediatric wing." Flustered, I heard myself blurt out, "I love kids, really." Eyeroll at the departed teenagers. "Little kids, they speak their minds, and expect you to do the same. Especially sick kids..."
He nodded faintly, keeping eye contact. Hands nowhere near the gun.
I said, "What about you?"
He said, "No, no reading...no kids."
"I meant, are you visiting someone?"
A beat of silence then he shrugged a little. The doors opened on my floor. I smiled again, still a bit uncomfortable, and said, "Good luck."
The doors edged closed behind me and he stuck a fast foot out. He said, "Wait a sec! I didn't get your name?"
He was keeping the door from closing and the warning bell clanged. I said, "Jane Smith," and he narrowed his eyes at me. I shrugged, palms up and smiled."Mom had no imagination..."
As the door forced itself closed he said, "Lester Santos!" And he disappeared, the elevator chugging on to its destination, whisking —slowly —away the most interesting man I had met in years. Maybe—ever. Too bad.
... ... ...
When I finished reading this week's chapter of Harry Potter, I closed the book, laid it on top of the picture storybooks I read to the smaller kids. I glanced up and there he was. All six or so feet of darkly handsome, probably Hispanic male. Short dark hair, expensive clothes, killer smile. And when we sat and had bad cafeteria coffee a few minutes later, I saw that he had gorgeous light green eyes, so unusual in his dark face.
Coffee, a couple dinners—and then this invitation. I picked up the heavy white envelope and drew out the card:
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Miss Jane Smith is cordially invited to attend
~The Crystal Ball~ Winter 09
Grand Ballroom at The Plaza Hotel
December 19th, 2009
9 PM
Dinner and Dancing
{black tie}
all proceeds will be donated to
Doctors without Borders/ Medecins Sans Frontiers
and
ULTWC Fund
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And now the moment was at hand. I slipped the dress carefully over my head and pulled up the zipper.
My cell phone rang.
tbc