I don't own The A-Team but I do love to write about them!
On the Jazz?
Is it the jazz?
I love the red dress and the long hair. "Giorgios' has a store here," in an accent I didn't know I had. I love the boots and short skirt. There's a quiver of guns disguised as iron clubs. It's not very often a reporter from the LA Courier gets to go undercover - especially with four restless romantics.
But right now I'm feeling pretty strange.
Only a few days ago, I was in my jeans and plaid shirt, driving a getaway car for an escaped lunatic with three men in white coats after him. We switched seats midchase, and for a second I inhaled, catching a smell that fuzzed my brain. It's not good for a reporter to lose focus, and my instincts saved me from flipping the car before Murdock took over. But I remembered that smell. I kept it. I'm a reporter. We don't keep things quiet. But this, I kept quiet. The most I let it come out was a smile as he sang. He was on the jazz - and so was I.
Was I?
I'm weighing nothing right now. Face is talking like he always does, and I'm giggling right there with him. He's got a grip on me that I've almost never felt, and I'm oddly amazed at how comfortable I feel. He winks at me, those blue eyes, and my stomach does something strange. Scam. Work.
I'm trying to look around the room, pick up on information. I saw all four of them do it in Jamestown. It's instinct for them. I have to learn it if I'm going to stay with them. I want to stay with them. It's the jazz, man. More than a story. More than an exclusive. It's walking the line.
Isn't it?
Or is it something else?
That scent is in my nose even as Face smiles at me one more time. Suddenly it's hard to breathe. Put me down. Put me DOWN!
What's happening to me? When did the jazz suddenly get so confusing?
It is the jazz...right?