Disclaimer: Reno, Rude, Tseng, and all things Turk belong to SE. The lyrics belong to N.E.R.D. And I certainly don't make anything off of this, but wouldn't that be nice?
AN: I wouldn't have had the guts to post this without CBK1000. Check out her Reno-centric fic, In Silence, on this site. Your muse will love you for it.
He forgets what drew him in the first place. Usually that wouldn't bother him, but this time, it does. He's not going to waste time trying to figure that out.
It's not like he found her in some new joint. They are all old haunts to him. The suit buys him a lot of leeway, but when the bartenders and the bouncers know your name, it takes the edge off. He decided a while back that familiarity wasn't always a bad thing.
It's not like he could've picked her out from the crowd. Not when she had her back up against the wall, one high-heel propped against it, looking like she was trying to fall asleep standing up. She was dark, too. Not her skin, though. She showed a lot of it, the first time he saw her. Pale, and translucent. She practically glowed, and he figured it was because he'd been rollin' and was six shots in and counting. When her hooded gaze met his and held, he couldn't help the pull at the corners of his mouth.
He didn't catch up to her that first night. A delightful little blonde had caught him by the mouth immediately after he'd downed his seventh shot, her tongue bearing gifts in the form of a little yellow pill that went down like sugar, and that was that.
He got what he'd came for.
I'm a little teapot blowin' off steam
You put me on the heat, I don't whistle I scream
Bang, bang, fuck a bed fuck a dream
This is rage blowin' up your machine
I'm a star bitch, I don't give a fuck
Don't be surprised when this bitch start blowin' up
Well its a little bit of us, a whole lot of you, and we just came here to see what it do...
The second time he sees her, it's under less pleasurable circumstances, his EMR in his hand, the taste of copper on his tongue.
She doesn't blink when she meets his gaze, and it makes him linger a little longer than he'd like.
Rude catches him watching her walk away without a second glance, his jaw clenching…measuring…
"Let her go." His partner's voice is a monotone wash, dulling the red in his eyes. "She didn't see anything."
Right off he can't help but think she sees too much, but he licks away the blood on his lip and turns away, his EMR disappearing deep into his sleeve.
Little, Red, Riding, Hood, went riding on her bike
She got just a little distracted cause she see something she liked
Just because it ain't grandma's house don't mean that it's all good
Cause no one cares, if she's in there, and the wolf's still in the woods
Third time's the charm, and he deliberately ignores the barkeep and his freshly poured liquor when he catches sight of her.
She's a brunette blob in a sea of pulsating flesh, her movements broken against strobing magenta and violet. And now he knows the hook: it's the way she moves. All silk and smooth and svelte, a subtle shift in a world of angles and straight lines and hard need.
She doesn't walk, she flows.
She's held his attention long enough to make it worth his while, and he waits until she pauses at the edge of the mob before he takes his shot and plows headlong into the melee towards her.
It's not like their first time is any different than all his other first times. He has a fucking catalogue.
The second time isn't exactly earth-shattering, either, but he has a significantly smaller amount of those to compare.
By the fourth time, he's tired enough to quit, which is something worth remembering. As he drifts off, he casually wonders if she's slipped him something he's not had before. There is a smile on his face while he sleeps; there are no dreams.
He surprises himself when he realizes he's not mad to find her still there in the morning, her dark eyes solemn and unreadable as she watches him, watching her. She slips from his bed in a silken slide of sheets and flawless skin, not pausing as she makes her way to his bathroom.
He can still taste her on his tongue from the night before, actually likes the smell of her on his skin, his bed.
She's left the door open, the sound of the shower a siren song in the early morning.
She doesn't seem surprised when moments later, he joins her.
By the seventh time, he's struggling to stuff himself inside his pants, his coat in his teeth while he fights with his fly.
Tseng will have his ass.
Still, he isn't used to leaving anyone in his place, so he pauses at his bedroom door as he throws on his coat, his eyes fixated on the slope of her lower back as it meets the fullness of her ass while she lies prone on his bed.
"I think I might like seeing you here when I get back, yo."
She says nothing, coal black eyes drifting shut as he ducks out the front door.
See, I know I got them other girls
But I wanna learn from you
There's a war goin' on outside no man is safe from
And I'm not tryin' to lose, I need you
So when it comes to a girl like you that moves me
What am I supposed to do? But admit it
You're you're you're bad ass
You're you're, c'mon sing it wit me
…Bad ass
Don't worry 'bout it.
Sixteen hours later, he tumbles into the apartment, half-heartedly fighting for dominance in the arms of a rather enthusiastic platinum blonde.
They ricochet as one down his narrow hallway. Registering the collapse of dry wall beneath his elbow at one point, he curses into her hungry mouth. His arms shoot out, hands finding purchase on the jamb at the entrance to his bedroom, white-knuckled and tingling.
Toes dig in, his weight subtly shifting to the balls of his feet, but before he can act she's on her knees, small hands a blur at his waist, his crotch. His breath is a forceful explosion of mindless, wordless approval, his head falling back and his knees nearly buckling when she takes him completely into her mouth.
He's not sure just how much time passes, but it's not nearly enough before moist, warm, vacuum is replaced by cool air. A beat passes, and he doesn't have time to look down before he hears, "Who the fuck is that?"
He frowns, not at her question, rather at how annoying her voice sounds, high-pitched and nasal and adolescent. It's a struggle to open his eyes, and when he does, she's standing up slowly, her gaze locked on something, or, someone, behind him.
Dammit, why the fuck is she standing up?
Grinding his teeth, he sneaks a peek over his shoulder.
Impossibly dark eyes meet his over the top of a folded magazine. She appears only vaguely curious, reclining casually on his bed. She is still very naked.
Well, this is unexpected.
He can tell the blonde is still waiting for an answer, and he's wondering if it really even matters if he says anything at this point. He takes a breath, but a soft, even voice beats him to it.
"I'm last night."
He doesn't even bother to watch the other go, her retreat punctuated by a string of profanities. He feels the reverberations of the front door slamming through his palms.
He is mesmerized by her skin, and distantly realizes those are the first words he's ever heard her say. He decides he likes her voice. A lot.
He is dazed moments later, braced against the wall, his bones going to jelly as she has moved to finish what another had started.
He decides he really likes her mouth.
The next day, he hesitates at the front door. He's hoping she won't leave.
He's got a bruise and a cut on his lower lip that she gave to him, and he sucks on it all day, reminiscing. Anticipating.
He has no clue what the fuck is going on, but he knows he doesn't want it to stop, yet.
That night, Rude asks him about going for some drinks. He says he's beat, and bows out.
He can feel the fucker's eyes boring holes in his back for an entire city block.
Day four, and he still doesn't know her name, even though he's asked at least twice.
He swears with this one, he's going to remember.
Common sense makes him wonder if she really knows what he does for a living, makes him search through her clutch while she's in the bathroom. Lipstick, thirty gill, a hair elastic, some perfume (he memorizes the name for later), and a brush.
She's been wearing his old t-shirts the last three days. He takes a rare trip to the dry cleaners, two suits and her dress, and wonders on the walk back if this mediocre errand is one step closer to his balls in a vice-grip. Hey, wanna go steady?
When he returns, she is gone.
He hangs her dress in the back of his closet. Lights up a cig as he sits on the edge of his bed, still ripe with the smell of her sweat and sex. He lets out a snort, tripoding on his knees with his head bowed low.
It's probably for the best.
He refuses to bring any others back to his place, and there are plenty of those.
He sleeps more on his couch than his bed. Still hasn't changed the sheets.
He thinks all the times he has seen her before can't have been coincidences. It's been four months, and he hasn't seen her since.
But he dreams.
Fucking bitch.
See maybe there was something wrong
And you weren't telling me no
See maybe the laugh's on me
And life was telling me a joke