Wired
She knew the moment it went wrong. Something in his voice sounded different.
Concern (she would later deny) blossomed in her brain at the tone and inflection of his usually calm, level tone. In the back of her head, a tiny warning bell signaled that she shouldn't know his voice that intimately, that she didn't know him that way, that well, but her concern knocked that warning aside like a dead leaf, lost in a stiff autumn wind.
She'd been listening to him on the wire all night as he casually brushed a wide variety of glittery, glib and probably very pretty girls off. He was polite, even kind, but firm in his refusals and one by one they'd lost interest and moved on to easier marks. They were professionals; it didn't take them long to realize he wasn't really looking for love or something like it.
Ever since Roman's death, Ritual had turned into a true no man's land - where everything to be had could be found – for a price. It was probably that before too, but Roman was much better at screening his clientele. Since it no longer had federal protection, Ritual was on vice's list of places to shut down. Problem was that Vice had no one who could fit in there. Only high rollers got past the velvet rope.
But Charlie Crews had both the cash and gravitas to get in. What's more Crews was known to play on the rough edge of the law, so it wasn't a stretch that he'd dabble in the seedy side of the high priced escort services and designer drugs. Naturally, he'd volunteered and when he did - he inadvertently committed both of them to a Friday night at work. He'd later apologized to a scowling Dani Reese, when it became clear she would not let him do undercover work without her backing him up. He'd argued that Vice was covering him, earning him a dark look and eye roll. Dani Reese had many faults, but loyalty was not among them. She trusted no one else to watch her partner's back. She was fiercely territorial about him for reasons she didn't care to discuss and would never admit. They shared that protectiveness of each other and distrust of the rest of LAPD. It was well earned.
He entered the club around 10PM and just as his reputation held, Charlie Crews was a proverbial "chick magnet." Regardless of whether it was his brassy hair and pale looks or his untold millions that attracted them; he was doing very well with the ladies. He was rubbing elbows, buying drinks and chatting. Occasionally, he talked to himself. Of course he prefaced his statements to himself with her name, so Vice thought he was talking to her, but she knew better. Because she could give a rat's ass if "that blonde should really be in college instead of that booth with that banker's tongue down her throat." Every time he talked to himself, she felt the stares of the several members of the Vice cops also listening in. His internal monologue, addressed to her made it appear they were far closer than they were. Chuckles and leers were exchanged between officers – partially from Crews conversation, which was seemingly with her and partially a function of her own well earned reputation. Everyone there thought they were sleeping together and it drove her to distraction. She grounded her teeth until she gave herself a headache, but she couldn't change the past and nothing she said would change the words coming out of Crews' mouth. She needed fresh coffee or a stiff drink and a soft bed, in that order. But that thinking was precisely why she was sitting curbside across the street instead of inside with her partner.
Crews was also supposedly discreetly watching and listening for the telltale signs of prostitution and narcotics trafficking. He fit in because of the money thing, but also because of the ex-con thing and the fact that it was common knowledge he'd removed Roman Nevikov from the world. People accepted that he could travel in both worlds.
All nightlong she'd listened to him politely buy drinks for various girls with different accents, different approaches – none of which worked. They'd chat and she'd even hear the rustling of the mic against his shirt, as these various women ran their hands along his rib cage and whispered in sultry tones against his collar. It chaffed her, but she couldn't or wouldn't admit why. Other women coming on to her partner shouldn't irk her, but it did. She wasn't jealous; maybe she was being protective because at times Crews could seem so innocent. He seemed innocent, but she knew he wasn't.
He also had no trouble with picking up ladies, but he wasn't doing that tonight. Tonight he was all business and talking to himself (her) a lot. The other detectives listening were probably inferring unintended things as Crews continued to note inconsequential things in her ear. "Reese, did you know they made heels that high? You'd be as tall as me if you wore those," he commented softly.
There was something intensely personal about the things he was saying to himself (her) and the tone in which he said them. 'Stop talking like I can hear you, Crews!" she growled at him in frustration. She winced as her own voice inside the car sounded like she was shouting. Even when he wasn't here Crews could manage to frustrate, infuriate and test her patience.
Why he always talked her into letting him go "undercover" was a mystery to her. Actually that wasn't true, it was a behemoth silent fact visible to anyone who took the time to look that her struggles with alcohol made her a bad choice for undercover alone in bars. The siren's call of narcotics was also still very strong for her and though Crews never even so much as mentioned it; she knew that he knew. Some nights she sat in the car and damned him for being so perceptive and sensitive to her needs. Another reason she found to be annoyed with him.
When his voice changed from the false friendliness he usually projected to another octave and a tiny slur appeared, she sat up in her seat. The woman currently hanging off him was giggling something unintelligible and Charlie was talking to her, but he wasn't talking to her – he was talking to Reese (again). "Umm, I'mm in trouble here. Feeling somethin' I haven't felt in a long time," he stumbled over some of the words.
The woman murmured, "me too, baby," but Dani knew he was talking to her. She was sure, she'd better be – because she was getting ready to blow his cover and pull him out of there. He'd been drugged and was having trouble – he was fading fast.
She listened to him intently, talking to him now as if he could hear her, "talk to me Crews," she whispered while contemplating her next mover. She'd gotten in a gym visit before surveillance started and was still in sweats with her hair in a ponytail. She examined herself in the rearview while listening for something definitive from Crews.
"Honey, let's get out of here," the woman offered. "How about you take me somewhere nice and I'll make you feel better. I'll make you feel all kinda things," she promised.
"My girl's not gonna like that," he tried to put the woman off. Again Dani felt he was talking to her directly, his voice was low and the words slid awkwardly off his tongue. Crews was usually crisp and efficient in his annunciation and she alone could tell the difference.
"Fuck it," she said to herself and slammed the car door.
She marched toward the bouncer at the velvet rope. Her shield was in the pocket of her sweatshirt, but she was developing a story to get past the man that didn't involve showing him the badge. She would if she had to, but that would burn Crews making him useless to Vice for months.
The bouncer was a tall, thick and muscular; light skinned black man in a tailored suit with a bold tie. Underneath he was probably tatted and branded, but he cleaned up nice. Dani leveled a blistering gaze and him as she stepped over the rope and he raised his arm to stop her.
"You better get out of my way, unless you want some of the ass whooping my bastard husband's gonna get when I find him. Tall, blazing red hair, pale as a vampire? Ring a bell?"
The bouncer dropped his arm and stepped aside. She was going to drag some poor schmuck out of there by the ear and that the bouncer would pay to see. He smiled at his partner as she blew past them and the other man shook his head. "Man, if I had a pistol like that at home, I damn sure wouldn't be here," the bouncer commented to his partner.
As she waded through the suits clogging the bar, one drunk grabbed her ass, which ordinarily would have resulted in her putting him on the floor. Instead she ignored the liquor, the smoke and the frat boy stunt to seek out her partner who she knew was in trouble. Scanning the booths she found him rather easily, the bronze of his hair shining in the yellowish mood lighting. His normally sharp eyes had lost focus and he seemed mesmerized by the woman trying to drag him out of the booth.
"Come' on honey," she coaxed, but Crews remained immoveable.
He shook his head trying to clear it and communicating "no" simultaneously.
"Hey," Dani said loudly attracting the woman's attention. "Get your hands off him," she demanded.
The woman looked at Reese in disdain, "and just what are you supposed to be?"
Dani had never been tempted to hit another woman, before that very instant.
"Let go of him," she growled. She was menacing enough that the woman released Charlie's hand, which dropped limply to the seat.
He stared at his hand like it didn't belong to him for a long moment before looking up. If he said the wrong thing, he'd blow it, so she cut him off. Planting both hands on the table she leaned close and called him a bastard, before slapping him hard.
"We're leaving here now," she said just to him.
He nodded his acknowledgement and tried unsuccessfully to straighten his tie.
"Get up Charlie," she said louder, angry and brooking no argument. The working girls laughed quietly – they had no illusions about the types of men who hid the pale tan line of a wedding band, resting heavily in their pants pocket. Most of the men looked embarrassed. They imagined being dragged out of an upscale bar by the wives they left at home and wisely focused on their drinks.
He made it to the edge of the booth and vertical, but when he tried to walk it was apparent to them both he couldn't – not without her help. She grasped him by the lapels of his suits and dragged him close, urging him "hold on to me," in a tight whisper.
"Reese, I don't feel so good," he slurred back, "actually… I feel way better than I should," he added smiling goofily at her.
"I know," she said tightly, "just hang on to me and I'll get you out of here."
"You feel good too," he mumbled, clutching her close. He couldn't help it; he'd been slipped some "X" – the love drug. It heightened tactile sensations and made everything better. You loved everyone; everything and his protestations to the girl were quite remarkable because you really couldn't say "no" on ecstasy.
"Great," she rolled her eyes, "ecstasy."
"Exactly," he agreed happily, thinking she was commenting on how he felt.
The bouncer grinned and unclipped the rope letting them past. Charlie smiled and thanked the man; Reese just growled, "shut up" at both of them.
The bouncer laughed as Dani continued the charade, "when I get you home, I am going to wear you out," she threatened.
Charlie looked down at his diminutive partner, "are you mad at me?"
"Just concentrate on getting home," she gritted. "Stop leaning on me. You're heavy," she complained. "And watch where you put your hands," she whispered just for him - her lips tight against his ear.
When she leaned back from buckling his long but limber frame in the car, he grasped her face and his lips brushed hers lightly. His breath came to her as a quiet question, but her body wouldn't move, "Wait….did you just say? Are you coming home with me?"
"Crews," her tight whisper made their lips touch. "The wire," she reminded. He let her go and the entire 20 seconds it took to walk back to her side of the car she cursed herself. Why didn't she tell him to cut it out? Why didn't she tell him not to put his hands on her – not warn him about his choice of placement? Could it possibly be because she wanted to confirm that it was her that he wanted? Her and not the high priced hookers who'd been running their hands all over him all night while green flecks of jealousy hidden in her soul sparked and flared.
When she looked up, those bright blue eyes of his were following her through the windshield. She literally, thought about that man with those eyes, poised over her in the silent shadows of his giant bed and it pissed her off. Great, now she was fantasizing about having sex with him. Maybe she'd been slipped the love drug.
She peeled out to complete the charade and then dove into the first darkened alley so she could find to remove the wire, before Crews could say anything further to embarrass them both. As it was they'd be the brunt of Vice jokes for weeks because of his comments to her throughout the night. She opened his door and undid his seatbelt.
The wire was taped to his chest running up his sternum so that it projected the best sound. Of course, they meant to get to it she needed under his shirt. She roughly tugged at his tie, then began unbuttoning his shirt, all of which Crews watched mutely with an amused expression. "Crews," she muttered, "help me out here."
"Aren't we gonna wait til we get home?" he questioned softly, his breath tickling her ear and his hands left his thighs to tangle in her hair.
"What are you doing?" she hissed as it dawned on her that he thought she was trying to get in his pants. He would, women had been doing just that to him all night – all night while he talked to her. His mind, which before had been fixated on her in his usual goofy Crews way, was now off to the races in an entirely x-rated version of them together. So it wasn't just her, he felt it too, she realized as she shoved him away. "Take this off," she demanded insistently, focused on the wire.
"We'd have more room at my place," he commented as he watched her untuck his shirt. "The things I want to do to…"
She placed her small hand directly over his mouth interrupting him. "Shut up," she hissed. Just then her cell phone buzzed insistently. "Jesus Christ," she muttered. She couldn't get the wire off him and out of service fast enough.
"You gonna get that?" he asked innocently.
"It's Spagnetti," she informed. "Remember? From Vice?" she suggested.
Synapses fired and he got it. "Oh," he remembered and his hands began to help her. Their hands fumbled together in a hurry to get them off the air. The car heated up quickly and when he sat shirtless and she held the wire in her hands with the switch in the off position she sighed. She pulled the phone and hit redial.
"Yeah," she said tersely, "this operation is indexed. We are done for the night. Meet me at the corner of 9th and Vine to pick up your equipment. We'll debrief in the morning. My partner's not feeling well," she lied.
They barely slowed down enough to exchange pleasantries with Spagnetti before handing him the equipment. Charlie sat quietly, his shirt still open to the waist, looking for all intents like he was interrupted trying to get laid in the back of Reese's very small car.
"What's wrong with him?" Spagnetti smiled, barely containing his amusement.
"Food poisoning," Reese lied again.
"That right Crews?" Spagnetti grinned at him and winked conspiratorially.
Crews felt amazing, but he didn't like the way the Vice cop had eyed Reese earlier. She avoided him, which bespoke a shared history he didn't know and he didn't like. While he knew her libertine ways, whenever he met an ex-lover of hers it made him want to hurt someone. Charlie's eyes glittered as he lied to the man, "that's right. I don't feel well."
No one believed what he said, least of all him. Reese sped off into the dark.
"What is this?" he inquired.
"Ecstasy," she repeated. It makes you feel incredible, but you need to drink something. It increases your body temp and you'll overheat quickly.
"Thanks," he joked. "I thought I was having hot flashes." He continued to take his shirt off leaving just his t-shirt on. "What?" he asked as she shot him a look. "It's hot in here," he commented and tried not to focus on her lips when he looked at her.
They pulled to a stop in front of his darkened house. He climbed from the car and opened the unlocked door, walking straight into the kitchen and opening his fridge. Reese made her way in the soft light from the refrigerator until he shut the door and plunged them back into darkness. She heard the soft hiss of a carbonated beverage as he twisted the cap off and guzzled something she seriously hoped was not beer.
"Crews," she protested. "Uh, how about a little light for those of us who don't live here."
"Sorry," he apologized. She heard the beer bottle hit the cabinet top and him moving. He seemed to rethink his intent and opened the fridge again to retrieve another beer on his way to the light switch.
"Tell me you are not drinking beer," she complained. The light came on and confirmed the second hiss she'd heard was yet another twisted bottle being opened.
He drank greedily and swallowed hard explaining, "… um…I'm really thirsty."
She sighed, looked to the ceiling and counted to ten with her eyes closed. When she opened her eyes, his were staring into her from far closer than was reasonable.
"Reese," he said sounding concerned, "are you okay?"
"Am I…" she hated the whine that crept into her tone, "you've been drugged then you willingly added alcohol to that and you want to know if I'm okay?"
"You're worried about me?" he asked quietly holding her eyes.
"No," she snapped, "yeah," she relented. "I dunno Crews. Should I be?"
He did not respond, instead patiently waiting for her eyes to return to his. He just looked at her with those damnable blue eyes of his. They seemed to hold no lies, but she knew better. For just a moment she forgot where she was, maybe who she was… "How can you look at me like that?"
"Like what?" he demurred while his eyes crinkled at the corners as his smile reached deep into the corners of his face. He wasn't pretending, he was really smiling. "Isn't this how I always look at you?"
"Is it?" she wondered. Was the problem him? Or her? Or the drugs? Or the beer? Or being alone in his great big house with him on drugs and beer?
"Reese? Are you trying to be Zen?"
"No," she laughed. "When, in what version of your world, would that happen?"
He continued to gaze at her with a curious expression, but did not reply.
"I need to go," she announced and spun to leave. Then just as quickly she turned around to ask him a question that burned in her mind all evening. But his effort to follow her resulted in a crash; her into his chest and all the sensory influences that were Charlie Crews into her brain. His arms encircled her and she was immediately over her head.
"I never thought you'd be so soft," he murmured into her hair.
"What?" she remarked pushing off his chest. "Lemme go," she protested weakly.
"First answer a question for me," he negotiated. She glared, but made no move to leave, so he continued, "first you were going, then you weren't going…" he let the comment hang heavily in the air between them.
Her head dropped to her chest. She summoned courage and told him what he wanted to know, "I was going to ask you why you talked to me all night."
It was his turn to be mildly embarrassed. He loosened his hold on her, trying to create distance without shoving her away. "I…uh… Those girls aren't real," he stammered. "You're real," he professed shyly. "I mean they're real, but not to me. You're real to me," he ended awkwardly with a very personal implication.
Dani didn't have a response to that stunning confession. She opened and closed her mouth several times, but no words would come. Finally, she stammered, "right…I'm just gonna go now."
"Wait," Charlie held her arm. "My question…" he insisted.
"I just answered your question," she argued.
"No. I didn't ask you anything, I just said what happened," he countered.
"Fine," she said scowling at him.
The awkward atmosphere evaporated under the heat of her glare.
He closed his eyes and thought about the consequences of his question for long enough that she worried. Her hand gently pressed against his chest as he swayed like a reed in the wind. "Crews?"
He dropped his head and again looked at her with his guileless blue eyes. His hand traced the line of her jaw line and cheek. Again she issued his name, this time as a warning. "I was wondering," he began deciding his question was worth the fallout. He could blame it on the drugs, he reasoned. "If everything on you was as soft," he leaned in close intent on kissing her to find out.
He both heard and felt her breath hitch. He tightened his grip on her and pulled her close before dipping to taste her lips lightly. He brushed her lips and felt her tense. He didn't want her tense; he wanted her relaxed. This wouldn't do. He touched just the tips of his lips to the peak of her top lip and pulled away.
Her disappointment didn't tolerate him backing off. She fisted his t-shirt in her hand and pulled him back to her surprising him. Her eager lips met his in a more meaningful exchange, before she released him. In the intervening time, however he'd wrapped his arms around her back and simply tightened.
They were engaged in a dangerous game of one-upmanship. This could get out of control he remembered thinking as his tongue flicked against her lips and he claimed them once again. She moaned into his mouth as his tongue swept in and he captured her breath. This was really kissing, no backing away, no brushing off. They broke as they both became breathless.
"Well?" she asked him teasing.
"Soft and strong, sure and steady," he replied.
"And real?" she wondered.
"Very real," he replied looking deeply into her eyes. "You should go," he told her in a gravelly tone. "If you don't go now, you never will," he foretold.
"Yeah," she agreed breathlessly.
"Dani?" he arrested her movement with just his voice as she reached the door. She stopped but did not turn. "Could I take you to dinner?" Her head cocked to the side considering her answer as he kept talking, "just you and me? No Vice listening in?"
Her hand turned the door lever and she cracked the door. Her voice reached him as she left, "can you cook?"
The air in her wake was crackling with possibilities.