Olivia can see Elliot's jaw working and tightening, and she knows that he is trying to maintain his composure, although she can clearly tell he feels terrible in the pallid color of his face and the deep grimace etched there. She reaches out with one hand and touches his back. "El, you okay? You want to sit down?" The drunken escapade has rendered her exhausted, brain somewhat functional, yet punishing her with a headache as piercing as a knife blade.
"No, I'm fine," he says pitifully.
Elliot steadies himself using the wall and shrinks away from her, choosing instead to lean into the side, away from her. She is only mildly put off by his reaction to her touch, mostly because she doesn't have the energy or the fortitude to care—however, she is aware that he is dealing with some personal demons at the moment and needs some time to process the situation.
Her head pounds with every heartbeat and ruminating on her partner's woes only makes it worse, so she tries to concentrate solely on the present issue and not on what likely transpired between them.
"Elliot," she whispers. He promptly shushes her and takes hold of her arm with a grip shielded by his sheet. He gives her a warning look, something that tells her she's stumbling into a topic he is not ready to deal with just yet.
"Let's talk about it later, okay?" The earnestness in his eyes quells the growing bitterness that trickles up her spine.
She follows closely behind him despite the desire she feels to sit and talk it through, cringing at the minute sound of their blankets scraping against the expensive runner lining the hallway.
She can't stop herself from smiling as she allows him to lead her through the maze of darkened corridors and rooms. His hand is sweaty and their intertwined fingers are slick with the perspiration. He is stumbling a bit, and she giggles loudly when he almost knocks over a blue and white vase that looks like some artifact bought out of a China shop.
Olivia brings herself to a standstill at the brief recollection and the halt in her step causes the world before her to spin dangerously once again. Her stomach angrily protests, daring her into a second round with the shiny porcelain lieu she has just stepped away from. She places a palm against Elliot's shoulder, and then leans her body into the wall next to them. "Hold on a second."
Elliot turns quickly to catch her, but ends up brushing his hip into hers, and he pauses long enough for her to listen to his labored breathing. Being so close allows her to get a light hint of his day-old aftershave, a scent she is so well accustomed to that she associates the smell with him. She's stopped in a pharmacy once and smelled numerous bottles of aftershave because she could have sworn she recognized it in the air.
It is barely noticeable, but still identifiable, and her mind plays with the familiarity to it by lacing it into a different kind of memory.
They are sitting close. So close their knees are touching.
She cannot stop snickering, and even inwardly scolds herself to quit acting like a fucking airhead. But she feels so damn great, which is something she doesn't get to feel very often, if ever. She hides a noticeable grin in her hand and buries her covered face into his shoulder next to her. He smells a like some kind of indiscernible after shave that she can't quite put her finger on; it wafts off of his skin and she moves her nose closer to his neck, nuzzling the sensitive surface.
She knows that she is being ridiculous and completely inappropriate, but it's as if she no longer has control over her body and is watching herself do these adolescent things in a detached way.
He doesn't appear to mind the attention at all, because his fingers trail down her leg until he tickles the inside of her thigh.
Olivia opens her eyes, consciously aware of the fact that she is still standing there in the hallway and has not said a word to her partner, who looks alarmed. He is peering at her face uncertainly, the blue of his irises brilliant in shade to the contrast of the red spider web around them. "You okay?" he asks, exuding palpable concern.
Her eyes drift down to his exposed chest, and she can't help but notice the bruises he bears. Were the injuries they sustained from one another? A fight gone out of control, or from a particularly rough sexual encounter? She thinks back to the brief smattering of scenes that she may remember, but isn't sure yet if what she is recalling are actual events intermittently infiltrating her brain or if they are fragments of a highly erotic dream. Elliot frowns at her, seriously worried, looking too pale for her liking.
"Liv?"
Olivia lifts her mouth into a lopsided grin and shakes her head once. "Sorry. Thought I was remembering something."
"Anything important?" She replies with a no, and he holds her gaze a second longer before turning around and shuffling toward a lacquered door with an intricate doorknob. "What do you remember?"
Olivia raises her shoulders in a dramatic shrug. "I don't really know, El. So far, just us stumbling around and laughing like a couple of idiots."
He chews on his bottom lip, then turns back to the task at hand. "Well, my brain's still in a fog. You think of anything else, don't hesitate to tell me."
She seriously contemplates divulging to him what she was beginning to recollect, but chooses to mirthlessly raises her eyebrows, since reminding him of their debauched rendezvous will probably only incite negative interaction. She instead prepares for whatever may come from behind the heavy panel of wood. Elliot yanks open the door only to reveal a tightly packed linen closet.
She breathes a quick sigh of relief. "A goddamn closet. How anti-climactic."
Elliot snorts quietly, and then moves across the hall after gently pushing it shut. He opens another door and peers in, motioning for her to enter.
It is a room empty of any people, but looks like a master suite from the square-footage and magnitude of luxury. Before them is an enormous California king bed adorned in an overpriced bed set. Palm trees in the corners of the room in large pots that extend all the way to the ceiling. A flat-screen TV set into the wall. Olivia and Elliot creep in, careful to clear the area before officially relaxing. He explores an open closet while she stares into stranger's faces hung on walls and sitting on tables. They all seem foreign to her, except for one. A young man, heavy-set, and non-descript European in ethnicity. His appearance is oddly familiar, but she can't place why that is. Olivia squints and moves closer, trying to remember.
She is looking down in her hands, where she holds a thick manila folder and is listening to her captain's voice in her ear. The file is weighed down with a load of paperwork. A busy man full of priors, including multiple felonies and misdemeanors, including sex abuse, rape, sodomy, trafficking, drug possession, manufacturing, and distribution, but is considered by the FBI an unverified suspect in a string of unsolved international murders.
She remembers the disgust that she feels as she stares at his mug shot. He looks self-assured and smug. He has no business appearing that pleased with himself and the revulsion she feels is a familiar and welcome sensation. She would love to personally wipe that arrogant smirk off of his face with a knee to his groin and steel handcuffs wrapped around his meaty wrists.
"Paul McKinney."
Elliot is digging around in the closet, now adorned in a pair of jeans at least three sizes too big. A belt is cinched around his waist, and this only exaggerates the athletic slenderness of his form. "What?" he asks distracted.
Olivia backs away, fisting the blanket around her so she doesn't end up dropping it, dread crashing down on her like a tidal wave. "I know whose house this is." A dangerous sex offender is who this place belongs to, who has a preference for slipping women and girls date-rape drugs and having his merry way with them. He turns them into toys for him and his buddies to play with until they are done. And that's just the mild stuff. That's not including the purported kidnapping and sexual exploitation of women and children desperate for a chance to live in America.
A man who has evaded local and federal law enforcement for several years, leaving a trail of damaged, broken souls and messy drug operations from Brazil all the way to New York. A major supplier and distributor of GHB, Rohypnol, Vicodin, OxyContin and Oxycodone, crystal meth, heroin, and all sorts of other pharmaceutical drugs from South America to the States. He's made it onto the FBI's Most Wanted list at number five. Right up there with the Al Qaeda terrorists. "McKinney, Elliot. Paul McKinney."
He freezes in his motions, and turns to her, his face a mask of horror. "The date-raping drug dealer?" Elliot throws a shirt over his head, then moves forward, touching her arm. His gaze holds onto the bite marks and bruising. "Olivia…"
She suddenly feels incredibly weak. "I need to sit down."
Elliot helps her sit down on a nearby rocking chair, but she feels repelled by everything in this house. McKinney has been here, likely slept in the bed a few feet from her in kingly extravagance, worn the very clothes her partner is currently pilfering. "We don't know anything, Liv." He swallows hard, and then renews his search. She can't help but wonder which reality would be more acceptable for them—him having an affair with his partner, or her getting raped. "For all we know, it could have been…" he stops, huffs a sigh, then continues, "well, me."
"You usually this rough when having sex, El? Frankly, that much may just surprise me." He cringes at her words and Olivia does not like that she hopes the soreness between her legs makes Elliot a cheater. "Look, El," she says, playing with her fingernails. "What may have happened…I—"
"Liv." He is facing her now, with a wadded up white cloth in his hands. He avoids meeting her eyes, finding it easier to inspect the shirt he holds instead his partner. "I know there's a lot that needs to be said, but think we can discuss this later?" His skin flushes deep red in embarrassment, darkening with every word. "Put this on, at least until we find something more suitable."
Olivia stuffs away the fear and devastation to observe the item, which turns out to be a size XXXL button-down dress shirt. Elliot moves away respectively, and she slides the thing on and fastens the front of it, shaking her head at the sheer size of the garment. "Could almost pass as a dress."
He shuts the door and takes her hand, leading her back through the hallway. She's almost too distracted by the strangeness of his palm touching hers that she nearly misses the clamor of laughter echoing up the staircase to the left of them. He tugs on her hand and they dart back into the room they encountered when first waking up.
Olivia's heart is racing, but she's more worried about her ass peeking out from the hem of the shirt than anything else. Then she remembers noticing clothes more appropriate for a woman in this room, so she disappears into the small space, leaving Elliot to keep watch. She rips the massive shirt off quickly, trembling at the abhorrence she feels for wearing McKinney's clothes.
Upon further inspection of the wardrobe before her, Olivia realizes that the selection must belong to a teenager. They are all junior-sized apparel, all about a size too small for her taste. Not to mention dreadfully ostentatious and gaudy. She finally decides on a stretchy, black halter dress that sits at mid-thigh with well-positioned tears that show off the skin underneath. She looks into the mirror hanging from the door, and thinks that she looks like an old prostitute and hopes she'll be able to locate at least a pullover or shawl. Fortunately for her sake, she finds a see-through scrap of clothing that passes for a sweater that she figures makes her appearance a little more suitable, then opens the door.
Her partner gives her a quick once over, trying desperately to hide a smirk. "Shut up," she gripes. "Believe it or not, this is the least slutty thing in there."
Elliot clears his throat, unable to suppress a muted snort, then pushes the bedroom open again and the two peer to the left where the laughter originated. "Think we should chance it?"
"Shouldn't we try one of their phones first?" she asks, contemplating the sad fact that they are shoeless and unarmed. "We could call the precinct from one of the rooms."
"No landlines. I didn't see any."
"Elliot, we have only looked in two rooms. They're bound to have a phone somewhere."
"You suggesting we go wandering from room to room until we find one?"
"So what do you suggest, just waltzing right down there into McKinney's lap and hope he lets us leave?"
Elliot swipes his face in frustration. "What do you want to do, Liv, scale down the fire escape bare foot?"
"Sounds a hell of a lot better to me."
He holds his hand up and she stops, forcing herself to listen. They stand still for what seems an hour, and they both determine the voices have ceased. "Come on," he whispers.
The two slink down the staircase slowly, and they are elated to see that the foyer is empty, double doors unlocked. Elliot and Olivia break into a sprint and pause at one of the windows to the side, prepared to simply dart off as soon as they open the entrance. He has his hand in the air when a man clears his throat behind them.
"Nice outfits."