A/N: Here I am, experimenting again. Haha, I know some part of this chapter will be out-of-character for Mac and/or Stella but I hope I 'nailed' Frankie on the head hahaha – oh I know we Stella fans love that, right?

So tell me what you think. And I still don't have a definitive direction for this fic. I'll just go with the flow, I guess.

Thanks!

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"So, are you free tonight, my baby?" I whispered over the phone.

"I don't know about tonight but I'm free now," she replied simply. "I'm on my break but it won't last long."

"I'm sorry about our gallery date today," I said. I was a bit pissed that even there, work followed her. She was very well dressed for the occasion – not for work – but still, crime seemed to follow where she is. That Mac Taylor signing up for the job made it all too perfect. And Stella just loves her job enough to work it as well.

She sighed. "No, I'm the one who should be sorry," she said. She has been apologizing the whole day. "Don't worry. Next time, I'll make sure nothing like this happens again."

"Oh it's not your fault somebody wanted to kill Carlo at his own party," I said. "Here's what… our next date, I'll really take you to a gallery. No condos or lofts this time. Deal? Carlo does own a huge gallery up in…"

Stella began laughing. It was that sarcastic laugh. "You are not to take me to any of his establishments, Frankie. After seeing his little digital black book, I don't think I have respect left for the man," she said. "Where did you meet that person anyway? He's neither an artist nor a connoisseur. He lives, breaths, and eats women."

"Art is the sex of imagination, Stella," I told her. George G. Nathan. "Carlo looks for physical sex and my imagination looks for its own. And it found that in art."

"Hmm, so I guess you won't be needing me much if your imagination has your art," she whispered. "That an artist's need is fed by his drive for that one masterpiece."

"An artist's hands never tire," I replied. "He manipulates, molds and shapes his medium until it takes on the perfect shape… the one he envisions in his mind." I knew where this conversation might go. "Yet, an artist might not work too hard if his muse makes perfection impossible. He must accept that his muse – is one and only one – and that all he needs to do is to honor that beauty."

"Oh-kay, Frankie…" she said, laughing. "I have to go now."

"Aw, Stella," I pushed. "Come on… it's an innocent conversation. And…"

"No, listen, I gotta go," she said nervously then she clicked off.

I don't know if it's her work that bothers me or something else. Someone else. For once, she never placed me in front of her work. The NYPD takes precedence over her personal life. At least, that is what I feel without paranoia setting in. And when it does, this is how it looks like: Mac Taylor takes precedence over Frankie Mala.

I cradled the phone after hearing the dial tone change. I didn't realize that I was gripping it that my knuckles turned white. My masterpiece was in front of me, unfinished, incomplete but already beautiful. My muse will always be more beautiful. I want my muse to realize that I… I will be the best thing to ever happen in her life.

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"No, listen, I gotta go," I said abruptly and then folding my phone closed with a loud click. I wasn't planning to end that call that way, it's just that Mac and Sheldon are going my way and I don't want him to catch me doing nothing again. Even if I did have some information now, it wouldn't help as much.

They entered the break room and went to business right away. I straightened my shirt as I stood up and met them with my useless information. I was secretly wishing that I had a straight face on and not some guilty mien that I had the last time Mac walked in on my conversation.

"I'm not keeping score," Mac said when I told them about the black book bust. We all had to smile at that – very unbecoming of Mac Taylor to say. But I couldn't help but apply 'score' to how many times Frankie's calls almost interfered with work. To control my nerves, I stood beside Sheldon and rolled an orange between my palms. Mac threw a water bottle to Sheldon and took a swig from his.

"Okay, new direction. If Carlo owned a bow and arrow, where did he keep it?" Mac asked.

"Well, obvious place would be somewhere in his home," Sheldon answered him.

"Forget about the black book. Anyone with access to his house would be a suspect," I contributed.

"Odds are, we're looking for somebody who was at the party," Sheldon said.

"Right," I said thoughtfully. I felt their eyes on me. "Well, my prints aren't going to match. Promise."

Sheldon smirked. Of course he knew that. "Eh, I believe you," Mac said with a smile. "It's the other guests that I don't trust." Oh I had to look down. Other guests. Including Frankie. It's not that I suspect my own boyfriend of the crime – he was with me the whole time. It's just that… I know Mac is a bit unsure of Frankie. The way he would act around me when the conversation turned to him always concerned me. It's as if he's keeping his distance more and more and his smile didn't seem real. Believe me, I've been around him long enough to gauge when he is or he's not faking a smile.

For the rest of the day, everything seemed normal. We nailed the guy – who turned out to be the artist, a crime of passion – and afterwards, I wanted to call Frankie to make up for the day and the impeded conversation we had. But I decided not to; instead, I invited Mac for after-shift coffee. It's been a while since we had a session. He was slightly surprised when I stopped by his office and offered. He said yes and we shared a cab to Sullivan's.

As usual, it was noisy with other NYC cops off-shift. A lot of familiar faces greeted us on our way in. We found an empty booth at the back of the bar, far away from the already drunk men and some women. Mac ordered for us and added some biscuits to go with the steaming mugs of Irish coffee. "So what's up?" he said, settling into the booth.

"I'm sorry," I started. "I know that since Frankie came into the picture, we…" We what? Nothing really changed insomuch that it raises alarm. Mac and I were still the same people – still friends, still great and professional colleagues. I don't actually know why I am apologizing. I felt like I need to make up for something.

"We?" he prodded. His intense eyes were on me as I warmed my hands with the mug. He waited patiently for my answer, reaching over to get a biscuit and munching on it.

I followed his hand. "We…" I bit my lip. I didn't know what to say mainly because I didn't think about it. "We… uhm… look," look what?

He saw through me easy. "Stella, if this is about last week, don't worry about it," last week meaning when he went over to my apartment only to find it empty because I spent the night at Frankie's. I raised my eyes to his and I saw him smiling. "I know it was a bit awkward between us for a couple of days after but hey, we're adults and… he's your boyfriend and people in love or in an intimate relationship do that. It's normal."

I had to smile at his explanation, which he delivered flawlessly. He took my hand in his and continued, "What you do in your own time is none of my business. Just as long as it doesn't interfere with work, okay?" The hand on mine was warm and comforting. I always felt safe with him. I nodded slowly and – I was surprised myself – I pulled my hand away.

For some reason, his touch sent fire through my veins. His surprised expression and the way he wrung his hands told me that he might've felt it too. We both took a long sip from our respective mugs and avoided each other's eyes. What the hell was happening? It was silent apart from the faraway drunken laughs of the bar's patrons.

"I have to go," he said, placing money on the table – which was way more than enough. "I have some place to go." I know. It's Wednesday. He doesn't know that I know that he plays bass for a band in a jazz bar. I used to watch from time to time, taking the seat farthest from the stage and the lights. That… was before Frankie entered the picture.

"Sure, I understand," I mumbled behind my hair. It's times like these that I'm thankful for my messy curls. I don't want him to see me blushing. I must admit that he looks hot with a bass guitar in his hand.

I heard his footsteps fade and then they became louder again. Now, why would he come back? "Stell," he said, using his nickname for me, "do you want to come? I can get you free food and drinks at the bar and you don't have to watch from that dark spot."

My jaw fell and my cheeks burned. I just stared at him. "You…" I couldn't make words work.

"Yes, I know. Saw you a couple of times," he chuckled, taking my arm and pulling me up. I was still slack jawed as I followed him out. We stopped under a streetlight and he manually closed my mouth with two fingers under my chin, "You'll catch flies and that's not very nice." I then bit my lip and smiled shyly. "Do you think I won't recognize that curly-haired silhouette?" he said, turning his back to me and hailing a cab.

We got into the cab and Mac said, "So what do you think?" I recovered from my initial embarrassment and I could look at him in the eye again. He looked like a little boy, anxious to what his mom would say about his gold star at school.

"Well," I said in my sarcastic tone, sitting back and facing him, "I have been watching for some time now and so far…" he leaned forward, anticipating my answer, "it's all right."

"All right?" he said, sounding sort of disappointed. I nodded, still sarcastic. "Oh."

I couldn't help but laugh and give in. "Aw, come on, Mac… you guys are really good," I admitted. "Who would've thought that Mac Taylor plays the bass guitar and plays it well?" He visibly blushed. "Although I'm biased when it comes to bands that play my favorite song," I said subjectively.

"Which is?" he asked hopefully. Oh no, you're not going to get that from me easy. "Stella?"

Mac really wanted that information. For what reason, I do not know. "Mac, why is it important whether I like it or not?"

He seemed to be taken aback by that. He paused and looked like he didn't know what he just said. "Uh… because…"

"We are here, police people," the accented cab driver said, sliding the divider open. Mac paid again and we walked into the jazz club. As always, he held the door open for me and led me in with his hand on the small of my back.

We stopped at the bar and he introduced me to the barmaid and the bandleader. I received knowing looks from the woman and I wondered why she was giving me those. Then I realized that Mac's left hand was resting comfortably on my left shoulder, arm around my torso. "So… co-worker. You're a detective, too?" she said with a grin, staring at where we were 'joined'.

"Yes, she's also my friend for a long time now," Mac answered enthusiastically. He squeezed my shoulder and continued, "So if ever you see her around, whatever she orders… put it on my tab."

"Mac!" I exclaimed, swatting his chest mockingly. He laughed. I laughed along with him.

""Friend, right," the bandleader, Kevin, said, sharing a glance with the barmaid, Sue. With that, we stopped our childish antics and blushed. "Okay, enough with the awkward realizations and such and such. Mac, your instrument is waiting for you and the crowd is ready."

"Okay," he said. "Sue, I leave Stella to you." He started to walk to the backstage door when I stopped him with…

"Betcha By Golly Wow."

He halted and smiled. And then he nodded in understanding. Sue leaned over to me and asked, "What was that all about?" I gave her a look that I know all women could read and with a pop of her nicotine gum, she smirked and poured me some lemonade.

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Okay, 'Betcha By Golly Wow' is my favorite song. Haha, well, one of them at least.