Disclaimer: I own nada.

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. I've been really busy with real life mierda. Anyway, MUCHAS MUCHAS GRACIAS for all the wonderful feedback. All of your messages have been so encouraging, and definitely a contributing factor to this chapter. Special thanks to patricia51 for the helpful tips. ) I hope this chapter clears up some of your concerns. I am, however, taking a bit (or a lot...hehe) of liberty with the LA Sheriff's Dept regulations. But it will become clearer soon why I chose Lilly to work in the Detective Bureau under Major Crimes. There was reason behind my madness, I swear.

Onto the chapter! Please review if you feel at all the urge.

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I have survived car bombs, heavy fire, mines, bombs, tanks, and more near-death experiences than I like to admit. I have organized teams upon teams on missions that if only one fraction of a step is missed, all of us could've died. But I, for the life me, cannot find any files on my desk.

To look at my desk, one would imagine a rabid monkey high on meth had taken a fancy to my papers, and strewn them about, as monkeys often do. You'd be wrong. No, unfortunately, I am respected by my peers, revered by my former unit, and was even commended by the President; but I am a mess.

I had five cases on the week I met Miley. One Amber alert, three (probably connected) robberies, and one case of homicide I was reviewing for someone else. All five cases had about thirty or more papers to them, and I was physically drowning in the paperwork. I stepped over piles of papers, and stood on my toes to play the radio I had on top of a large, grey filing cabinet. Soon, loud, raucous rock filled in my office, so I shut my door not to offend the sensibilities of the other officers, and began to review the robberies. Something about hard, tribal beats that rock behind most good bands is so primitive it clears my head, allowing me to think more clearly. Smart money said the robberies were connected, but a detective never assumes anything. I let the evidence lead me, as my training indicated.

My eyes were downcast toward my paperwork, and my music too loud for me to see the tall, lanky officer stride into my office. I allowed myself to be lost in my work, emersed in the details and sketches of each crime. Suddenly, my music went off and I nearly jumped out of my seat. I grumbled with dissatisfaction as I stared forward at the face of the man I had known my entire life.

"Oliver," I began in my most scolding tone.

He put his hands up in mock surrender. "I know, I know, you don't want to be bothered if your music is on. But!" he said, stepping on my paperwork to get to the seat that was across from my desk, "But I have a proposition you'd be mad to refuse." He wiggled his eyebrows for emphasis and I glanced at him tiredly. He must've read the clear signs of stress etched all over my face, but as Oliver does, he ignored them completely. "Breakfast, me and you, now."

Oliver took my hand and brought me around my desk, leading me out of my office like a show pony. I allowed myself to be taken, because in all honesty, I hadn't really been able to concentrate since meeting Miley a few days earlier.

"Y'all goin' out?" a loud, Texan drawl called from the desk. My eyes widened, and Oliver stopped mid-step. We were caught. The boomed voice belonged to Louise, our receptionist. She was sweet, well-intentioned, and an all-around 'good Christian woman.' But dear Lord, that women would make Jesus swear in annoyance. Oliver and I had taken to calling her 'The Mouth.' She perked up, tugging on her neon pink tank top. "Y'all goin' to that diner down the street?"

I shot daggers Oliver's way. Not only was I now torn away from my work, but I'd have to listen to Louise chew my ear off for as long as it would take for her to digest a breakfast. "Yeah," Oliver said slowly. With a cringe, he forced out a smile. "Wanna come?"

"Darlin' I am already there!" she exclaimed, grabbing her alligator-skinned purse. Arms crossed defensively over my chest, I walked behind Oliver and Louise, detangling myself from Oliver's grasp. Oh no, if he was going to invite The Mouth with us, he was going to talk to her on the walk there.

A few blocks and about thirty Louise stories later, we got situated inside our favorite diner. Good, old-fashioned diners were hard to come by in LA. But this one, quaint with its 50's decor, waitresses who have must've worked here when the place opened in 1956, and relatively cheap menu, was a rare gem among the tanning salons and Starbucks cafes.

"...So then I tells 'em, I tells 'em George! George you can't go swimming in those trunks, they look awful!" Louise exclaimed, her nasaly, booming voice echoing in the restaurant. There were few other patrons aside from us, but each of their gazes fell upon our table. I flushed with embarrassment, turning my attention back to Louise. "They didn't look that bad, but George has got these pasty white legs," Louise described. My stomach turned. Good thing we hadn't eaten yet. Now I wasn't sure I'd be able to. "They just don't look good in tight blue trunks!'

My eyes widened, and I looked to Oliver for an appropriate reaction. Even as kids, Oliver was always better with people than me. While Oliver choked out an answer, my eyes drifted upwards to the small television the men at the counter were watching. After a rather dull Tide commercial, bright flashes of pink and purple came on the screen. And then...Miley? I must've dropped my coffee spoon on the table, because I could vaguely hear a loud clatter. There she was -- Miley -- dressed in a long, blonde wig, singing her heart out. She was Hannah Montana! That's why I recognized her!

"Gee whiz, darlin', what shook your tree over there?" I heard Louise ask. When the ad for her upcoming concert at the Nokia Theater ended, I finally turned back to Oliver and Louise. "What, you never seen Hannah Montana before?"

Oliver, however, could tell something was up. The way he was staring at me, scrutinizing me in the look he had perfected since second grade, he could tell. With a quick glance to Louise, his gaze softened. "Got a little crush on Hannah Montana there, Lilly?" I appreciated Oliver's tactful way to dance around my obvious issue with a small smile.

Finally, Louise didn't talk. The subject of my homosexuality was not something the blabbermouth was comfortable talking about. I smirked, taking a long, drawn sip of my coffee. "Not quite, Ollie," I replied. I didn't want to make a mountain from a molehill, so I neglected to mention my odd meeting with Miss Stewart.

Back at the station, the sheriff was handing down duties to our officers. Oliver and I walked in, chatting idly about his homicide case I was looking over for him. "I think you really need to get the geeks back down there to take more picture of the blood splatter. Something about the direction just didn't look right to me."

Oliver nodded grimly. "Thanks, Lils. Hey, about that Hannah Montana --" The sheriff turned his attention to Oliver and I. My eyes narrowed. I abhorred the sheriff. He had tried several times to prevent my promotion within the ranks, on the basis that not only was I unqualified, but also that my military experience was not an advantage. Luckily the chief of police felt differently. Still, he was my boss, and he used that to give me shit work, such as the traffic detail, and drowned me in paperwork.

The glint in his eye made me believe that my fate was sealed once again. "Oaken," he bellowed. "You're on a homicide on Provident Road." Oliver nodded dutifully and went toward his office to gather his things. "Truscott."

"Yes, sir," I replied, more out of sheer habit than any actual respect.

The Sheriff smirked and handed me my detail card. "You're going to head the concert at the Nokia."

"That's not my jurisdiction," I shot through gritted teeth. "That's the plebes' job."

The Sheriff shrugged. "The chief seems to think that the bitch needs specialized security. So you're going to head the officers in all the security detail." My fists clenched at my sides and I snatched the card from him. "The concert is on Friday. You have two days to organize the security. From here until the two shows end, you'll be reporting directly to the theater. Look for weak spots, organize our crew, and plan out any emergency routes. Montana's manager, some hillbilly hack, wants one person guarding Miss Montana at all times." He let a long pause fall between us, before giving me a wide smile. "I said, 'sir, our lead detective would be glad to,'"He had hit several nerves with me, as he often did.

"That's not my job, Sheriff, and you know it," I replied. "I'm on five cases this week, I don't have time to follow around some idiot pop star."

With the wave of his hand, the man I loathed brushed me off. "If you have a problem, talk to chief, okay? Otherwise, take your assignment and get to your cases, Truscott." He ignored my lingering presence entirely as he trotted back to his office.

I marched to mine, slamming the wooden door hard behind me. How dare he?! I worked just as hard, if not harder than any detective in the bureau. I have more solved cases, more jailed criminals than any person of my rank. And with the flick of his wrist, one word from the chief, and I'm basically back to square one. I began to pace back and forth, stepping over my paperwork. I might've been mad, but I wasn't crazy enough to ruin days' worth of work.

A timid rapping at my door broke me from my obsessive rage. I flung the door open to reveal Oliver, who was squinting, bracing himself for an attack. "What?!" I bellowed, my fist that was still clutching my bullshit assignment leaning against the doorframe,

Oliver sighed, his head shaking in frustration. "You need to keep your temper in line, Lils. Sheriff Hodes is the Chief's butt buddy. He tells him everything." Oliver's look was so sincere, I almost couldn't be angry with him. Almost.

I growled, but it of course elicited no reaction in Oliver, simply because he had heard it a million times before. I have...quite a famous short temper. Oliver had seen it, and been on the receiving end, too many times to count. "I don't give a flying freakin' iota of a fuck where Hodes puts his dick," I began slowly, my voice low, "as long as it's a. nowhere near me, and b. nowhere near my cases. Other than that, he can put it wherever he wants, as long as he's okay with the fact that everyone's gonna ask, 'Is it in yet?'"

Oliver's lips spread in a large grin before he burst out laughing. He put his hand to his mouth, in a vain attempt to remember his surroundings. "I'm so telling the guys that," Oliver said, his eyes watering with tears.

I managed a small smile, rolling my eyes at Oliver's "guyness." "They'd know, they bend over for the Sheriff all the time."

Oliver nodded, "I know. They're such pussies." Off my raised eyebrow, Oliver stopped laughing. "Hey! I am not a pussy!"

I snorted. "Sure you're not, Oaken. I'm sure they don't call you Okey-Dokey-Oakey for any reason at all," I joked, recalling the nickname Oliver had been giving when he was in training. His cheeks flushed crimson, and my work was done. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to head over to the Nokia to look things over. Considering that's going to be my new home for a while."

Oliver nodded, stepping out of the doorway to allow me through. We walked through the station and out into the hot LA air. I squinted in annoyance at the relentless sun, putting on the sunglasses I had positioned atop the buttons on my uniform. As we got to my unmarked Crown Vic, Oliver turned to me, his elbow resting on my hood. "By the way, you never told me what the hell was going on with you in the diner."

I slid into my car, shutting the door. I turned the engine, and rolled my window down. Oliver leaned, folding his arms over the door. I debated telling him for a split second, but I thought better of it. It might compromise my mission if I informed him. "Oh, nothing. That Hannah Montana girl just looked familiar to me. Now I realize it's because she was the siren of hellish fate singing to me, knowing that I'd be at her whim soon." My fist curled around the stickshift, shoving it into reverse. "Adios, Oliver."

LA traffic was a stereotypical nightmare as I fought my way through to reach the theater. It was relatively new, and really giving the surrounding concert halls a run for their money. I pulled up outside one of the gates, rolling down my window for a security officer. I flashed my badge.

"Detective Truscott. I'm here to do a little reconnaissance for the Sheriff's Department," I informed the towering officer, who had to squat to see inside my patrol car. He didn't speak for a few moments. "Will there be a problem?" I asked incredulously.

"No, ma'am," the officer replied. "Go right on in. Miss Montana is finishing up one of her rehearsals." He pointed to the largest entrance, and I parked my Vic outside. I surveyed the outside, noting with interest that all the doors were unlocked. That would have to be rectified.

As I got inside to the actual amphitheater, I heard the sounds of pop music pulsing through the enormous sound system. And then there she was. Glowing in the spotlight, glittering in the center of the stage, was Miley. Of course, she looked drastically different done up in pounds of make-up, donning a blonde wig. But she was most definitely Miley. Those eyes, so unrealistically piercing, cut through the artificial smoke and struck me straight in the heart.

I didn't have enough time to analyze the fluttering inside my chest further, because a large man, nearly alone in the audience, stood slowly. Miley was in the midst of a song, her eyes closed, hips swaying to the music. I watched the man with keen interest as he approached the stage. Then, I saw a shimmer of metal as he reached into the back of his waistband.

Wasting no time, I took off in his direction. As his arm came around his side, I leapt forward, screaming "get down!" to all who would listen. The man and I crashed into the ground, where I twisted his arm around his back, holding him down against the floor. "Who the fuck are you?" I received silence. I looked down, seeing the small pistol in his grasp. My heart skipped a beat for a moment. "Who the fuck are you?" I repeated, slamming his face down into the carpeted aisle. I grabbed the radio from my pocket. "This is Detective Truscott requesting back-up at the Nokia theater, Chick Hearn Court. I have a suspect in custody in possession of a deadly weapon."

Dispatch crackled through. "Copy that, Truscott, they're on their way. Over."

While I cuffed the silent man, a large, rather handsome, mustachioed older man approached us. "Who is this?" he asked in his drawl. I shrugged, shoving the suspect down into one of the seats. I had already taken his pistol, which was now in the back of my waistband.

"No idea, sir, but he was wielding a gun, and I believe he was going to shoot at Miss Montana there," I informed. "And you are?"

The man stuck out his hand toward me. "Robbie Ray, Miss Montana's manager." I narrowed my eyes. Robbie Ray. Miley had said her...this was her father. The wheels of my thought process must've been evident in my eyes as he canted his head to the side. "Have we met?"

"No sir," I shook my head. "I'm Detective Lillian Truscott. I'm here to --"

"To be Hannah's new bodyguard, that's what," he exclaimed with a large smile. For the first time, I looked up at Miley. Her mouth was agape, so open I imaged she probably could've swallowed the stage.

"Um, no sir," I replied as politely as I could. The nerve...a bodyguard. I was a detective, for Christ's sake! "I'm here to head security for her concerts. Now, this man was just an example of --"

"Of why my daughter needs you as her bodyguard!" he interrupted. He swung his arm around my shoulder, and I tensed. I had absolutely no idea what gave this man the idea that I wanted to be touched. "Look, I know government pay can't be all that good," he began. "So why don't you help me out? You'll get some good salary. I mean, you have to be here with us anyway, right? And obviously I was right when I thought Mi--Hannah needed better security," he said, tossing his head toward the suspect.

Luckily, our moment was broken by several officers rushing inside. I waved them over, practically shoving the large man at them. "Take him downtown. Book him. Get him a lawyer if he won't talk." I handed them his pistol. "Here's his gun. Get him out of here," I ordered. The officers nodded and escorted the large man out of the arena, but not before he had time to shoot one more look at me over his shoulder.

I shuddered, but remained calm nonetheless. Robbie came back over toward me, Miley in tow behind him now. "So what do you say, Miss Truscott?"

I turned around, finally coming face to face with Miley since we had met days ago in the rain. Even with her ridiculous wig and make-up, she was still a stunner. My mouth opened and shut a few times, and I must've looked like a fish out of water. "I'd have to clear it with my boss first."

"Nonsense," Robbie replied. "I'll give Timmy a call." Off my surprised look, Robbie shrugged. "The Chief and I are poker buddies." I stayed silent, my eyes still never leaving Miley's. I'm not sure which one of us started the staring contest, but I could've peel my gaze away from her. "So, how 'bout it, darlin'?" Robbie asked Miley.

She broke her gaze away from me, and I let out a long breath I wasn't aware I had been holding. with the same fake smile she had given me a few days earlier, she agreed. "Sounds great." Without another word, she turned around and began to march off to somewhere backstage.

Brushing passed her father, I followed her through the winding backstage hallways. "Miss Montana," I called, a grin making its way onto my countenance. Miley stopped in her tracks. "I suggest you stay in your dressing room until I've secured the rest of the arena. I'll have to get you a radio, just in case --"

"Look here, Bodyguard," Miley leveled at me, taking predatory steps toward me. "I don't need any fucking protection, all right? And you are most certainly not going to dictate what I can and cannot do, and where I can and cannot go." Finally, we stood close, our faces only inches apart. "You got me?"

I pressed my index finger into her sternum, pushing the pop star back a few feet. "You listen here. I will not be given orders my some snot-nosed little princess who isn't even remotely aware of the danger she could presently be in." I took one step." You will respect my authority," I growled, lowering my voice to a near hiss. I took a few steps closer to her so that we were again mere inches apart. The air around us sizzled again. "Or I will make every day of the next week a living hell for you." I paused. "You got me?" I added with a shit-eating grin.

Miley bit her lip, her eyes darting from my lips to my eyes. Finally, with an exasperated 'ugh!' she fled to her dressing room, slamming the door closed behind her. My head hung low, I took a long, therapeutic breath, forcing my lungs to expand as far as they could. What have I gotten myself into?