Chapter 2:

Coming to Terms

Sanchez walked into the club with two of his buddies looking for a good time. They'd each driven separately so that if they caught any action it wouldn't leave anybody out in the cold.

Manuel and Janos picked up women like they were for sale at the supermarket.

The room was dark, smoky, with the tang of bodies moving to the loud, pulsing rhythms and the scent of a thousand perfumes and the crispness of the air conditioners filtering constantly. You could almost hear the ice crackle in glasses and the sound of skin brushing. The people that came here came here to dance, to see and be seen. It was a mix of ages, almost entirely Spanish-speaking, who were comfortable with the modern music and who had grown up with the motions of the traditional dances. It was not a place you'd bring your mother, but it was where you showed off the moves she'd taught you.

Sanchez got his drink, picked his spot, and prepared to spend the evening with his back against the wall-holding the bar in place. He could move. With the right woman he'd hit the dance floor. He brought dates here often enough, had picked up girls here a time or two, and usually found partners for the floor. He loved to watch, though. His eyes were drawn to the raised "stage" at the end of the room. In theory a band should have been playing there. He'd never known the club to book one, though. The DJ-a quiet, unassuming DJ by the industry's standards-simply kept the floor filled and spun his records constantly. So the stage had morphed into a showcase for those brave enough to dance for the crowd's approval.

The man at the bar did a double-take as he recognized one of the women there. He shook his head. She was in a cluster of women, dancing in a way that made a man think of poles and dollar bills.

Sanchez took a long pull of his drink and watched her lean back against one of her girlfriends, shimmying down while her hands brushed up her body, collecting all that hair only to let it fall like rain as her arms extended gracefully over her head.

"Who you staring at so hard, brother?" Antonio asked, draining his own drink before wiping down the counter. The eldest in their family never drank at his end of the bar. Didn't like his back to the room, too stubborn to change his ways. But Antonio like working the end where the action was, so they both dealt.

"Somebody I kind of know-at least I think it's her." He slipped into Spanish easily, never recognizing that he was speaking it. He'd learned at an early age to let his brain process. It was a gift, his little brother assured him, to be able to instantly understand and respond in whichever language was spoken to him.

"Which one?"

Sanchez motioned with his bottle. "Gringo on the stage-with the dark hair."

Manuel and Janos looked for and found her. There were other white women in the bar, even up on the stage. There were lots of dark haired women in the place.

"Nice..." Janos drawled. "You can introduce me."

Sanchez shook his head. "Trust me. No. I'd be more likely to introduce you to a complete stranger."

"How do you know her?"

"If she is who I think she is, she used to be vice. Now she wants to be a homicide detective. With no experience whatsoever."

"And you don't approve."

Sanchez shook his head. "She's in the wrong part of town. All her work has been with the slope community. Opium. Art before that."

Manuel shrugged. "She's on our side now."

Sanchez's eyes were cold. "She needs to get out before she gets hurt-before she gets in over her head."

Janos looked at his friend. The man rarely went judgmental. Which meant one of two extremes. He decided to test the waters when she and three other women took advantage in a shift in music to come laughing toward the bar. She leaned over to shout her order to the bartender, then settled back against a stool, listening to one of the women chatter. Exertion had brought out a sheen that glimmered atop her glittery makeup and light tan. The low-riding jeans and white cotton halter she wore was less risqué than the outfits of many of the women in the club. Still, the jeans were tight enough to cause a second look and the halter left enough bared to let you know you wanted this woman under you. A cuff bracelet gleamed gold on her bicep, long dangly earrings accentuated a graceful neck.

Janos leaned over the corner of the bar and shouted to get her attention.

"If I yell help loud enough would the LAPD be honor bound to save me?"

"What about the CPR?" Manuel added.

Just as Sanchez opened his mouth to remind his friend to speak English the beauty turned around and grinned.

She was already responding, albeit in English, with "Mouth-to-mouth depends on how good looking you are," when her eyes scanned far enough and she recognized him.

Something changed in her face. A wariness and challenge at once flashed over her eyes, into her jawline. Still, she pivoted to turn her attention to Janos, who had rounded the bar to speak to her.

"I'm surprised your friend didn't warn you off," she told him in Spanish. Her accent was off the tiniest bit. Other than that, it was perfect. And she didn't have to stumble over the words.

"You speak Spanish," Sanchez said, brooding. He leaned forward to be heard over the noise.

She nodded once, playing her lips together. "I understand it when it's spoken ten feet from me as well," she told him. It was a clear reminder of the things he'd said earlier in the week. He hadn't thought she'd understood. Now he remembered his words and was ashamed.

"I apologize for that."

"Because you would have waited until I was out of the room to talk about me if you'd known?"

"I perhaps was hasty in my assumptions."

"You were," she told him coldly, turning.

Janos lifted his brows and looked at Sanchez. Who shrugged.

One of Moyer's pals had engaged Manuel in conversation and led him to the floor. Moyer and another had their heads close together. Janos let a stranger pull him away and Sanchez leaned back into his corner again.

For half an hour Moyer tried to pretend she was still having a good time. She tried to forget the hurt she'd buried at being the newbie again and having to prove herself all over again. At being the outsider. She kept herself from watching the man in the corner.

Finally she gave up. Pinning Meliana down as the music shifted to slow again and they congregated on the steps to the stage she announced that she was going home.

Sanchez watched the other girl shake her head. He could read her facial expression. She didn't like what Moyer had just told her.

When the expressive hand swept the direction of the bar and she rolled her eyes he filled in the blanks.

Moyer was leaving and whether she told her friend he was the reason or she'd guessed it, her friend knew he was the reason.

Moyer just laughed, shook her head, and buzzed the girl's cheek. She didn't even look his direction as she began wending her way through the bodies.

So he shifted uncomfortably and figured her owed her a real apology.

Moyer found her progress impeded by a tug on her arm.

She stopped short, smiling politely in case it was someone she wanted touching her. If it wasn't she was a big girl and could kill 'em, so it didn't hurt to start out nice.

It was Sanchez.

"What?" she whined.

"I mean it for everything. And not just because you're here and not just because you speak Spanish. You are far less incompetent than any of us thought you'd be."

Her eyebrows winged toward her hairline. "That's an apology?!"

The drums had started again. Loud and steady. "What?" he shouted.

She leaned closer to his ear and repeated herself. "That's supposed to be an apology?"

Ducking his head to look at her he spoke close to her ear. "NO. It's a rationalization. Don't leave because of me. We have to work together. We can play in the same space."

She sighed. "I just want to go home."

She met his eyes and he thought that she looked dejected. Defeated.

He shook his head again. "Not yet," he told her firmly, softly. "Let me buy you a drink. A welcome to the team. Suck it up and let bygones be bygones."

It was hard to ignore him. His hand was still on her arm and he was already gesturing for two drinks with the other. Not that she couldn't have taken him out.

The bartender served her the light beer she'd been drinking all night long. Served him the imported Mexican beer-dark and tangy-that he preferred. Moyer leaned forward, delicately holding her hair from her face, and sniffed it.

"Go ahead," Sanchez told her. "Try it."

"I've had Spanish beer," she told him. "Like Spain Spanish. I've never had this."

"It's a cottage industry. They have two plants. Tijuana and Mexico City. This is one of the few places you can get it." He slid the bottle to her. And enjoyed the concentration on her face as she took the tentative sip. It was strong. Almost musky. And completely different than other beers. They made small talk while each drank their own. One of Moyer's friends came tipping back up, bouncing and giggling. Sanchez registered somewhere that both women were speaking Spanish.

"Have you ever tried this?" Moyer asked Pauline, sliding his beer away from his hand. Sanchez bit back a smile as the other girl wrinkled her pretty pert little nose.

"You know I don't like cerveza!" she told Moyer.

"Try this, though," Moyer told her, palming the sweating glass. "It's different."

Pauline took the bottle and sipped it, shrugging. She spoke in English. "I'll stick with tequila. That's not too bad, but it's still beer."

Moyer took and honest to God swig, let it rest on her tongue, then took another. She shook her head. "I like it," she told the e other girl.

Sanchez leaned forward in his seat, gestured again for the bartender to bring another.

As he drank it he found himself caught up in a conversation on the other side of Moyer and spent a few minutes arguing over her shoulder with another regular about futball. He only returned his attention to the woman when she covered a tiny yawn and made to stand up.

"Whoa," he told her. "You can't leave yet."

"Why not?" she laughed. The additional alcohol in her system had mellowed her back out.

"You owe me."

"How do you figure I owe you?" she asked. Her hand hit her hip and she cocked her head at him. "You apologized, I drank your grovel beer. We're good."

"You drank my drink, too," he told her, indicating the near-empty bottle with his new one. He drained it quickly, then stood. "Come on, you can sweat out some of the alcohol and I won't have to arrest you for public intoxication."

She rolled her eyes. "What?"

He held out her hand. "Come dance with me."

She looked suspicious. "You haven't been out there all night," she told him.

He took her hand, leaned closer. "I didn't know you cared enough to notice."

She rolled her eyes again, but let him drag her out. She danced with any and all who asked her. She loved it. All of it. Anywhere, any time.

And, surprisingly, Sanchez had moves. He wasn't a flashy dancer. He was the pull you in and make you melt kind.

And it worked. On both of them.

So that before either realized it they'd been out there for several songs in a row and both his friends and her friends had noticed. And they were both feeling...melty. As the DJ put on something sinuous again Sanchez pulled her close. It seemed normal-natural-to skim down the side of her face, to lean into her neck to inhale her perfume and the scent that was even more deeply hers. And Moyer pretended that the only reason she let her hands trail over him-all over him-was because she was more than a little drunk and quite a bit unsteady. She let the pretense go so far as to believe that the drink was what was making her feel fluttery and unsteady.

But when the song ended and they stood there, breathing hard and very aware of the other, each realized that it had gone too far to pretend and that it was time to back off and back away.

Moyer didn't meet his eyes as she told him she really had to be going.

Sanchez swallowed. "Do you want me to walk you to your car?" he asked.

"I'll, um, I'll take a cab, I think," she told him, ducking her head to tuck hair behind her ear.

He seconded the motion, letting his fingers play on the big gold slide of her earring. "Okay. Let me get one for you."

He didn't take her hand, just pressed his palm to the small of her back. And imagined the taste of her skin there, and higher up, underneath that fall of hair. That's when he realized that this was going to be bad.

Outside the air had cooled. Subconsciously both took deep breaths, letting sanity and fresh oxygen crowd out their thoughts and emotions. He hailed her a cab, held the door for her as she slid inside.

"Be careful," he told her as he ducked down to slam the door.

She smiled. "Don't play too late. It's a school night."

He was grinning when he slapped the roof to let the cabbie go on. Then he went back inside to drink enough to be able to sleep.