He had the decency to look embarrassed as he stuttered, "Um…"

But that was all he had a chance for. I flung the cuffs at his face and stumbled past him to reach the Louisville Slugger I kept beside the bedroom door. Turning, I swung with all I had in me and connected with the open drawer, giving him just enough time to avoid losing his hand. I elbowed the light switch behind me, never loosening my grip on the bat.

The light hit his face and I thought he looked familiar.

"Now just calm down," he said, placating, his hands up in front of him, the universal sign of 'we come in peace.'

A light bulb threatened to dawn but blinked out in my haze of hangover and rage.

Just then a pager started to sound from the vicinity of his waist and the pain caused by the trill was enough to cut through the fog like a freaking chainsaw.

The official issue handcuffs that didn't yield to my fun handcuff key. The pager. The green eyes. The black hair. The broad chest that (despite my intimate knowledge of it this morning) had seemed somewhat familiar last night. I had run into it before. Only the last time I had fallen against it stumbling out of the boys' apartment the morning after St. Patrick's Day, but that time he had had a detective's shield sticking out of a pocket.

Oh, holy fuck.

My anger took over then and I did something rather ill-advised. I reared back, telegraphing the swing, and brought my bat around in a circle, intending to brain the bastard.

He saw it coming and rolled his body upwards, taking the hit on one slab of a shoulder, then flung out an arm, grabbing the fat end of the bat in one fist and swinging around, pulling me from my off-balanced feet and slinging me three feet onto my bed. All one fluid motion, I thought as I lay there, trying to get back to my feet. Trained professional. Note to self: Learn to swing and plant your feet before taking on anymore unknown assailants.

"Just stop," he said, his voice calm, his hands extended, my bat still fisted in one. He took two steps back, nudging the bathroom door open, dropping the bat inside and pulling the door closed. "Just-" he sighed, squatting in front of the door, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him as he shook his head, "Let's just talk, calmly."

I barked out a bitter laugh. "Calmly. Yeah, sure, why not?"

He looked up at me as I sat on the edge of the bed, only the balls of my feet on the floor, ready to bolt and I sized up the distance between me and the door and him and me. Given his size, and the fact that he was squatting, not sitting, I didn't like my chances of slipping past him out the door without him getting ahold of me. He saw me judging, his body tense as a guitar string, ready to pounce if he needed to.

I bit my bottom lip in acknowledgment of defeat. He didn't seem violent, wasn't trying to hurt me. Maybe he did just want to talk. Pfft. Sure and maybe I was still a virgin. Either way, it was better to let this play out. I relaxed my body and watched him do the same as I gathered my feet underneath me, probably flashing him in the process, but I was beyond caring. "Ok," I said, settling in, reaching across my bedside table for my spare pack of cigarettes, picking one out with my teeth and looking around for a lighter. He pulled one from a pant pocket and showed it to me, I eyed him and nodded. He tossed it over, underhand. I caught it between my hand and chest, lit up and tossed it back. "Ok, let's talk. You're that cop."

He nodded, "And you're not Brenda O'Reilly."

I snorted, "Obviously."

"And equally obvious what I want to talk about."

I felt my eyes go cold. "And what would that be?"

"Where are they?" he asked, his voice flat.

"Who?" I asked, my face wide-eyed and childlike, innocent.

He paused. "The Saints."

I felt a chill at the base of my spine. "The Saints?" I asked. "Those vigilante guys on the TV?"

He nodded. "Those are the ones."

I dragged deeply and exhaled. "Why would you think I know?"

"Those boys are implicated in at least 15 homicides in the Boston area and suspected in more. Not to mention the very public execution of Yakavetta and by covering for them you could be charged as an accomplice. Now," he said, rising to his full and impressive height, "do you want to tell me about it now, or should I cuff you-"

"Twice in 24 hours," I snarked, "That's hot."

His face flushed, but he continued as if I hadn't spoke, "and drag your ass downtown-"

"Keep my ass out of your mind, it's the last you've seen of it."

"Where we can discuss this officially."

I blinked, then laughed. "Is that what this is? Official? New interrogation technique, then, is it? Fuck your suspect until she comes across?"

His eyes dropped by a fraction and I took advantage. "Bullshit. If this was official you would have showed up at my door with a search warrant and a team of dogs to go through my sock drawer, not in a pub with a pick-up line and a hard-on trying to get into my pants."

His eyes slid away, looking embarrassed. He hadn't meant for the night to go the way it had and he felt bad and for a second I thought to leave it alone, but the idea of my boys in prison galvanized my inner bitch and she took over "I had to have been your last resort. Bet you spent all day yesterday trying to convince anyone who would listen that you knew who the Saints were and nobody wanted to hear it. No mobilization of the troops? Bummer. At least 15 homicides…and closer to 22 if we're being exact, but no one cared. Now ask yourself, detective. Why exactly do you think that is?" I came to my feet and started towards him. I stooped to pick up his cuffs. "Think hard," I said, straightening. "On your way out the door."

He swallowed. "What makes you think I'm leaving alone?"

I felt a wicked grin cross my face, as I looked down at my body. "I'm a little roughed up, but believe me I could make it look more convincing," I looked back up at him and his eyebrows went up. "I don't seem to remember you pulling out a condom last night, and I haven't showered so I'm filthy with what you detective types call physical evidence. And if I asked them to, twenty guys from that bar last night, plus the owner, would swear that I was trying to brush you off all night, but drunk as you were, you weren't hearing me. I left to go home and you followed pretty quick behind me." I paused and let my eyes go a little dead and put ice in my voice. "Not to mention that if my boyfriends are who you seem to think they are, I would not want to be in your shoes if they even suspect that you've hurt me."

"It'd never make it to court."

One side of my mouth quirked up in a half-ass grin. "Maybe not," I said, bitter laughter in my voice. "But seeing to evil men that the law doesn't is kind of the whole realm of the Saints, isn't it? So," I said, taking a step back from him, "why don't you think about it?" I thumped his cuffs into his chest, "And fuck off, Phil."

I released his cuffs and they slid down his chest, and he caught them before they passed his waist. He slipped them into a pocket and walked out of my bedroom. I followed.

He snagged one shoe beside my couch and another from next to my lamp (don't ask how that one happened) and continued to the door. He paused, his hand on the knob, and half-turned to me. "I didn't mean for last night to happen. It just…I'm…" he turned to me full. "I am sorry," his eyes meeting mine as he spoke.

"Just go," I said, the heat gone from my voice and the rage quickly draining from me. He had just been doing what he thought was right and then I had attacked him and drug him kicking and screaming (ok, he wasn't kicking and screaming) into my own fucked-up grieving process. He didn't seem like a bad guy, just misguided. Just doing his job, keeping the public safe from people he thought were dangerous.

My boys would have admired him.

I sighed. "Just fucking go."

He did and I dropped to the floor, curled into a ball and shut down.