He's had a busy morning. Breaking into Odell's hotel room wasn't that hard – no one ever locks their balconies, and the old cock's was snoring so loud, he didn't hear Brian slip in through the sliding glass door and plant the bug inside a lamp – and Brian boosted a '73 Firebird when he was freaking twelve, so that was next to nothing. Still, between planting those bugs and planting some drugs over at Dwight's as part of his damage control/get-back-in-the-race plan, he's made a day of it, and it's barely light out.
Brian knows he should feel bad about what he pulled on Dwight. Some sort of abuse of power or some shit. But like his buddy said: it's not like it's gonna stick, and it's just an overnighter – no big deal.
Besides, it gets the job done. He gets the call that afternoon, and the next night, he's at a warehouse-turned-club, waiting to meet up with Braga. To kill some time, he's shooting pool, partly because it's fun, but mostly because it's fucking insane downstairs. Way too many people, and he can't believe he's saying this, but the music is actually too loud.
He must be getting old.
He feels like it sometimes. Especially lately. Between the late night at the races, the early ass morning busting Dwight, he's running on fumes again.
That doesn't keep him from playing a mean game of pool, though. Ever since he was a kid, hustling in bars with his first fake ID, he's had a knack for it, and even though he hasn't had much of a chance to keep in practice, it's looking like he's still got it. He's taken a nice wad of cash of a couple of guys so far – and he's definitely not putting that in his report; what they don't know won't hurt – and he's getting ready to take this fedora-wearing mother fucker in a round of eight-ball for another couple hundred bucks.
He's got his next shot all lined up, ready to sink his last stripe with four solids still on the table, when he catches something out of the corner of his eye. A flash of white that stands out against the reds of the place, and takes his shot and turns just in time to see a Dom's back retreating into the crowd of people down the hall.
That's my cue.
Leaning the stick against the wall, he follows Dom out down the hall. Fedora-guy doesn't complain, but then, Brian figures he's probably just glad he gets to hold onto his hundred bucks.
Go buy yourself another hat, he thinks, and then walks straight up to the bar. He's got eyes on Dom – fuck, he always has eyes on Dom – and he makes a point of brushing right past him to steal the seat next to him.
"That's too bad about Dwight, having the FBI raid your house the same night you raid the team," he says, all casual like, like he's just talking about the weather. Which is nice, by the way. "That's un-fortunate."
He's not being an ass, he swears. Or, at least, it's not about being an ass. Even if he knows Dom hates being ignored, and even if it makes him feel a little better giving Dom a hard time after he screwed him over at the race, it's not about that.
This is about taking a read. It's about figuring out where he and Dom stand in this whole thing, now that they're both in it, because he honestly doesn't know. There's a good chance Dom'll screw things up for him again, going after Braga. He doesn't trust Brian to be a part of this, and he knows, shit does he know, that he's probably earned every ounce of trouble Dom gives him for everything he pulled on him.
But that's history. Shitty history, but it's history, and maybe it's just his inner optimist talking, but he's kind of hoping Dom'll understand that they're after more or less the same thing, and that if they blow this…there won't be another chance.
So, he's playing it safe. He never, ever plays it safe, but he's doing it now, because there's a shit ton on the line. He's moved into Dom's field, and he'll let him make whatever move he's gonna make, and whatever happens, he'll deal with it.
Just like he always does.
"I wish I could say I was surprised to see you here," Dom says after one long-ass moment, and Brian's not ready to relax just yet, but he feels a little bit of the tension start to ease up as Dom reaches for a Corona the barkeep's handing him. "What's to stop someone from telling 'em you're a cop?"
Brian's thought about that. "Probably the same thing that's keeping me from telling them why you're really here," he says, and he's feeling kind of brave and actually glances up at him.
He didn't realize how close he was standing 'till now.
There's not a whole lot of time to think about that, though, because the next second, something claps on his back. As he's turning around, he thinks he catches Dom's eyes, and he thinks he's giving him a look, but there's not much time to think about any of that, either. Which is probably for the better, anyway.
"What up, fellas!" It's Ramon Campos, Braga's right-hand man, and he's holding out a hand that Brian takes on reflex.
"Hey, how you doing?" he says, like he's greeting an old buddy instead of the go-to guy of one of the biggest, baddest drug-dealers on the continent. It's crossed his mind that he might be bumping shoulders with the asshole that killed Letty, too, but he tries not to let that one take. There's a time and a place, and this ain't it.
"Great," Campos says. "You having a good time?"
"Yeah, a great time." He's not actually lying, either. Between dominating at the pool table and not getting his block knocked off by Dom, this night's not going so bad.
Campos grins. "Come on, let's have a better time."
And as Campos starts to lead them away, Brian glances back at Dom and yeah, he's definitely giving him a look. He's got an amused sort of smile on his face, and that makes Brian grin, too, because he's thinking that maybe this could work out after all.
"How's your car?" Campos asks as he takes a seat in a little corner setup. Brian'd be surprised it's open – every other seat in this place seems filled – but he knows Campos is important shit around here, so even if it was full, it's probably cleared out for him. "Took a nasty bump."
Brian keeps his smooth grin going. He knows it makes him look cocky, but he's figured out a long time ago that it's what people are expecting to see. People like confidence, and that comes easy to Brian.
"It'll be ready," he says. He's already done all the real repairs, and he's got a couple techs back at the bureau doing all the cosmetic shit.
He and Dom take seats on either side of Campos, and Brian's not gonna read too much into it. Hell, it's probably better that way, because Brian's starting to realize it's a lot harder to keep his cool around Dom, and he really needs to do that right now. Maybe some distance'll help.
He notices his inner optimist isn't piping up much this time.
"I also heard you just got out of county."
"Yeah?" Dom says, and Brian feels his pulse ratchet up a little more. He doesn't think Dom's gonna out him – they pretty much agreed not to, in not-so-many words – but that doesn't keep that niggling tension from flaring up again. "You know a guy named Jim Garcia?"
Then again…fucking Dom. He knows he's yanking his chain; he can see it in Dom's eyes. He knows that smile, knows that flashing in his eyes. But this really ain't the time.
He shakes his head. "Nah. Big place. Lotsa names, lotsa faces." And he knows he's dodged the bullet when Campos turns his head to look at Dom, who's trying – and failing – to smother a smile in the lip of his Corona bottle.
"And you? You're wanted by a lot of people, homes."
And now it's Brian's turn to take a few shots. "Yeah," he says, "that kind of heat can't be good for business."
"Yeah, well that depends on how you look at things." And on the subject of looks, Dom's not looking at Campos; he's looking straight at Brian, and shit, his eyes are just as dark, just as penetrating as Brian remembers. "I go down; I do time. I do real time."
Brian can't help it. That line makes him chuckle, because isn't it a bitch that that's the whole reason he wanted to keep Dom away from all this, and here he is using it as a selling point? It ain't funny, really, but Brian can appreciate the irony.
"I don't know about your other drivers, but when I see flashing lights in my mirror, I don't stop."
Christ, but he's smooth as ever. Hard as ever.
And on a list of things Brian's not gonna think about….
Seriously, though, the guy's damn near unshakable, and he's got mad respect for that. Dom's always been the kind of guy you could lean on and not worry about ever giving on you, and fuck, what Brian wouldn't give for that right now. He's got the weight of the world bearing down on him; it'd be nice to be able to let someone else bear a little bit of the load for a little while.
Except they're not in that place right now. Brian would trust Dom with his life, and maybe that makes him an idiot, because he's pretty sure it isn't mutual right at the moment. He'd really like to change that in the near future, but right now, it ain't happening.
A buzzing in his pocket startles him out of his thoughts right about the same time Campos leans back and looks between them.
"Do you know each other?" he says.
Brian lowers his beer, and tries to ignore another buzz at his hip. He's a little flustered all of the sudden, between Dom and his phone, because he's got this weird sinking feeling in his gut that he knows exactly who it is texting him, and he gets the feeling his not-so-bad night is about to take a turn for the worse.
He tries to grin, because he notices Dom looking at him again, and he thinks it plays okay.
"He used to date my sister," Dom says. And yeah, that'll do the trick. Explains the passive-aggressive digs at each other, the tension that you'd have to be fucking blind not to notice.
Campos seems to buy it anyway, because he smiles. "I see." He leans forward and grabs the tequila bottle off the table, glancing over at Brian as he does. "You're a lucky man."
Brian doesn't feel that lucky. His phone's practically burning a hole in his hip, even though it's stopped buzzing, and he's having to work a little harder to stay focused on the conversation. He tells himself Stasiak can wait, mostly because he's still pissed at him for that shit he pulled with Mia, but it only does so much.
He forces his mind on track, though. "How's that?"
"You're still breathing."
Dom gets a kick out of that, letting out this low, breathy sort of chuckle, and damned if that doesn't get Brian's attention back to present company. He feels himself smiling a little bit too at the shot Campos just handed him.
"To the ladies we've loved, and the ladies we've lost," Campos announces grandly, "salut."
"Salut," Brian echoes, and as hard as he tries not to notice the barely-there pain on Dom's face, it still hits him harder than the tequila he downs. Damn near, he said; not all the way. Losing Letty…he knows that's got to have been hell for Dom, because it seems to him like the only thing that can rattle Dominic Toretto is losing what he loves. His dad, Jesse, and now Letty.
Brian's quick to change the subject. "So what's Braga about?" Two birds, one stone.
"You know, he's just one of us," Campos says. Somehow, Brian finds that hard to believe. "Came up from the streets. Down for el barrio. Now, he's a shot caller. The boss of bosses. See all these cats in here? Any one of them would die for Braga."
"Including you?" Brian says.
"Especially me."
Brian feels like there's something more to that claim, something deep there that Campos isn't telling them, but before he can ask – he's not even sure he was gonna; you don't ask too many questions, or else you risk drawing attention to yourself – a guy appears out of nowhere and whispers something to Campos that Brian couldn't catch if he tried.
He and Dom exchange glances. They both know something's going down, but neither of them know what, and Brian thinks he can tell that bothers Dom just as much as it bothers him. Especially knowing that there's nothing they can do.
"Enjoy the party, fellas." Clearly, Campos isn't gonna be enjoying it with them anymore, because he stands. "Club's yours. Whatever you want: booze, broads – it's all good.
And then he's gone, and it's just Brian and Dom, and the first thing Brian can think of to say is, "Braga's mine." Because he doesn't give a shit who would die for him; the fact of the matter is, people killed for him. Killed people Brian cares about. And if he's gonna get revenge for Letty, and if he's gonna use Braga as leverage for a deal with the FBI, then he's got to do this.
A few girls come in and start sitting around, and Brian doesn't need a cue to leave, because his phone's still burning against his leg, so he starts to stand.
"I'm taking the whole house down," he tells Dom as the guy takes a shot glass from one of the 'broads,' and Brian tries to tell himself that he's angry at the situation and at Braga, and that he's just glaring at the girls because they're convenient.
Dom doesn't actually look up at him as he goes, but he hears him, and that's enough. "Good luck."
It sounds all well and good, but Brian knows it for what it is: a challenge. Whoever gets to him first, that's who gets him.
No time to waste, then.
As Brian stands to start following Campos to wherever the hell it is he's going, he fishes out his phone. Sure enough, there's one message waiting, and he clicks it open. It's a good cover, if nothing else, although it's kind of hard to dodge all the bodies in the club while he's staring at the screen.
Same place. 1 hour.
Seriously, Brian wonders sometimes if Stasiak takes the time to type the damn texts, or if he's just got that shit on the clipboard. It's always the same place, and it's always one hour. 'Cause of course Stasiak doesn't do anything in advance.
He's got one hour, then. Less, actually. He's got less than one hour to find something on Braga that he can use before he's got to book it back to the bureau and face the music so to speak of a no-doubt extremely pissed off Stasiak and whatever little errand he's got for Brian to run this time.
And to think – the day started off so well.
