Her breathing was uneven, labored, as though her lungs were desperate to be filled with air. Her reverie had taken her to a place she hadn't been in a long time.
Of course she'd fantasized about those moments more than she'd ever dare acknowledge it, and to have said that it had been the first time would have been a lie, but none of them had been this intense.
Her shirt clung to her small frame, strained from the sweat her body had created in reaction to the images in her head. Though, as the instant she had most anticipated finally arrived, her eyes shot open in pure panic and she let out a desperate gasp, gripping the arms of the chair on which she sat.
She panted, her chest rising up and down in response to the conflict between her mind and her body. Where was she and why wasn't he with her? Had it all been a dream?
She looked around in confusion, soon coming to terms that what she had believed had been very real was only the result of her imagination. She was in a trance, dreading the torturing thoughts that she knew were soon going to be bombarding her head.
She was a Christian woman, in a happy and healthy relationship, why was she having those type of dreams? Why now?
Although she hadn't been able to see the face of the man showing appreciation to her exposed body, she knew. She very much knew who the stranger making love to her was. And he was truly no stranger.
Or was he now?
Barrett had been right, she'd gotten so far and had had a long journey to recover from having her life thrown off balance the way it had and at the present time, she felt troubled, the most she had ever been in her life.
The thought itself was enough to take her where she knew she'd be better at — her little wonderland, the one in her mind that pushed back the dark and negative ideas that she could encounter and that had shielded her when she had been at her most vulnerable.
But tonight, after that dream, she was struggling. The not-so-happy thinking was just as loud as the one she'd have preferred to focus on. She wondered briefly, when in her life, she had signed up for that terrifying yet thrilling ride she had been embarked on.
Under the obscure moon, she contemplated the horizon and what was left of her life. The time machine was in her hands, her existence flashing through her eyes.
There she was, reminiscing about her earliest memories, the birth of her younger sister, her first bike accident, eating in the kitchen after school on her mama's favorite sunflower tablecloth; she could even remember the smell of dust and coffee bungling her nostrils when, after finishing her homework, she'd venture out in the stables to check on her daddy and help him around the ranch.
She had gone far in her thoughts, jumping from a year to another. And now, she was 32 again, her red locks framing her face — her "Jacked-Up-To-Jesus" hair as she called it, — while her right hand held ever so tightly a small bouquet of flowers.
The memory was vivid, as though it had happened yesterday. She could feel the slight nausea she had felt then as the boat she was standing on swayed graciously, mocking the movements the water was creating.
She loved him, he loved her. And nothing else around them mattered, as the world, she thought, was at their feet. Their hearts beating time to the rhythm of the sunny Tennessean days. She could sense the freedom that was being offered to them, the lightness of their innocent souls floating over their guests' heads.
They held hands, humming a waltz-y tune, this cheerful melody that made them dream of somewhere else. They tasted every second, savoring the moment, everything was nothing but insouciance. And frankly, not a damn was given for life, they believed, belonged to them.
She was getting married, to the man she thought was her soulmate. He had it all and the joy he felt was as big as the grin on her face. She knew deep in her heart that he was the man she wanted to have children with.
But suddenly, she felt alone, without a true home, her heart was melancholy, casting a shadow to her soul. The bouquet in her hands faded as I do's were exchanged, the volume of her hair lessened and the smoothness of her skin made way for delicate wrinkles that she had struggled but learned to love, highlighting the traces of time.
She was no longer on a boat, she was no longer 32. She was in her fifties, laying down on what used to be her grandmother's rocking chair. Her hair was still as vibrant, incandescent, as red as a rose.
It was shorter, flatter and at that very moment, relatively wavy. It had not yet reached the crazy curly state it was naturally and some strands were still straightened from a day prior.
She sighed.
Her features felt heavy, her body felt tense but for a reason she couldn't explain, she enjoyed the indescribable loss of senses she had just experienced.
She was consumed, destroyed and she loved this sensation of puissance and lightness at the same time. She loved how contradictory it was.
One second, she was feeling a certain way and the very next, it was the absolute opposite. She wasn't sure who she was at this moment or where she was going, but she was alive nonetheless — as were everyone she cared about — and she was oh, so grateful.
Slowly, she was beginning to be more aware of her surroundings, the water adjacent to her earlier had been replaced by the spacious porch of her Hampton home and the bouquet in her hands was now a glass of Pinot Noir.
Her small body was covered by her old baby blanket that she used to never spend a day without. Many times before her mother, Helen, had found herself rushing back home simply to give her back the quilt that she'd have accidentally kept with her, knowing how comforting it was for her daughter.
A small breeze was blowing and she welcomed the cool air against her face. It traveled through her hair, like a caress.
She closed her eyes, ignoring the hairs on her arms standing up, there to remind her just how chilly she actually was. Her thumb circled the stem of the glass as her breathing was low and steady. Out of the corner of her eye, a tear slipped and her lips formed a delicate straight line.
"Mom?"
She jumped, startled at the sound of the familiar voice coming from behind her. She hadn't expected him to come by and it wouldn't have taken an expert to figure that out from her reaction.
As discreet as she could possibly be, she wiped at her eyes roughly with her sleeve. The very last thing she wanted was for the young man to see crying.
Much like his dad, he had a tendency to not drop a subject until he had obtained an answer to his interrogations and, perhaps, fussed over her a little more than she'd have liked.
It was never easy for a woman who was of an independent nature like she was, to find herself in a position where she had to give justifications. But she smiled at what he had called her and slightly twisted in her seat to take a good look at him.
She sure did love him and wasn't going to fault him for caring.
Micah advanced towards the redhead and offered her a matching smile. He observed her for a moment before opting to take a seat not too far from her, on the edge of the wood-burning round fireplace that would soon be used again if the temperatures continued to drop.
"Are you all right?" He tried.
He knew that there was, technically, no use in asking her. He assumed that she'd be fast to give him the typical answer she'd give anyone who ever asked her, carrying on to tell him that she was perfectly fine and that there was nothing for him to worry about.
He'd heard the line so many times, he couldn't help but wonder how she expected him — or his father — to genuinely buy that lie.
"Oh, yeah. Yeah." She shook her head, waving her hand around as if to prompt him to drop the subject.
"I'm fine, darlin'." She nodded, looking at him square in the eye so that he'd know — or rather think — she was sincere.
Sure enough, her daddy would have been disappointed if he had been there and watched her attest something that wasn't entirely true while looking at the person in the eyes.
Being the southern gentleman that he was, following the etiquette was something he held extremely dear to his heart and part of it was that one was to never say something they didn't mean and look at the person in front of them in the eye, for looking at someone in such manner was proof or your trustworthiness.
But it wasn't like she could have told him the truth, was it? What truth was that anyway? She hadn't puzzled it out herself.
In fact, she was uncertain as to how she was truly feeling. Nothing was just black or white, more so a mix of different colors at once. Like a rainbow of emotions.
And that dream she had had, it was not something you could share with your son, or any family member.
No, that was a matter for another day. A Lorraine matter.
She needed her best friend, the best friend that he had once been; she needed her advice and to talk it out with someone whom she knew would not judge her. That person was not going to be Micah or anyone that didn't curse and drink the way her auburn friend did.
"Watcha doin' here?" She eventually said, realizing that her silence would be taken as a sign that she wasn't being completely honest.
Giving him her utmost attention, she grew fonder at the idea of not being alone with her thoughts and having a distraction.
"I thought you were—"
The boy cut her off, not there to beat around the bush. A frown made way to his forehead as his words shook her to the core.
"Why is my dad sleeping at our old house?"
The engine of a passing white truck resonated in the not-so-busy street of a neighborhood he was, admittedly, not too familiar with. It was nearing noon as he crossed the street, taking in his surroundings and enjoying the fresh air of the morning.
It seemed that the people that frequented this side of the city had yet to be on their lunch break or were already seated in the various restaurants scattered all around, somewhat overwhelming him due to the impressively vast and diverse choices they offered.
Playing with the pack of matches in his hand, he looked up once he'd made it to the other side of the road.
There, in a neat black frontage was sited the elegant bar that Victoria seemed to have been an avid customer of.
Just like the item in between his thumb and index finger showed, the writing was white, in capital letters and spaced out. He had to give it to the owners and designers, it looked inviting and as though it was a place worth checking.
Soon, he entered the bar that raised his curiosity so intensively. He was uncertain as to what he was hoping to find or if being there would send him on a new path that could incriminate the real responsible behind the young woman's death.
But it was a couple of minutes of his life — or hours, if you didn't count the time it'd taken him to get there — that he was willing to lose. He'd gotten nothing better to do anyway, having no job to attend to and no family member to visit.
And, if he could busy his mind and not have to sit in his hotel room, flooded with his memories, it was all the more worth it.
Pushing the door closed behind him, his eyes immediately proceeded to scan the room. Reflective to the outside image the venue was trying to convey, the inside looked just as you'd expect. There were big burgundy chesterfield sofas in the lounging area where a couple of people were toasting to something.
He was greeted by the sound of a song he'd never heard before, very modern and lively but not to the point where it'd make you want to get on your feet and dance. It wouldn't have been appropriate for that type of place.
He ventured down the long path that led to the counter, passing past tables that were separated and encompassed by brown padded refined boards. The bar even held a library full of classic books, across the dining space.
It only further confirmed that Victoria, knowing her background the way he did now, would have never went to such a fancy spot in the city on her own. She had to have been meeting clients there, he was increasingly growing positive of that.
"Hello!" He addressed to a woman he walked past, coming from the opposite direction.
She was wearing a grey sequin dress, that cascaded down her body and ended to her knees and had a black choker around her neck that matched the small black jacket she had on; he assumed that she was working there.
He had set his sights on being as friendly as he could possibly be, especially if he wanted to gather informations. All the employees could be of a gargantuan help and he was not about to miss that chance.
The smiling woman had disappeared and he was now focused on a man he knew for sure was a waiter. His outfit indicated as such for he wore black trousers, a white long sleeved shirt accompanied by a black tie. He was cleaning around the counter and quickly glanced at the possible customer who'd only now entered the premises.
He then spotted another waiter, preparing a coffee at the end of the counter and was happy to see that he'd have a few people to speak to and question.
True to himself, Brandon was too immersed in the mission he'd appointed for himself that he had failed to notice the woman sitting with her legs crossed at the very same wooden counter he was walking past and who looked at him with full interest.
She flashed him a charming smile, openly flirting with the man, a look of carnal candor gracing her features. Was she an escort, like Victoria?
Paired with a much-practiced hair toss, her eyes traveled over him as he sauntered to a stool only mere feet away. He felt himself being watched and turned around to find the woman holding a glass and shifting in her seat, head movements following, in an undeniable aim to grasp his attention.
She seductively took a sip of her near empty drink, looking as though she was expecting him to slide next to her and offer to buy her a new drink.
Assuredly, he did none of that and her act was dropped just as fast as it had started, her focus relocating elsewhere when Brandon sat down and didn't as much as glance twice in her direction.
Instead, his gaze landed on the row of matches that were displayed on the counter, near the drink dispenser and not too far away from the waiter who was busy removing any stickiness from potential spilled drinks with his wet cloth.
He carefully retrieved a pack and examined it, noting that it was identical to the several ones he'd found at Victoria Reyes' apartment. He'd had time to look at them and he didn't know exactly why he was looking at it so longingly and stopped to reach for a cigarette in his pocket.
Pulling a single one from his pocket, he supported it in between his index and middle finger while he opened the tiny box in his other hand and stroke a match which he used to light his poison. The light of the fire illuminated his face fleetingly and he extended his arm to the side to shake the matchstick and smother it. A cloud of smoke engulfed him as he took a drag and inhaled, turning back to face the waiter.
"Do you have a—" He began but soon found himself being interrupted by the puzzled expression of the employee behind the counter.
His eyes widened, engraved with bewilderment and he stared at him in pure disbelief.
"Excuse me? What are you doing?"
It was Brandon's turn to return the perplexed look, his eyebrow shooting up and his head tilting. His cigarette laid comfortably in between his lips as he spoke, waiting to be consumed.
"Sorry, what?"
"That means you're in a strict non-smoking property." He explained calmly.
He was young and looked clueless, more than the lawbreaker himself did and for a second, he doubted that he'd manage to extort anything interesting from him.
"In a bar?" Brandon laughed, visibly taken aback by what he had just been told.
Bars were no longer a place where you could smoke until your lungs gave out? What was next? Could you even still order alcohol here?
That was one of the many downsides to being stuck in an era that was no more, when he had habits that were proper to those times. And as they said, old habits were hard to get rid of. Even more so when you happened to be as stubborn as he was.
He'd developed the tobacco addiction at work, most of the time carburizing through the help of coffee and cigarettes. With the profession he had and the stressful situations he was exposed to on a daily basis, he'd began using it to calm his nerves and sometimes even as a meal replacement.
Unfortunately, a twenty-year coma had not been enough to stop it and it seemed that nobody in New York was willing to help, if judged by the tense events he had been confronted with recently.
"Well, of course." The waiter retorted with contempt, almost as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and the customer in front of him was an alien debarking, unwelcome, on his planet.
Brandon clicked his tongue in exasperation but respected the rule nonetheless and distanced the cigarette from his mouth, handing it to the waiting man with the cloth.
"Sorry." He mumbled an apology.
What a waste of a cigarette that had been! The waiter took it and went to crush it before throwing it in the trash just below him.
No longer in the mood to partake in the financial success of the bar, the ex-FBI agent pushed the pack of matches away from him and searched for something in his jacket as the younger man grabbed the used matchstick and gave it the same treatment that he had just given the unfinished smoke.
"So." The middle-aged pushed a picture before him, of the victim whose death had been keeping him restless for a few days now.
"I'm goin' to cut straight to the chase." He added. "Police. Do you know this woman?"
The server glanced at the picture, thinking about the irony of a law enforcer breaking the rules when he was in charge of making sure they were respected and internally scoffed at how he must have been thinking he had all the rights.
He, however, didn't ask for his police badge and leaned closer to take a closer look at the blonde woman before grimacing and shaking his head no, preparing to return to his work.
"I don't think so — maybe. It's possible." He shrugged, his attitude a proof that he couldn't have cared less.
"You either know or you don't." Brandon insisted, his forearms over the counter as he was almost scrunched and studying the now taller man across from him.
He was surprisingly patient and awaited any new information he could perhaps receive.
The other man lowered his eyes and stayed silent. Was he too scared to speak? He could tell he had suddenly tensed up and opted for a different tactic. In a more friendly tone, he pursued.
"Listen, I'm not part of the Drugs Squad, I don't care about what she did in her life, okay? On the other hand, she was murdered a few nights ago, so I'm gonna ask you — and I won't ask twice —, focus."
His eyes remained on him, showing the seriousness of the ordeal and tapped on the picture, silently urging him to look at it again and pay close attention.
He was silent for a brief moment whilst he weighed for the pros and cons in telling him what he did know.
At long last, he licked his lips and leaned closer to his interlocutor, lowering himself on the counter.
"There was a man who called... this morning." He confessed, speaking in a low voice so that the other customers wouldn't hear.
"What did he want?"
"He wanted to know if we had found the bag or the wallet of that girl. She was kind of a regular here."
Brandon looked down and slid the picture back towards him, putting it back into his pocket.
"Was that the case?"
"Not that I know of." The waiter said, one hand over the coffee maker as his lifted his finger with his free one as a silent way to tell the policeman to wait.
"However, he gave us his phone number." He turned around and seized a white piece of paper on which he had written the mysterious guy's details. He gave it to him and the latter didn't waste time to observe it, thinking for a second about what to do next.
An idea instantaneously hit him and he once again tapped the counter to emphasize that. The waiter watched him curiously as he turned the paper around and moved it back in his direction.
"Call him and tell him you just found the bag." He instructed, relaxing back against the stool and giving the employee a look that told him he wouldn't budge until he did so.
He nodded and went to turn on his heel to execute the task but spun back around.
"Uh, okay but what do I do when he gets here? 'cause, well, I don't have that bag." He scoffed and took a hold of the phone at the same spot where he had kept the piece of paper with the caller's number.
At his question, Brandon rolled his eyes and jumped off his seat.
Standing tall, back straightened, he searched the room until his eyes landed on a group of women, seemingly enjoying themselves at a table by his left. He smiled and made his way towards them.
"Hello, ladies!" He greeted cheerfully.
A brunette was the first to acknowledge him but her friends followed suit and instantly, all eyes were on him. They flashed him warm smiles, nodding their heads towards him, greeting him back.
"Police. I'd need to borrow one of your bags for an investigation. I'll give it back to you afterwards, of course. If you don't mind?"
The dark-haired woman glided the black leather bag on the free side of the table towards him, giving him another smile to let him know that it was okay for him to take.
He didn't waste time and took possession of it before any of them had time to process it. He then went back up the counter where the waiter still stood and threw the purse onto the wooden shining surface.
"Now you have it." He announced monotonously. "Go!"
The impressionable young man almost grinned.
"Too cool!" He muttered to himself, his view on the policeman changing; now finding him to be rather badass.
After the server had called the stranger and had gotten him to agree to come to the bar within the next hour, to retrieve Victoria's purse, Brandon ordered a mango-passion-fruit drink which, at one point, had been something he had deeply enjoyed and nervously waited for the man to show himself.
He wasn't sure who he would be dealing with and who that man in question was nor if he was on the right track but one thing he knew for certain was that he was not going to leave that place until he had spoken to the caller.
After all, a woman had just lost her life and he was enquiring about her personal belongings, he had to know something. He wasn't crazy, was he? It was suspect.
And if he didn't know, somebody he worked with did. There was no way they'd have asked about Victoria if they hadn't been looking for clues like himself had been, or, on the contrary, if they weren't hoping to destroy them.
It didn't take long before the unknown man arrived. He was an average caucasian Joe, not one that could have easily stood out in a crowd.
He looked like so many men across the world did and Brandon's first impression was that he could have one day passed him by and not paid him any attention. He wasn't ugly but he wasn't handsome either.
Relatively tall and clean-shaven, he had short light brown-hair and green eyes and wore a suede jacket paired with a simple pair of jeans and nothing about him screamed that he had killed a single mother or orchestrated her death.
The ex-FBI agent watched him from outside of the bar, hidden in the corner, back almost touching the wall as he stood, waiting for his prey to exit.
He had no particular plan in mind, except to follow him and see where that'd lead him. He wanted to affront him but for that, he needed for them to be alone and out of the public eye.
His patience soon paid off as the suspected walked out of the bar, holding the leather bag exactly as Brandon had hoped. He held his breath, preparing himself mentally and physically for their confrontation, all the while trying to look as casual as possible.
His hands were laced in front of him and he followed his trajectory from the corner of his eye. When he saw him cross the street, he urgently followed by him, keeping his distance nonetheless as to not make it too obvious.
He couldn't let him traipse off and leave his sight for he had promised to hand the bag back to the lady and he was never one to break a promise.
He caught up to him fast enough, acting as though he was a regular pedestrian and came to a stop beside him when they reached a point in the street with a red light. Cars and taxis were driving past them, showing a busier side of the neighborhood than the one that had saluted him earlier on.
The other man looked relaxed, not at all appearing to be in a hurry to get somewhere or afraid to be getting caught by anyone. That alone was questionable but if there was one thing he was well aware of was that most murderers were very good at conceding not only the truth but their feelings.
Some of them were unreadable. It was part of the frightening beauty of the human psychology.
Brandon remained natural, moved his hands to his hips and pushed his shoulders back, taking advantage to crack his back as he looked to the side.
The guy looked at him as he did so, more so out of curiosity to see who was standing beside him but thought nothing of it. It was an ordinary scene between two strangers in the street.
They weren't too far from a bank and he paused to think about withdrawing cash but dismissed the idea almost as quickly as he'd had it. Brandon caught the sudden pensive look on his face and wondered what he could've been thinking about.
He didn't get the chance to even do as such as guess, that the light turned green and the individual on his left resumed his walk. He followed his pattern and began to walk a little slower as to not raise suspicions.
After walking for approximately five minutes, he saw the caller take out his keys and press on a button which made the headlights of his car light up, followed by the sound that announced that it was now unlocked.
In a hurry, Brandon charged at him unexpectedly, having come out from out of nowhere and grabbed the stranger from behind as he had just thrown his keys back in his pocket and was in the mist of opening the driver door.
Skillfully, he pinned him against the back of his car, twisting his arm behind him and holding him by the collar.
The man's cheek was crushed against the window of his own vehicle and when his mind processed what was currently unfolding, he began to wrestle.
"Stopping you right there, buddy. Don't move." The old agent spoke in a stentorian angered tone.
"Victoria Reyes, does the name sound familiar to ya?"
The captured gasped from the pain in his shoulder and frowned upon hearing his question. He inclined his head to try and look at the man that seemed to want to settle accounts with him.
"Who in the hell are you?"
"I'm the one who asks questions." He growled, pressing his knuckle further against the back of his neck.
He then shook him and pushed him further, his body almost making one with the car from the way Brandon was keeping him.
"Why did you want her bag? And I told you to stop fucking moving!"
He let go of his arm but kept a firm grip on his collar, his free hand flying to his back and then his back pocket, a normal procedure to check whether or not the presumed bandit was armed.
He lifted his jacket and chuckled when his eyes found the gun nestled in his jeans. He took a hold of it, raising it until it was right in front of him and rested it on its side against the now more that suspicious man's back.
It was heavy and he could tell it was loaded.
"Oh, but that's not very nice." He mocked, his voice dripping with honey.
Taking advantage of having gotten his arm back, the man with the bag pushed himself off the car, just enough so that his face couldn't make contact with it anymore and his chest no longer touched the wiper that dug through his clothes and rather pained him.
He turned to look at Brandon.
"You're making a very big mistake." He sounded serious, imperturbable.
"That's what everybody's been telling me since I was a kid."
Why, were his little friends going to go after him? Threats were no longer something that impressed him.
He near-about shoved his face towards the mysterious guy, his neck vein sticking out from the anger he felt and pushed him again.
"So, Victoria? Hurry up!"
"Look in the pocket — in my back pocket." He repeated, breathless.
Narrowing his eyes, he did as he was told and spotted the item that he assumed was what the other man was referring to.
He took it out of his pocket, slowly, and then held open the card holder.
His blood ran cold and he had to subdue a gasp of his own.
There, in his hand was a badge of police and an identification card with his photograph, name, a code and 'Police' written at the top, as well as the department in which he belonged.
"Yeah. I'm a cop, asshole!" He flashed him a smug smile and instantly, Brandon released his grasp on him.
The policeman stepped away, rolling his shoulder and straightened his jacket while the old agent looked down at the badge still in his hands and then back at the man facing him.
Naturally, he seemed unamused as he breathed heavily and was handed back the badge that rightfully belonged to him.
"My mistake."
It was the only thing he could say as he gulped.
Determination was marked with each eager step Conran took. He passed several of his colleagues, fighting the urge to push some of them out of his way as he headed straight to his office.
To say that he was angry was putting it very lightly. How could his friend have been so careless? There was so little he would be able to do for him, regardless of how many strong excuses he could use to defend his behavior, if he kept acting this way.
Higher forces weren't so keen on being kind and had difficulties giving people free passes to commit infractions, even despite having a past or having dealt with situations that justified their actions.
And it became all the more unmanageable when the people involved worked for a different branch than his own.
He was only the Boss for this department and had little power over the ones that he wasn't appointed to supervise.
If somebody wanted to send a complaint about one of his friends, or anybody working under him, there wasn't much he could do to stop them. Especially not when they had every reason and were well within their right.
Not only would it not be professional but he couldn't reprimand them or use his authority to influence them to change their mind.
No, what had happened was unacceptable and would not be tolerated again.
He made a left and hastily reached for the doorknob of the first door on his right, his face coming close to the gloriously perched silver plaque that indicated his name below the title 'Captain'.
In a split second, he had entered the room and closed the door behind him, the impact of the force he'd used to push it open resounded in the atypically quiet police station.
"First you invite yourself on a crime scene, then you handcuff my lieutenant and now you choose to hurt a colleague?" He called out in an elevated voice, like subdued thunder to a sitting Brandon who had been waiting for him in his office.
As he'd expected, his friend was situated in a jaunty fashion, as though he had no care in the world and dared he believe his eyes in his aggravated state, he almost looked comfortable.
His legs were crossed and his back and head were leaning against the back of the chair, opposite of the one Conran quickly proceeded to push, in order to take a sit himself, behind his desk.
Upon hearing the voice of his old partner breaking his peaceful silence, he perfunctory opened one eye first and the second followed merely a second or two later.
He was waiting for Conran to finish lashing out before saying anything — not that he had anything to say.
To him, he'd done nothing wrong.
How had he been supposed to know that the suspicious man who wanted Victoria's bag was, in fact, a policeman?
The Captain sat down and blew his breath, watching the brown-haired man in front of him with curiosity.
He was trying to remain calm and forced himself to keep in mind that it would be wiser not to add more to Brandon's plate or do anything that could trigger him.
"I didn't wake up from a 20-year-coma to be sentenced to 30 years of hoosegow, Conran." He stated firmly, showing that he wasn't going to let his reproaches or anybody else's get him down.
His hand moved as he spoke, gesticulating the cigarette in between his fingers for emphasis.
"Fair Enough." Conran pulled at his jacket and let out a heavy sigh.
His tongue clicked and he conceded, his body language showing that he was regaining composure.
"I know it's not your fault, Bran. But you're putting me in deep trouble, here." The older man reminded him.
Finally, like a scolded child who had just now realized that his actions had had worse consequences than he'd ever taken the time to consider, Brandon looked down at his lap, his fingers going over his mouth and beard, lightly stroking it as he thought for a second. The smoke coming from his cigarette flowed east, coating the office with its overpowering smell.
"How can you expect me to defend you if you behave like this?" Conran added, tranquilizing, eliciting only a nod from the concerned as he prepared to take a long drag of the toxic poison.
"And put out this fucking cigarette, you can't smoke in public spaces, dammit!" He muttered, feeling his temper rise up again over his friend's passivity.
In a swift motion, he rummaged through his drawer to take out an ashtray and Brandon stared at it in faint surprise, refraining himself from asking the other man why he was keeping one if it was no longer allowed but chose against it, having not come all the way here to fight.
There, he remembered what he'd been told back at the hospital and how smoking had been banned for a few years now, but as it had been something he hadn't liked to hear, it had completely slipped off his mind.
Stubbornly, he took a puff before scoffing, half amusedly.
At that, the Captain couldn't help but also emit a sneer, followed by an eye roll. He waved a dismissive hand, a near imperceptive smile edging on the corner of his lips.
Almost like he had been put on slow motion, the ex-FBI agent inclined towards the large mahogany desk and crushed the end of his cigarette against the metal ashtray he had been given. He watched it slowly fall apart in between his hand while his mind was preoccupied with something else.
There was a silence between the two men, none of them speaking for what felt like quite some time.
Eventually, Brandon was the first to speak again, once he'd gathered his thoughts.
"What's the link between that cop and Victoria?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow and looking straight ahead at his friend whom only sighed in response and looked away.
He was about to cross his arms over his chest but what escaped Brandon's mouth was enough to stop him mid-action.
"If you don't give me the informations, I'll go get 'em myself, you know me." He pushed himself away from the desk, resuming his initial position in the leather chair.
His eyes were defiant and impermeability in his voice could have been detected once more.
"So?"
Conran's hazel eyes met Brandon's as he considered the younger man's ultimatum.
"Higgins work for the Fraud Squad. And Victoria had in her clientele guys in high places. There." He retorted, as if to say 'now you know'.
"She was his fink?" His eyes widened from the unexpected news.
The Captain nodded.
How did a woman like her end up becoming some sort of spy? Had money really been that much of an issue that she had felt like that was the only way out? Had she once envisaged the possibility that it could be dangerous? That it could be too big for her to handle?
"Who was she tipping him off about?"
"Half a dozen bankers, businessmen..." He trailed off. "Higgins gave us their identity."
Brandon breathed, pausing to analyse the new details he had so confidentially been given.
"Could one of them have learned about Victoria?"
"It's possible." Conran sighed. "We're currently investigating them."
He had barely had time to finish his sentence that the unstoppable brown-haired man had risen to his feet, pushing the chair he had previously occupied backwards.
He took a step closer to the desk and extended his arm, perfectly demonstrating that he was waiting to be handed whatever file his old partner had in his possession.
"Give me their names." He practically ordered.
When he received none of the quick reaction he was hoping to get, he suppressed a huff impatiently and clicked his fingers to press the sitting man further.
"Don't push it, Bran." He warned him, not moving a finger.
Gradually, his arm fell back down to his side and his jaw contracted in irritation and disappointment.
Was he supposed to simply sit around and wait?
Defeated, a sigh rolled out of his chest and he pushed his hands down on the desk, leaning against them while bowing his head.
Conran could tell that it was his way to blow off some steam and he softened momentarily.
"Go home and behave yourself before you get locked up." His tone resembled more the one of a caring friend than a law enforcer for which Brandon was appreciative.
While he was unable to deny just how stubborn he could be at times, he knew that the latter was right in more way than one and that there was no point in arguing.
He'd done enough for now.
"Okay." He responded simply, lifting his head up to fix the other man's glance.
Then, he flashed him a fake smile that quickly faded into one bitter moue.
The Captain had known Brandon enough in the past to know that he was resenting him for his lack of compliance but he'd only have to accept it for his own good.
Without as much as another word from either men, he watched his old partner expeditiously walk to the door in his leather jacket.
But as he swung the door open, he couldn't help but interpellate him, fully aware of how touchy the subject had become, while also keeping in mind that it couldn't be avoided ad infinitum.
"Have you called Ariel?"
His question grazed his ears and he faltered.
He came to an halt, frozen until what had been asked registered upon him. Taking his time to turn around, he threw a furtive look at the man behind the imposing desk and almost chuckled at the suggestion.
"To tell her what?" He asked back, his voice laced with a sudden melancholy.
He scrutinized Conran for several seconds before turning on his heel and shutting the door behind him.
Left alone in his office, the guilt that had nibbled at the Captain for the past twenty years seemed more pronounced than ever before.
Writing had always been a fun and easy activity he liked to entertain in his spare time. It was a relaxing escape, an exercise that was not only therapeutic but helped him communicate what he couldn't say out loud.
Discussing his feelings, on the other hand, had, for him, been a little trickier.
But thankfully, music was there to simplify the task. What he couldn't say in a simple journal entry, he'd write as a song. This format somehow worked better for him.
He hadn't written anything in so long, of course. Perhaps it was the reason behind his struggle. That and his tired brain had had a lot to process during the week that had followed his release from the hospital.
He'd written during his stay, it helped make the long days he had ahead of him seem a little shorter, if only.
The notebook Babu — the nurse that had taken care of him — had given him was filled with all sorts of things, from poems to songs and even sketches. It had also been part of his therapy and healing process.
He'd been assigned to write about his memories, the thoughts that consumed him, the things that made him happy and made him want to fight. The first page showed a difficult to read handwriting, the one of a man who hadn't held a pen in twenty years.
It had, however, showed that his brain was functioning and that he was still able to move his hand, write and gather coherent thoughts and sentences, not just out loud but on paper as well.
Going through the said notebook would have showed just how far he had come. The texts that filled it, as the weeks and months passed had grown to become more positive, less melancholic and filled with hope and newfound strength— a major difference from the ones he'd first composed.
Today, reality was different.
He'd come so far and while nothing was as he'd have imaged, he acknowledged that, despite everything, he was still a lucky man.
The notebook was open in front of him, on an entry infused with lyrics he'd came up with for a song inspired by his muse, the one person that gave meaning and brought his creations to life.
Though he had kept that page intact, the amount of papers rolled into balls that he'd thrown across the room in frustration told a contrasting story.
He had been trying to re-write the song (that he deemed wasn't good enough) for hours now. After Conran's warning in his office and his faux-pas with the policeman, his perspective had shifted.
Maybe he was more out-of-touch than he was willing to admit.
Maybe what he had once been very good at, being able to trust his instincts and know when something was odd in a case had gone away somewhere around the time he'd been shot. Maybe that wasn't supposed to be part of his new life.
After all, hadn't it been the exact reason he had to start over again? So retrieving to something else he knew he wasn't too bad at, an hobby that had made him happy more times than he could recount seemed like a good thing to do, on this late gloomy weekday.
There was nothing else he could do either. He was in no mood to head to bars and socializing was not his top priority. It'd do him good but there was so much he had to discover about himself first, to come to terms with that he felt as though he wouldn't be a great company to have.
In order to understand people, he had to understand life around him a minimum and he wasn't quite there yet.
It was too soon.
Surrounded by dozens of ripped pieces of paper, all full of ink and crossed-out words, he stabilized his guitar that sat over his lap and on which his arm led upon.
He was frustrated; the wording was off and the lyrics weren't quite working out for him.
On top of that, he was battling a serious issue: he couldn't find a melody to go along with what he'd written. He sighed, part of him starting to come to terms with the fact that he had yet another unfinished song on his hands and he could only close his eyes as an attempt to calm down and concentrate.
Instantly, his mind wandered back to the woman it was about — that everything was about.
He loosened at the sight of her. Oh, the way her lips curved when she offered him her signature smile, how blissful she looked to be around him and he almost heard her southern drawl, telling him not to give up.
The voice was so distinct, he could have sworn she was in the room with him.
For reasons he knew were evident, that was all it took for him to open his eyes wide, as if he'd just had a revelation. His hand shook and he hastened to grab the pen in front of him, to write down something quickly.
In minutes, he'd changed everything.
Some lines were removed completely, some only vaguely tweaked and the overall flow of his song had improved. He wasn't quite where he wanted to be, nowhere near having mastered it and there was no doubt he hadn't written a hit but he was satisfied.
He finally felt the way he had when he'd finished his last workout at the hospital. That feeling of gratification and pride he had so dearly missed. For his perfectionist self, it was rare but he'd learned to appreciate small victories, such as this one.
Strumming his guitar, he let his fingers create something beautiful, granting them the freedom to have a mind of their own, for they seemed to be fueled by inspiration. Was he coming up with a melody, at last?
Brandon's eyes scanned the yellow paper, reading over his own handwriting, trying to decipher it as he'd been so focused in hurrying to get his emerging thoughts down, to care about anything being readable at all, even to himself.
But, after figuring it out, he began to quietly hum, his hand not once leaving the instrument, getting lost in his own safer world.
Notes full of lightness and softness flooded the room whilst rough fingers, endowed with small nicks and scars, yet so strong and flexible, played exhaustingly; tentatively trying to play the tender song of a melody he'd just composed, giving free rein to his imagination and liberty to his tired hands to sway gracefully over the strings of the instrument.
A wrong note was soon heard, forcing the man in the grey shirt to let appear a little grimace of disapproval on his suave face; however continuing his activity, not letting this minor error stop him in his great creative upsurge.
His lips parted, gently shaking as he let escape an almost inaudible sound, whispering to himself a little tune, accompanying the music he had produced.
Satisfied or unsatisfied with the result, even himself wasn't entirely sure but as the rhythm of the chorus accelerated, his fingers began to dance remarkably on the guitar, as if his flesh and the c, d, e, f, g's were only one.
The sound, as for it, pleasing to the ear would have given anyone who had been in the room, the compelling desire to swirl and sing along, much to their heart's content.
The rejoicing that caused this wheedling melody slipped into the imposing man's body, spreading throughout his veins. The stringed instrument, balancing horizontally on his lap, looked like an elegant creature that was brought to life through the slender fingers of the musician.
At this time of his life, being able to give life to an object as beautifully, always remained an incredible experience.
Why? Because your eyes are smoldering over New York and time.
Because of the cold through your hair and the snow melting on your gloves.
Because you have ten fingers and a soul and you aren't afraid to use it.
So, when you had to choose a weapon, you chose only a smile.
Because you laugh, because you cry, because you cry from time to time.
Because comforting you is like transitioning from winter to spring.
Because winters are killing you, which leaves you to die in my arms.
Now my kisses resurrect you and you're reborn under the sheets.
Because you make yourself beautiful, even if, for me, you have nothing to change.
Because this dress only suits you and all I can think about is takin' it off you.
Because you're so good at pretending, that you'd think that you need me.
And if you're not pretending, don't be afraid, I'll be yours.
Oh, this kind of love makes us so stupid. It makes you beautiful, makes me so strong.
Because with you, I'm so warm while it's so damn cold outside.
Because you run when everyone walks and I see you yell at silences.
When you sit at the top of the steps and you ask me "what are you thinkin' about?", before you ask me "why do you love me?"
Because of your complicated questions; "how long does the passing time lasts?", "who taught you how to breathe?"
Because we'll go so far away, that we'll always jump in the puddles.
And you will always want to dance, even if we both have stage fright.
Because I will always have in me this fear of losing you over nothing.
Because of your hands and your ten fingers, because of your ten fingers in my hands.
Here, I love you for all those reasons or maybe because of no reason at all.
Because madness is a right and I have the right to be crazy.
Because the noise suddenly stopped.
And by putting a hand on my cheek, with that charming smile of yours,
You put New York and me... at your small feet.
As he played the last note, his voice slowly faded and quickly became nothing but a murmur while the guitar overpowered it, until his upper lip touched his lower one and he fell completely silent.
He'd just written a song, one that had driven him crazy more than once and it had been a process, but in a way, it reminded him even more of her.
She had too — and countless times — made him want to pull his hair and scream.
Still, the love he held for her prevailed and allowed his frustration to dissipate. Both the song and the woman were worth it, for their beauty were out of this world.
How lucky had he once been? Having by his side, somebody who was larger than life itself?
He caught himself smiling at the thought and bent over to close the notebook that had been mistreated all evening long.
It was enough for today and he was growing increasingly hungry.
Brandon took a hold of his guitar and placed it against the foot of the table, making sure that it wouldn't slip and suffer any damage.
The guitar was old now and fragile, Conran had had the great idea to bring it to him as a mean to keep him occupied and to bring him the sense of familiarity without risking to provoke anything in him to resurface — painful memories, or rather, great memories that he painfully had to accept were just that, memories and nothing else.
It had been a safe gift from his past, as simple as that.
And, as much as their latest discussion hadn't been one he'd classify as his favorite, he was grateful for their friendship. He'd have done the same, had it been the other way around but it was nice to see it done anyway.
Oftentimes, relationships and friendships were unbalanced, one side always loved more but with them, it had never been the case.
Folding his hands together over his legs, he sighed and looked up at the dusty clock on the wall. He'd scarcely had time to read what it signaled when he heard a knock on the door.
Far from expecting company, it made him raise an eyebrow, a skeptical look plastered on his face.
Who could possibly be coming over at this time of day? It was well past nine in the evening and he doubted that either Conran or Higgins, the policeman he'd had the altercation with earlier would be paying him a visit, especially so soon.
Could it be the owner of the place, wanting to deliver news to him, to inform him about something?
There was only one way to find out.
He sprung to his feet and made his way to the entrance of his hotel room, not rushing whatsoever.
Soon, he opened the door and came face-to-face with the red-headed woman he'd just been thinking about.