Eddie stands with one hand on the rim of Silver Belle's open driver door, looking over the low roof at the tall edifice of the One PP, at the unfamiliar buildings and trees and coffee stands. She used to relish this feeling, wide-awake and crackling with adrenaline. She's not sure whether she's missed it all this time, or if she was supposed to have outgrown it by now, but it's back.
She closes the door gently and hip-checks it latched. No slammed doors for her girl.
She feels like a snail out of its shell, in the best and blackest of her three good office suits and neat leather flats. Her skin knows every fold and seam of every piece of her rugged uniform, unlike the light wool of her suit that lets in the winter damp. She misses the snug fit of her soft armor. It's been her buffer between her small self and the dangers of the job for nearly five years. She knows how to get a deep breath in small stages while she's strapped into it, even at a flat-out run. She misses the extra inch of height from her boots.
She's used to rolling into her parking spot and trotting into the front entrance of the One-Two on autopilot, sliding into the welcoming, steady stream of friends and co-workers washing in and out of the building according to their tour schedule. Here on the Plaza, everyone and everything is unfamiliar and impatient, from the office staff and harried managers emerging from a line of family cars and honking taxi cabs, the click of important heels on wet pavement, the exasperated dance of umbrellas jockeying for space as they pass. Nobody knows she's a cop, and none of the uniformed officers nearby nods in recognition and mutual respect. She's invisible.
She's supposed to be invisible. This is what she's here for. And this feeling climbing around the inside of her ribs and sparking fast twitches down her legs is a big part of why she became a cop: to be tested every day and find out what she's capable of. She's gotten too comfortable, attached to only one house and her first partner. She's in danger of complacency.
She needs to re-learn to read and respond to every interaction, every scene, as if it's new. They both do, she and Jamie. Learn to use their senses all over again, as much as their minds, to adapt to wherever they're sent. Of course they will be assigned to roles they're well-suited for, but they won't have a fraction of their usual operating equipment. Just themselves and their wits.
He's been her other sidearm for five years, just like she told him. Her extra vest. Not anymore.
"Ready, partner?" Jamie asks, his arms resting on Silver Belle's roof as he watches her.
"Let's do this."
Words they've exchanged thousands of times, on and off duty. She appreciates them deeply today.
They don't hold hands on the way in the employee's entrance or anything, but Jamie's quick, hidden touch on her elbow as they approach the security gate feels good. They de-holster and unclip and dump everything into the battered gray bin for the X-Ray, and the guard grumbles genially about Monday mornings as he wands them and waves them through.
It's 0745 hours on Monday morning, and the two most recent additions to the Undercover unit have arrived for their first day of training. Some people at the One PP have known Jamie since he was a little kid, when the fourteenth floor was still Henry's domain. Frank has arranged to see them for a quick lunch upstairs, on their break. It should be the friendliest entry into a new job situation they can imagine, but the work they're there to train for may be dangerous, deadly dull, often sickening, never predictable and they'll be limited in how much they can tell each other if they're not placed on the same operation. The chances of that, they know, are slim.
"Reagan and Janko, for Sergeant Vance," Jamie says to Emma, the senior Concierge, who peaks her pencilled brows in disbelief at his formality.
"Like we don't all know, kiddo. Go on up to Six, hang a left and look for Room 614. Good luck."
"Thanks."
Emma gives Eddie a friendly nod as they turn and head towards the bank of elevators along the interior wall of the lobby.
Room 614 is smallish and brightly lit by overhead florescent lights and tall windows that overlook Madison Street at its rainswept, late-winter bleakest. There are three men sitting at the long gray classroom tables when they enter. They're all massive men, one black and two white, two with shaved heads and all with diamond or gold stud earrings, ratty sweatshirts stretched over thick biceps and muscled abs, legs twitching with the effort of sitting still. If she passed them on the street she'd be employing all her observational skills to note their position and movements until she was well clear of them.
But these guys are definitely cops, to be sitting here unaccompanied. They only thing she can't tell is whether they're NYPD or not, because the color of the day today is dark red or maroon, and she can't spot any on them.
They look up. One sneers openly at her, looking her up and down like a show pony, and the other two merely stare at them both. She's small and fit and has a decent rack on her, and she's used to the looks, especially when she's a little dressed up, but she's come to expect better behavior from the cops she works with. She eyes them back calmly.
She knows she's had the rare advantage of working with a hundred decent men and only a handful of overgrown fratboys and a few genuine misogynistic assholes, like Maldonaldo, and that bad '70's cop-show reject Hoffman. She wondered at first if being Jamie's partner gave her a certain immunization from the treatment that many female cops deal with on the regular, but after a few months she realized that, no, the One-Two is a tight, friendly ship that she was lucky to join for her first assignment.
Besides, she's taught Jam-o a thing or two about letting her handle her own business, unless she's truly neck-deep. Though he's usually hovering by the time she's up to her knees.
Jamie does not react or try to protect her now, either. He just nods politely and say, "Morning."
These men strike her as posing. Alone, they'd probably look her in the eye. Together, they each fall into the Big Tough Man routine.
"So fresh they don't even smell," one of the white guys comments, to nobody in particular. The black guy behind him grunts.
"Thanks. We try," Jamie returns, without any inflection whatsoever, and pulls out a chair at the next table. Eddie sits on the table itself so she can look the trio in the face. Sweetening up large cranky men is something she knows how to do. And this is definitely a test.
"I'm Janko. He's Reagan. Who're you?" she asks the nearest.
"Depends. On a good day or a bad day?"
Eddie considers this, "Is today a good day for you?"
"Mebbe."
"Okay, well, let's say it's a good day. I know I'm having a good day. Treated myself to a mocha, 'cause you're right, this our very first day here, so this one – " she jerks her chin towards Jamie, who is tooling around with his phone in his lap, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, "had to put up with my caffeinated ass all the way down here. I'm out of the office for once, get to drive my own car. So yeah, I'd say it's a good day. You figured out who you are yet, buddy?"
The white guy farthest from them smiles slowly, and the other two relax into broad grins.
"Boucher," says the nearest to her, and holds out a great paw for her to shake. "He's Vance," he thumbs the white guy beside him, "And that's Pascal. Nice start, Janko. Friendly, controlling your emotions, inviting trust. Tell us your thought process coming in."
These, she realizes, are their classroom instructors, or at least Sergeant Vance is. The others might be part of the scene setup.
Jamie, too, has unwound and is leaning in to shake hands, grinning now.
"We knew you were on the job," Eddie begins, "You couldn't be sitting here otherwise. But I didn't see any color of the day on you, so I wasn't sure if you were NYPD or visiting. Then I wasn't sure if the attitude was because you were just brought in and still in character, or if you were genuinely sick of new kids coming in, if this was an exercise. Either way, we played it the same."
"We? I only saw you engaging."
There's no derision in Vance's voice, only observation.
"Yeah, we've done versions of this one before," Jamie replies, and begins outlining their play with his hands. "Eddie turned her back on the door as a sign of trust," he says, "But I had eyes on the door. I could see ten feet down the hallway that way," he points, "And I could see reflections of any movements from the other way in the whiteboard surface. When I'm out of uniform, I don't look like any kind of threat to guys who look like you, so I might as well play up the difference and come off like a non-threatening, nerdy office jockey. Eddie's the obvious choice to try to warm you guys up a little, not me, so she went for it. And I had my phone set to record everything, and my thumb on the side button I've got programmed for 911. Figured this was a walk-in pop quiz."
He waves his phone in the air, and as Boucher raises a finger, Jamie adds, "Not really recording. I know better than that. But I had the app queued up and ready to go."
"And while he was on security and surveillance and covering my back, I played to the cute-chatty-blonde type, mirrored your language, gave you a personal tidbit and teased Reagan here right in front of you. Girl does that, her guy friend is clearly no threat, and she's practically asking you to step in and show her your alpha stripes. Lots of useful information in the way guys hold themselves and talk while they're BS'ing around together. We both kept our posture open but didn't try to mirror each other or look at each other, or look like we were a unit, so again, no threat to you."
"And what kind of weapons are we carrying?" Boucher continues.
She and Jamie eye each other, and revert to their standard training.
"Glock 19? Or do you like the Sig?" Jamie asks. "I figure even you guys don't get to carry blades around this building."
"Trick question. You will never know who's packing what. Anything can be weaponized. In some cases, gang-bangers don't carry anything at all, especially if they're already on Probation and have no-weapons conditions, like many of them have since they were kids. That doesn't mean they aren't skilled and dirty fighters. We have three teams out there who've gotten inside fight schools that teach high level weaponless combat to bangers and wannabes. We're trying to at least pull level with their techniques and training."
"Huh," Eddie nods. "I've seen some of the results, I think – we're talking the guys who know their anatomy and do serious damage just with hands and feet, right?"
"Or whatever weapons of opportunity they can find." Boucher says. He turns his chair, as does Vance, so they're all in a loose ring facing at each other, with Eddie still up on the table trying not to swing her feet. She's having fun now. "You wanna maybe get down from there?" he asks her, "Or d'you like the extra height?"
She flushes a little and hops down, pulling out the chair next to Jamie.
"Okay," Vance speaks next, "Debriefing. This is not Academy. We use names, not command titles. We talk like the people we work with on the street, we swear a fuck of a lot and we do not say a word about how much fuckin' fun this all is, or how many years a bad case or two carves off your soul. Straight up, you got maybe five years before the bad shit really gets into your head. We try to boot you out before then and cycle others in. We can't always. Right now there's like forty, that's four-oh, Undercover and Plainclothes officers out on stress leave, and probably a hundred who should be, but we can't spare them without disrupting long-term ops. Questions?"
They shake their heads.
"Good. We don't put our hands up around here, either. Shout out questions if you have them. I'll be running classroom lectures for you and a few others in the mornings, for the next two weeks. I am a Sergeant, but you need to forget that yes-sir-no-sir bullshit now, if you wanna live through a hot scene. Call me Vance. I'm gonna be filling your pretty heads with the history of New York plainclothes work, Intelligence, and Counterterrorism, and how we fit into the Joint Terrorism Task Force with the FBI. Reason for all the general knowledge is, we don't yet know how we're going to use you. Might put you on cyberintelligence, social media gathering, public-space anti-crime duty, or into the kind of undercover infiltration work you've both done before. That'll depend on how you perform. Capisce?"
"Capisce," Eddie says,
"Good. Detective Sergeant Boucher here will be leading physical training, starting in a couple of weeks. Hard. Core. Mat. Time. Plan on hurting. Also improv acting, character backgrounding and using verbal codes and hand signals. Sergeant Pascal just came by for shits and giggles today after his workout. 'Bye, Pascal."
"'Bye, kids," Pascal waves his fingers at them, as he gets up and lumbers out of the room. "Big fan of your dad. Big fan."
"He's not really, is he," Jamie says.
"Not at all," Boucher replies. "But he won't be no bother to you."
"Okay," Jamie absorbs this and moves on. Eddie gathers he'll be happy if that's the last he hears about it, but doubts it will be.
"After we get you all hyped up, we're gonna send you back to school," Vance continues. "Assuming you get through the first month here, we'll send you to the John Jay College for the Advanced Narco Training course, one week full time – that'll be your official In-Service Training Credits for the year – and then we're gonna be introducing you to some of our working confidential informants. Say – you got kids, either of you?"
"Nope." Eddie replies. She'd expected that.
"Planning on it anytime soon?"
"Year or two, maybe? Not just now."
"Good. We can only use parents and pregnant women on non-contact work, for reasons I'm sure I don't need to explain. No harm and no disrespect if you do get pregnant, but you need to report it as soon as you know, so we can pull you back if you've infiltrated a group, or you're working in one of the high-stress task forces. You don't want to be chasing child molesters across cyberspace – or Central Park – while trying to hatch your own."
"I figured as much."
Vance is talking as though he expects to have them around for far longer than the year they were led to expect, she thinks. Which is fine, and pretty much guarantees them major promotions afterwards, but she hadn't banked on more than a year of this, for the very reasons Vance is warning her about.
"Good. Boucher has laptops to sign out to you both. They're for note-taking and online quizzes and scenario training only, and they will be signed back over at the end of the day. You can stay after class to study from them, and in fact you should plan on it, because there will be regular tests. Now. Here's what I know about you two: You've both shown good aptitude and interest in undercover work and intelligence gathering. You were partners until recently, when you started a personal relationship, and got recommended to me for a career-building opportunity and to work apart. Hooray. Reagan speaks decent textbook Spanish, and you, Janko, speak colloquial Serbian and a bit of Hungarian. We're gonna use that. You're both way overdue for a shakeup of partners, and you shouldn't be working together at all, except that by all accounts you're damn near psychic together and frankly, I haven't decided yet what to do with you. We get to throw all kinds of rules out the window if it benefits the NYPD. Looking at you both now, you're too squeaky-clean to pass for street criminals, but you might surprise me. Questions so far?"
"I did hooker duty on a sting once," Eddie says, almost defensively, "but it was dark and I was in full makeup and the guys at the club were beyond smashed, so it hardly mattered what I actually looked like."
"You and every decent looking lady cop," Boucher grunts, revealing a whole lot of detail about the decade he grew up in and his outlook on life and women. He's right, though, in his way: pretty much every attractive, feminine-looking female officer gets asked to play a hooker now and then. Only very recently have a few of the male officers gone undercover as club twinks or bears, as the gay scene becomes more mainstream, and gay violence and drug rings become better understood.
She eyes Jamie for a split second. Hmm. He'd make a very pretty piece of gym bait. She may or may not tell him that. But Jamie speaks up.
"You probably also know I participated in a long op involving a whole family caught up in white-collar fraud," Jamie says, flipping open his notepad and clicking his pen. "Whole lot of flirting going on with my drug and fraud contact, but it worked. We sent him and his sister to WitSec, and their family still has my photo, I'm sure of it. My point is, they've got a whole lot of reasons to hate me. They wanted him dead for turning informant and for being gay, or bi, or whatever he really was. Shaming them among their set, more than anything, I think."
Well. Her boy does still pull out surprises now and then.
"Know that too. We have some ideas. We'll get to that. Speaking of photos…"
Oh, no. Still?
"I heard the story of how you guys tried to get ahead of those cute Hampton getaway photos. I don't know if you've gone looking lately, but you should know they've pretty much disappeared from the Web. Just some traces left on archived pages and things. But yes, they are out there, and even though your names aren't included, you're clearly NYPD cops. That and Reagan's old Jimmy Riordan caper are complicating factors. Janko, how'd you feel about hair dye?"
"We have a meetup every couple of months. I've been thinking about going back to dark brown at some point anyway. You think I should?"
"Not just yet, but be ready to. That won't help Reagan here, with the Sanfino uncles still mighty unhappy with you, but we are confident they don't know your real identity, so that's something. Maybe send you back in to stir up the hornet's nest, listen for chatter and see who's controlling what these days. What d'you think of that?"
"I still get to help find a way out for the innocent bystanders, and try to turn any good prospects into informants, I'm in."
"You've thought about that case since then."
"I have. Just like to turn over possible alternatives to old outcomes in my head sometimes."
Vance leans forward. "Then one of your lessons, son, needs to be learning to let 'em go. You will lose some people. Innocents among them. And you will have to let some truly evil motherfuckers walk, to avoid compromising an op. Can you do that?"
"Have done, sir. Vance."
Vance eyes him very seriously, and nods. Boucher coughs, and they turn to see him drumming his fingers on two rugged Toughbook laptops.
"Enough small talk. Sign here. Sign the next column when you turn them back in. If you're studying late, it'll be Detective Sergeant Garcia who takes them back. Let's get to work."
Signing the page reminds Eddie that they need to remember all of these early interactions – especially these – and journal them later on, without having spoken together, so as to get two independent versions of events.
They say you need two separate brains to be able to work effectively undercover. She might as well start learning how to put one to work taking mental notes to jot down later. Maybe she can encode some thoughts under cover of a personal memo or e-mail in her phone, during their quick lunchbreak with Frank, eight floors up. They must get a break sometime, right?
Looking at Boucher and Vance's eager faces as they prepare to put their fresh meat through its paces, she's not so sure.
But it doesn't really matter.
She hasn't been this psyched up since her first day of Academy. And for the first time in her life as an only child, she knows what it's like to want to spill as much as she's able to a relative. Bojan, as her cousin and fellow officer, will be all over this.
More than that, he'll be proud she's part of his family. That's something she hasn't felt sure of in a long time.
Nicky pushes the steam-fogged glass door open, and steps out of the cold night into warmth and noise and the most amazing smells of tomato and fresh bread and spices.
"Hey! You made it!" Dale greets her.
"I did! Sorry I'm so late. Traffic was terrible."
Dale stands up, and in between shaking hands and stepping closer, they end up in an awkward hug, which is still nice. She hasn't seen him since the New Music festival in the Hamptons – since the night that Marjolaine was attacked. They've e-mailed and texted a few times since then, and he's reiterated his invitation to have her come to The Boots' next Brooklyn gig as his guest.
All four Boots are arranged around three tables pulled close together in the pizzeria, with a few girlfriends and hangers-on milling around grabbing slices and soft drinks. Nicky gets quite the once-over from a few of them, and flustered, she turns to Jack and Tasha. The three of them are easily the most overdressed in the crowd, but everyone seems to be approving of them, so…she's really not sure what to think, or what Dale might have told his band about her.
"Uh, Dale, this is my cousin Jack, and his friend Tasha. Jack was at the Hamptons festival, too. They're gonna have dinner here and then we'll meet up later at the gig."
Dale shakes hands with them both. He has to look up at a slight angle to the very clean-cut Jack, in clean blue jeans and a button-down shirt, in contrast to the ripped jeans, floppy plaid overshirts and signature green Doc Marten boots of the band.
"Wait. That Jack?" he looks at Nicky, who nods confirmation. "You're the one who jumped in to help that girl?"
"Well, me and my brother, yeah."
"Man, I wish your brother was here, too. Look, we'll get your tickets refunded and comped. That was badass, seriously. C'mon. There's like a ton of food."
After that, it feels like they're all still hanging out after the festival performance. The guys in the band, all university students, are just nice, friendly local boys of Irish and Scottish roots, and most of them, like Dale, have invited friends. They're bemused and delighted with their own success, excited to be playing a decent sized venue in town and getting paid for it. They're good, and they know they're good, but it's their genuine love of the music and each other that keeps people coming back to see them.
"Whyn't you say Jack was coming, too?" Dale asks her, as they find seats. "I'd have put him on the list, no problem,"
"Well, I didn't want to sound like I was asking a favor or anything. I mean, we only met the one time, so..."
"No, no. It's cool. I wanted to do something for them, anyway, when the cops told us what happened. I feel like we were already friends or something right when we met, you know? Just waiting for a chance to catch up."
"Old souls or something?" Nicky laughs, "Or maybe distant Irish cousins?"
"Better be distant," Dale returns, and Nicky glows a little. She's been idly daydreaming about seeing him again for two months, and he's just as open and direct and friendly as she remembered.
Jack and Tasha have fallen quickly into conversation and pizza with Oisín, the drummer, and Dale's younger brother Kevin, who plays fiddle and bass guitar. Kevin wants to hear how Jack learned to take down a creep and pin him to a wall, and Jack, pacificist though he is, launches into an explanation. Nicky figures she can leave them to settle in, and focuses her attention on Dale.
"So how've you been?" she asks. "How's school going?"
Dale and Oisín, she knows, are at Boston U together, having moved up together from high school friends to university roommates. Kevin, and their fourth member Giles, are also roommates at U Mass, just a few minutes away. The four alternated sharing practice spaces at each campus for a while, but now they timeshare a proper rehearsal studio with two other local Boston bands.
"Oh, pretty good. Graduating this June in Physics, minor in Math. Don't know yet what'll happen after that. Maybe see about a few advanced courses, try for grad school, but that'd mean giving up the band. Maybe just see what happens with the band over the summer. Oisín's graduating this June, too. Psych major. Kevin and Giles, who knows when. Year or two, maybe. What about you?"
"I'm on track to graduate, too! Double majoring in Sociology and Crim." She takes a breath. The sooner she gets Dale's honest reaction, the better. "Actually, I've, uh, I've just written the Officer Entrance Exam for the NYPD."
"No way! Serious?"
"Totally serious."
"Wow. I mean, you don't look anything like a cop."
He sits back and examines her, and she quickly twists her hair up behind her neck, and tries to mimic her mother's sternest expression.
"Oh, there it is," he says. "Your uncle's a cop too, right? The one who was at the festival?"
"Yup. Uncle Jamie. And my other uncle, Jack's dad. And our grandpa. And our great-grandpa."
And Eddie, she nearly says, but she's not entirely sure how to classify Eddie just now. Calling her "Aunt Eddie" doesn't feel quite right, though it won't be long before that's her formal legal connection – but Eddie's more of a big sister or cousin, just as Jamie's more of a big brother than an uncle.
"What? That's crazy. That's like a whole family business."
"That's pretty much what we call it. I mean, it was like growing up in a station house sometimes, so I don't think it'll be too much of a shock when I get started."
She's so relieved that Dale hasn't gone all anti-cop or started looking at her weird that she's babbling on, she realizes.
"Wicked. When d'you find out if you're in?"
"Oh, there's a lot of steps to go," she waves vaguely. "Medical, Interview, psych eval, job standards physical test, all that. If everything goes well, I could start Academy as early as September, but I might need more time to get all buff for the physical."
She really likes the look in Dale's eyes, at that.
"Well, shit," he says. "I never thought of lady cops as cute before, but…"
"What about a lady cop who's memorized every song on your CD?"
"Did you?"
"Of course I did! Actually, I was playing around with some harmonies to your 'Let Me Down Easy' cover."
"No way. You sing? Like for real?"
"Yeah, a bit. Years of choirs in church and school, and voice lessons in high school."
"No kidding. That's wicked cool."
There's flirting, and then there's falling into something so easily it's like remembering the steps of an old dance. Dale seems actually speechless for a moment, gazing at her with those blue eyes of his glowing in his freckled face. It hits her with a rush of excitement in her tummy that Dale's spent the last couple of months looking forward to seeing her again, too.
It's a shame he lives up in Boston, and isn't in town much, she thinks. Maybe New York will bring the band back more often…and Boston isn't too far a road trip now and then…
"I'm so glad you came tonight," he tells her, in a voice meant for her alone.
"Me too," she says softly.
She hears Jack laughing then, the rare rumbly belly laugh that starts off slow and then takes him over, like Uncle Jamie, and looks up. He and Tasha have apparently been playing along with a silly improv comedy routine at their table, everyone keeping it going as long as they possibly could until someone broke – and it was Jack who did. From the look on his and Tasha's faces, they're pretty glad they came, too.
Tasha's watching Jack as if she can't quite wrap her head around it – her old friend from way back in Kindergarten, grown tall and well-built all of a sudden, and getting himself on guest lists for jumping into help a girl, and being all cool with the band and things. Tasha herself is one of those kids who has barely changed over time, except to gain a couple inches of height and fine cheekbones since puberty, with enviable swoopy curves and a mass of natural black curls framing her dark eyes and classically Greek face. She's always been schoolyard and lunchtime buddies with Jack, and their families are friendly through Church, if not close.
Nicky hopes things work out for them. Jack's pretty far gone over Tasha. It seems to be mutual.
"How much longer we got?" Kevin calls.
"Twenty minutes or so, then everyone back on the bus to the site," Oisín says.
"Oh, I drove my Mom's car," Nicky tells Dale, "Maybe we should just meet up there?"
"I bet you can park in the alley behind here," he suggests "There's a couple spots there. We'll be coming back here after the show anyway. It's an all-ages gig, so we try to make sure everyone can come meet us after if they want. Maybe head to a bar later on, we'll see. You guys come on the bus with us. It's a bit crowded but it'll be fun. Hey – I wanna hear the harmony line you worked out. You'll come up when we do that one, right? We've never had a girl sing with us. And you look really great tonight."
Sunday dinners have been pushed back to leisurely lunches, since last Christmas, in order to accommodate the early Monday starts of various members of the family. Sean and Jack have football practice before school. Erin's started swimming again before work, in keeping with her New Year's resolutions. Jamie and Eddie have to get up by six in order to review their notes and be ready for class at 0800 hours. Those who want to stay later can still stay, and if not, the extra quiet time they have at home in the evening, before the week spins round again, is welcome.
This Sunday brings a flood of news, and Jamie decides he'll stick around as long as he can. Between Nicky's clearance to the Medical exam stage of her NYPD application, Sean and Danny's upcoming campus visit to Valley Forge Military Academy in Pennsylvania, and Jamie and Eddie's first week in the Undercover unit, the chatter has been loud and nonstop.
He's sorry that Eddie's missing all the updates, but today is her monthly visit with Mira, and their Skype date with Jelena and Bojan in Serbia. She set out for Katonah this morning just as he was leaving for Mass. To each their Communion. He's already used to the sound of her voice among them, and he feels her absence beside him.
He has a sudden memory of past dinners, with Linda and Danny sitting between the boys to keep them from tussling, just as his parents did with combinations of all four of them at times. With a sensation a little like jerking out of a near-sleep, he flashes forward to himself and Eddie doing the same with their kids, not too many years in the future. Who will be around that table? How much longer will Pop be with them? Will Sean be off in training or on a mission, and will Nicky's tours keep her from Sunday dinner? Will Jack be off at college?
Danny sees his gaze fall on the boys, and he catches his eyes and nods slowly. He's been thinking of little else himself, lately, Jamie knows.
"You got to sing, like, with the band?" Sean's chin is nearly on the table.
"She was awesome. Everyone loved it," Jack says, honestly.
Basking in her cousins' approval, Nicky glows. "It was really fun," she admits. "I only ever sang at Church events and school before. But yeah, it went great. We practiced a couple times on the bus, and then they brought me up for their encore number. I was shaking so bad. But then Oisín dragged me into a sort of country-dance during the bridge, and we were all laughing too hard to be nervous."
"And Dale kissed you on stage, in front of everyone," Jack can't help poking at her.
At this, Erin's head snaps up, along with everyone else's.
"Did he now?" she asks, amused. She's been hearing snippets about Dale since the festival, and this next installation has included all sorts of surprises.
"Right on stage!" Henry shakes his head slowly. As if he hadn't seen all that and much more, on the stages where the legends of the music halls played their New York tours, when he was a young man.
"Augh! You guys. It was just, like, a peck on the cheek when I went off stage. That's all," Nicky glowers across the table at Jack. "It was just supposed to be nice. It was nice. And what about Tasha?"
"What about Tasha? I didn't kiss her." Jack squirms, avoiding his father's look.
"Well, if you didn't, you should've. She sure wanted you to," Nicky returns.
"What? How do you know?"
"Yeah, how'd you know?" Sean asks, curious.
"It was pretty obvious."
So things are working out just fine for Jack and Tasha, Jamie thinks. He's glad. However long it might last, they're really good for each other, and there's nothing like falling for your best friend and having it returned.
"Are you planning on seeing this Dale again?" Frank asks, "He certainly sounds smitten with you."
"It's a mutual smit," suggests Sean. "A smit-smit."
"I don't know! I hope so? I mean, he'll be busy with school until Grad, anyway, so not for a long time. It was just a nice night, all right?"
"And he said you'd make a 'really cute lady cop'," Jack can't help himself. Nicky's jaw drops and she gasps at the betrayal as he goes on, mercilessly: "I should also mention that our famous feminist then said absolutely nothing about the stereotype of policewomen all being totally butch, or the hot-policewoman thing?"
Jamie and Erin both erupt in howls of laughter at this, and Henry utters a quiet "Good Lord!" from his end of the table. Danny swivels his head and stares at his eldest.
"Jack!" Nicky cries in protest. "It wasn't like that. He didn't mean it that way."
"He called you a 'lady cop', and you let him live?" Sean returns.
"This conversation has taken a slightly adult turn, for a Sunday," Frank admonishes. "I think we can agree there are times and places to confront stereotypes about women in all sorts of authority, but we don't need to do that right here."
"Why not?" asks Erin, with a wolfish grin. "Please, say more about the proper time and place to discuss gender stereotypes that aren't the family dinner table, Dad."
"Oh, here we go," Danny raises his eyes to the heavens.
Frank raises his hands in surrender. "I'm just saying, could we maybe leave colorful language about policewomen and gender politics for another time, especially from my seventeen year old grandson?"
"I was saying it was wrong!" Jack defends himself. "And that Nicky, of all people, would've said so, too, but she's all goofy over this guy. And you know, his brother's not all that thrilled with cops. Not at all. I was talking to him more than you were, in the bus."
"I know," Nicky says, more soberly. "Kevin and Giles have some pretty entrenched views about police. Mostly from the news."
"What did they say?" asks Sean. Jack looks at Nicky, who is not smiling anymore. It's she who answers.
"The usual stuff, only pretty watered down 'cause they knew I'd hear. That cops are racist, that they're bullies who assume everyone's a criminal, and they're basically hired to keep poor people in prison. But Dale told them they were wrong, that I wasn't like that."
"He said you weren't like that," Jack points out. "He didn't say cops aren't like that."
"He put you on the comp list for stepping up and helping Marjolaine and the cops," she reminds him. "He said that was badass."
"Nicky!"
"Sorry, Grandpa. I was just quoting. My point is, Dale's not anti-cop, even if his brother gets his ideas from watching hyped-up newscasts."
And besides, Jamie intuits, Nicky knows they're not entirely wrong. There's a vast and shameful amount that needs to be confronted and fixed about the interactions between the police and the citizens they police, in every city of the country, and Nicky knows it, too. In her case, it's a large part of why she's joining up instead of complaining, or turning activist like her old friend Chrissie.
"Nevertheless, and language aside, there are going to be a lot of people among Dale's groupies who aren't comfortable with a policewoman in their midst. It's just something to pay attention to." Erin says. "College band audiences aren't exactly known for always being law-abiding."
Sean mimics taking a drag on a joint, and Danny smacks his hand. "That's enough of that. And there won't be any where you're going, or if there is, you better be the one to report it."
"Sir, yes Sir."
"Attaboy. And salute."
"Not out of uniform, Sir," Sean sasses back, and Danny messes up his hair for him.
Sean, Jamie is happy to see, is slowly returning to his old self, now that it's settled that he's actually going to try for a berth at military school. Danny's taken it surprisingly well. In fact, Danny's finally come clean that he desperately wanted the same thing, as a teenager, which Jamie and Erin already knew. Danny already knew he wanted a military career, and of all the kids, he needed to get away from the loving but claustrophobic Reagan house. He'd only hesitated because he knew his mother and grandmother would be utterly wrecked at the thought that he'd want to leave so young, and so he'd waited until he graduated high school Then he'd kissed Linda goodbye, and lit out for the Marines and Camp Lejeune, a whole country away.
If Jack is more like Jamie than anyone else in the family, Sean is all Danny. Danny gets him, for all they clash antlers now and then. Danny knows that Sean's anger at Linda's death is far from diminishing, and that as the person closest to Linda in Sean's mind, Danny gets the blame in Sean's unconscious – all the moreso because Sean knows it isn't true, but needs a human face to project his anger towards. That's not going to begin to fade until he's away from the family for a while and can get some perspective.
Sean's never been truly tested by anything, always treated as the littlest kid at the table, and he needs something hard to get his back up against and find his own identity, away from all the big personalities of the family. There's no point in holding him at home for two and a half more years just because he's young.
Jamie tunes back into the conversation swirling around him.
"I don't know. Boston's not that far, but it's still a long way," Nicky is saying to Erin.
Jamie suddenly gets why Erin, Danny and Frank are all eyeing Nicky with slight concern. Of course they want her to be happy, but this might be the last few months she has left to have some fun as a normal college kid before she starts preparing for Academy in earnest. After that, she will need to be totally focussed on training and personal development.
Somehow he can't see Nicky and Dale navigating a committed relationship between the demands of the Academy and NYPD life, and a growing musical career, but stranger things have happened. He couldn't honestly say he'd suggest they try it out, though.
He's just arrived at that thought when Frank says, gently, "Nicky, Academy and the lead-up to it are no time for distractions or major life-events. You're going to need to rely on your old friends who can support you without you seeing them for a while. You'll have more new friends than you can deal with all at once, if everything works out as it should."
"Nobody's saying don't see Dale forever," Erin points out hastily. "But honey, Grandpa's right. If there's something between you worth cultivating, he'll understand you need to focus. And if he doesn't understand that about police life, then…"
"You guys make it sound like I'm planning to run away and be a groupie, or let some guy take my eye off the ball," Nicky complains.
Jamie feels badly for her. She was riding such a high, what with nailing an unexpected performance on stage with the band, and finding a mutual crush who sounds like a great guy, all things considered. He points out, not unkindly, "Your mom's right. Nobody's saying you gotta drop him, but you should probably explain to him exactly what it's going to be like from now until after your Probationary year."
"I'm just glad you got to sing on stage, Nicky," Henry speaks up, with a wobble in his voice, "And I'm glad I got to tread the boards with you, once. Because you won't be doing too much of that as a police officer either. You all should shut up and let this young lady enjoy the time she has left. She's not a recruit yet. This Dale kid sounds like he knows a good thing when he sees it."
"Thank you," Nicky says, looking up from her plate finally. "I'm really glad I got to sing with you, too. I know all this, really. I don't know why you all seem to think I need protecting from myself if I have a good time out and meet a guy who likes me."
The adults fall silent, a little shamed.
"It's not only that we don't want you to get hurt," Frank says, at length. "Though that's true, too. You have a lot to learn in a very short time. Sean, too."
Nicky holds up a slim hand. "Can we at least wait till we get there?" she asks. "You all raised us, you know. You might trust us a little. And everything is going to change forever, really soon, if Sean and I both pass our interviews, and we won't have much time left to be like this together."
Her tone makes Frank back right off. Jamie's impressed.
After lunch, nobody commandeers the kitchen for a private chat. Properly chastened by Nicky, and reminded very clearly that the kids really aren't kids anymore, they're all feeling like they want to stay together as much as possible. Dishes are washed and leftovers packaged as fast as possible by many hands, and then Henry suggests an old classic film. It's a perfect solution. They all need to sit back and ponder their words and reactions, and nobody wants to spark an intense discussion or a fight tonight.
With popcorn, hot chocolate and "Strangers on a Train" all in preparation, Jamie takes a moment to send a quick text before settling down in the cozy rec room downstairs:
Hi from everyone here. We're about to watch a Hitchcock. Let's take Nicky out soon. I love you so damn much.
It's getting on for three o'clock on Sunday afternoon at Mira and Bradley's house. Eddie is sitting with her mother and stepfather at their small kitchen table, over the remnants of a late lunch.
The cousins in Belgrade are six hours ahead. It's not a terribly large gap, but with everyone's busy schedules, they've worked out that nine pm Sunday in Belgrade is the best time to connect with everyone. Bojan is generally free then, at least on his current schedule rotation. Jelena and her doctor husband are always home then, and their two daughters are finished with homework, friends and dance lessons. It's become a monthly event, with extra calls on birthdays.
Eddie's come to look forward to these brief retreats. It's ironic how she suddenly has two family Sunday dinners to choose between, after years of solitary existence as a single woman in the city. The hour to herself on the highway is refreshing. She and Jamie are accustomed to spending the majority of their waking hours together, but they certainly notice the difference when they've had some breathing space alone. And Mira is so much more calm, so much more the brilliant, gracious woman that Eddie remembers from her childhood.
Both Bradley and the cousins have played a part in helping Mira find her way back. Eddie feels badly that she wasn't able to have a deeper impact, but she's starting to understand that she herself reminded Mira of the past as much as anything. For a mother, that must be a particularly hellish part of the journey back to selfdom: when your only child is a constant reminder of your own complicity in your husband's crimes. Eddie can't imagine what that must be like. No wonder they scratched at each other constantly for years, all the more hurtful because they'd been so close.
As for Eddie, still deeply unsettled by her father's medical situation and post-incarceration fantasy plans, spending more time with her mother in person and connecting with her Serbian side has been just as timely. It's not all easy. Even if Mira has limited tolerance for hearing about Armin and his doings, she still has a right to know, and Eddie needs to talk about it.
It's easy enough to explain the concept of data mining to Mira and Bradley, and why Armin's next big plan is both brilliant and ill-fated as ever. Eddie makes it clear she has no intention of going along with Armin's plan for running a laundry information-harvesting service, especially not with her as a business advisor.
"But the thing is, I'm not even sure he was even thinking clearly, Mom. I know he's always been like that, jumping from one big idea to the next, and trying to carry everyone along with him. But I have to wonder now if that was more of a symptom than a cause. They've had him on sedatives for years. I just found out from the staff there. And I have to ask you something. They told me he was diagnosed with Bipolar disorder, right after he started his sentence. Didn't he ever…there weren't any signs before…?"
"Of that? No. Just your father being his usual reckless self, not thinking of anyone else."
Mira's eyes flicker away from Eddie's, and she gets up from the table.
"I cannot hear any more right now."
Of course, Mira must have known. As Armin's legal wife for the first three years of his incarceration, she'd have been informed of all his medical updates. Something else she'd kept from Eddie, out of misdirected love. And denial.
"Sorry," Eddie says softly, as her mother disappears. "I missed her usual cue…"
Bradley shakes his head. "Not your fault. She's been mostly fine talking about Armin for some time now. I think meeting her cousins over the holidays has opened up a lot more of the past than she was prepared for. They had plans to go back to Europe when it was safe to return, you know, she and Armin."
Eddie knows. She often heard her parents daydreaming about returning home in triumph, the two who had fulfilled the great American Dream, bringing their fortune to Budapest or Belgrade, to live in even greater splendor. They talked of sponsoring a young relative or two to go to America in their stead, to be their American sales agents, while they sent young Edit Marie to the best Swiss boarding and finishing schools and expanded their investment business model across Europe. Armin would tell little Eddie all about it, holding her up so she stood on top of his feet, and he would teach her to waltz around their dining room, spinning her visions of the beautiful gowns she would wear in her debut season as a young lady.
Seated instead at a table in her usual weekend jeans and sweater, overlooking the back garden of the house in Katonah, Eddie hears Mira's footsteps fade down the hallway, and then the click of the bedroom door. Mira isn't one for causing scenes, exactly, but she has a very Slavic way of becoming ever more remote and polite before simply excusing herself if nobody takes the hint.
Usually Eddie gets the hints. Not today, apparently, unless the countdown from hint to disappearance has shrunk dramatically.
"I just thought she should know about Dad's current state. She doesn't need to do anything. I get that she doesn't want anything more to do with him."
"But he's still your Dad, and you need someone to talk to about what you're dealing with. And to talk to people who knew him when he was younger," says Bradley, perceptively. "My dad had Alzheimer's for twelve years before he passed away. I'm not saying that's what Armin's dealing with. Just that I get it. You need a reference point to make sure you're remembering things right from before."
I didn't even get a chance to ask her about the cocaine use, Eddie thinks. She can't quite imagine how her mother will respond to that, but she has to know. Somehow, Eddie, the five-year NYPD officer, has to ask her own mother if she was aware her husband used to take cocaine to get over the depressive events he kept hidden from everyone.
Not tonight.
"Yeah. But I guess…maybe I hoped she might just give a damn about him, you know? She has you, and I'm really glad about that, but…"
"I know," her stepfather assures her. "They were together for twenty five years. And if either Mira or I start having cognitive problems, I'll tell you now, Eddie, we're in it for the long haul. People live longer these days. One or both of us could eventually have some kind of mental slippage, you never know. I'm not leaving Mira alone, even if she doesn't recognize me, and she's not leaving me, either."
Eddie nods. It's probably time they all sat down and talked about that as a family. It seems odd, now that she thinks of it, that as a perfectly healthy, relatively young NYPD cop, she's got so much advanced crisis planning in her Personnel file, from death insurance beneficiaries to living wills and donation instructions, but she has no idea what her mother wants, or fears, or has already planned for.
"Aging ain't no joke," she says, somewhat bleakly, and reaches for her water glass. "I'm glad neither of you are alone."
"We're glad you're not alone," Bradley returns. "I like your Reagan fella. I think he's a keeper."
"Me too," Eddie says, "I mean it. You're a good guy, Bradley. You've been nothing but great for my mom. I'm sorry I haven't really been around much."
"You've been busy saving the world."
"From itself, most days, it seems like."
"Potato, po-tah-to."
She sits up and pushes her hair back, giving him a small smile. "So I guess I have a legal dependent now," she says. "Or I will, as soon as he reaches a point where two doctors decide he's not able to conduct his own affairs. Could be next year, ten years, or never. Funny, I sort of assumed it would be my own kid. Not my dad."
"Happens that way sometimes. Knowing that Alzheimer's runs in the family, I've had to talk to my own daughter about that a few times. Power of Attorney, financial access, living wills, all that. Again, Bipolar disorder's a different beast, but the planning-ahead still applies. Especially if he's been increasingly medicated and is about to be paroled after being heavily supervised for years."
"He still thinks I'm going to be the one supervising him and his new band of brothers. Or he thinks he can convince me to live nearby and drop in every day, if he just says he expects it of me often enough. After everything he's done for me."
"You poor kid," her stepfather says, unexpectedly. "He's pulling that level of crap on you?"
"I think it was always there. He was just always careful to hide the expectations under the doting-father routine. He thinks my being a cop is just a phase, me acting out to get his attention."
"Is it?"
It takes her a second to realize Bradley's pulling her leg a little. He's always so steady, so reliable, that she forgets he has a dry humorous streak in him. She snacks him lightly on the arm as he grins.
"No! Not unless seeing me trying to be accountable and make up for some of our family crap makes him feel remorseful, and that's on him, not me. Maybe his come-down was the kick in the ass I needed to get me to think about what I could do in the world, but the second I put on my Recruit grays and saw myself… It's funny, with the kids I was raised with, the crowd I ran with in high school and college, I should've turned out way differently. I should've been into things that the NYPD wouldn't have wanted anyone who had any part of it. The parties, the drugs, the country-club princess thing. But something always made me stay away from all that. I guess my big rebellion was the string of rocker boyfriends with fast motorbikes and no future in music. They were pretty hot, though, I gotta say. Way more interesting than prep school boys."
Bradley laughs and gets up, taking his dinner plate to the dishwasher. Eddie follows with hers, and leans back against the counter as Bradley tells her, somewhat surprisingly, "You are more your mother's daughter than Armin's, no matter what he wants you to believe. I haven't even met the man and I can tell you, he wanted you to be his perfect little girl, always. You get your toughness from your mother."
"And her mother. I'm beginning to get that."
"Well, that's something to hold onto," Bradley says. "What would your grandmother Marija do?"
"Huh. Something to ask Jelena or Bojan. They actually knew her."
"You should. Coffee?"
"Yes, please. Then we should fire up Skype and see if the cousins are ready. I know Mom wanted to talk to them too, but I guess she's sort of done."
"Not completely done," Mira's voice sounds from the door. "I'm sorry, draga. Don't think I don't care. It's all just…" she waves an elegant hand in the air.
"I know." Eddie says. "It's a bit much for me, too. But I'm dealing with it, Mama. And I'm not alone, I have help. The prison staff, his doctors. Jamie. I haven't met his parole officer yet."
"I don't want my anger in your heart," Mira says quietly. "I am sure you have more than enough feelings about your father to deal with. It would be good of you to write me all you have learned in an e-mail. That way I can come back to it when I am ready."
"I thought of doing that. It just seemed kind of…distant."
"I think distant is what I should remain, in regards to him, but I don't want you to feel you can't talk to me about the difficult things. Is that coffee you're making? I'll have some, too. And of course I want to hear about your new work. I can tell you this: you picked up your acting skills from your father, not me. That's something you can thank him for. He's always been able to make people believe what he says, just like you. The difference is that you don't use it for your own benefit. Only for other people. There is such honesty in you, such a need to see justice done. There always was. And compassion, mali. You go where I cannot. Tako sam ponosan na tebe."
Is thirty-two a bit old to be touched so deeply by a parent's pride? Eddie chokes up nonetheless. Proving herself and earning people's respect seems to have been the theme of the week, from Henry and Frank to her new supervisors. Mira's unasked-for vote of confidence hits home right where she needs it. Especially as her father is doing his level best to make her feel like she's not measuring up to his expectations, and part of her desperately wants his regard, too. It's just programmed into her.
Mira's words put new energy in her spine, and she feels like she can manage her father, instead of continually feeling she has to fight against his mindgames. She wishes she had something to offer Mira in return, instead of news of an unwell ex-husband and increased worry over her daughter's new line of work, which Eddie won't be able to tell her much about. Mira is tough, yes, but it's a toughness that is activated by being able to take action, and there's nothing Mira can do about any of those things.
"Hvala, Mama."
"Come, come." Mira holds her arm out. Eddie willingly goes to her, and Mira hugs her to her side, pressing a kiss to her temple. She fleetingly wonders if she should grow out her roots and go back to her natural brunette again, but decides she's still enjoying being a blonde too much for now.
Besides which, it gives her visual proof to remind her father that she's not the little girl with the shiny dark ringlets anymore.
She's sipping her coffee and firing up Skype on Mira's laptop when her phone chirps.
Hi from everyone here. We're about to watch a Hitchcock. Let's take Nicky out soon. I love you so damn much.
She smiles. Sounds like it's been quite a night in Bay Ridge.
If there were only words enough, she types back.
(Musical Interlude and/or Soundtrack: "Bones", Michael Kiwanuka. Find it on YT!)
She hasn't worn this dress, the vintage embroidered little black mini with the sharp plunge, since the first time they went dancing. It's lurked in the back of her closet in its dry-cleaning bag ever since then. She'd nearly had second thoughts about it tonight, not wanting to revisit awkward memories. Now she's extremely glad she pulled it and her low black suede pumps out of hiding. Black lacy underthings, new pair of sheer stay-up stockings, hair in a mass of loose waves, good to go.
The outfit still works.
As in, stunned silent, open-mouthed gape, heavy-eyed works.
As she'd stepped out of her bathroom, hearing him call as he let himself into the apartment, she found herself gaping right back. He wore his deep indigo dress shirt opened a button lower than usual, with his best bespoke charcoal suit hanging perfectly around it. Instead of getting a haircut, he'd done something with the emerging curls in front that makes her fingertips ache. But it was the look in his eyes…
Honey, I've been thinkin' 'bout you
All that you do.
Don't you think of me, too?
She sees that look again, as they ease into a turn at the edge of the dance floor, and pass by another couple who eyes them admiringly.
Lady, where you've been for so long?
I don't mean you no wrong
Had to write you this song.
They've come back to Bix' Basement Jazz and Supper Club for a Saturday night early Valentine's dance and buffet-style endless appy dinner, this time without the matching black eyes. And this time there's no nudging each other about anything they're missing out on or giving up. Even at the most significant crossroads of their careers, and with their families both on the precipice of major changes, they are each other's steady, fixed point.
Well, I long to be alone with you
And if I couldn't have you, I don't know
What I would do?
He looks down at her, and finding her eyes already on him, he swallows hard. "You are amazing," he tells her.
She slides her palm up over his chest. Whatever flippant return she had in mind fades away.
"I'm lucky, is what I am," she replies, as his hand covers hers. He looms over her a little, and she gets the tingles. Normally she resists being reminded of her short stature, and relishes her own independence, but tonight she feels encircled by him. Enfolded in his strength and solid warmth.
I guess I would leave, I would leave
This world alone, world alone
'Cause without you, I'm just bones.
She's always known Jamie has a hidden edge, a darker energy running through him that he keeps locked down tight until some spark of righteous fury or a long-simmering frustration sets off an explosion. He's the very soul of consideration with her, though Bossy Jamie sometimes comes out to play, to her intense delight. She knows she teases him hardest, at work or in bed, when he really needs to let off the brakes and vent some steam.
Well, I dream of you so much
Love you so much, but
Thoughts aren't enough.
Tonight, though, he's radiating a primal possessiveness and quiet command that quickens her breath and sends the electric flutters right through her belly. She's there with him, she's his, and he wants people to know it. It doesn't feel like weakness to let herself fall into the feeling. Giving him her complete trust feels like a hard-earned moment of indulgence.
Well, I speak only of you
So what else is new?
What am I to do?
He brushes her mouth with his, with strict self-restraint, and moves them towards the center of the floor, still holding her hand against him.
"I think I'm the lucky one."
She'd lean her head against his shoulder, but she doesn't want to get makeup on his jacket. So she just ducks her head a little and leans in, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck, and his arms tighten around her.
Well, I long to be alone with you
And if I couldn't have you, I don't know
What I would do?
Her body remembers exactly how it felt, the first time they danced here, and he pulled her closer. Darts of excitement were running here and there all through her, at his nearness, the latent strength of him, the scent of him, the way his own breathing slid all over the place as he tried not to look at her mouth or down at the curves of her breasts in her dress, and then gave up. She'd tried to keep things light and casual, giving him an out, especially in a public place like this. Even so, even after agreeing once again to not risk their partnership, they were a heartbeat away from racing home and fucking each other senseless. She'd had to send him on his way firmly at the end of the night, for her sake as much as his.
Somehow, even with their relationship deepened and flourishing, with all the mess of real life to deal with, it's even better tonight.
I guess I would leave, I would leave
This world alone, world alone
'Cause without you, I'm just bones.
She's drifting away on the music, idly thinking that she should probably eat something soon, when Jamie's hand slides down an inch towards her ass, and gives her a whole other set of ideas. She tilts her head up so she can murmur in his ear, and he obligingly leans down to listen.
"Tell me," she says, "After we left here last time, what'd you do when you got home?"
His sharp inhale gives her a hint. She doesn't leave him much time to answer, but goes on.
" 'Cause I remember exactly what I did," she whispers. "I wanted you so bad I could barely stand up. You held me and touched me all night and then I had to go home alone. D'you have any idea the state I was in?"
His hand tightens on her hip and he presses her hand against his chest, so she can feel the thumping of his heart, as they keep dancing as though nothing untoward is going on.
"I didn't even take off my dress when I got in," she whispers, so only he can hear. "I just lay on the couch and slid my hand in my panties and I was so wet, Jamie, you wouldn't believe it, just from thinking about you all night. I came in like two minutes, just imagining it was you."
"Jesus, Eddie," he breathes into her hair.
"After that," she goes on, mercilessly, "You know what my favourite fantasy was? That you followed me home after all. I'd be on the couch getting off all by myself 'cause you drove me crazy all night and I couldn't wait. There'd be a knock on the door and I'd get up and you'd be standing there, and you'd just – "
He makes the faintest sound, and she steers them around another couple with a cheerful nod.
"And I'd get up against the wall, and I'd fuck myself with my dil, you know, the glass one that makes me fucking insane when you do me with it, and I'd imagine it was you – "
"Eddie, fuck, please…" he begs.
She lets go of his neck and leans back, smiling serenely into his eyes. His are thunderous and dark, his pupils blown, his lids heavy.
"Tell me," he murmurs challengingly, and her stomach flips, hard. "What you got on under here?"
But for a few inches, he'd be grabbing a handful of her ass outright, but he's keeping his hands just within the bounds of propriety.
Her breath escapes her and she misses a step. "Ah…stay-up stockings. Black lace panties. The ones with the roses. You know them," she murmurs back.
"Mm hmm."
A couple of beats later, he leans down again.
"When this song's over, go take off your panties. I'll meet you by the dinner tables."
His hands are tight on her hips and there's a growl in his voice. She's barely breathing at all. "Jamie…"
His eyes leave no room for dissent.
Holy shit, Reagan.
Is he going to find some dark corridor of the old club's basement and fuck her right there? It's Jamie. He wouldn't, would he? He looks like he might. And he's not going to tell her. He's going to keep her wanting and waiting for it.
Somehow they dance through to the end of the song, and she's getting wetter by the second, the more politely he holds her.
When the music fades, he kisses her fingertips and damn near bows before shoving her very gently in the direction of the washrooms. He gives her a grin and says aloud, "I'll be over at the buffet, honey. Looks like a great spread. You want me to get you a drink?"
"No thanks, dear, I just need some water," she shoots back. "It's sorta hot in here."
Her purse is in the coat check, and the dress she's wearing doesn't have pockets. She's standing in the stall, holding her panties in one hand and wondering what the hell to do with them, when she's hit by the smell of her own arousal. A very mischievous grin creeps over her face.
She folds up the little lace panties as small as she can – they nearly disappear between her fingers, when she's done – and makes sure her hand is angled towards her dress as she heads back to the dinner tables. She's banking on the fact that people tend not to believe they're seeing what they don't want to, even if they looked twice and realized it isn't a handkerchief she's holding.
The look in his eyes heats her through as she walks towards him.
"Sweetie, could you hold onto this? I don't want to have to get my purse out of the cloakroom," she says, flipping open the front of his jacket. Deftly she slides her panties, folded flat, into the inner pocket, and then set him to rights again, patting his chest. "Thanks. You know, this is why I'm always going on about pockets!" she chatters on.
He clears his throat. "Sure. No problem," he mutters.
She smiles and slides into the chair next to him.
"What'd you get us?" she asks, looking hungrily at the assortment of appetizers he's collected.
Somehow they get through a round of appies and drinks – Dunhill's for Jamie, and soda and a lime wedge for her, since she's driving – and get back on to the dance floor unscathed. And now that the game is on, it's on.
Her dress isn't so short that she's concerned about dancing with no panties on, especially with the stockings she's got on, but if she can smell herself, then so might anyone nearby.
Oh, well. It was Jamie's idea. He can deal with it. He's already got that look that makes her shiver a little inside.
"You wanna know what I did when I got home?" he murmurs, just under her ear, as they're slow-dancing close and warm to a Marvin Gaye tune.
"Tell me," she breathes, her nails scratching lightly into his nape.
"Same thing I did so many nights. Got in the shower, drove myself crazy thinking of you, the way you feel, the sound of your voice, the way you move – Jesus, Eddie, the way you smell all turned on…till I couldn't stand it. It was always you, Eddie. Even just thinking what it was like to kiss you…"
"I know…"
"That time you came over…d'you have any idea how bad I wanted to kiss you for real…"
"Yeah," she whispers. She knows, all right. He was on the very edge of diving back in and kissing her breathless, before she slowed them down. If she hadn't, she knows, they would not have stopped until they drove each other to exhaustion.
"Just thinking of it would get me going."
"If I hadn't left…"
"Oh, now that was my favourite fantasy."
It was certainly the starting point for a whole lot of her fantasy-Jamie scenes, too. Breaking down that tight, proper resolve of his and riding him to a galloping sweaty finish on his own couch. Or Jamie taking control and fucking her to a screaming orgasm in his bed…
They get through two more songs, just barely managing to avoid becoming overly conspicuous, but they're hardly alone among the amorous Valentine's Day couples here tonight.
Then Eddie, heading back to the washroom, catches a glimpse of two women who either couldn't wait or don't care, in the last stall. They're young and cute and so hot for each other, trying to keep quiet, but sharp gasps and groans keep filtering through. She supposes she should probably arrest them for public indecency, but hey, they're not doing anyone any harm, and it's an adults-only event, so…she shrugs, washing her hands, and calls out, "Happy Valentines!" as she leaves.
She tells Jamie all about it when she returns, and that's when he finally grips her hand and says, "Let's get out of here."
They're safe in Silver Belle in under seven minutes, after retrieving their overcoats and thanking the gracious venue host for a lovely evening, and promising to be back soon.
She plots the quickest route to her place, and has a revelation at a red light. Her car is dark inside, and low, and…
Her hand slides across Jamie's thigh and up the inside, and he jumps. "Hey!"
She stills her hand, and looks over at him, eyes alight. He gets it, then. His quiet moan is her answer.
She rubs her fingertips over his inseam impatiently as he unzips and conceals the view from the window side with his jacket. He'd been so intent on not letting himself get carried away in the club that he chokes out a sigh of relief now, and slides down a little in his seat. She runs her fingers up and around his heated length as he pulses and hardens under her touch, and he curses under his breath.
"Jesus, Reagan. After all you were doing to me back there… I nearly had to take care of myself in the bathroom."
"You didn't?" he asks, his eyes drifting shut, though he doesn't want to miss a second of this.
"No," she says, "Not without you."
"Eddie…" he groans, as her fingers play over him. Fuck, that's an incredible sight: her good boy turned all bad, in that shirt that picks out the shape of the muscles beneath, his plush lower lip demanding a bite, his cock rising hard and proud into her hand, right there in her car. Just like he's dreamed of.
"Don't come," she murmurs warningly, as she eases off the brake and speeds up smoothly, "Don't come all over my car…"
"Aw, fuck, Eddie…"
She's never driven Silver Belle with no panties under her dress, and she finds herself scanning her mental map to see if there's anywhere safe in this city to pull over and crawl over onto her passenger's lap. The thought of riding Jamie just in her stockings is mind-foggingly hot. She doubts there's anywhere safe between here and home, but she does tell Jamie how much she wants to.
He appreciates that.
Somehow they make it home more or less unscathed. Jamie manages to tuck himself back in for the brief flight upstairs. And then they're inside, and her stomach wrenches with pleasure as his hard, devouring kiss takes her breath away. She lets out a sob as he ducks his head and his teeth sink into her arched throat, and his hands tug the hem of her dress up over her thighs.
"Fuck, Jamie, fuck me," she hisses. He moans and lifts her clean off her feet, carrying her to the couch. He drops heavily onto it, bringing her with him, and she kicks off her shoes and lands astride his lap. She finds his mouth and seeks out his tongue, pushing his jacket over his shoulders. Once free of it, he unzips himself again as her busy fingers work on his belt buckle and then his shirt buttons, and holy shit, he's lifting her ass to tug her dress out of the way, and he's growling down her throat as she takes him deep inside her and slides down flush against him. He looks like a dream, rumpled hair and damp skin, panting and ridden hard in his good suit. He's all hers, thoughts and body and breath and thick hard cock, and the feel of him against her stockinged legs and bare ass is sending her out of her head. He braces one arm around her hips and drives his fingers through her hair, and his demanding kiss matches the relentless tempo of his thrusts. Forget Bossy Jamie – this is the Jamie who wants and lusts and needs, and what he needs is her.
She buries her rising cries in his neck, and twists her hips down against him, over and over, and feels herself spiralling closer and closer to the edge of her undoing. She's so close, and it's almost too intense for her to come from it. Then his harsh demand falls on her ear: "Come for me, come for me…" and she gasps and grinds down on his hard length and bites back a scream against his collarbone as the pleasure shudders through her.
He curses and takes her hard and ragged, her name escaping him in breathless pants as he finally lets go. She slumps against him, dazed, her arms looped around his neck, and he holds her tightly, catching his breath.
"God, Reagan," she murmurs, "I love you like this."
"You do, huh?"
She rubs her cheek along the once-crisp front of his shirt, "I love you always. But sex-mad Jamie, too turned on to think? Yes, please."
He manages a chuckle, and nuzzles into her neck. "It's you. I could never let go like that with anyone else."
"And in public!" she teases, stroking the skin of his chest as it heaves with his breathing. He huffs a rueful laugh.
"We got lucky there."
"Yes," she kisses his cheek, "We did. And I guess this is the awkward aftermath. What d'you say we get out of these poor clothes and grab a shower?"
"I gotta say, for an awkward aftermath, you're pretty cute," he says. "But yes, let's do that. And don't worry – " he slides a warm hand down and snaps the elastic garter of her stocking, "I bet you won't even think about tonight at all at family dinner tomorrow."
A/N: The Detours will be on brief hiatus while I am chugging through midterm essays. Fear not, there are many more adventures in store! Thank you SO MUCH for your lovely comments and encouragement. They really do mean the world. Be back with you as soon as possible!