An attempt to write a series 1/2 Dempsey when he's too busy making assumptions and being cocky, with references Lucky Streak and Silver Dollar. Also an attempt to juxtapose two points of view in one story and seeing if it works.
I often find I stray into one or other points of view in one story, and have to edit myself, which is why I started What Does Love Look Like. This is another way to reign myself in, not sure how effective it is!
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The first time he has no idea where to look or what to do.
Friday night. Nine in the evening. There's an explosion of criminals in a warehouse over on the East End docks, in the wasteland where the developers are poaching posh names and plotting new money. Something involving two big time gangs and enough drugs to make billionaires of them all, a throwback to older days. Spikings needed an animal so he called Dempsey and his trainer.
The warning was her late arrival. She was never late. Harry was prompt to the point of irritating. Dempsey had observed that she'd probably come hourly on the dot and she'd tartly told him that would be a disappointment. Thirty with the right man and he was left open mouthed on the pavement, wondering what the hell just happened.
She rushes through the door of the dreary SI-10 office like a breath of midnight air, avoiding all eye contact with him as if she can predict his response. His heart rate increases.
When the pager went off she was struggling to hide her pleasure at the noise. William loves the sound of his own voice but his monotone irritates her. Until recently, accents never mattered.
He's not sure what he thought Lady Winfield would wear on a Friday night. He'd figured casual workout stuff. Sexy leggings and a tight t-shirt, maybe one of his sweats in his fantasy. It wasn't a tight Little Black Dress with fuck-me heels and a lot of eyeliner.
When she got into her car, she could have turned left to go home and put on her sensible Harry wear or right to go to the station in date wear. She was late. She was needed. She hauled the steering wheel clockwise.
In the day she wears little make-up. It was one of those things that almost disarmed when she sat on his couch, that morning she came to collect him. Young, fresh and perfect, not suitable for the likes of him to spoil. The blanket was nestled beside her as evidence. He wondered if she knew that he'd jacked off to the vision of her in that red number hours before she sat down. No effort required, a natural beauty, and he liked that about her, but he never said.
Every week she turns up to work and goes through the same flirt-not-flirt, watches him persuade other women to share their secrets to speed along the case. They are cat nip to his alley stray.
It made him think about what she'd look like in the morning after he'd made love to her. He'd made a lot of unfair comparisons when other women had slipped from his bed, shrouded themselves in hairspray and foul tasting foundation before he was allowed to see them. He thought of Harry, and wondered how she'd feel.
But now, in front of him, is date-night Harry. He might die from self-combustion.
She could not handle his apology if he said he could not come over, he's 'busy'. Not that he has ever said so, but still. He hasn't done anything and that makes her cross for reasons that elude her.
"I'm sorry I was late." She says to Spikings who waits behind his desk. She coolly sits down opposite their boss, next to him, crossing her legs which seem to go on for miles. There is a glimpse of stocking top and she pulls down the hem to hide it. He bites the inside of his cheek.
His flirting was one of many ways to wind her up. She likens it to white noise that somehow becomes a tune with it's own beat. She won't allow herself to dance.
There's a scratch on the inside of her knee, like a delicate mark in the icing of a cake that he wants to taste. He finds himself running his tongue on his lip with a pang of guilt for his thoughts.
He did back away from Annabel and followed her instead, as if he'd listened when she'd mentioned her ex-husband and his traitorous ways.
"Thank you, Makepeace." Spikings blusters on about the events and what they need to do.
The heat of his eyes on her makes her stomach flop. She tries to ignore the blaze of them on her thighs.
He walks her down to the car park, her heels sound loud as they echo off the dull walls and he can't think straight. She is Makepeace, but she's not. She hasn't spoken and he's sure that whatever comes out his mouth will be wrong, and tactless.
Her date looked at her the same way but he didn't cause her to ignite. He's not James Dempsey.
He wonders why she's dressed like this. Whom for? Another guy, a date? Does she date? He'd heard she doesn't, and thought it a challenge. Nobody knows about the ex, they just know she's not been the same since. Dempsey wants to find out the prick's name and give him a going over. He ignored Annabel's advances.
She tried William out. Sat opposite him in the restaurant, her first date since her decree absolute and tried to find some flames. Something to make her argue or want to crawl across the table and stick her tongue down his throat.
He's thrown by her. This different side of his partner that he'd never expected to see and wishes it was for him.
She swallowed the salad, avoided the steak and wondered if a burger might have been a better choice.
She gets into her car.
She didn't agree to a second date when William asked and there was a hint of suspicion that the pager message wasn't real until she spoke to Spikings on the phone behind the bar. She offered a polite kiss to his cheek.
"Sorry about your night..." He says finally, knowing she'll turn up within the next hour at the docks looking stunningly appropriate. He takes one last glance, gazing at her cleavage. Drinking her in, this enigma that he can't fathom.
"Leave it, Dempsey." She warns and drives away.
She can't bear to ring Dempsey and hear the chime of a female giggle, knowing he'd put the phone down and tell the woman, it's 'just my partner'.
The next time, a few weeks later he knows. He can't wait.
The dead body is one of her snouts. Mad Fred.
He hears her before he sees her, the clack of heels and he prepares himself for the Little Black Dress. He's slightly stunned by long black boots that hug her legs, up over her knees, and a coat that she immediately wraps around herself, drawing all his attention to the curves of her body.
Dempsey looks faintly troubled. His eyes are wide. She's reminded of a stray cat offered a meal.
The boots are stiletto sharp. He looks up her legs from where he's crouched by Mad Fred. The deadly look of them causes a delicious pain in his dick as his eyes trail up her body and she meets his gaze with a challenge of her own. If she was for hire, she'd be priceless.
"Is this every night or just for me?" He aims for flirty, slides closer to cocky. He wants take her dancing in the club, press her close and have her move for him alone.
She's thrown by his tone, does he really know that she threw on the boots and the coat to see what he would do?
"I beg your pardon?" Her tone doesn't help his situation, or do anything to remove the feelings of submissiveness which feels oddly liberating at her feet. He stands up meekly and looks down at the body, standing taller beside her as usual.
She almost agreed to a second date when William rang after Dempsey had stormed to the airport. If he was so intent on leaving her, then she could do the same.
He must fail to hide the distress he feels from his face, because she looks twice at him as if she cared. Why would she not go on a date? He'd assumed she didn't. She probably has a dozen men called Charles, Henry or Jasper all asking her for dates every day. No Jim Dempsey leering over her.
"A date?" His voice cracks.
She sighs wearily.
"Is there anything more romantic than standing in the rain with a dead body and your handsome partner?" He thinks of where they could be right now and is surprised when his mind lingers on dinner, flowers and wine.
"You wouldn't know how to take a girl on a date, Dempsey. You'd need a manual and even then you'd ignore most of it and skip to the sex part." She bends down and looks over the body, the leather of the boots creaking. He hears the twang of a bedspring.
"I'd try, for you." He dares.
"I don't think you could handle me." She challenges from where she's crouched, her head by his flies, his hands on his hips.
She would like him to try but he's going to have to work for it. The audacity of him thinking she may not go on a date. As if she's thinking of him all the time and hoping he'll ask.
"And this other guy can?" His tone has risen enough to make the uniformed officers standing by the tape look over. They turn away at his glare. He feels a little sick that she's worn this for someone else. But then, what of himself and his behaviour?
No, not really. He never stood a chance against you but he asked. You didn't.
Harry pauses, her hand is lifting up dead Mad Fred's and they are poised midair as if in a cartoon. She looks confused and a little wide-eyed. The air has grown thick. In other situation, he'd predict that the heroine would be kissed senseless by the hero but he's not sure if he's fit for the role.
"James, are you jealous?" She asks, bringing him back to the wet, dark alleyway with the distant throb of music. He thinks of Tom and Jerry, of illustrated cats on a TV screen afflicted by love with their pupils dilated into hearts.
Go on, say it.
They see Spikings, wearily walking down the street
He nods, quickly and opens his mouth to confess but it's almost Saturday morning and the moment is lost.
"We've go work to do." Their boss reminds them.
He wonders if he'll ever find the courage to ask her what's she's doing next Friday night.