Note : I changed the last chapters name from 'the day after next' to 'The hangover you don't deserve.' I thought it was more fitting.

Disclaimer: I wouldn't be writing Fanfic's if I owned the characters to CJ, that Tim Kring is one lucky bastard... excuse the language.... now you've been disclaimed

Woody sighed as he watched the numbers light up at the top of the glass elevator; it made him nervous looking down, so he swallowed hard and pretended this was the elevator leading him to the morgue, to Jordan. The day had dawned bright and beautiful, the cerulean sky a bonnet behind the smog and grit of the smoldering city. He had been to Vegas once before on his twenty first birthday, he hadn't liked it then, he didn't like it now.

His cell phone squealed out an annoying ring tone, startling him. He fumbled in his pocket for a moment; he got a few aggravated stares from the other bystanders in the elevator. He threw them an apologetic smile and flipped open the cell phone.

"This is Hoyt."

"Hey freckles I'm done with the autopsy." The feminine voice said on the other end.

"Hey Dev, what do you got?"

"Nothing but he was shot with a thirty eight automatic... it wasn't what was in the autopsy report that interested me... I ran his name threw codas and I got a hit, he was arrested in nineteen ninety two for domestic violence, then again in nineteen ninety eight, and again in the year two thousand." She sighed, and wondered at the silence on the other end. "Hey Wood, you okay?" he was startled out of his stillness, he rushed to catch himself.

"Yeah... yeah I'm fine... its just..."

"I know freckles, DV cases are hard."

"yeah." He said with simple conviction, she had know idea. "So what was his girlfriends address?"

"16709 Dorsey drive apartment 412b." he jotted it down before telling her goodbye and hanging up the phone. He felt a familiar pain coming up inside of him, images of his mother so young, bruises covering her face, waking him and brother in the middle of the night to drive, somewhere... anywhere, her sobbing in the front seat as she drove threw the friendless night. He was so young, yet he remembered her light blue cashmere sweater, and the neon headlights cutting threw the inky black night, bits of disturbed pollen hanging in them like dust in the sun. Jordan, his wife, that was weird, he could always picture them together, maybe a family, although it wasn't required, Jordan was enough for any sane man.

Motels were familiar for Woody, two beds and a coffee machine, the story of his life. His mother was fifteen when she was married, it was either get married or go to WYA, Wisconsin Youth Authority for running away one too many times. She was seventeen when she had Woody and when she had Cal; she was the ripe age of nineteen. In his heart he loved his mother, but at times he resented her for everything, for the broken glass and furniture on the floor... for his father's drunken stupors, all the alibi's she wrote, reasons for why she wore sunglasses all the time, and mysterious bruises on her pale face. Often he wondered how they made it threw the living nightmare. But the mind is an amazing place, full of candy dreams and new toys.

But there were groceries to buy and they would always end up having to home, to free herself she only needed the courage to keep moving. The elevator chimed and brought Woody out of his thoughts, he had to gape at the sight of the office all state of the art, very metallic and clean looking, and the chairs were hard and cold.

"How can I help you?" the receptionist asked, he was used to Jordan doing the talking whether he wanted her to or not. He suddenly felt a sudden pang in the bottom of his stomach, it was such a slow process without her here with him, working cases together, whether he admitted it or not, being a detective was a lonely process without her.

"Sir?" she asked, smiling uncomfortably, her white teeth stained slightly with a bit of red lipstick. She tapped her long white fingernails against the cold, iron desk in impatience.

"Oh, sorry, um, I'm looking for Scott Coleman. I'm Detective Hoyt."

"Oh yeah, he's expecting you... third door on the left." She smacked her gum and went back to typing, her fingernails clicking against the keys.

Woody's legs felt numb, his head still pounded, and his mouth was like wool. He felt a little better after three cups of coffee and a red bull; still, it was a bitch of a hangover. He slowly opened the door wincing as the light flooded in.

"Detective Hoyt, pleasure to see you again." The man was sitting at his desk

"Yeah, whatever." Woody replied irritably, sinking into a chair uncomfortably. "Mister Coleman, I need to ask you a few questions, you son's girlfriend did you know about her?"

"She was his wife and yes... I knew about Sheryl, Sheryl and Kelsey, never met them though."

"Whoa... who's Kelsey?"

"His daughter she's five."

Woody jotted it down the name, "Coleman or Hawkins?" he asked.

"Coleman, Hawkins is his stage name."

Kelsey Coleman, he had to find who killed her father, he owed it to her.

"Mister Coleman, what do you do?" Woody asked, taking a sweeping glance of the room.

"I'm a talent scout." He said offhandedly, glancing at a legal pad.

"Do you know who would want to hurt your son?"

"I haven't seen hide nor hair of him in five years Detective Hoyt, you'd do better talking to my wife, she goes to see Kelsey regularly."

"Okay." Woody felt a deep sadness for the little girl, not only was she in the midst of a war between her parents, one of them was gone. These kids came a dime a dozen, and no one seemed to care, but that wasn't true, he cared.

Jordan walked around her room, bored, she wished she had come along with Woody at least she would have something to do besides watching American idol. She sighed and looked out at the city; she and Woody were married, married! She felt all the familiar anxiety rush threw her, he was so close, yet she couldn't run, her feet wouldn't work, plus the bet, if she didn't win it would be a sign of weakness and Jordan Cavanaugh was not weak. But, he didn't remember, so it was kind of like she was using him, she loved Woody, but if she hurt him, or herself she couldn't live with it. She crumpled to the floor in something approaching complete despair. The carpet felt good against her bare legs, as she listened to the sounds of the city.

Tyler, she didn't want to hurt her too, however much Tyler got on Jordan's nerves she couldn't deny that Tyler hadn't done anything wrong. Woody's things scattered the room, it was his room, a old Boston sweatshirt lay lazily on the back of a chair, she walked over to it and slipped it over her head. It smelled like fresh laundry, and soap and vanilla, just like him. She scanned his personal effects, taking slow, careless steps. His toothbrush in the bathroom, she picked up his aftershave and smelled it, taking in the spicy smell remembering the smell of his cheek when they kissed that night in the desert, it was that smell, the smell she smelled when she dreamed. A knock on the door startled her and she jumped.

"You a Jordan Cavanaugh?" the deliveryman asked in a tired brogue.

"Yeah."

"Sign here." He grunted, she signed the slip of paper and he thrust the white box in her hand and walked off his breathing thick.

Slowly she opened the cool white box, flowers. Pink Carnations, her favorite.

'Dinner tonight at tarantella's, to talk about this... situation? Woody.'

She smiled and slowly, slipped out of the room, with her flowers, remembering his sweatshirt that wrapped her in warmth, she took it off and left in on her bed, reminding herself to give it back to him before they got on the plane. She had to decide what to wear. She felt a giddy feeling in her stomach and without warning collapsed on the bed giggling breathlessly like a teenager going out on her first date.