Title: Good Enough

Warnings: Slash. Angsty Nick.

Chapter 18

Patty Bennet crosses her arms and nods her head curtly. "Sure I remember her. She has an attitude, that one." Patty twirls her graying blond hair between her thumb and index finger.

"What kind of an attitude?" I ask, glancing sideways at Sara.

Gris sent Sara and me to IHOP almost as soon as we walked through the door this evening. We're checking out Molly Cooper's story.

"Oh," Patty says, "You know the kind." She leans forward as if to tell me a secret. "Privileged."

"So she gave you a hard time?" Sara asks.

"Oh, yeah. She always does."

"You mean she's a regular?" I ask.

Patty shrugs. "She comes in about twice a month."

I cross my arms. "So was she with anyone?"

Stepping to one side so a woman carrying a tray of food can pass, Patty says, "Yeah, another girl. Her age. And a boy. He was younger."

"Younger?" I say.

"About twelve."

Sara raises her eyebrows. "How long did they stay?"

Patty shakes her head ruefully. "I have no idea. I was so busy that night, hon."

"I believe it," I say, "One more question, ma'am. Did the three of them seem to be friendly?"

"Not really," Patty says, "When I brought them their food, the girls were arguing in these catty whispers. You know how girls do."

Sara and I thank Patty for her help and head out the door into the parking lot.

"So," Sara says, a hint of excitement in her voice, "Garret Ames has a thirteen-year-old son, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," I sigh, "Logan."

Garret Ames swore to me that Natalie never left Logan home alone. I guess he was right.

Gris wants me to arrange a meeting with Garret Ames and his kids. I'm really hoping this turns out to be a coincidence, that Molly was with another girl and another boy at IHOP. Maybe Greg was right when he said I'm too emotionally caught up in this. They're suspects. I shouldn't feel any differently about them than anyone else. But I do.

Right now, I'm sitting in the break room, staring disdainfully at a chicken salad sandwich. I'm just not in the mood to eat today. My fights with Mom and Greg are weighing heavily on my mind. Consequently, I almost don't notice Brass when he sits down.

"Hey, Nick," he says.

Startled, I look up from my sandwich. "Hey, Jim. What's up?"

"Not much," he says, "Gris said you have a lead."

"Maybe."

Right about then, Greg walks in and stops short. "Hi guys," he mutters. He glances from me to Brass, and then he walks to the refrigerator.

"Hey, Greggo," I say pleasantly.

He stares intently at me for a moment. "You know what?" Greg says, with a manufactured laugh, closing the refrigerator, "I think I'm going to go out for lunch. Egg salad doesn't sound appetizing."

"I hear you," Brass says, letting his gaze go from Greg to me and back again.

"I'll go with you," I say.

"You know what, Nicky," Greg says, his voice unsteady, "I'm in one of those moods. I think I'll go alone."

"Okay," I say.

As I watch Greg walk out the door, I run my fingers through my short hair. It looks like Greg's serious about slowing down. What does this mean for tonight? I am going home to my place alone? Damn. I don't want to be alone tonight. Awkward silence with Greg would be better than the hollow sound of my own footsteps.

"Hey, Nick," Brass says.

I glance up. "Yeah?"

"What's going on between you and Sanders?"

Damn.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

Brass shrugs. "I don't know. It just feels like something's going on."

"He's in a mood, you know," I mutter weakly.

Narrowing his eyes, Brass says, "You seem to know a lot about his moods."

I lean sharply forward in my chair, placing my hands on the table for support. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Whoa, Nicky," Brass says, holding up his hands, "I don't know what I mean. It's just that people have been talking lately, you know?"

"About me?"

"Yeah, about you," he says, "About how you've been slipping up."

I shake my head. "Hey, that's settled as far as Grissom's concerned."

"Look," Brass says, "All I'm saying is people are talking. I just don't want to see things get ugly for you."

Frowning, shift uncomfortably in my chair. "Why would things get ugly?" I ask.

Brass lets out a dry laugh. "Come on, Nick," he says, "They've been talking about Sanders for years. Yeah, he's a whiz kid in the lab, but he's got a reputation."

"What kind of reputation?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Brass says, "He's weird, Nicky."

All at once, I feel my blood start to boil. "Yeah?" I say venomously, "Well, Jim. You wanna know some of the rumors I've heard about you?"

Brass grimaces. "You're gonna hit below the belt now?"

"You have been since this conversation started."

"Look," he says, leaning forward, "Bottom line. You two are looking real cozy. That's gonna get noticed, Nicky."

I stare at him. "What are you accusing me of?"

"What should I be accusing you of?"

Later that day, I hurry down the hall and out the door. I manage to spot Catherine just as she's about to climb into her car.

"Hey, Cath," I pant, "I need to talk to you. Right now."

She reaches out and practically catches me as I come to a stop in front of her. "All right, Nick," she says, "Calm down. What's going on?"

I rub my hands briskly together. "Okay, well, Brass knows about me and Greg," I say. "Or he thinks he does, and that's as good."

Catherine rubs my shoulder. "Okay, Nick. It's just Jim."

I shake my head. "No, Catherine, he's having a real problem with it."

She shrugs. "He'll get over it."

I start to pace. "Catherine, he practically threatened me. And Greg and I are fighting, and . . ." I kick a stray rock across the parking lot.

Catherine grabs me by the arm and pulls me close to her. "Okay," she says, wrapping her arm around my shoulder, "So, you and Greg are at it. That's probably making the thing with Brass seem worse. What happened?"

I lick my lips, trying to let my breathing slow down. Finally, I say, "Well, last night, after you left, things were real tense."

"Okay."

"So, this morning, I called my mom and asked her to come to Vegas so we could talk."

Catherine squeezes my shoulder. "What did she say?"

"She turned me down," I croak, fighting back the tears, "She's not coming. And then Greg walked in at the tail end, and he thought . . . I don't know what he thought. But he told me I should see a shrink, and I said some things I shouldn't have said, and he said we should slow down." I rub my face. "I love him Catherine. I'm not ready to broadcast it to Las Vegas, but I love him."

"Okay, Nick," Catherine says, "Now what do you think Greg's main problem is? Is it the coming out thing?"

Shaking my head, I say, "No, he's not like that. I think he knows something's going on with me, and he's upset because I haven't shared it with him. But I can't."

"Well, he'd understand."

"Rationally, I know that, Catherine," I say, "But I just can't do it."

"All right," she says, leaning against her car, "What if you made an appointment with the department shrink? Just a one time thing to placate Greg?"

I take a step back. "No way," I say, "You know how I feel about shrinks. I'm not trusting a stranger with my personal problems."

Catherine gazes at me. "You don't have to say a thing. Just sit in the guy's office and talk about cars."

I cross my arms. Catherine's obviously trying to use some kind of psychology to get me onto a shrink's couch. I know she means well, but it ain't happening.

"No way," I say firmly.

"Well, you're going to have to do something," she says, "Greg won't let this go."