Disclaimer: I own Vincent when he's in town…because we do…stuff….handcuffs…ice….watch Josie and the Pussycats (His idea) other than that nada, but Lara's my homie (one I WOULDN'T shoot, Vincent…) so you can't have her, unless you ask me and I say yes of course. On a side note, I was surprised how many of you naturally assumed I was done here. Eyes up on stage pilgrim, I'm just warming up. (Side note, the song in this chapter is Summertime preformed by Renee Olstead, an amazing singer, if you look her up on google and go to her site it will play the song, so check it out. I'll be using her music later in this story)

New York again. It had been four years since he had walked the Times like this. Mexico, L.A., and New York were the big cities; there almost always was a job to be found in those places.

He was walking now because he was bored and he was bored because he was waiting. Waiting for a call. A call to start the clock.

Some unlucky son of a bitch's time had just run out, judging by the hefty check he had been sent merely as a down payment.

Till then he would bide his time. Maybe have a drink. Water would have to do. He never let anything interfere with his work let alone influence it.

If he remembered correctly there was a little Jazz place somewhere around here.

Ah, yes, there it was.

Paint the Town.

The middle to late night to early morning crowd hadn't even begun to slide in yet. Good.

He remembered this place now.

Nice place.

Job place.

Good food place? He couldn't remember.

As the waitress who had seated him went to supply a glass he sat silently, drumming his finger tips on the tabletop, listening to the soft strains of someone singing behind him. Swinging a look over his shoulder he caught glance of a woman dressed in a plain pinstriped suit, standing one hand on the mike, the other slapping out the rhythm on her thigh. A shapely thigh at that.

The song started out softly, a little too slow for his tastes but still some remote form of Jazz.

Summertime an' the livin' is easy

Fish are jumpin' an' the cotton is high

Your da-addy's rich an' your mama's good lookin'

So-oh-oh-whoah hush littl' baby

Do-oh-ohn't you cry…

The drum pounded out a harder beat.

One o' these mornin's

You're gonna rise up singin'

Then you'll spread your littl' wings

An' take to the sky, take to the sky

But unnnn-til that mornin'

There's nothin' that can harm you

With daddy an' mammy

Sta-han-din' by…

The force of the increased tempo made Vincent push his chair back just slightly as a trumpet assailed his ears. This was just about to get fun.

Summertime

Yes, a time

I'm talkin' about Summertime

An' the livin'

Summer livin'

An' the livin' is so fine

The fish are jumpin'

An' the cotton is high

Your daddy's rich

He's rich

Your daddy's filthy rich!

An' your mama

Hot mama!

An' your mama's so good lookin'

So hush little baby

Don't you cry!

This was old style. A classic. Classic? Classical, why did that ring a bell? He inspected the singer with more attention then he had before, as she finished up on a rather impressive note.

Bits and pieces came floating back. It had been winter, and the layers had covered her mostly from his view. That demandable scarf. She had had glasses before and her hair was longer, now it just reached past her back blades, and it was loose. No braid now, and there were auburn streaks buried in its thickness.

He had been right.

She had turned into something.

He loved being right.

All that was clear. The car…the kiss…the curse, 'Fuck you…' but her name escaped him.

His waitress returned, chilled ice water in tow. He stopped her before she could retreat again.

"Excuse me…" He swiftly took note of her tag, "Juli, who is that?"

The girl took a look in the direction he indicated, "That's Lara Andrews. Last night here. She just graduated. 'Bout time, too, if you ask me."

He turned to view her more carefully, "Why is that?"

The girl shrugged her shoulders, "Can't you see it? She's too good for this place. She's gonna go and do something great…she might not ever be anything big but…she's gone farther than any of us. We're not temporary…she is."

The girl stepped off the stage, embracing an older man, all smiles.

"Thank you."

With a short and perky nod, she walked away, leaving Vincent free to scrutinize the woman…yes, woman now…of prior acquaintance. She was approaching nearer now, chatting it up with the big man. Funny, he hadn't pegged her for one to go for the grandes, but then he hadn't pegged her as a classical follower either. He hadn't pegged her for a lot of things.

He could hear a bit of their conversation now, since the music had stopped. He cocked an invisible ear, and listened in.

"Thanks again, Lara."

"Hey, I told you…I have a thing for men with bad backs. I just find it so incredibly sexy."

"Married, Andrews. Sorry."

"Damn…" her fingers snapped regretfully.

"I'm going ta miss you, Andrews."

"Oh, Farley don't start in on the sweet talk…I'll never leave."

"You weren't that good of a waitress, anyway…" The man tried to cover up his caring with sarcasm.

"I'm gonna miss you too, Farley. I have to go…"

"See you around, Andrews. Thanks for comin' in one last time."

"Sure thing. Glad you liked it. Have to start putting my own spin on things if I'm gonna make a living."

"You'll do fine. Good luck."

"Thanks."

The two split ways. The woman was walking past him. This was just too good of a chance to pass up. Besides, he had time this time around. He was free to waste a few hours…why not waste them on a pretty face?

"Excuse me…" Hi hand reached out, ensnaring her wrist, stopping her from striding forward.

"Mitts off, mister." Came the sharp reply as she looked down to see who had stalled her. She stilled, eyes widening slightly.

"…Sorry…" He could feel himself smiling, "I thought you were a waitress."

Her wrist slipped from his grasp, "I was."

"Ah," he nodded, "my mistake."

She crossed her hands over her chest, looking down on him disapprovingly, "Mr. Reporter, right? Vincent?"

She remembered. He liked that. He didn't care too much for the look she was aiming at him, though. Like he owed her something.

"Yeah."

"You've got a lot of balls coming here."

A laugh escaped him. The girl he had met four years ago would have choked on that word. God, one encounter in an airport had made her fearless.

"Do I?"

"Yes. You do."

"How would you know?"

"What?" That got her attention.

"How would you know if I had balls?" He plastered an innocent expression on his face, "But then your days of virginity are long over, aren't they?"

She closed her eyes as if pained, her jaw clenched. He recalled that look, "I meant your gall, asshole, and you know it."

"Sit down." He said with a chuckle, pulling out a chair beside him from under the table.

"No."

"You mean you don't want to tell me why you're pissed off at me?" He questioned.

The temptation to shoot off her mouth at him seemed too much for the poor thing, as grudgingly admitted this was what she did indeed want by sliding the chair away from his side. She sat down across from him instead. Suit yourself, he thought.

Almost as if by accident she murmured, "Servers aren't allowed to sit with the customers."

Vincent raised a solitary brow. He could see her literally berating herself to the point of biting her own tongue until it bled.

"Still haven't grown out of your waitress role, I see." He pointed out politely, with as much mockery as one could put into that sentence without getting slapped.

Her eyes narrowed, "Don't worry, I'm working on it."

"I bet you are." He smirked, raising the glass to his lips, taking a sip.

"Did you have something you wanted to say to me?" She asked impatiently.

"No…" He swirled his water slightly as if it were a more intoxicating beverage, "…but you did, remember?"

The swirling of the drink seemed to irritate her, as she grabbed his hand forcing him to lower it. His eyes flicked dangerously to her hand. That was very brave…and very stupid. He would only take so much.

She must have felt the risk in the gesture because she snatched her hand back quickly…and wisely.

"You owe us some business."

"What kind of business did you have in mind?"

"The business you promised us four years ago. You said you would tell your clients about this place."

So that was what this was about. She had actually believed him? The very idea was laughable.

"And you believed me?"

"It would have helped," she snapped, "after what happened here…"

Vincent felt a still like calm control his bones…

"What happened here?" He probed, angling his head to one side.

"Myra, the girl you spent the evening with, was murdered in the bathroom."

"Not exactly the best thing to advertise around, is it?"

"I don't work here any longer. I'll advertise what I think you should know." She retorted sharply.

"If you don't work here," Vincent began guiding her out of the danger zone of idle conversation, "then what were you doing performing?"

"Saying hasta-la-bista baby. Farley called in a favor."

"So you're a singer?"

"I sing." She clarified, "I am not a singer."

"Then what do you do?"

He could tell he was grating on her nerves as she sighed in annoyance, giving way and answering, "Nothing yet, but I plan to compose. Are we finished here?"

"You're the one who wanted to initiate conversation." He reminded her.

"And I said what I wanted say so, I think we can say goodbye now…" She moved to get up. Oh no, he wasn't near done with her yet.

"Have a drink with me." It wasn't a request but then again it wasn't an order either. A blend. A smooth blend, not unlike himself.

"No, thanks." She responded succinctly, already collecting her purse.

"It's the least I can do for disappointing you. Let me guess…you have a thing for Cosmopolitans…"

She hesitated, turning to pin him with an inquisitive look. He shrugged his shoulders gracefully.

"I have a knack for guessing what people want."

Slowly, as if bewildered why she was consenting, she sat down again. Good girl.

"One drink." It was an acquiesce and a warning.

"Fine." He ordered for her, "One drink for one life story. What have you been up to?"

He could see her visibly lock her lips together in a tight line of displeasure.

"Come on. You'll never see me again anyway. Why not take a gamble? Live a little…improvise…"

The electric blue liquor was finally delivered and placed in front of her. She eyed it suspiciously as if she were already regretting her decision to stay and chat.

"Drink up." He raised his glass in tribute to the Drunkard's Motto, "Loosen up."

A determined look crept into her countenance, as she took up the glass and drained it dry.

That's a girl.

"What do you want to know?"

Vincent leaned forward, an almost eager curiosity lacing his features.

"Everything."

He wasn't sure just how many she had in the end but he knew they were enough to make her release her inhibitions…some of them at least. Some he didn't think could be breached in the time he was allowed, but they had made some progress.

She was flirting.

"So, Mr. Reporter…here for business again or pleasure?"

"Business, I'm afraid."

He could have made it otherwise, if his beeper hadn't alarmed him to a more important message than the one she was trying to send him.

Taking out the little black box, he didn't need to read the scrolling green screen to know once again he had run out time. Shame, that was the second time. Oh well.

"Well, it was nice seeing you again, Miss Andrews, but I'm needed in the office. Take care of yourself." With that he exited, leaving her speechless behind him.

"What the hell?" She whispered, slamming down the napkin in her lap on the table.

All he needed was in palm pocket. Three hits. It was already done in his mind, but then the universe cocked the fuck-with-him-gun.

"Wait!" The girl from the club hurried up to him.

For all he was concerned she was no one now. Simply someone in his way. Her expression was huffy and slightly puzzled, side effects of the drink; as she jogged over to him.

"You buy me drinks," she proclaimed as she marched forward, the air of a scorned female hanging thickly around her, "and ask me about my life…flirt with me to no end! And then you just take off? I thought this would all lead to the inevitable you-take-advantage-of-my-drunken-stupor-love-me-then-leave-me sort of scenario, and you leave me hanging? What kind of a man are you, anyway?

"A busy one." He answered shortly, "Now, I'm sorry but I have things I have to do…"

Her face contorted into a look of disgust at herself or at him, he could not decipher, "If you weren't willing, you shouldn't have invited me to sit, jackass."

And then she did something she really shouldn't have. She pushed him angrily into the car behind him. His suit rippled back…exposing the holster and gun at his hip.

Her charming little mouth dropped in shock and then shut with an audible snap.

Vincent calmly hid the weapon again within the folds of his jacket. The predatory wariness spread through him for the second time that night. He would wait and see what she did. He straightened his cuffs, as her mouth sought to work in her hazy blur of confusion, then he straightened his tie, waiting patiently.

She managed to croak one word as she took a step back; he remained still, assessing the situation by immobility.

"You."

He watched as something clicked, sparked, jumpstarted her brain. She had put two and two together.

"You…" Her voice shook slightly, and it was a moment before he realized the tone as one of fury. If she screamed he would have to kill her, and he was already late.

She turned and ran. He was already moving; he had her pinned to an SUV in a manner of seconds, one hand securing her hip as he pressed her front into the steel door, her back to his chest. The other hand restrained any sound her mouth made. Her cries vibrated his hand pleasantly. His body weight did the rest. They were lucky the hunk of metal wasn't equipped with an alarm system.

"That…" he hissed into the hollow of her ear coldly, "was not a smart move, Andrews."

Lara didn't know when it hit her…or how. By all rights and definitions of 'smashed' there was no possible way her mind should have been able to function so properly as to piece together the string of coincidences concerning the strange man from four years ago, Myra's murder, and the man she had had drinks with tonight. Even so, her brain managed it, and had delivered the message like a punch in the ribs on a silver platter.

She knew she should be afraid, it was only natural, but under the mind numbing and stupefying influence of one too many Cosmo's, all she could feel was unrivaled anger. Anger at him.

For murdering Myra.

For being there tonight.

For the airport scene.

For making her forget her sanity and flirt with him.

For standing there silently, not a care in the world, even when he knew he was guilty of everything she blamed him for and more besides.

She ran. She didn't get very far.

"That…was not a smart move, Andrews." His voice admonished her severely.

She tried in vain to dislodge him from her, but for such a tall and lean man, he was as movable as iron. His hold was unbreakable.

"Stop that." He ordered. "You're not going anywhere."

Panting into his hand with frustration she gave up the pointless battle, slumping against the car in defeat. Her forehead would have made contact with the window if Vincent's hand hadn't still been clamped over her mouth, and used this control to slowly roll her head back to the point of resting on his shoulder.

"Now, pay attention." He murmured softly, "Your annoying curiosity just got you in a holy mess. I should deal with you now, but I have a job to do and I need a guide to take me around the city. You did a fine job of it last I was here. And you're going to do it again."

Lara mumbled a scathing remark under the barrier of his palm. One he could understand quite clearly.

"Like hell you will?"

Laboring for breath she didn't have and trying to suck her lips away from his skin, she bit back a yelp as her head was jerked back by a sharp tug; her hand instinctively latching onto his in an effort to relive the pressure.

He did nothing for a moment then a rough, prickly sensation scraped along the skin of her throat. It was a peculiarly threatening feeling…a caress of sensual ominous. She shivered lightly, hating that humans were still just animals despite eons of progress, who acted on primal basic instincts.

His lips moved against her neck, raising a fine line of goose bumps along its surface.

"Whatever it takes. I didn't want you apart of this, I work solo, but thanks to your general nuisance I don't really have a choice. I have to adapt, make some changes…we're going to play this one by ear, okay, Andrews? All you have to do is drive me to my destinations, and no one will be the wiser. Do you remember the night we first met, how my cab left me in the lot?"

Lara's mind was scrambling overtime to sort everything he was telling her into some reasonable idea of where this was going.

"After you dropped me off, I off'd the cabbie's father. And no one knew, no one noticed. Do you think anyone besides you would notice if it was your good ol' Farley this time around who was discovered in the toilet? We can make a bet, if you decide not to cooperate with me."

This was not happening, this could not be happening…

"Do you understand? Am I making this clear enough?"

Somehow Lara was able to nod her head.

"Good, that's what I wanted to hear. Now I don't want to hear anything from you. I'm going to take my hand away, and if you so much as sigh…I will kill you. Are you okay? Can you stand?"

Again Lara nodded, perplexed to tears by his hot to cold manner.

The hand was removed, and she was immediately spun around, the other arm still heavy about her waist.

"Alright then…" his eyes drifted over her fleetingly, and then settled on a figure a ways away behind her, "Is that your car?" He asked eyes narrowing in inspection.

Lara slowly turned her head. It was her car.

"Why?" She asked panicked.

"Breathe, Andrews, keep breathing for me…"

That seemed reason enough to stop breathing to her.

"We haven't even started, and we have a whole night to get through."