A/N: It's been one of those weeks with all kinds of conspiracies to keep me from editing and post this chapter but alas, we are here.

Fictional studded boots for everyone for hanging in there with my non-beta'd self.

As always, enjoy x

Chapter 30: Motivation

Friday 21st October, 3.43pm, Dunlin Corporate Estates, Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn

Because of his slippery nature and the snake oil he was selling, Shaw dubbed Lester Harvest; Grease Lightning. His scheduled business meeting with Harold Dunlin was overtaken by a storm in laced-up boots and a tall, quiet man in janitorial overalls. Technically, he should've known the mundane office wasn't befitting for a man who made a five-figure donation to the cause. "…No-one. I'm a Life Coach slash Motivational speaker." Lester replied, when asked who would want to kill him.

"Yeah, yeah, we know; each handshake is a hand-job waiting to happen." Shaw dismissed him with her unique spin on one of his speeches. "Who wants you dead?"

Sweat seeped through his polycotton shirt. He'd been accused before, one unhappy customer even tried to run him over but no-one had ever taken it that far. "I don't know."

With all the office supplies that made great makeshift weapons – the glue-gun, the motorised stapler and the fire extinguisher – Shaw had to settle for a notepad and pen because she was under strict instruction not to alarm the H-list celebrity. "Make a list. Starting with all your failures. The professional ones."

"I don't see them as failures." Lester replied as though he was being interviewed by Oprah.

Shaw took that as an invitation to hover the special stapler over his hand. "Indulge me."

He sighed. "Carl Minchin, he came to my TIM Talk. He was a recovering gambler and he wanted to feel empowered enough to kick his habit."

"So you took him on as a client?" John asked.

"Yes."

"Taking his money before the slot machines could." John commented. "Try again."

"Come again?"

"It's weak." Shaw clarified. "We're not buying it. More."

Lester went deeper. "Andre Walters was one of my clients. He complained about an ankle sprain."

"And?" John prodded, wondering why Joss had gone off the grid.

"I advised him there was an emotional source of his pain. But It got worse and by the time he got medical attention there was permanent damage. He lost his job."

"And then he got disability. Deeper." Shaw insisted.

Lester wiped the sweat from his brow. A name he often forgot went to the forefront of his mind. "Doris Clay. She left half of her inheritance to the Trapezium Group earlier this year to advance our work."

"Bingo." Shaw said.

8.16pm, Evelyn's Condo, Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

Joss didn't know what was worse, spending days interviewing sex offenders and needing to take multiple showers to deal with it or watching Noguerra watching her in Fusco's absence. She was convinced even clumsy, green Officer Mendoza was in on it; offering her nutty chocolate bar – which she declined because her tree nut allergy was more even sensitive when she was stressed and she couldn't take the risk on some idiot at a factory slipping in a cashew or two. Her mom had a new doormat with the word "Hello" on it and took her time getting to the front door, so long her arms were going numb from the inkjet printer she'd kicked in as a bargaining chip.

Evelyn was in her "my man ain't home" outfit; non-matching sweats with a polka dot sweater and fleece teddy-bear print pants, bright green separators between her freshly painted toes, her damp hair up drying in a t-shirt turban and the chalky blue face mask she'd missed still on her chin. You looked down at the spanking brand new printer and knew on sight it was a shakedown. "What'd you wanna know, Jocelyn?" She shuffled through her domain, because her toenails weren't dry. "You've got that look on your face."

A TV show about a woman with what looked like 100 tattoos was on pause. Joss kicked off her shoes and folded her legs underneath a blanket on the second sofa. "Did Dad have a target on his back?"

Evelyn sprayed her toes with Fast-dry spray. "He was born in Jim Crow South Carolina in 1950. Be more specific, honey."

"You know, in the service." It seemed like such a stupid question to ask but they kept so much from her. Joss remembered her parents as discussing everything in the bedroom and always being on one accord.

"Of course he was. It got worse as he rose through the ranks. But he didn't want you to know how hard it was for him." Evelyn explained. "It was subtle…until it wasn't. It wasn't even his contemporaries – it was his platoon; dealing with people who didn't think he was fit to lead them but expecting him to keep them safe in combat at the same time. Why?"

"I just feel like I have a target on my back."

Evelyn smiled because she reminded her so much of her beloved Josiah. "Of course you do; you're a crusader. Jocelyn, you know you ruffled a lot of feathers back then, and people have long memories."

She felt the damage every time she stepped into the bullpen and things went quiet. "I know."

"So I'll tell you what I told your father back then. So what if you're a target? You're so fast and pretty they'll never take you out."

It should've made her smile but instead it made her think. "Is that what he thought? That they might take him out."

Evelyn swatted that memory away like a persistent fly. "You know how men are. So dramatic. He thought every good thing in his life was linked to that uniform. So, when things weren't going right; he thought he'd lose it all. I see now he was under a lot of pressure. We were young, he'd never done anything else and he was afraid that if he left the Army for 'no good reason' he'd never get another job, another house, another family."

"Family?" Joss repeated. "I never knew that."

"Of course you didn't. And he snapped out of it so we never talked about it again."

"I feel like I'm still being punished."

"Because you are. You know now is a great time to consider something else, Jocelyn." She baited her because she knew Joe's daughter would only have one response.

She shook her head. "I can't give in just because they'd rather have their secret blue Boys' club than 'troublemakers' like me. Mmm-mmm. Can't do it."

"Swap blue for white and troublemakers for a word I'd rather not say and you sound just like your daddy. Just be smart. And watch your back." Evelyn advised as her top coat seemed to finally be dry.

"I will."

"Good, now tell me all about that printer. No wait, Reverend Harris said he's been waiting for you and my very-generous son-in-law to come by for marriage counselling." Evelyn thought she might as well get some juice while she was right there. "About what exactly?"

Joss thought on her feet and drew inspiration from the box. "58% faster than last year's model; would you believe it? Those lucky, lucky kids…"

8.11pm, Baci di Dama Ristorante, Little Italy, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn

For some reason, Fusco thought he might as well change his strategy when it came to dinner reservations seeing as Shaw was taking care of the rest. Even though he was still tee-total, because he had no restraint when it came to the bottle and knew it, he googled which wine to pair off pappardelle con funghi di bosco with; and the trusty tool came up with Bianco di Custoza, a white Venetian wine that Vonnie liked even better with her second bowl. Fusco admired her appetite and the way she spoke about her ninth-grade students with equal parts concern and contempt, which made it easier to talk about his son who was returning more of his calls but was terrible at keeping the conversation going and playing video games at the same time. "…You should expect it. It's the time we live in. Oh God, I sound like my mother." She groaned.

He smiled. The company he kept didn't have normal stories to tell about Vaseline on the doorknob pranks; they asked him for an assist or his badge, or used his body as a shield, or co-opted him as an unwilling accomplice to rescue a big cat. And sometimes they busted in on his date and for the most infuriating c-block of recent history. "What'd you want?" Fusco asked with a frown, shoving John – or Detective Stills – behind the shrubbery.

"Information." Fusco couldn't believe the jackass in a suit's eyes were actually sparkling. "And you gotta come up with something better to talk about than Ma's legendary spaghetti and meatballs."

"About what? The Hope Diamond? I think it's a fake and the real one's at Oprah's house."

John missed their banter. "I wanna know why Joss hit the boxing gym every night this week."

Fusco knew to give up some information so he could disappear and he could get back to his date. "She's having a hard time with Cap'n busting her balls with some gross cold case no-one else wanted. Satisfied."

"Very." John patted him on her back, and Fusco was blissfully unaware he'd just lit a match to a hungry pot of kerosene and fish grease.

11.47pm, Douglass Hall, Emory University

For someone who'd lucked out with tickets to a sold-out concert, Zahra didn't seem to be all that happy. She didn't want to hang around and try to meet Chance the Rapper afterwards. In fact, from the look on her face, Taylor couldn't get her out of there for air any faster. He talked, and while she responded her mind was a million miles away. It only dawned on him it was an early night, when he saw more people coming out of the main door than going in. They could've said bye, or at least something, instead they stood there; just looking weird and awkward and out of place. She didn't want him to go or stay; she wished he could stay there as he was so she could remember him like that before she opened her big mouth and ruined everything. Taylor gave up trying to read her mind – the best he ever did at that was the D+ he got with Bella that looked an awful lot like an L. So he kissed her for the first time because it seemed like the most natural thing to do. Or all he could thing of. Or both. Or whatever. Zahra remembered how good it felt to be kissed by someone she really liked who liked her back and it brought back memories of how good it could be, how good it was, before it all got ruined. This is how it starts; first they like you, then they love you, then they find out the truth and suddenly they can't love you anymore. Not the same way. Or look at you the same. Not in the same way.

He felt her tense up as though shard of ice coursed through her veins, starting at the lips and throughout her body, which was a shame because she was a much better kisser than he thought she would be. He didn't know what he did wrong and why her eyes were filled with fear. "Too much?" She shook her head. "Then, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." Nothing, because in that moment she realised she was in love with him. And that complicated everything. "Why did you ask me out? 'Cause I called you a nice guy?"

Well…yeah. "And because you had my back." They hadn't spoken about the roofie incident and no-one else knew because he still couldn't wrap his head around it and that didn't happen to guys. "Why?"

"You're still here."

"Pretty much."

"You're a good guy." Here we go, he thought. Just when we were getting somewhere. "But I'm...I'm not like other girls."

He tried to lighten the tone because it seemed like a good idea. "Like MJ in Thriller?"

She kind-of laughed. "Not like that. I can't explain..."

"I wasn't trying to hook up with you, so it's cool." She smiled but there was a sadness to it that was familiar to him; a sadness he didn't recognise in himself. He didn't know it was because she wanted him to want to hook up with her. "What's up?"

"Nothing."

He'd been through the "nothing" cycle enough times with Bella to know it was something. And it wasn't like Zahra to bite her tongue. Like John said, maybe it's her story. "You don't have to tell me now."

"Okay." Deep down she wanted him to stay but was somewhat relieved he was going.

So there is a story. "Want me to walk you up?"

"It's okay." And to his surprise she kissed him back, which confused him greatly.