A/N: Thank you for the kind words, including those from my guest reviewers! Make sure to sign up for story alerts so that you know right when I update! :)
This chapter is for my Team Street readers. Enjoy!
Reagan caught a ride with Chris, arriving at O'Malley's just before the dinner rush. They walked along the shabby wooden floor and found their empty booth in the back. Chris took a seat.
"You may have gotten shot, but they're going to hold you to the free drinks tonight," she said before Reagan could sit down.
"I figured you'd say that. What do you want?" Reagan asked with resignation.
"We'll all take a beer to start. You can pick the brand."
Reagan put a hand to her chest. "Oh how kind of you," she said, her voice laced with thick sarcasm. She turned around before Chris could reply, and made her way over to the bar. The bartender, an overweight man with a white beard and faded Harley Davidson shirt, finished up with a customer and gave her his attention. He looked like a big, scary biker, but she knew that he was retired SWAT and treated the team like family.
"Hey, Cassie, how'd it go today?"
She hesitated before answering, shocked that he not only remembered her name, but that their test was today.
"Steel trap," he said, lightly knocking a fist against his head. "Drives my old lady crazy."
"You'd think she'd like it; her man remembering things."
"Well, when I use those things against her and she loses an argument, let's just say she's not a fan."
Reagan winced. "Yeah, you should just let her win. It's safer for everybody."
He chuckled, his rounded gut bouncing a little underneath the worn tee. "I'll work on that." He used his bar rag to wipe at an invisible wet spot on the counter, as he asked, "So how'd it go?"
She tried to sound upbeat, saying, "I took one in the vest but we passed."
He laughed again and reached into the beer cooler, grabbing a Corona. He popped the top and slid it over to her. "That's usually frowned upon. Try not to do that next time, when there are real bullets."
She nodded and took a sip from the glass bottle. "I'll work on that," she said, using his own words against him.
"So let me guess, you need me to start you a tab?"
"Yes, Charlie, that would be correct. Coronas all around."
"Oh, oh," he said, and pointed at her, smiling because she'd remember his name too.
She tapped her head and pointed back at him, returning the smile.
Sensing a new presence, Reagan glanced at the door as Street walked in. She gave him a small wave and he tipped up his chin in response. He started to walk toward her and the door opened behind him, revealing Luca, Hondo and Cortez. Her gaze lingered for a moment longer, searching for their last team member, but the door closed and stayed that way.
Street approached the counter and said hey to Charlie, picking up one of the open beers in front of Reagan.
"Where's Deacon?" she asked.
He shrugged, not making eye contact with her as he walked away to join Chris at the table.
Hondo heard her unanswered question, and said, "I don't know if he's coming. Sorry, Cas."
Watching Hondo and Cortez follow Street, she turned to Luca. "What the hell, man?"
He sighed, appearing far more serious than usual. "Deac and Street got into it back at HQ. It wasn't pretty…"
Reagan mirrored his sigh. "Let me guess, he's still pissed that Street and I fucked up today."
Luca shook his head. "I don't think he's mad at you in particular, but…yeah, something like that."
"Awesome. Just fantastic," she muttered, before downing more of her Corona.
"Don't worry about it, Cas. Just have a good time tonight. You've earned it."
"Thanks, Luca," she said, patting and squeezing one of his muscular shoulders.
He helped her grab the remaining drinks and they packed into the booth with everyone else.
Throughout the evening, Street hardly looked at her and it felt like there was a gaping hole without Deacon there. She still had a good time, but it wasn't the same vibe as their first night out. The addition of Captain Cortez—Jess—fell right in line with that assessment. Though, she did like spending time with the other woman, and enjoyed the sight of Hondo with his arm around her. He could have been uncomfortable in the small booth—he was a big dude—but his other arm remained by his side. They were so cute it made her sick.
Getting up for a minute, Reagan strolled over to the jukebox and began to flip through Charlie's albums. A dollar bill appeared next to her face and she followed the lean, muscular arm until her gaze rested on Street's dimpled cheeks.
"A song on me. Ya know, for saving my life today."
"How generous of you," she said, and snatched the wrinkled bill from his fingers.
"Pick something good. Slow, but not too slow. Classic, but—"
"Would you like your dollar back?" she asked.
He laughed. "Sorry. It's all you." He paused before saying, "No pressure."
Reagan shot him a smirk and then concentrated once more on choosing a suitable song. Finally, she found what she wanted. She inserted Street's dollar bill and pressed the buttons for her selection.
The soft, familiar chords of "Change the World" by Eric Clapton filled their corner of the bar and Reagan turned to lean against the machine, arching her brow at Street.
He nodded, lips pressed together, and then smiled. "Very good choice. Do you know what this means now?"
"What?"
He reached for the hand at her side and started to back up slowly, pulling her with him. "You owe me a dance."
"I knew there'd be a catch! Remind me never to save you again," she said, trying to take back her hand, laughing all the while.
"Oh no you don't," he said, and urged her closer, resting his right hand on her waist. His smile dimmed for a moment. "Really, though, I'll stop if you want."
It was then that Reagan realized she was already dancing with him. Her left hand had curled around his broad shoulder and their opposite hands were clasped together. She'd leaned into him like her body couldn't stand to be away from him for another second.
"We're cool," she said quietly, stunned by the close proximity of his brown eyes, which had shades of dark blue at their edges—something she'd never noticed before.
They got lost in each other's eyes for a moment, their bodies swaying in time with the music. Eventually, Street came out of it, blinking. He smiled and pulled back. She almost protested, but instead, was spun around and glided back into his arms. She grinned, tongue in cheek.
"You are smooth, Jim. I'll give you that."
He gave her an easy smile and spun her again, this time drawing her back against his chest. She glanced at him over her shoulder and he tipped his head forward, resting his nose against the outer edge of her cheek. Her chest exploded with butterflies, which caught her off guard.
Definitely smooth, Jim…
When he turned her around again so that she was facing his front, he moved until their bodies were flush against each other and their cheeks were touching. Reagan could feel the hard plane of his body, all sculpted abs and pecs. His cheek was warm and scratchy.
She suddenly remembered her teammates and wondered what they thought of this spectacle. To her surprise, Hondo and Cortez were dancing right next to them, lost in their own world. Reagan tapped Street's shoulder and he followed her eyes to look at the other couple. Snickering, he peered beyond them and removed the hand from her waist to motion across the room.
"Get out here!" he mouthed to Luca and Chris.
Always game for anything, they both laughed and got up from the booth, dancing together in a flourish of movements.
Street replaced his hand, using his thumb to gently caress her skin through the thin material of her shirt.
"Thank you for coming out tonight. It means a lot to me," she said.
"Of course," he said softly. "I wouldn't have missed it."
"I am a little bummed that Deacon didn't show up. It's not the same without him."
Street's expression fell, but only slightly. "It's probably better that he's not here. Tomorrow morning should be nice and awkward."
"What happened?" she asked, her dark gaze beseeching him to tell her the whole truth.
He cleared his throat and glanced away. "The short of it? Deacon accused me of checking you out instead of doing my job."
Reagan swallowed hard as she processed that. Finally, she said, "You were focused today. I can vouch for that. Hell, shooter three probably would have taken me out if you hadn't shot first."
"Nah, you would've had him. And you don't need to vouch for me. I'm a big boy. I can clean up my own messes," he said, pursing his lips with a faint wink.
"In that case, it's probably a good thing Deacon's not here to see this. I don't think it would do us any favors."
He shrugged. "While we're at it, why don't you let me take you home?"
"Excuse me?" she asked, stopping in place.
"Not like that, Cas. I owe you a motorcycle ride, remember? You don't have a car. I'm simply offering you a ride home."
Reagan stared at Street, studying his uncertain yet hopeful expression. She took a deep breath and then said, "Oh all right."
The song ended and Street dropped his arms, allowing Reagan to step back.
"Let me settle my tab and I'll meet you outside, okay?"
He nodded, smiling now as he joined the others to say good night.
Reagan walked over to Charlie and handed him her credit card.
"First round's on me," he said as he swiped her card. "Since you took a bullet for your team."
"Hey, thanks, Charlie! If that's all it takes for free drinks, I should get shot more often," she joked.
He held out her card, but when she grabbed for it, he pulled it just out of reach. "Don't make it a habit."
She laughed. "I know, I know. Good night, Charlie."
He gave her a nod and she headed for the door. Before she left, she threw a peace sign across the room, which was returned by her other team members.
Walking outside, she discovered Street already at the curb with his Ducati running. He shucked off his leather jacket and held it out, allowing her to slip her arms into the sleeves. They went past her hands so she pushed them up to her wrists. The leather was warm and smelled like his fresh scent. He passed her his extra helmet, a black full-face, and then put on his own.
"Sorry, you get my bag," he said, and eased it onto her back.
"That's fine," she said, tightening the straps.
He straddled the bike, got his balance, and then motioned for her to get on.
Reagan climbed onto the back and sat forward, wrapping her arms around his middle. His firm stomach flexed beneath her hands as she grasped the soft cotton of his t-shirt.
"You ready?" he asked, his voice muffled by the helmets.
"Yup!" she hollered.
"Hold on!"
She increased her grip and they took off like a shot. He whizzed through yellow lights and leaned deeply into sharp corners. It seemed like she barely had time to admire the view before they arrived at her house. He parked in the driveway and waited for her to get off.
As she removed her helmet, the bag and his jacket, Street turned off the bike. He took off his helmet and set everything on the seat.
"What'd you think?" he asked.
"It was terrifying. I loved it," she said with a smile.
He laughed. "And I took it easy on you!"
They slowly walked up her steps and stopped at the door. Street had his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cool ocean breeze. Reagan watched him, her hooded eyes teasing.
"You're not coming in."
He laughed again, but quieter this time. "I wasn't going to ask."
She leaned in a tad closer, feeling the dizzying effects of her alcohol consumption and their wild ride through the city. "Liar."
Street stared at her lips as he whispered, "You caught me."
Before Reagan could come to her senses, he closed the remaining space between them and, ever so gently, brushed his mouth against her parted lips. He touched a hand to her cheek, his fingertips just a whisper on her skin.
Deacon.
Reagan's eyes fluttered open and she stepped back, horrified by what she'd just done. The kiss had been beautiful in every way, but…
He's not Deacon.
Sucking in a breath, Reagan dared a glance at Street. He must have seen the uncertainty on her face, because he proceeded to hold up his hands with a frown.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."
She shook her head. "Don't worry about it. I…I think we've both had a long day. Um… So… I'll see you tomorrow?"
Street nodded, tight-lipped as he backed down the steps.
"Bye," she said quietly.
"Night, Cas," he responded, and turned around to walk back to his bike.
Reagan unlocked her door and went inside, hearing the rev of his motorcycle as he left. She backed up against the wall and closed her eyes on a sigh.
What the hell, Reagan?
She wasn't sure what had just happened, but she hoped it didn't mess up her friendship with Street. She liked him. A lot. But she was now realizing that she felt differently about Deacon. What was his problem anyway? He was always so friendly and collected. Even before the exercise today, he'd joked around with her. She'd seen things go sideways during other exercises, and her superiors had never reacted like that.
She couldn't go to sleep with all of this shit in her brain, especially since she would be reporting to work first thing in the morning.
She needed to talk to him.
Like right now.
Without thinking, she reached for her phone and requested an Uber.
The driver was outside within minutes. Reagan threw on a light jacket, locked her door, and jogged to the end of her driveway. When she got into the car, she told the young man behind the wheel where she wanted to go. She'd only been by Deacon's apartment building once, when he'd taken her to his favorite coffee shop before work one morning. He'd pointed it out as they'd driven by. She was surprised she even remembered where it was.
They pulled up outside of the tall white building and she leaned forward to pay her driver.
Standing at the main entrance, she asked herself again what the hell she was doing.
Reagan read the long list of tenants until she came across his name: Kay - #402. She pushed open the glass door and took the elevator to the fourth floor. She walked down the hall until she came to his number. With an unsteady hand, she knocked on the door.
After a few seconds, she heard the slide of a lock and the door opened. Deacon stood before her, dressed in a white tee and black Adidas track pants. His feet were bare and his hair mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. More than anything, though, he looked tired.
"Reagan? What are you doing here?"
She jammed her trembling hands into her coat pockets and forced herself to meet his searching gaze. "I needed to talk to you… Can I come in?"
In almost a stupor, he nodded and stepped back, allowing her to walk inside.