Sometimes, Horatio got tired of caring so much, got tired of responding with everything he had, attempting to repair the mistakes of others, both on and off the job. Sometimes he had to escape from his life and for just that reason, he had taken some time off and driven up the coast, ending up in Brunswick, Georgia. Out of state meant out of his jurisdiction, away from anything that smacked of responsibility.

He had dressed down, out of his usual tailored suits and Italian designer shoes to some off the rack, kick-ass biker boots, jeans and a flea market leather jacket. He'd even decided to rent a little beater rather than drive his own 1962 TR4. For now, he wanted nothing of his life in Miami on or around him, and, who knows, if things went just so, maybe he'd never go back.

The bar he'd randomly picked was in the middle of a quiet street, in a neighborhood that had only recently seen better days. The sidewalk was still cleaned regularly and the paint outside was still firmly attached to the walls. Inside the lighting was still ambient rather than darkened, to save money, and the bartender merely glanced at him rather than giving that hard look of assessment.

Taking a stool, four away from the lone woman at the bar, he'd decided to start with beer. Served, his money taken, left alone, he had swiveled on the seat to observe his surroundings. So, here he was, away from it all, free as a bird. Yeah.

Checking the Timex, purchased the day before, it was nine-thirty and, there were only five other people in the whole damned dive. Glancing over to the woman, he called out, "Is this place always this quiet?"

The woman, close to Horatio's age by appearance, shifted, arched her back, looked at him briefly without smiling, then back to her drink, and answered, "Last couple of months, yeah."

Hiking his elbows to lean against, he continued, "Sounds like you're a regular. Are you?" Looking at her over his shoulder, he saw her make a face at the bartender and sensed the bartender was noncommittal in his look back at her.

Turning to give him a less than appraising look, she announced, "I'm not working tonight, okay?"

"Neither am I."

Her lips snarledupin disgust. "I knew you were a fucked-ass cop."

"Wanna dance?"

"Go to hell."

Their banter was interrupted by an eruption of people coming through the front door. Evidently, from the chatter, they hadbeen at a meeting and this was where they came afterwards. A few minutes later, the jukebox came to life with the latest country-western sounds and two couples began gyrating, more or less in time to the music, on the stamp-sized dance floor.

Horatio couldn't help but see two men in the group nudge each other as they eyed the woman at the bar. He knew without hearing a word what was about to happen, and caught himself before he tried brushing his jacket aside to reveal the badge he had left on the dresser at home.

Carefully not making eye contact as they approached, lowering his gaze to contemplate the floor, he let his unusually wide field of vision take in the action. He couldn't hear the conversation but could see that, by their body movements, they first, verified her profession, then made an offer, were refused and then, first tried to cajole her, then made petulant, annoying threats.

Horatio felt some sort of perverse satisfaction in knowing there wasn't much he could do to help. Though half way in the mood, he had nocause to start a fight, and could see no reason to rescue her anyway since he didn't know her. He relaxed. Life was so simple this way. At least, it was until he heard a voice call to him, "Hey, aren't I supposed to be at that party in half an hour?"

Considering several possible outcomes for this set up, he decided on the easiest path. "Well, get off your ass and let's go! What, you want I should carry you?" He swung his head towards the door otherwise not moving.

Watching as she sauntered by, he rose when she was half way to the door, and said only loud enough for the two pests to hear, "Dumb fucking broad. I ought 'a beat. . ." Leaving the rest to their imagination, he figured that would keep them from following.

When he stepped outside he expected to see her halfway down the block but instead she was standing out front, expectantly looking at him. He scowled and shook his head. "Beat it, I'm not the Humane Society."

Eyeing him levelly, she smirked. "Thanks anyway." She turned to walk away.

A quick survey of the empty streets and too many shadows drove him to call out, "Shit! Car's over here, get in. Where you want me to drop you off?"

In the car, leaning back against the door she seemed more at ease. "What place you staying? And don't get cute, cop-fucker. This is a rental, from Florida, so don't say you live around here."

Hanging an arm on the steering wheel, facing her, he noticed she was attractive. "None of your business. Either say where you want me to take you or I'll drop you off in front of Brunswick PD and let you renew some old acquaintances."

"You were out to get drunk and you only had half a beer, so what say I take you to another place I know, set you up with your choice, and we'll call it even? My name is Crystal, by the way." She pronounced her name as Chris tal with emphasis on the second syllable.

Two hours later in a cheap motel bed, not the one he had already paid for earlier in the evening, Horatio heard, "Simple, dirty sex is how you like it, huh? Just turn me around, get it off and done?" He knew she no more wanted an answer to this question than to know who he was. His blue eyes took in every nuance of each move she made as she continued, "Actually, I prefer it that way myself. Don't need or want to know anything more about you."

He wondered if lying was just part ofwhat she did for a living or if it had always been part of her makeup. Not, he reminded himself, that he cared. Later, he did her again, from the front.

——That's how it had all started, over five years ago. Since then, two or three times a year, sometimes once in a year, he would leave a message with her answering service, drive toBrunswick, meet her in nondescript motel rooms, and simply screw her. Sometimes he demanded she service him, run her hands over his body as she looked up from her kneeling position on the bed. Usually he just shoved her over a chair, against a wall, pulled her thong down from under her skirt and did her standing up. Sometimes, so powerful was his pent up rage at the world he fought, day in and day out, he knew he hurt her. On one occasion, he actually made love to her, slowly removing her clothing, caressing her, kissing her.

"Florida," she had declared to him after that incident, "don't you ever do that to me again. I have to put up with that sort of crap every goddamn day." Her Georgian accent, usually soft and refined, became clipped and flat. "You come in, you do me as hard, as fast, any way you want and as often as you want, but don't lay your hands on me like that or we're done."

Other than the very first night, she had never tried to talk to him or to socialize with him. All he knew about her, she had told him that hour of talking at the second bar. She was a middle class hooker, had several regulars that paid for the basics of life and then she picked men up when she wanted extras. That night, she was trying to take a night off, but c'est la vie. She admitted tobeing attracted to him and then quickly reminded him she still wasn't free or even cheap just because of that. From the way she'd talked then, he judged that, by now, she could probably retire, and for all he knew, she had, but used him now as part time work. She still looked damn fine to his eyes, still aroused a second performance.

After the first round, usually after a brief nap, she would quietly go take a shower and he would clean up in the sink. Sometimes they would lie on the bed and just look at each other, and sometimes she brought magazines and would read until he called to her for another bout, but never did they talk, except in the discharge of the business at hand. He went to her for one reason, and whether she was happy about it or simply accepted it, he didn't know and didn't have to care.

Once, returning home from a visit to her, he realized that that was exactly her whole idea. She had pegged him and his fantasy that first night and had concocted this world for him. As with so many prostitutes, within minutes, she had figured out what would quickly satisfy him and what would bring him back. Apparently, like football players who didn't mind being tackled and slammed to the ground, she didn't seem to mind sexual pain. She had the savvy and prowess to know how to take his brief bouts of savagery without permanent injury, knowing there was a point beyond which he would never trespass. She'd sensed, from the start, he needed a place to just turn off, a place where he didn't have to give anything, where he could unleash sexual tensions without bounds and without commitment, and. for a few bucks, provided herself as that place. That was as far as his analysis had gone because, if he went any further, he knew he would care.

He also knew that one day he would call, find her service was no longer accepting messages and would never see her again, and knew he would care, but for now, on his way again to Brunswick, Georgia, Horatio Caine was looking forward to taking without giving.