by V. P. Trick
So why hadn’t he? If he was that impressed by the Chief, why hadn’t he reported the plan? Was a dream come true too good to be true? Alone in his car, Charles had to face it. No, the fantasy was not too good; he believed he could do the job. Would do it. Maybe not this early but one day. This investigation came a little early but had proved his dream was not impossible. So why hadn’t he?
Charles, sitting alone in his car, only found one answer. Patricia.
Was it love? She was pretty for sure. More than pretty. And funny. Mischief in her eyes. As Lorena. Shy and sweet too. Strong. Delicate. Unlike his mother or any of the women he knew. Not even Lorena could have dragged him into a gentlemen’s club. Not even Lorena would have gone to a strip club.
Patricia impressed him; she was entirely different. Almost from a parallel world. Charles didn’t care if she was cracked − not that he thought her crazy, but even if it turned out she was, it wouldn’t make any difference for him − she was his friend. And his compassionate friend had lost it tonight. She had pushed him back voluntarily, that much he was sure. But from what? And why?
The fight was just bad luck. He had knocked into some jerk, the jerk had retaliated, the other two had jumped in. An unpredictable and very unlucky chain reaction. That she had hit the fat guy with the beer bottle to protect him was one thing. The kicking was something else; she had flipped out then. She had seen the guy fall to the floor, seen he was out but cautious and gentle Patricia had rained kicks on the fallen man nevertheless.
“I bumped into the big guy; that’s what started the fight,” he had told MacLaren. “Patricia tried to stop the fatso from jumping me.”
Despite all his explanations, Charles had not convinced the Chief. His time was up, but alone in his car, he was more concerned of Patricia than of losing his job. It was his turn to save her neck but from what?
MacLaren’s Twosome
Chris scowled at Patricia’s back as she ran to the door. From the last glimpse he caught of her face, he feared she was about to cry. He was worried about her. Pissed. Scared.
“Do you need anything, Sir?” Philip, the hotel’s night doorman, enquired through the passenger side window.
He shook his head no but didn’t drive away. The man left him alone; the man knew, of course. This was not their first quarrel after all. Perhaps Philip imagined Chris was waiting for Miss Patricia to come back down and they’d reconcile on the spot.
Tell me, Princess. Would your doorman still call you Miss Patricia if he knew you started a fight at a strip club earlier? Chris would wager that Philip, like the rest of the staff here, would. Damn woman.
She had knocked a jerk out with a beer bottle and kicked him repeatedly. Charles said she was protecting him, no less. That rookie was out. He had taken her to that dump when he, Chris, his fucking boss, had explicitly forbidden him to take her anywhere!
Her shoulder had barely healed from the last fight; did Charles use her as his personal bodyguard? Didn’t the kid see how helpless she was in a fight the first time? He was fucking pissed at Charles and Patricia. What the hell was going on between those two? Sneaking out to some strip club! Twice!
He sat and smoked a cigarette. Another. His mouth tasted like shit. At some point, when he ran out of smokes, he ignited the motor and drove away. He took a right at the corner, and then another right, and a right again to end up right back where he had started. He arrived in time to see a car, Charles’s, pull to a stop in front of the front door. Shit, what the fuck now?
Chris flew out of his truck car and into the hotel fast enough to catch up with a startled Charles waiting for the elevator. He seized the kid by the shoulder, flipped him around and punched him. The guy was just out of the emergency; Chris controlled the blow, hitting hard but without full-on anger. His fist voluntarily missed the kid’s face but not by much.
Charles went stiff before he vainly tried to ward off the punch, his fists shielding his face in a tardy defensive move. Luckily for Charles, Chris had worked off the worst of the edge by smoking half a pack. His fist left a dent in the elevator door. His knuckles throbbed with pain. The pain was welcome; the pain gave focus. Control.
The night guy came over, cautious. “Everything all right, Mister MacLaren? Should I maybe call the police?”
It was Charles who waved the guy away with an everything is under control gesture.
“You’re out,” Chris spewed out in a low voice between clenched teeth, breathing through his nose.
“I know.” Charles shrugged dismissively. “I just want to make sure Patricia is all right.”
“You should have thought of that before tonight,” he snapped back in the same level tone, but a sharp edge crept into it.
Charles didn’t say anything.
“Get out, Charles.”
The kid didn’t move.
“Charles. Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
“No. I want to make sure she’s fine.” The kiddie cop chose this moment to stand up to him for the first time. A little late, rookie.
“She’ll be OK. Go.”
Charles took a deep breath and straightened. Getting ready for a fight, asshole? Bring it on.
“No,” the kid repeated. “I make sure first, and then I go.”
He could drag Charles out, or punch him for real and take him down. Tempting. Not efficient, though, but fucking tempting. Or he could allow the jerk up and see. He might make sense of tonight if he observed Patricia and Charles interact. The stories he’d been told were not all the same; something was off. Charles had been lying to him about tonight, that he was certain. But Steve’s version, as reported by witnesses, were over-the-top. Patricia could not have taken the fat guy down and kicked him; that was absurd. Crazy.
Tensed silence accompanied the two men to the fourth floor, right up to Patricia’s door. Chris knocked, two hard whacks, and waited. No sounds, no signs of movement. He banged again, harder. He wanted to break the fucking door down, wanted to feel the wood splinter his knuckles, but if he lost control now− He used the card key.
He had it made long ago and always kept it in his wallet. Of course, since then, Patricia had officially given him a key hence the two electronic hotel cards in his wallet. Why did he carry the two? Simple, he anticipated she might lock him out or throw him out again. Wasn’t it what she was doing now, figuratively speaking?
They found her in bed, fully dressed, fully awake but hiding under her covers. Her hair was a mess, her eyes red and so fucking green.
She glared at him unhappy when he pulled the blankets off her. “Out!” She barked, arm out straight and pointing at the bedroom entrance.
Both men retreated to the living room part of the suite. Seconds after, the bathroom door slammed. They heard her moving around, turning the tap on and off, knocking bottles, banging doors, making noises.
She stayed in there a good twenty minutes (he had no clue doing what) while he sipped his drink. Scotch in a fucking wine glass! The kid could damn well forget about getting one.
Chris was pouring himself a second shot when Patricia stomped barefoot into the room. A twenty-minute downtime wasn’t long considering the night’s events and her history of fucking around. Of pretending, Chris corrected himself. Delaying. Ignoring. Hiding. Fucking around.
She had changed into sleek jeans and one of his sweatshirts. She had tucked her hands into the sleeves and pulled the hood over her head. Concealing herself still. Except for her bare feet, the nails painted with a lavender polish. How kinky was it that he liked her feet? She wiggled her toes when she was nervous; the pink tips were fucking jittery right now.
He kept his mouth shut. Wait and see. The ball is yours, Angel, yours and your damn rookie lover boy here. Let’s see where you throw it. She plopped down on the couch and crossed her arms. She had yet to ask why they were here and why they were here together. She had yet to ask anything. Apparently, she too was waiting. Waiting for what, Angel of mine? Talk to me.
That left Charles. Charles who perc
hed his ass on the coffee table in front of her. Charles who smiled at her and put his fucking paws on her knee. Chris scrutinised them with half-closed eyes. A deep frown cut his forehead. He was holding the glass so hard, its foot broke off, and he cut himself. Bruised knuckles and a bleeding palm equated to pain. Focus on the physical pain and wait. Talk to me, Pussycat.
Her Threesome
As weary as she was of Christopher’s reaction, Patricia barely noticed Charles’s hand. The Big guy had a glint in his eyes that troubled her even if he looked his usual hard and tightly coiled self. She studied him from cropped hair to dressy shoes, her gaze catching on his right hand; that hand had been fine two hours ago.
Why had he brought the young officer up with him? She turned to Charles. His bruised, dog-tired face aged him; it wasn’t worse than it had been in the hospital, though. Had the two men been fighting? If so, she couldn’t determine a clear winner, but would Charles be standing if they had? No, hence no fist fight. Christopher had thrown a punch at someone or something else.
Charles broke the stillness. “Are you all right?”
Was that all? “Yes.” She swallowed. “No,” she added shaking her head. “I’m not sure.” She pushed her sleeves up and studied her hands. Although she was over the fear, they were somewhat shaky. From now on, she intended to be the hunter.
“I’m not sure I’m quite fine yet, but I will be.” She smiled up at Charles, gently taking his hands from her knees and gathered both in hers. “You did well tonight. You’ve graduated, yé!”
He looked at her with such puppy eyes, her heart twisted. “You did well tonight, Charles,” she repeated. “It was a brilliant idea that you had, going undercover to find the fight guy. Brilliant one might say.” She added for Christopher’s benefit, “Maybe you’ll get promoted now.”
Charles didn’t return her smile, his big brown, sad eyes full of concern; he shook his head dismissively, discouragement evident in the droop of his shoulders. She threw a quick glance at Christopher; the infuriating man was observing them carefully, his lips now a thin line. She couldn’t remember seeing him this angry. Maybe in the beginning? Later during the murder trial? The kiss? She’d rather see him angry than sad, or worried about her. Or worse, hurt. She couldn’t stand to see him get wounded.
She squared her shoulders. She didn’t have any choices left. If she didn’t take care of things, Christopher would fire Charles. Tonight was her fault; Charles didn’t deserve to pay for it.
She picked herself up, letting go of Charles’s hands, and marched to Christopher. She gripped his wrist, pulling at his arm, but he didn’t budge. She stood so near that his body heat rolled over her. She tugged harder without looking at him, but, as he still wouldn’t yield, she stopped wrestling with him and quietly waited.
If she asked him for a hug, he would give her one. She could make him give in temporarily, but the anger would still be there. And in his arms, she might not be able to speak. She was not going to cry in front of him! She heaved a sigh, shuffled back to the couch and flopped down in her previous spot. Leaning her head on the backrest, she closed her eyes.
“I told MacLaren how you’ve helped me take care of the fat guy,” Charles announced. “I take full responsibility for it. I’m sorry, Patricia, so sorry. Going with you to those clubs was a lousy idea.”
“What? Did you say clubs? Clubs with an S?” Christopher asked, his voice deceptively soft.
She knew that voice. His control was rapidly slipping away.
The Big guy didn’t wait for an answer. “How many of those fucking clubs have you done? Both of you?”
She knew her boyfriend. As he asked, he was already calculating back. They had not seen each other once in the evenings since the weekend. They had not slept together, had not even talked since then either. Had he noticed Charles’s beard had appeared at about that time? He stomped to Charles and grabbed him by the collar, lifting him to his feet. Yup, he had noticed.
“I’m listening, Charles.”
Charles couldn’t respond without getting fire. And she couldn’t answer for the rookie without getting him into the trouble.
“I made her come with me to a couple of clubs. For help. I’m not at ease in those places.”
“What?” She was stunned. What the heck? Was Charles covering for her? If he kept this up, he was going to get fired for sure. Eyes wide, she jumped to her feet and hissed at both of them, “He did not make me go. I took him with me, big difference.” Hands on hips, she frowned at Charles, her scowl silently willing him to shut up.
Three of Some
About fucking time those two stopped holding hands, Chris thought. If he could get them to turn on each other, or, at least, spar verbally, he might understand what was going on. “OK, guys, whose stupid idea was it again?”
“Mine,” Patricia and Charles chanted in unison.
“Shut up,” Patricia silently pleaded Charles. “Don’t answer that; it’s a trap.” If Christopher believed his officer, Charles was out.
“Again, whose stupid idea was it?” Chris growled at the two.
Patricia and Charles stared at one another. This time, when neither one confessed, Chris figured he was getting closer to the truth.
“You couldn’t have done more than a couple tonight,” he taunted. “When did you start this shit?”
Trick question, Patricia thought. If she said Sunday, Christopher would know she had not been with Ingrid. Unless she claimed Ingrid’s mystery contact had cancelled at the last minute? Too much of a lie. If she alleged they had started on Monday, that translated to a three-day strip club spree. Too long a time, the vein bulging on Christopher’s neck informed her. Would the Big guy believe they had only deployed a two-night plan? Would he forgive a two-night extravaganza? Would he absolve them even of one evening, one trip? She didn’t answer.
Neither did Charles. At first. Then she heard him mumbled, “Eight on Sunday, seven Monday, eight Tuesday and four tonight.”
The kid was unbelievable! “Shut up, Charles,” she snarled.
If Chris hadn’t been so angry, he might have smiled when she cursed at the kid. That last exchange was enough to indicate who was the weakest link. As if Chris had had any doubt. She didn’t know he had already fired the kid and was clearly trying to protect Charles while the jobless rookie had nothing left to lose and was attempting to defend her.
Now that Chris knew the when − twenty-seven strip dumps since Sunday! − he bluntly searched for the why. “And why have you been to those clubs? New hobby?”
Patricia merely rolled her eyes, but again Charles folded first. “We− Sorry, Sir. I was looking for the guy in the fight with Lemieux.”
Charles was trying to advocate her actions again, but this time, Patricia silently approved of his reply. He had offered a logical and professional explanation, one any dedicated cop doing investigative work might have presented. Christopher couldn’t argue Charles’s intentions. Nothing more, enough said, Patricia thought.
“And?” Christopher prompted once more.
And what, Big guy?
Again, Charles (unwisely) responded to the Big guy’s exhortation. “And I felt that if I could find the fighter, I might be able to get something out of him. His testimony might help the case. And myself.”
“And have you found him?” Chris prodded further. “Have you found that mythical fighter?” Rhetorical question. They had gone to twenty-plus holes. If they had found any significant leads, they would have told him by now.
Patricia took over from there. “Christopher, it was a smart idea. Maybe not very efficient, but it might have been effective. Think about it. Charles had a pretty good description of the guy. With the peculiar neck scar and all, if he had spotted him, he could have followed him. After all, that mysterious fighter is your sole lead right now, isn’t he?”
Chris stared at them both. The idea itself could be, as she said, effective if not efficient. But the notion of those two pursuing an unknown man was ludicro
us. Dangerous. A farmer boy rookie and a delicate delusional writer, untrained and fucking too spontaneous to be anything but a grave danger to herself out on the prowl! Chris chose not to answer.
The damn woman was too stubborn, so she insisted. “Christopher, truthfully, if we had found him, if Charles had found him, you would have been OK with it. Admit it, you don’t care how your men get results as long as they get results.”
She was half right. Of course, he would have been happy with the results, but not with her tagging along. Never. “Patricia, you had no business being there. Charles had no business taking you there. And−”
She cut him off. “News flash, Big guy. I can go wherever I want, with whoever I want, whenever I want, and do whatever the damn I want fancy, got it? I don’t need you looking over me all the time.”
You are fucking wrong, Pussycat. “Maybe. But I had ordered Charles not to take you there, to that wherever-whatever you so often wander off these days. He broke a direct order.”
Damn. His growl was level; he had already fired Charles, all because of her. She stared at Charles; the kid shrugged dismissively. Taking it like a man, damn him.
“I’m sorry Charles didn’t follow your advice, but it’s my fault. I made him do it. He didn’t want to, but I forced his hand. You should dismiss me.”
“I can’t fire you, Pussycat. I can’t even keep you resigned! But I can prevent you from doing it again.” I can protect you.
“Damn it, Christopher, you can’t take it out on him. First, you teamed him up with Hamilton, and then you expect him to perform as well as a seasoned fifteen-year veteran right from the beginning. That’s not fair; you’re driving him too hard.”