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thestreamergirl · 4 years ago

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Excuse me @astroboots I would like to unhinge my jaw and scream —-how is this a fic that I get to read for free??? FOR FREE??? HOWWW??? there is so much I love about this chapter I had to stop and take notes 😰😰😰😰

1. That strange man in the grocery store knowing her name?? Cici, honey.... why is there an icy chill down my spine all of a sudden????

2. The bank employee mysteriously disappearing?? Our man Dave wouldn’t have anything to do with this would he now ? 👀

These tiny mannerisms and traits that we think go unnoticed...., ughh I live for these deep dives you take into someone’s personality in only two sentences you portray sO much and I’m in awe. 🙌🏾

And oh. Cici. Frankie’s standing in a crowd and the first thing he wants to do is text you..... 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 oh god. And he doesn’t even know you’re already watching him?? What kinda pain are you putting me through here????

Not that Frankie seems to mind being left out, preoccupied as he is with the phone in his hand and wearing a soft smile you haven't seen in years. There’s a prick of jealousy at the tip of your finger as you wonder who he’s texting that makes him smile that way.

Oh god??? Oh god. Listen. To realize you’re the one on the receiving end of that text? Please come get my heart. I’m not equipped to handle such emotions.

Across from you, Frankie’s back contorts with discomfort, knowing you must’ve overheard.

Oh. Ouch. First off the visual of that??! Excellent. And secondly: Of course it’s Frankie luck that the things he told Benny in confidence went further than it should have. That visceral reaction when something backfires like that?? Yea. That.

Don’t want to abandon you in this crowd

Oh 🥺🥺🥺🥺 My heart. He knows you. He still looks out for you. He feels he should be the one still looking out for you.

The scene with Dave???? I have shivers cici -oh my god we all know what he’s capable of and I am afraid.

I LOVED THAT PHONE-CALL OH MY GODDDD. how their conversations are slowly getting easier? 👀 The yearning underneath it all.... The longing, the pining for one another, his offer to have a look at your car. 😭 it’s only ch 2 and the slow burn is already killing me 👍🏼🙂

VERSUS: CHAPTER TWO

FRANKIE MORALES X F!READER + DAVE YORK

Warnings: explicit sex, angst, implied violence, swearing

Word count: 8.5k words

Summary: When Dave York is assigned with a name on his list to take care of, one that hits a bit too close to home for Frankie, you, it forces him to tap into a dark part of him that was supposed to be a closed chapter of his life.

Dedications: To beloved clown extraordinaire @thirstworldproblemss 🤡 💖 🤡

A/N: short smut but possibly the dirtiest and most gratuitous sex I've written. No actual violence, but threats of violence that can be triggering. Please proceed with caution.

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Chapters {01}

You can tell the man’s a soldier, a mile away. When he first enters the grocery store his eyes roam the layout of the space and only settles once he has found the exit sign. He walks in step with the beat of a drum. An elderly lady accidentally bumps into him, and he apologizes to her with a polite ma’am, immediately stacking up the items that got knocked over on the shelf neater than the staff had done.

He must be nearly 6’5 feet, with a dark fuzzy beard that reminds you of one of the big hibernating bears in the pages of Mireya’s story books. One look tells you he’s the kind of man that no one in their right mind would want to anger. So when you round a corner of the grocery store and the first thing you see is a slight man approximately half his size in a suit, crowding into the giant man’s space and screaming in his face, you shake your head. What a freaking idiot. The second thing you see is a broken carton of milk on the aisle floor, milk splashed onto the civilian man’s shoes, bleeding out across the linoleum.

The smaller man’s face is red from the shouting. This is the idiom of crying over spilt milk come to life.

In the face of the ridiculous tantrum, the soldier only says one word, devoid of all emotion, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “Move.”

His jaw is locked tight, eyes dark and blank. You recognize that thousand yard stare and what it means.

Saw it once in Will’s eyes three seconds before his arm locked around a man’s throat in a chokehold that didn’t loosen until the man had urinated all over the tiled floor.

The same look in your ex-husband’s eyes that would have had Frankie locking himself in the garage to calm down, before coming back to you with a still shaking tremor in his right hand.

A small crowd has gathered at the commotion, but no one is stupid enough to intervene. You really should just mind your own business, just buy the damn ice for Molly’s barbeque and get out of the store. This has nothing to do with you. But even before you manage to finish that thought, your feet have already carried you into the line of fire, and you find yourself standing between a 6’5 human grizzly bear and a shrill suit with a man inside. How very smart of you.

“Why don’t I just get you a new carton of milk,” you suggest in the same tone you use for Mireya when she misses her nap and throws a tantrum. (Except your daughter’s been taught to apologize once she calms down).

The businessman has the audacity to look at you like you’re the one acting out of turn. “Lady, that’s clearly not the problem here.”

“Then what is?" you ask. "What harm has actually come to you from some spilled milk that you haven’t even paid for yet?” You meet the man’s eyes, and at least he has the decency to flinch and be a bit flustered.

“My shoes—” he starts.

“Your shoes will dry. In fact—” you reach into your handbag and pull out the pack of baby wipes you always keep for Mireya and hold it out to him, “—take these.”

Someone in the crowd behind you actually giggles. That seems to be the straw that breaks the overgrown man-child’s camelback, as he mutters a, “whatever,” and walks away with a bitten down murmur that you can’t really make out, but you’re pretty sure it wasn’t ‘beach’.

The giant man behind you takes a determinant step forward and the alarms in your head shriek. Your hand shoots up to his chest, stopping him mid-step.

His nostrils flare with the deep breath he inhales, and you can feel anger vibrate through his chest where your fingers connect you to him. Slowly, the colour seeps back into his eyes, transforming tar into brown. It’s not until his breathing has calmed that you realize you’ve been holding your own breath. Still are.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that,” he says, and his voice is a simmering thunder even when quietly spoken.

“It’s fine. My husband is former military. I’d like to think someone would do the same for him if he encountered an asshole like that.”

You catch the slip of your tongue only after, and you can almost hear Molly snarking about the Freudian slip. If she’d been here, you’d tell her that sometimes you just don’t want to tell a total stranger your husband is now your ex. Don’t want explain why the two of you divorced. The whole, oh he fucked off to Columbia for a month after a drug suspension at work. Did I mention we had a new baby?

The man's mouth works, as if he wants to say something to you, but stops. Instead he looks down towards the floor, looking oddly ashamed of himself.

“Well. Thank you Mrs. Morales,” he says, turning on his heel and walking out of the store.

Your eyes stay fixed between the aisles until the large shape of his back disappears from your view. Discomfort palpitates in your chest because you’re pretty sure you never told him your name.

It takes you a full seven minutes to park your car outside Molly’s house because the engine keeps dying every time you shift into reverse. In the end you just let it sit on the side of the curb, crooked with its nose sticking out.

One of Molly’s new neighbours casts you a funny look as they walk by. You can’t blame them. In this Pleasantville neighbourhood, your ugly old car sticks out like a rusted sore thumb.

Things are pristine here. Perfect families and perfect houses. Every piece of real estate on this street would be listed for more than you could earn in three lifetimes, or Molly for that matter. Things changed significantly for her when Tom's last will and testament revealed a previously unknown family trust. Now she lives in a three storey Georgian-styled mansion with two bathrooms on each floor, paid for in full.

Molly is already standing by the front lawn, as if she has been waiting for you this entire time, despite having a garden full of guests. The first thing she does is take one look at your dumpy car parked sideways in front of her pavement and burst into a big hearty laughter. “Just let me buy you a new car already.”

Molly does this now, buys things. Buy houses, buy cars. Last week she tried to buy Benny a Ferrari when they were both drunk on Rum Runners. It’s a far cry from the frugal housewife that used to agonize over clip coupons and small change. Now she’s become an in-real life Willy Wonka, and it’s not just because she became rich overnight, although that certainly helps. It’s because Molly doesn’t trust the money.

You’ve been privy to one too many late night calls, where Molly hissed into the receiver that Trusts are for shady oligarchs and evil Bond villains, not a single mom of two from Florida. But there was only so long she could get by on a paltry substitute teacher’s salary. Now that she’s gained full access to the trust, it’s like the money burns in her hands until she spends it all.

You squeeze out of your car, arms full of half-melted bags of ice; plant one foot on the car door, and kick it shut. ”Stop it Molly, you’re not Oprah, you can’t just go around buying people cars.”

“It’s more money than I can spend in a lifetime. What am I supposed to do with it if I can’t even spend it on my friends?”

“You put it in a bank. You invest it. You don’t go around buying everyone cars, Molls. Don’t you have a fancy person at the bank who tells you how to spend and invest that money? Call them.”

You lock the car behind you even though your beaten up old thing is the last car anyone would steal in a neighbourhood of Teslas.

“Can’t trust banks these days,” she says. The sun is refracted on the black shine of her ray-bans as she steers you to the garden. She’s the picture of ease, except for the way her hand fidgets against her hip like she’s trying to rub out anxiety with her fingers. “They called me just the other day to tell me that the trust kid handling our account made off with our files.”

“What do you mean made off with your files? As in he stole the money?”

“No, money’s still there,” she tells you. “But the kid disappeared and no one can find him. He took a bunch of the client files and personal info. It’s a huge data breach apparently, and now the bank is scrambling around like rats on a sinking ship to figure out what he took and what he did with it.”

You frown. It sounds incredibly worrying, but before you get the chance to follow up with questions, Molly takes the ice from you, then shoves a beer into your hand and tells you to drink.

“Forget it. I shouldn’t even have brought it up. This is a party hun, drink and be merry.”

She smiles like it’s all a joke, because that is how Molly deals with painful subjects, deflecting with humor. When guilt of unloading her worries onto someone else catches up with her, she’ll cut the conversation off. The military wife in her still abides by the principles she learned on base. Support your man. Smile. Don’t bother them with your insignificant problems. They have enough to deal with.

Her sunglasses slip and you see the hint of purple-bruising under her eyes from lack of sleep. Still, you let her be, because you know her well enough to know that there's no sense in trying to pry things out of Molly. When she shuts that door, it is harder to get into than Fort Knox.

The ice bags are dumped into an ice cooler, and Molly grabs a cool bottle of beer that pops open with a hiss.

The gathering is a far cry from Molly’s normal Saturday barbeques in her old backyard. Besides you and Molly, no one is drinking beer; all the guests are holding wine glasses that glint under the afternoon sun. The garden is filled with the white noise of polite conversation instead of rambunctious hollering as the other guests start to filter through.

Turning to look out over the crowd, you see a sea of white pants and gaudily colored silk shirts. It's easy to spot your ex-husband who stands out among them.

Dressed in plain jeans and a softworn tee that stretches over his broad back, Frankie looks like he’s in a photo of which one doesn't belong -- in a good way. His brown messy mop of hair hiding under his cap and curling at the back of his neck in the warm afternoon sun. You’re staring blatantly and can’t look away, and you’re not sure if the heat prickling your face is from the warm afternoon sun or something else entirely.

“Stop staring at the man hun.”

The words pull you back by the skin of your neck, leaving you with prickling embarrassment at being caught.

“Why don’t you just go talk to him instead?” she says.

“It’s fine. He’s here to have fun, not get bothered by his ex-wife.”

“Fun?” She laughs as if you said something hilarious. ”You think this is the kind of crowd that Frankie likes to hang out with in his free time? Look at these assholes,” the tipped neck of her bottle points to an innocuous neighbour, “that man’s toupe has been distracting me since he arrived. It’s faker than my artificial lawn.”

She’s mid-way into one of her impressive rants but manages to get herself back on track with a shake of her head. “Frankie’s here because you asked him to come. But now you’re leaving him to be pecked at by the toupe vultures. Go over there. Say hi to the man and oh—” she adds, “—try to be nice.”

“When have I not been nice?”

Molly tilts her head, just so, until her eyes peek over the rim of her sunglasses, giving you a scathing look. “Benjamin told me you tried to give the man the directions to his own bathroom last time he was in the house. That’s cold.”

Any further protest dies on your tongue. Your chest deflate in defeat. “I’m not trying to be the mean ex-bitch of a wife on purpose. I just…” You look at your feet, feeling childish. “I don’t know what to say to him anymore.”

Molly looks you up and down with something akin to pity, which stings when it’s from your best friend. “Franke’s trying really hard. Throw the guy a bone sometimes. Talk to him. Make conversation. If not for yourselves, you do it for her.”

You want to tell her It’s not that simple. It’s not just about you swallowing down your pride so you and him can be best friends again. Every interaction with him is marred by guilt. The guilt of dragging him through a divorce that put his every failing on trial. Anxiety. PTSD. Coke use. Failed pilot. Failed husband. It all sounded very black and white, when spoken by a lawyer in a three piece suit and a Rolex watch asking you if you want the best for your daughter, (and there was never going to be any answer to that besides yes).

It made you forget that they were advising you to treat your best friend as your worst enemy. Until it was too late to take back what was said. Things Frankie had confided to you typed up in Times Roman font on a court transcript. Now when he’s near you don’t know what to say to him anymore, because you’ve already said too much. It’s painful to accept the fact that you became the villain in your own story.

Molly is still holding that pitying expression in her eyes, and you wish you could explain all of this but you don’t want to bother her with your self indulgent crap. She has enough to deal with without having to listen to you drone on about your failings with your still alive ex-husband. Instead you just nod. “I’ll try.”

Scanning the garden again, you notice Benny standing next to Frankie with Mireya on his shoulders. God knows how you managed to miss him the first time around because he’s hardly subtle.

Two younger housewives linger close to Benny, with all the telltale signs of flirting. The hand-on-the-shoulder touch. The lip biting. The throwing-their-heads-back, laughing at whatever it is he’s saying. Benny’s a funny guy, but no one is that funny, unless you’re as pretty as Benny. The boy looks like a 90s heartthrob straight out of Top Gun. He’s a sweetheart, bless him, but the pretty ones never were your type. Too obvious.

Neither of the women seem to pay much attention to Frankie. Not that Frankie seems to mind being left out, preoccupied as he is with the phone in his hand and wearing a soft smile you haven't seen in years. There’s a prick of jealousy at the tip of your finger as you wonder who he’s texting that makes him smile that way. It’s entirely childish of you and you know it. Just because you can’t get over him doesn’t mean you the man is supposed to mope over you like some forlorn WWII widow for the rest of his life.

He’s still typing away at his message, head bent down entirely too close to the screen like an old man. It's ridiculously endearing, and he’s still smiling.

Something altogether familiar swells up in your chest, and it aches in a way that you don’t know if it’s good or bad anymore; you just know you miss him.

It's only when your own phone pings in your back pocket that you manage to look away.

Frankie I’m here. Mireya too. Got your tupperware with me.

And oh. Warmth crowds your chest and pushes upwards until your cheeks tingle with heat. You look up again and this time Frankie spots you.

He waves at you, and Mireya notices too. In her excitement, your daughter nearly tears Benny’s hair out from the roots, and you can hear Benny yelp in pain even from across the garden. At the rate this was going, he’d go prematurely bald. Benny doesn’t have the facial structure to pull off a Bruce Willis, so you decide to spare him by making your way towards them.

As soon as you are in reach, Benny throws his arms around you, lifting you in an enthusiastic hug that has your feet hovering above the ground. Mireya’s knocked off his shoulders, and thank god for Frankie’s quick reflexes that has his arm flinging out faster than a slingshot to catch her. He curses out the younger man with a half bitten off spanish curse but glances at Mireya and settles for, “be careful Benjamin.”

The gorgeous women of Benny’s new fan club laugh at the whole scene. From the outside it probably looks like you’re all close. Benny drapes a warm arm over your shoulder, like you’re one of his oldest friends. Then he introduces you and Molly to his lady friends as the most important women in his life. Molly rolls her eyes at him with a fond scoff and you're tempted to do the same, but don't. Benny never gave you crap or stopped treating you as family, even after the divorce. Every time he’s kind to you that tar of guilt boils hot into your stomach.

Mireya kicks up a fuss, half leaping into the air from Frankie’s hold, climbing into your arms. It’s a struggle to keep ahold of her, her feet kicking out at all angles. Her kisses are warm and sticky with traces of melted sugar. On a good day without sugar, Mireya’s a tornado of chaos and mayhem. Add sugar into the mix and you are just asking for trouble.

“Did she have candy?” you ask.

Frankie rubs the back of his neck, a precursory tic for an apology that’s coming. "I left her in the car with Benny at the gas station and she got into a whole jar of jelly beans.”

Benny huffs indignantly. “We shared like half of it.”

“You’re also ten times her size, Benny,” Molly says.

Frankie ignores them both, focusing on you, and the small apologetic smile tugging at his lips makes your heart clench. “I’m sorry about the candy. It won’t happen again.”

“No it’s fine, you’re the one that has to take her home tonight and deal with the consequences.”

He winces like you’ve just gutted him with a knife and it registers that your tone was a lot sharper than you meant it to be. Nothing comes out the way you intend it to. Mean when you try to be funny. Rude when you’re trying to be helpful.

From the corner of your eyes you can see Molly and Benny exchange a look. Then Molly downs the rest of her beer in two mouthfuls and sets the bottle on a nearby table. “Benjamin, can you help me carry out some chairs from the garage? Don’t want the guest to be on their feet constantly.”

“Do you want me to help?” Frankie offers, already taking a step forward to make his escape. You can’t blame him for the eagerness, you'd want to get away from you too if you were him.

Benjamin grips Frankie’s shoulder to drag him back half a step. “Nah, you stay put, old man, don’t want you to throw your back out and collapse in the middle of a party.”

“Pendejo,” Frankie shoots back, and his hand jerks like he's about to flash the younger man his middle finger. But he stops himself. Probably for the benefit of Mireya who is already in trouble at nursery for saying shit last week (your fault).

“You two stay here.” Molly orders, then she shoots you a meaningful look and leans over with a quick lowered whisper meant for you. “Be nice.”

You can hear the two of them as they walk away. Benny must think you're deaf because he makes no effort to lower his voice, rambunctiously hollering to Molly, “twenty bucks she’ll try to show him where the bathrooms are.”

Across from you, Frankie’s back contorts with discomfort, knowing you must’ve overheard.

Fuck, what a wonderful way to spend your free Saturday. Standing across from your ex-husband who looks about ready to dig a hole under his feet to get away from you, and your own social anxiety pinging as you try to make conversation with two women you don't know.

Even Mireya bails on your awkwardness, running off to play with the other kids on the trampoline without so much as a “bye” and taking your last excuse to leave the present company with her.

“Did you hear about Brandi and Denise?” One of the women asks. “Apparently they had an affair and she cheated on her husband.”

Her friend waves her hand dismissively unconvinced by the hear-say gossip. “That’s just Brandi’s side of it though. You can’t believe that.”

Frankie looks thoroughly confused. Then you see him reach for his phone and watch him painstakingly type out a message before the phone pings in your pocket.

Frankie I don’t want to be rude. Who’s Brandi and Denise? Are they also Molly’s neighbours?

You Brandi is Brandi Glanville and Denise is Denise Richards.

One sole eyebrow arches high on his forehead as he reads your reply. Then he starts to type frantically.

Frankie Wait. Denise Richards the Bond Girl? Molly knows Christmas Jones now?

An unflattering pig-like laugh bubbles up your throat, and before you’re able to stuff it back down, Frankie’s head whips up in attention. Your eyes meet and there’s tangible contact there.

You No they’re talking about a TV show. Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

Frankie Ah. Got it.

The screen fills with three dots, indicating he’s typing. Then disappears, then starts again. He’s such a slow texter. Then finally it pings.

Frankie So what is this show about?

You Some reality show. I’ve never watched it. Molly’s mentioned it a few times though.

Frankie I thought Molly hated reality shows.

You She says watching rich people being trainwrecks makes her feel better about herself in comparison.

Frankie Ah so like when you got into that whole phase of watching Bridezilla planning our wedding?

The uncharacteristic playful tease, surprises you. You look up from your phone, and he's looking back at you with wide eyes, as if he’s just as surprised at himself for sending it as you are. Pulling his cap down his forehead, Frankie drops his gaze to the ground, and you can physically see him withdrawing in front of you. Molly’s words about bone-throwing ring in your ears.

You You know we don’t talk about that phase. You swore on your mother’s grave.

His phone pings with your message, and when you look up from your phone this time he’s smiling. You both are.

His feet shift, and Frankie gestures with a head tilt to his right. You have no idea what that means. Your expression must have betrayed your confusion because he ducks his head back down to his phone, and spends an eternity typing out another message.

Frankie I’m starving and going to try to grab something to eat. Do you want to come? Don’t want to abandon you in this crowd.

The smile on his face as you look up is relaxed and warm, and you quickly make your way towards him. Your exit is unnoticed by the others in the group, and as you catch up with him, old habits and instincts have you reaching out to take his hand in yours. It lasts for a heartbeat, your knuckles brushing up against the back of his hand before you realize what you’re doing and pull your hand back. Frankie doesn’t react. If he notices, he’s kind enough to spare your pride.

By the grill set up, Frankie hands you a plate with a burger with a lukewarm beer, and you both end up standing under a shaded tree that still gives you a full view of Mireya where she’s impersonating King Kong over by the trampoline.

“I didn’t mean to sound like a bitch earlier.”

“You didn’t,” he reassures you, but the fact that he knows exactly what you’re referring to without clarifications means you definitely sounded like a bitch. You don’t push him on it though. It’s not like you have a burning desire to be told you’re a bitch twice in one day.

Frankie takes a sip from his beer bottle, and your eyes are drawn to the column of his throat, the strong yet graceful line of it. It almost makes you miss the way his left hand keeps flexing restlessly against his thigh. And the conceited part of you, somewhere deep down, wants to believe it’s because it’s the same hand you almost grabbed. But the logical part of you knows it's probably just a new tic.

Molly and Benny are at the other end of the garden talking to other guests, but you decide to stay put where you are for now. For once you both allow the silence to sit without a compulsive need to interrupt it with forced conversation. It’s almost nice.

The afternoon goes by in a bit of a blur. Mireya rushes back and forth between the two of you and the trampoline like Forrest Gump running after a bus. But at least she’s getting all the sugar out of her system. When Frankie gets up to get her proper food, Mireya pulls on his jeans to tell him something, and Frankie immediately stops what he’s doing, putting down his plate to get down on her level. Squatting down even though you know how bad his knees are these days so the two of them can have a little conversation.

Frankie’s a really good dad.

When her princess braids fall apart, after too many rounds on the trampoline, she runs a beeline past you straight to her dad, asking him to do it the way she likes it. Mireya sits in his lap and Frankie takes his time, careful and attentive to brush through her hair before he painstakingly sets the braid, the tip of his tongue peeking out from the corner of his lip in concentration.

You’re more than a little bit embarrassed at the way you stare at his mouth— how your pulse stings under your skin to his low hums and a soft coo of, “all done baby.”

It’s the little things that make him such a good dad. Glimpses that you never get to see when you are each solo-parenting in your own little corners of your separate lives. You realize it as you watch him, feel the realization bloom and spread along with the love you still hold for him, when you see how much he loves your daughter.

She runs back and forth between the two of you and the trampoline so many times you lose track. On her final return, she practically tackles Frankie, clambering onto his lap, about to trample his groin in the process. You grab her ankle at the last second, and Frankie mouths a relieved, silent, thank you. Then her plump, chubby arms wrap around his neck, curling herself into his chest, eyes heavy and drooping half closed.

“I should probably head home so I can get her to bed,” Frankie tells you and the twinge of disappointment is one you probably fail to mask.

“Oh right. It’s getting late.”

Mireya burrows closer to her father’s shoulder with her sleepy gaze on you. “Mommy, do you want to come?”

Both you and Frankie look up in surprise, and it takes a second to regain your bearings. Then you shake your head with a forced laugh. “No, that’s ok, Possum. I’ll see you tomorrow night ok?”

You say your goodbyes, kissing her warm apple cheeks, and then watch them both walk away. Mireya is waving to you from over her father’s shoulder. It makes Frankie turn around, smile and wave to you as well. The small part of you that wanted to say yes to Mireya’s question aches as you watch them go.

Without them, the loneliness in a crowd of strangers becomes unbearable. You make an excuse to Molly about needing to get up early in the morning, but then you just sit in your car, listening to the din of conversation from the party guests, not willing to stay, not yet ready to drive home to an empty house when you know neither your daughter or Frankie will be there.

Eventually, you turn the key in the ignition, and the motor revs up with a cough-like sound so severe you worry it’s developing pneumonia. Then the engine dies. You let out a frustrated groan and cajole your car with a come on, don’t do this.

For god’s sake, you’re fucking talking to yourself like a crazy person now. You try it a second and a third time, before it finally decides to cooperate long enough for you to press down on the clutch and drive out into the street.

Fuck, you really need to get this piece of shit car fixed.

It’s Saturday, and Lauren finds herself sitting alone by the bar at her hotel. It’s the same way she’s spent nearly every single Saturday for the last three years since her divorce. The furniture is drab, the music bland and there is a musty smell of beer lingering in the space.

If Lauren had known that this was what her life would be like as an adult, she would never have bothered to apply for law school. Working as an offshore lawyer in the Bahamas sounds fancy enough. But this is the third time this month that she’s flown out here to Miami, where her kids live just so she can catch a glimpse of them during the weekend, before flying back to St John’s.

This is her life, 10 hours of chargeable work every day. Working for rich assholes with trust structures more intricate than a spider’s web because they don’t want to be paying the taxes they owe to their countries.

And those are the legitimate clients. The illegitimate ones show up to her office with $25 million zipped up in backpacks— a breach of every single anti-money laundering regulation that exists. Lucky for them she’s a professional legal laundromat. The dirty money gets clean and integrated back into the system.

The bartender shouts out last call, but he shouldn’t have bothered yelling so loud. It’s only her left. Lauren finishes her drink and is about to order her last one for the night when another slides across the cherry oak bar. A tumbler glass that glistens in that familiar amber of an Old Fashioned.

“From the gentleman over there.” The bartender indicates towards the leather armchair by the corner, and it surprises her that there is anyone else in the bar. He must’ve been really quiet because she didn’t even notice anyone else coming in tonight.

The man is well-dressed. Herringbone suit in a soothing navy. A shiny emblem of the American flag pinned on the lapel of his suit that reeks of a high end bureaucrat. But he’s clean-shaven and well-groomed with tidily combed thick brown hair. It was all very tall, dark and handsome.

Maybe it’s the loneliness, or the fact that he’s just handsome enough. Maybe that’s why Lauren flashes the man an inviting smile that has him rising from his seat and making his way towards her.

“Mind if I join you?”

He smiles, and it comes with the practised ease of a politician running for office. Slightly insincere but charming all the same. The wedding ring is still on his left ring finger, and he doesn’t even bother to hide it as he sits down. Wears it like it’s a point of pride. Hardly husband material this one, not that she cares.

“Not at all. Please do.”

The man straddles the bar stool and up close, he’s even more handsome than at first glance. The strong cut of his jaw and the distinctive hook of his nose are reminiscent of a dignified lead actor that belonged to the 70s era.

“That’s a lovely necklace.” He says, eyeing her neck and the mahogany gaze arrests her. Had she been a younger woman she would have flushed.

“Thank you.” Instinctively, her hand reaches down to play with the golden locket. “It was a present from my son for mother’s day.”

“Sounds like a sweet kid. How old is he?”

“Just turned nine last month. Love of my life but he’s at the age where he can’t sit still for a second.”

There’s a quiet chuckle from him, eyes warmer in this moment. “My daughter’s around the same age. Got me wrapped around her finger.”

She relaxes at that. Men who are good fathers, philandering aside, are always endearing. It’s a sign of kindness and nurture. Someone you can trust.

Reaching into her handbag, she digs for a pack of cigarettes and her lighter. Then she holds out the pack offering him one, but he shakes his head with the same charming smile that could belong to any of the Kennedys. “I don’t smoke.”

Even if he wasn’t going to partake, Lauren still pulls out a cigarette; it’s been much too long of a day for her to abstain for the sake of being polite to a stranger.

In an old fashioned move of chivalry, he reaches for her lighter, leaning over the counter until they’re huddled closely together. Then he lights it with a fluid motion of his thumb.

She takes a long drag until the glowing amber of the flame takes. Lauren’s always been fond of a man who knows how to properly light a cigarette for her. It’s all very Casablanca and black and white Hollywood; few men do this nowadays.

With a smooth metallic flick, he folds the lighter closed and slides it across the counter. It strikes her how small her lighter looks in his large hands. For a second, it makes her wonder how good they’d feel palming the flesh of her hips.

He’s watching her silently, the focused attention enough to balance her nerves on a precariously tender edge. So heated, it practically smolders with an intensity that makes her look down to her drink. Strands of hair fall into her face, and the gentle brush of his knuckles draws it away, tucking it behind her ear. Somehow that small gesture feels strangely intimate. An aching excitement sweeps through her insides. Sharp and insistent, and doesn't let go.

This close, there’s no hint of cologne, which surprises her. You’d expect a man like this to wear something expensive, bergamot and strong, convoluted spices. Instead, there’s just the fresh scent of soap and linen, pleasant and unassuming.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

“You’re welcome.”

What follows is a pleasant conversation even if the man doesn’t tell her much about himself. But that's fine. Exchanging personal information is hardly the point here. Lauren knows this dance by now. You don’t chat up a stranger at a hotel bar close to midnight, hoping to find a kindred spirit. She doesn’t give him her name, and he doesn’t tell her his.

All she knows is that when he speaks, the low timbre of his voice makes goosebumps prickle across her skin. He's just the type she wants to spend the night with and never have to see again. A perfect meaningless sexual encounter to ease the loneliness. That's enough.

As the bartender tells them they’re closing the room for the evening, Lauren eyes the man, and she can’t help the way her teeth sink into her bottom lip.

“Your room or mine?” she asks. The smile that slowly curls into the corners of his lips tells her that he already knew there was no other way this night would end.

—

They pick hers.

When they make it to the elevator, she’s surprised that he doesn’t so much as try to touch her. Whether it’s patience or chivalry, she can’t tell. Normally, whatever man is with her would be mauling her before the elevator door closes, pressing her against the railing until it has made a semi-permanent dent in her ass.

Instead this man walks her to her door, keeping a respectable distance between them even when they slip inside. It’s clear that for all his demanding presence, she’s going to have to be the one to take the initiative so she leans up on her toes to kiss him. Before her lips can touch his, his broad hand covers her mouth. The base of her spine tingles at the contact.

“Lovely as the offer is,” and there’s a thick drawl of condescension in his tone that demands absolute obedience. “I’m going to need something else from you instead.”

She chuckles at that. But the artificial warmth drains from his eyes, leaving her cold enough to shiver. He takes a step forward, and she instinctively backs up in response until he has her knees hit the edge of her bed.

Something’s not right.

“Sit down.”

She does. Her ass lands on the mattress with a soft thud, and he’s hunched down to her level, his hand still a close seal over her mouth.

There is nothing sexual about the way he’s eyeing her from top to toe. This is the exploratory gaze, not of a man or a predator, but of a professional surgeon. He looks at her body as if it’s a cadaver, not an object of desire.

Something is very wrong here, and it clicks far too late that she’s in danger.

“Mrs. Yates.” He says it so casually that it takes Lauren a second too long to remember that she never told him her name. Any remnants of the polite, professional smile bleed away until his mouth forms a hard, straight line, devoid of leniency.

Panic takes over. Her heart is pounding inside her chest with a beat so hard it hurts. Cold, clammy sweat prickling the back of her dress.

She’s in danger, this man is dangerous.

“I need you to listen very carefully. I am going to take my hand away,” he says, giving his instructions in short simple sentences as if speaking to a dumb child. “If you scream, I will cut through your windpipe.”

There’s a sharp pain in the column of her throat. Phantom pain, inflicted by the sheer certainty that he will follow through with no hesitation if she does not do what she’s told.

“Is that understood?”

Lauren nods, and the man removes his hand from her mouth.

The shrill scream of blood in her ears tells her to run, to shout, to make every move of resistance that she is capable of so she can be saved. But somehow her flight and fight instincts have landed on freeze. She sits there, compliant and not a sound comes out of her.

“Here is what is going to happen. You’re going to take out your laptop. Then you're going to give me access—” his eyes stop at her throat, eyeing her jugular vein, and it’s a threat of its own,“—to your client files at work."

The rising fear tastes like cold metal in her mouth. The man just wants information from her. Maybe if she gives him what he’s come for. If she doesn’t make a fuss. If she cooperates she might still make it out of this thing alive.

She closes her eyes and pictures herself being let out of the room, hailing down the first cab she can to take her to her ex-husband’s apartment. Pictures how tightly she’d hug and squeeze her kids and never let go. This doesn’t have to be a foregone conclusion. She can still make it out of this room alive at the end of the night.

Except Lauren knows better. Victims are unlikely to survive once they have seen the perpetrator’s face.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Now why would you say that?”

“Because I’ve seen your face. I can identify you.” She surprises herself by how calm and steady her voice is. It’s a small consolation for her own stupidity in inviting this monster to her room, but she takes pride in that. It’s the only thing she has left. “You’re not going to let me walk out of here and tell people about this.”

“I’m just interested in doing my job, Mrs Yates. If you cooperate then all of this can be done and dusted in the next hour or so. I’ll leave and go home to my daughters, and we can pretend none of this ever happened. If you don’t, I will have to make you cooperate in the best way I know how. Do I make myself clear, Mrs Yates?”

She pauses. There are faint sparks of hope in her stomach. “Which client matter is it that you need me to open?”

“I need the names of the settlors for the Tom Davies family trust.”

In the morning, you wake up begrudgingly to the sound of your phone blaring at you. The sunlight that's escaped through the blinds heating your cheeks, pulling you further away from sleep. You pat along the mattress, disorientated, for the snooze button. Instead, when you hit the button, you hear a familiar voice.

“Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,”

It’s Frankie.

“I just realized Mireya forgot to bring her workbook,” he says. “Can you put it under the doormat? We'll swing by and pick it up so she can work on it today.”

“No, it—” you clear your throat. God, you sound like a croaking old witch this early in the morning. “It’s fine. I’ll just let her teacher know in the morning.”

“You sure? I don’t want her to fall behind at school. Don't want to let these sorts of things slip just because she has to shuttle back and forth between us.”

“It’s pre-kindergarten, not Mensa. You’re really bringing a whole new meaning to the term helicopter parent you know.”

Fuck. That came out too sharp, too cutting. But instead of awkward silence, Frankie laughs, bright and boyish. Your heart jumps, flips and somersaults at the sound of it.

“Sorry for waking you up,” he murmurs, and you’ve forgotten how soft his voice sounds on the phone. “I’ll hang up so you can get back to sleep.”

“It’s okay, I should be getting up anyhow. I have to take my car to the garage”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

You stifle a big yawn, as you stretch and the soft cotton of the t-shirt you’re wearing slides over your stomach. It’s one of Frankie’s old ones that you wear for comfort sometimes. “It makes funny noises when I use the clutch and the engine keeps dying when I put it in reverse.”

“I could have a look at it for you?” Frankie offers.

“No, it’s fine, Frankie. You don’t have to do that. I’m not gonna have you be my mechanic on your day off.”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to,” he says it with such sincerity in his tone, and you don’t know how to respond to it.

Maybe it’s because you’re half awake and unable to overthink things. Groggy sleepiness having removed all filters for you. For once, Frankie and you have become capable of holding a decent conversation.

And you don’t want it to end.

“Do you want me to help you next weekend?” he asks again, “I can come by a bit earlier when I drop off Mireya?”

“You probably have better things to do on your weekends than fixing my car.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Do I? What would those be?”

“I don’t know. A night out with Benny, or a date.”

“The only thing I’ve been dating is my left hand.”

Silence. Uncomfortably awkward silence, as the weight of what he said slowly dawns upon him. “Fuck. Sorry,” he says.

Your sleep-concussed brain conjures up the image of Frankie with his fingers wrapped tightly around his cock. Eyes closed. Head thrown back in pleasure. Sweat damp curls clinging to his forehead as he’s bucking up against his hand with a strained moan. You're so caught up with the vivid details of this image that you forget to answer. Staring silently off into space until you hear him say your name in a hesitant tone, the one he uses to check in and see if he's crossed a boundary.

You try to respond with a laugh, but it comes out sounding breathless to your ears. “It’s fine. Nothing I haven’t heard before from Benny. How’s work?” you ask, trying to direct the conversation back to safer territory.

Maybe Frankie’s still trying to make up for his early misstep, but he jumps straight into a story about his work. You try to focus on what he’s saying, something about turbo engines and safety standards? Fuck knows. Because the earlier image is still skirting the edges of your mind, trying to push its way through. Frankie’s large hands as he strokes himself at a languid pace. His beautiful thick cock revealed with each downward stroke.

His words are spoken husky and low into the phone, sweet like melted brown sugar. Fuck, this is not that kind of call, but moronic lust does not care about respecting the boundaries you’re supposed to have with your ex-husband. All you can think about is how everything is throbbing pleasantly, and how good it would feel if you just allowed yourself to be touched.

You’ve gone dumb with arousal. You can’t have this conversation right now, not when you’re still wearing his clothes and hearing his voice on the other end. “Frankie, I need to hang up.”

There’s silence on the line as Frankie stops mid-sentence. “Oh. Is everything ok?”

“Yes.” There’s a needy ache that’s building, heavy weight of want alongside your thighs. You press your legs together, stemming the whining of sheer need that you know is coming. Desperate for the friction that you’re currently denying yourself. “I just need to get on with my day”.

“Alright. So do you want me to—”

“Bye.”

You end the call, and Frankie's voice cuts off mid-sentence. With the state you're in, it won't take much at all. You don't even need to think of Frankie. You just need to take the worst of the edge off so you can function as a human being again.

But you don’t think of anyone else. It’s Frankie you’re thinking of when your hands skim the edge of your underwear, sliding a finger along the seam of your cunt, and you find yourself slick and wet for him.

It’s not the first time you’ve done this, thought of him as you touched yourself. Lately, the memory of him is a place you keep returning to when you’re lonely.

It’s still your bedroom and bed. But in these memories, Frankie’s always in bed with you. Your fingertips try to imitate the wet gentle glide of Frankie’s tongue on your clit, following the nostalgic pattern he would make. Arching away from the mattress, you try to chase after the electrifying sensation, but it’s never as good as the touch you’re fantasizing about, and it leaves you feeling empty and restless.

Your fingers alone can't make you feel safe and loved. The weight of them can’t compete with Frankie’s body pressed close and reassuringly along every curve and dip of your body.

Some memories are ingrained. Can’t be forgotten, and if you’re honest, you don’t want them to be. You want to remember the hushed way he used to say your name first thing in the morning. The softness in his voice that was reserved just for you, even as it dropped to that low smoky edge. You want to live in the memory of waking up to the rustle of sheets with Frankie between your legs, his mouth working you. How his soft messy curls tangled between your fingers and when you tugged harsh enough to sting his scalp, he would moan into your pussy, hungry for the sharp pain, pressing himself even deeper into the mattress.

You think of the last time you were together. Before Colombia and the coke suspension. When things were still good. The way your thighs had pressed tight over his flushed-warm cheeks. How he had had you so overstimulated, you couldn’t even remember your own name. Hadn’t been able to remember if it was your second or third orgasm, as his tongue traced over your slick folds, over and over, until your whole body became one overwrought nerve. His voice had sounded slurred, almost drunk, as he murmured against your pussy, “so good baby. I knew you had one more for me.”

You miss him. You miss him so fucking much you’re lost in the blinding, thick fog of it and can't find your way back.

When you close your eyes all you can see is Frankie. Eyes glossy and darkened with greed for you. Your heart aches at the thought that he’ll never look at you that way again. Still aches as you think of Frankie settling himself between your legs and knelt there as his hand continued to stroke his cock, fast and almost frantic. The wet friction from the precum that’s leaked onto his palms and you could hear the depraved sounds of his impatience to come.

You remember the scent of his sun warmed skin so close to yours. How he’d pressed the swollen head of his cock to you, rubbing it against your slippery, oversensitive clit. Felt his last stuttering strokes before he came with a strangled groan. The heat of his cum spilling in thick pulses onto your pussy.

Your orgasm hits you so suddenly, it catches you by surprise. Bright pleasure floods every single nerve ending, filling you to the brim. There's nowhere left for you to hide from the sensation. Fingers grasping at the quilts, knees squeezed tightly together as your legs tremble against the mattress, and your thighs burn, achingly sweet.

In the silence of your bedroom all you can hear is your own staggered breaths. No Frankie.

Fuck, what is wrong with you? The haze of being a horny idiot starts to fade and the clammy sheets stick to your legs. This is so very, very wrong. But everything buzzes pleasantly, and even though you’re supposed to be wallowing in shame, you just feel overcome with a warm sense of bliss that won’t go away.

It’s only then, as your head clears, and the ache in your thighs start to give way, that it occurs to you, you’d hung up on Frankie still mid-sentence. Fumbling and patting against the mattress for your phone, you dial his number from memory. It only rings once before he picks up.

“Hey, everything ok?”

His voice is warm and rumbly, if a little bit confused, and even though your head is much clearer now, it still has an effect on you. This is so dumb. You can practically hear the air raid sirens blare telling you don’t when you open your mouth, but you close your eyes and ignore it.

“Frankie, does the offer for next Sunday still stand?”

~* To be Continued *~

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#fic: versus #i’m gonna go cry now #and think about this chapter forever thanks #how do you do this???#how do you slam out 8K words like it’s nothing ??#spare crumb of talent ma’am #astroboots #Frankie fic

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