Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"You know who I am.”

It’s a statement, not a query. He lets out a cynical noise that might be a laugh.

“Of course you know who I am.” He says, shaking his head.

“I should tell you…” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop it. “I have your rookie card…you’ve been my favourite player since…”

“Don’t.” He interrupts her. His head drops, beard touching his chest. “Makes you look stupid – makes me feel old…”

…makes her an idiot, too.

That pained sound, a simple sigh. It reeks more of despair than the pathetic look on his face. His shoulders droop and he spins around, turning his back to her, dropping onto the mattress, shrouding his face with his large hands.

He lifts his face, he scrubs his beard, rubs his eyes, wipes his forehead. He fixates at a point on the wall opposite them.

“What the fuck am I doing?” He whispers.

She looks at the full-length mirror on the side. Her relaxed hair is in place. Her make-up is fine, she’s learned to perfect it enough to soberly accent her features and make her look fuckable at the same time. Her backless, midnight-blue strap dress is appealing enough; shows off all the good parts: hugs her figure, displays her pushed up cleavage, exposes her toned arms and back, it ends below her ass, shows off her thighs before the sexy thigh-high boots take over.

The problem is her eyes.

Those aren’t Margie’s eyes. Margie’s eyes are steady, seductive, oozing an unvoiced ‘come’n’fuck me’.

No. Not Margie's eyes.

She’s looking into the eyes of Someone.

A girl who once idolized this man, sitting at the edge of the bed, trembling and sobbing, his head bowed. She sees Someone who could not contain her astonishment at finding Mike Lawson when she entered to the room. Someone, who just made the entire operation wobble over a slip of tongue.

Margie regroups, tells herself that he’s no different from any other well-known man she’s come across in situations like these.

A man who’s about to get his famous ass arrested.

“You know what they tell you about UC, right?” Her TO said. “Keep it real, you’re not a cop yadda yadda, you are what you say you are? Don’t believe it. That’s a whole load of crap. A lady-of-the-night, she's no average cover. A john’s not your average criminal. He’s a desperate man at the brink of being overwhelmed by his passions. That makes him reckless, testy – dangerous. You understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“So you remember – you are an officer of the law. Always. You do this to serve and protect. You’re always a cop. And you remember that because it’s the only way you can get through what you do. It's the only way you can deceive a man inclined to commit a felony into actually committing it. It’s the only way for you not to get involved - emotionally. You get that?”

“Yes sir.”

“Whatever you do – do not get emotionally involved with your target. He does not deserve your sympathy, no matter what excuse he comes up with. No, I don’t care, if Momma didn’a love him or Papa beat the crap out of him or the creepy guidance counsellor touched his boy parts – if he’s about ready to be using your body to work through his issues – he'a damn felon. He deserves to be in jail. Do you understand me?”

“What if he’s just – not thinking straight?”

“That’s for a judge to decide,” Blip Sanders sighed. “Not you.”

“I’m sorry.”

If it wasn’t for the abject silence in the room, she wouldn’t have heard him.

He coughs and speaks louder. “I’m sorry.” He turns his head in her direction, but he doesn’t look at her. “I – this is not something I do.”

She’s heard that before. It is very plausible this is a first time for him. Doesn’t make it any different.

“I – “ He says. “I’m married.” He whispers.

She knows. She knows who his wife is as well.

She blinks, several times. She checks the mirror, her agitation is gone, she’s perfectly still again.

I’m Margie.

He looks to the side, doesn’t turn around fully. “I’m sure you already know that.” He says. “I’m sure most of your – um – your clients are married. I’m sure they all tell you the same crap. That, they’re good men. That, this is not something they do.”

So, he’s a talker. A lot of them are. Most married men think they are good guys with weaknesses and it's true a lot of them are just looking for someone to talk to. They're struggling. An image they project versus the person they want to be.

She's seen this situation before.

But. This is the first time a john doesn’t really look at her when he talks.

“Well – I’m not a good guy.” He speaks with authority, like that’s a fact known to all the world.

Except – it’s not a fact known to all the world.  Mike Lawson is a proverbial golden boy. He’s a charmer, he’s that perfect blend of sweet, cocky, flirty – but not the kind that offends. He’s a decent man. A gentleman. An all round stand up guy.

Or so the papers say.

Mike Lawson, the man you admire, he’s not here in this room, though, she tells herself. Maybe he never existed. Maybe this edgy guy is the real Mike Lawson: Unfaithful husband. Whore-monger. 

She’s filled with a righteous indignation, a derision and reprehension that fuels up her game face.

He turns his head to face the wall again. “At least…” He says, softly, unsteadily. “…not good enough.”

“Not good enough for whom?” She asks, without thinking.

“For my wife.” He whispers. She sees the back of his head dip.

Oh.

She sucks in a silent breath and exhales it quietly. His shoulders rise and fall with a long sigh.

She’s Margie.

You’re Margie. I’m Margie. 

Margie, Margie, Margie.

She walks slowly but self-assuredly towards the bed - the way she's been taught to walk. She places her hand on his shoulder and regards him with a seductive glance – the way she’s been taught to look.

That godawful beard hides that handsome face with boyish attractiveness that had Someone's teenage heart flutter. It makes him look older; makes it somewhat easier for her to rein in her emotions.

He doesn’t move. Doesn't look up at her. He’s just staring into space.

She sinks slowly, cushions herself next to him, slips her arm across his shoulders – the way she’s been taught to act.

“What’s your name?” She asks.

She feels his body shake. He drops his head, and it rattles too. He makes a burbling sound that’s somewhere between a snort and a cough, except – it’s a laugh. A cruel laugh, blatantly obvious in self-depreciation.

“Like you don’t know.” He says, wryly.

“Let’s pretend I don’t.” She says, sweetly – the way she’s been taught to speak.

His head turns towards her and Someone wakes up.

Someone sees the face of a tormented, defeated man with nothing but heartbreak in his eyes. Margie rears back, shoves Someone away, gathers all the conflicting empathy and throws it in a dungeon with said Someone.  

Margie still sees the heartbreak, but Margie’s insensitive.

“Mike.” He says.

“Hi Mike.” She smiles. “I’m Gi – Margie.” She says, without batting an eyelash.

He doesn’t smile. He just studies her face and then sighs with disappointment. “Christ! You’re - You’re beautiful.”

Someone blushes inside, Margie smiles coyly on the outside. Neither of them take the compliment too seriously. “Thank you.” She says.

His face goes blank. He draws back and jumps off the bed like she’s a hot flame and he stuck his fingers in for too long.

“I –“ He shakes his head, blinks rapidly. “I-I-I-I’m sorry.” He says. She notes how his hands tremble by his side. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

She drops back on the bed, leans her weight on her elbows and crosses her legs. He casts a glance at her legs but it’s not as appreciative as she expects.

“This is not who I am. I’m not the guy who just – “ He runs his hand through his hair nervously. “This isn’t the example I want to set.”

“Example, for whom?”

“For – for – I dunno – for my fans. For my team. For every –kid that ever looked up to me.“ He interjects, speaks loudly. “Fuck! What am I doing?” He begins pacing up and down along the space between the bed and the wall.

She sighs and starts wagging the leg that’s draped over the other, feigning smoothness that Someone doesn’t possess but Margie has by the spades.

“It’s okay, Mike.” She says, in a soft, gentle, calming voice – the way she was taught. “It’s just you and me here. No one’s gonna know.”

He spins to face her and she almost buckles from the heat and vehemence in his glare.

There he is, Mike Lawson, Golden boy, Star catcher, MVP, All Star, fucking Captain of the Padres.

“I’ll know!” He bellows.

In the three-plus odd years she’s been doing this, she’s been yelled at a lot. Threatened, held at gunpoint, smacked, hit – even bit a couple of times. So, even if the outburst takes her by surprise – it doesn’t throw her off.

“Okay.” She says, making a peace sign with both hands, lifting only the fingers off the bed. “Okay.” 

It seems to work. He goes back to prowling back and forth, like a caged beast.

She straightens up and waits.

“You – uh!” He scrubs his beard as he paces. “You a baseball fan?” He asks.

“Not really.” She says.

But Someone is, she doesn’t say. Someone even has picture of you stuck to a locker door, right next to Jackie Robinson’s. And that’s going to be taken down pretty damn soon.

“But you are famous.” She offers, when he turns around to look at her.

He spits. Like – not a proper spit with saliva going everywhere, but it’s more like a ‘pffth!’

“How old are you?” He says, casting a glance at her as he strides.

“How old do you want me to be?”

He stops and then glares at her again. “Stop that.” He says. “I’m not going to do this. I’m not going to fuck you – you’re a fuckin’ kid! Geez! Look at you! Are you even eighteen?”

Wow, a conscience. Margie thinks sarcastically. Always nice when that comes around.

“Yes.” She smiles. “I am.” She frowns playfully. “Rumors are you like ‘em young.”

“Rumors are just that!” He spits. “They’re rumors! I’m not some – sick - pig!” He grinds out.

He stops and gets a distant look, as though something’s just occurred to him. “D’you think that’s why she…?” He trails off,  glances at her like he’s suddenly realized she’s a stranger and then shakes his head.

Why she – what? Who is ‘she’?

“Y’know.” She sighs.  “We don’t have to do anything. We can just talk.”

Sure, it’ll prolong the nature of this operation, but what the fuck. Catch him today, catch him tomorrow. A perp’s still a perp.

He huffs out, his forehead furrows, he starts scratching his beard.

There’s also the other way to nab him.

“Or…” She sings. She slips her fingers into her cleavage and fishes it out. The illegal, highly addictive, life threatening and dangerous reason why she’s here in the first place. “…we can just have some fun.”

He gives her a lopsided smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes and shakes his head.

“I hear…” She twiddles the little plastic packet around. “This is all the rage among ballplayers. Basketballers, baseballers, footballers…”

He frowns at her, narrowing his eyes. “Seriously?”  He looks genuinely surprised.

She nods.

“Are any of my teammates…?”

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

His face becomes sombre, the tone of his voice implies a fatherly-worry. “I should know. You need to tell me their names.”

“Why?”

“Because. I should.” He says, firmly. “That’s illegal. It means they’re in trouble and I should know about it – as their captain.”

She cocks her head at him. To her utter surprise his face spreads into a charming, adorable grin that tugs at her heart.

“Yeah…” He snorts. “And yet here we are, right?” He says, sarcastically. “Tell me about it.”

“I don’t judge.”

“Sure you don’t.”

He finally stops pacing and then drops into the bed beside her.

“What is it?” He asks, nodding at the packet.

“It’s new. Called ‘LP’. ‘Love Potion’. Hits you faster than you can sneeze and improves your muscle response time –“ She bats her eyelashes and smiles a sexy-Margie smile. “-at everything. 

“Are you hooked on that?” He asks, completely unimpressed.

“You wanna find out?” She flaps it in front of his nose.

If she wasn’t surprised before, she’s definitely shocked now. He grabs the packet from her hand and flings it away. “Kick it.” He says, watching its trajectory to the far corner of the room.

She’s flummoxed. “What?”

“Whatever it is, kick it.” He orders her, like he’s a commanding officer. “Get help if you need to. Nothing ends well with shit like that.”

“Oh so…?” She cocks her head. “You gonna give me a speech now, Old Man? Say ‘no’ to drugs, say ‘yes’ to life sorta’thang?”

The corners of his eyes crinkle, his cheekbones lift up. There’s a sly, teasing grin. “Well, I am known to give really great speeches.” He says, rolling his jaw, looking at her up and down.

“Really?” She lifts her eyebrows.

“Yeah – “ He winks at her, conspiringly. “You keep saying ‘no’ to drugs, even if they won’t listen.”

It’s quite possibly the dumbest thing she’s heard since high school. But somehow she’s in stitches, even covers her mouth to impede the artlessness of her hacking laughter.

His face changes. He blinks at her, smiles wider – like he’s seeing her for the first time, like making her laugh makes him happy too.

“How old are you, Margie?” He asks.

Margie. I’m Margie.

“I’m old enough.” She says, between sobs of chuckles.

He nods. “Do you – do you like this?” He asks, like the idea of her voluntarily hooking is preposterous. “I mean – isn’t it dangerous?”

He’d be the first john she’s come across to inquire that way. Most of those motherfuckers thought that all prostitutes did what they did for enjoyment.

“Because I’d get caught?” She prompts.

He catches her chin without warning. She sucks in a deep breath as a thick finger runs over the faint scar over her eyebrow. His eyes narrow pensively. His forehead furrows in thought.

“Because, men can be real jerks.” He mumbles.  “Did you get that from…?” He clears his throat. “Y’know…working?”

Someone got it in a car accident that took Pop away and changed her life forever. Margie, though – Margie got that however the client assumed she got it. Except, no one’s ever noticed it before.

“Yes.” She lies, her throat goes dry.

There’s a worry and a pity in his eyes that hits her deep in her chest. “Is the pay really worth it?” He asks.

“Well, there’s also meeting the occasional celebrity that comes as a perk?” She answers, wryly.

Which, in hindsight, is a mistake.

He closes his eyes and shivers. Like she’s doused him with a bucket of ice water.

She’s not supposed to provoke them or play to get their sympathies. She’s supposed to get them to offer her money and then arrest them for solicitation.

But that’s the problem with Someone – she’s no Margie. Someone doesn’t have her shit together. Someone gets thrown by the way his skin feels against hers.

“I’m sorry, I didn't mean it that way.” She regroups, pulling her face back, out of his reach. “I’m sort of on a clock here.”

“I’m sorry too.” He pulls away. That agitated, broken man is back. “I don’t want to do this. I love my wife…I just…”

“Then what is this?” She retorts, too quick, too harsh. Someone speaks, not Margie.

If he noticed that, he doesn’t seem offended. He laughs bitterly, again. He’s laughing at himself, she realizes.

“Payback – I think?” He says, his eyes turning red and wet. “I dunno. I just – I guess I wanted to forget.”

“Forget what?”

“That somehow I manage to ruin everything.” He looks at her when he speaks. He grimaces like he wants to cry but the tears won’t fall.

“What did you ruin?” She asks – again, too quickly and completely irrelevant to her current mission. Someone speaks - again, not Margie.

“My marriage.” He hangs his head. He suddenly looks very small and very childlike, even though he’s a pretty well-built guy with enough hair on his face to make a carpet.

Someone feels sorry for him. Someone feels like pulling him in her arms and hugging him. Margie, though – just doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do.

“You haven’t really done anything yet.” She offers, thinking he implies this situation.

“I – I don’t understand how, but somehow I did.” He argues. He leans his weight on his knees and sighs. 

Margie attempts to pet his back, but Someone makes her wrap her arm around his shoulder and lean her chin on his arm.

He doesn’t push her off.

“My body’s breaking down.” He whispers. “My – knees are – they’re…” He sighs. “And. I love it y’know? Baseball? I don’t wanna give it up.”

She knows – oh god, does she know. At least, the Someone inside her understands. She knows better than anyone else. She lived it. She thrived off it. Someone wants to punch her fist in the air and acknowledge it, own her love for baseball.

But Margie – all she does is nod quietly.

“Rachel - she loved it too.” He says, his voice thick with emotion. “And…I thought she was happy, but she isn’t – she wasn’t – she –“

“She left?” She asks, startled.

His agitation and restlessness suddenly made a lot of sense.

He sighs. “Worse.” He makes that pitiful indignant chuckling noise again.

“Look.” She says. “Please don’t be offended if I say this, but, you seem like the sort of man who doesn’t need to pay for sex. I’m sure women would be falling over themselves to get a night with you.”

Someone would know. Her teenage dream, and still a guilty pleasure – fantasizing about Mike Lawson.

He looks at her like she’s crazy. “I’m married.” He states.

“So?”

“Groupies – they’re not...” He breaks off. “I don’t do that.”

She can’t help the way her mouth twitches. He notices.

“Oh man! There’s just no proper way to explain this, is there?" He snorts. "Rachel’s my wife. She’s…” He taps his chest and then tugs his beard - it's a subconscious gesture, one that somehow stumps her. “I love her. I’ve not been with anyone else ever since she came into my life. I can’t just get up one day and fuck some random woman.”

Most men would. She thinks. But clearly, he’s not most men.

“So, you figured it would be easier when you have to pay for it?” She asks, tentatively. “Because – it’s easy to pretend you’re someone else. It’s easier to forget who you are?”

He gives her that tormented expression again and nods.  “I know it’s fucked up.” He lets out a shaky sob.

It’s not. It’s understandable. It’s why a lot of good men ended up in this exact situation.

“I can’t do this.” He says with a finality. He reaches for his pocket.  “Let me pay you for your time.”

“No, it’s fine.” She says, pulling back.

“She fucking someone else!” He growls, suddenly.

Completely - out of the blue, without preamble. 

His face contorts to this wild menacing look. “It wasn’t even a one time thing! Six months she was sleepin’ with him! She’s my wife! I can’t fuckin’ look at another woman because that’s how much I loved her! How much I still love her! So - So - how could she even -!”

He grimaces and then – tears spill out, falling from his cheeks, running into his beard.

Oh.Oh.Oh.

Oh god.

He sobs and pulls his wallet and opens it. She waits to see if he’s pulling out a condom or money. When she sees the recognizable sides of green bills - “I’d rather you didn’t.” She says, placing her hands over his.

“I – you’re probably doing this to pay for college or something, right?” He sniffles, starts to shake his hand out. “Here, let me…”

“No!” She shouts.

He snaps his head up to look at her, his hand frozen on half-extracted notes. She squeezes her eyes, desperate to contain emotion, desperate to push Someone back.

“Margie.” He pleads. “This is not who I am.”

I’m Margie.

His eyes are hazel. Not green as she thought them to be. There are golden flecks intermixed with azure, copper and green pigments. The kind of irises that tend to reflect colour and appear a different shade depending on the ambient light.

He wraps his large hands around her wrists. He runs his fingers over toughened skin, down the edges of her fingers - pitching scars, over the heels of her palm - gun calluses. He looks at her like he’s begging her forgiveness. Where most men treat her like meat, and ignore that she is a living breathing being with feelings.

She feels human, for once. She feels like Gi-Someone, for once. She hasn’t felt like Gi-Someone in a long time.

He tilts his head forward, and she’s drawn by an invisible hold on her heartstrings. She presses her forehead against his, studies the whiskers around his mouth. His nose brushes against hers. Her mouth goes dry and her throat feels parched. She rubs her eyebrows against his. He closes his eyes. 

She swallows, smacking her lips, her eyes flitting up to look at his. His eyelids are lazy in their movements, not quite as restless as hers. A half-mast, gaze lingering on her mouth, flickering up to meet her glance slowly.

His eyelashes are long – and pretty, she notes.

“This is not who you are.” She states.

“Yeah.” He breathes, nodding lightly, his forehead rolling against hers.

She should resist it but she can’t.

He inches back, glances up at her eyes once before his roll shut and he nudges his head forward. She can hear the slow inhale of air, she can see his chest expand, she can see the subtle twitch with which he holds it. She hesitates when the frizzy edges of his moustache brush her lips.

Something buzzes, urgent and loud.

It thunders like a gong inside her head.

They jerk back together. His eyes squeeze before he looks away. She twists her mouth and drops her chin.

The sound is coming from him. It’s his phone.

She rises up and he’s looking up at her with wide, red eyes that are cloudy with confusion. The vibrating cell in his pocket completely ignored.

“This never happened.” She states, in her serious voice. “You were never here. We never met.”

She spins on her heels and runs out of the room before he pursues her – or worse, changes his mind.

The door right next to the one she exits opens quickly. She hurries into the room and slams the door shut.

“Mami? What the fuck?” Livan hisses at her. “What the hell was that?”

Her heart beats like it’s going to give out any minute, her head throbs, her ears ring, her chest feels tight, her stomach feels odd and a wave of nausea hits. She slaps her face lightly – her skin feels clammy and cold.

“Duarte.” She wheezes. She slams the back of her head on the door, hoping the jolt will knock some sense into her and struggles to catch her breath.

She feels his hands around her shoulders. The coolness of his palms feel strange. Mike’s hands were warm – they felt softer, kinder – they felt like home.

She swallows and opens her eyes, focuses on Livan’s worried brown irises and the dimples on his cheeks.

“Margie?” He asks. “Margie?”

I’m Margie.

Tears slip out and she slumps.

“Relax, Mami. I got you.” He embraces her, keeps her from sliding down.

“Papi.” She weeps, softly.

“I’m here.” He says, gently. But she can’t feel Duarte against her cheek. She still feels Mike – his warm skin, his furrowed brow, the fuzzy scrape of his beard.

“You heard?” She asks.

She feels Duarte’s chin nod against her forehead.

She reaches inside her bra, fumbles around and rips the tiny device out, tail-like antenna, chip and all. Suddenly – she breathes easier. It’s like it had some sort of grip on her throat and she’s managed to wrench free.

“Delete it.” She whispers. “The recording, please. Erase it completely.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, looking back at the computers and the recording equipment on the table.

“Yes.”

“What if he wants to see you again?”

“He won’t.”

He does.

Two days later.

The day starts by her getting slapped in the face. Thrice.

It hurts every friggin’ time.

The first slap, she wonders if Mike Lawson knows that Violet Gleason, his friend, the socialite-philanthropist, hotel chain heiress, San Diego’s richest woman, is also a drug baron, escort-pimp and trying to entrap him.

The second slap, she makes a mental note to call dibs for arresting officer for when they crack down on her - Blip owes her that much.

The third slap, the rock in Violet Gleason’s seven carat ring catches the sensitive skin of her cheekbone and draws blood.

“Well, fuck now.” Violet remarks, coldly. “That’s just not going to do. It better not leave a scar or your market value drops and so does your salary.”

“What do you want me to say Madame V?” Margie speaks finally, her cheek burning with pain. “He didn’t want any of the shit! He didn’t even wanna have sex!”

“It’s your job to make him want some!” She screeches. “He was a keeper, Margie. I wanted him a happy customer.”

With their constant traveling, wide social and professional network, high life partying – pro-ballers made the perfect targets for Violet’s enterprise. Mike Lawson would be a huge catch for Violet. The perfect cover. Honey-trap him, blackmail him, probably use his connections to get ‘LP’ into the baseball circuit, maybe even use him as a mule.

I’m Margie.

“Now, go get your face fixed.” She flings a card at her. It’s got the name and number of a plastic surgeon.

She uses the trip to the doctor as an excuse to make the rendez-vous with her superiors, just so she can get her second dressing down for the day.

On the plus side that angry welt across her face is the probably only reason the Captain doesn’t blast them for a full half-hour as is his way. Livan and her get yelled at for a solid fifteen minutes instead.

The whole ‘accidentally’ botching up the recordings and deleting them by mistake doesn’t go as well with the Cap as they thought. He's certainly a man who does not believe in going easy on first time screw ups. Livan stays expressionless, keeps quiet, takes the flak for her stupidity. That’s the thing with her partner, he has her back, no matter what.

She doesn’t tell the Cap who the john was. “He got cold feet. Didn’t pay, just took off before I could get any intel.” She explains.

The Cap doesn’t ask why it didn’t go through. His faith in her is implicit and she knows it.

In the corner, Detective Sanders stands quietly. Her handler, TO, mentor,  pain-in-the-ass friend, guide to the world of Vice, former Gangs detective, undercover expert and friggin’ human lie detector. 

He regards them with his quiet soul-piercing gimlet eyes making it obvious that he doesn’t believe them.

Having been yelled at by two bosses, she trudges her way to get yelled at by the third.

Margie works as a waitress in the off-hours at Violet’s nightclub. The club – unimaginatively called – “The Club”  is a legitimate front for all Gleason’s operations, provides a fishing ground for the peddlers, provides a legal medium to pay her girls for their ‘extracurricular services’, creates an employment opportunity for her deadbeat loser son, Vincent – also the manager.

A complete profligate, party-animal, spoilt brat, with absolutely zero skills for a real-world survival, a bully and lecherous degenerate, Vincent gets away with anything, except ‘spoiling Mama V’s merchandise’ i.e. trying to screw women who work as call girls on the side.

Vincent loves yelling at Margie as a habit for no reason. Marge reckons it’s because a) he’s not allowed to fuck her b) she’s not a crier c) he can’t find another scapegoat.

It’s sun down, almost time for the club to open and she’s late. She reckons, she’s going to get yelled at for a reason this time.

Except – it doesn’t happen. Mike Lawson is there. Waiting. For her.

His eyes widen at the sight of her face, his gaze lingers on her swollen cheek.

“Hey! Margie!” Vinnie Gleason hollers, giving her a dirty look on the side. “Looks like you have an admirer. He’s been waitin’ on ya a whole half hour. Get him a drink would ya? On the house?”

Margie bites her lips and waves nervously at Lawson.

“Better do good this time, bitch.” Vinnie threatens in her ear as she walks past him towards the bar.

She narrows her eyes at Vinnie in reply, then straightens her face into a smile for Lawson. “Hey!” She chirps. “What can I get ya, Mr. Lawson?”

He casts a worried glance in the direction that Vinnie goes and then back at her. “Er...beer’s fine.” He says. He gestures at his own cheek and then points to hers. “I am pretty sure that wasn’t there two nights ago.”

“What are you doing here?” She hisses through her teeth, ducking her head to reach for the cooler.  “What did you tell Vinnie?” She slams the bottle in front of him.

“Did he do that to you?” Lawson’s eyes go wide -  which for a guy with inset eyes - makes his fuzzy face rather comical.

“This is my day job.” She mutters. “He’s my boss.”

“I came here - thinking he’d be able to get in touch with you. I didn’t know you worked for him.”

“Did you tell him I took off?” She murmurs.

“No – I – I told him I didn’t want to…do the deed.” Mike says, looking worried.

She stares at him.

“Look, Vinnie is a friend of mine. He told me that you were an escort, that you weren’t averse to ‘helping a guy out’ - his words, okay?” He scrubs his face, scratching at his beard. “I was not thinking straight. I know it doesn’t make what I did or was about to do right – I guess I came in a moment of weakness. Not that it makes it any better.”

She keeps staring at him.

He sighs. “I just found out about Rachel’s affair, Margie. That kind of thing doesn’t leave in you a steady mental state.”

I’m Margie.

She crosses her arms across her chest and then nods.

He scans her. Not with creepy, lecherous eyes, he just – takes her in. She shifts, uncomfortably aware of her skimpy clothing.

“Now, please…” He asks, with a soft voice. “How did you get that?”

“Where else? My pimp.” She admits.

That shuts him up. His mouth opens and closes. He clears his throat and - “Look, I just – I was worried about you.”

“Do you make it your business to worry about all the hookers you…”

“I don’t.” He bites out. “I told you – I don’t do that. I don't mix with your kind.”

She sniggers with indignant annoyance. “My kind, is it?”

“I don’t mean it that way.”

“No, I think you meant it exactly that way.” She says, twisting her mouth.

“Fair enough.”

“It’s just typical of you men, isn’t it? My kind?” She rebukes. “Tail’n’pussy’s good enough, but the rest of me isn’t?”

“Hey! I just said you were right, Margie!” He barks.

Margie stops talking. For one, she remembers she’s Margie. She’s irritated and cranky, her cheek hurts. She’s also fed up of being in constant war-of-the-personalities with Someone. Someone who lives inside her, Someone who is a dedicated cop, but Someone who is also fed up of this whole UC gig.

He clucks his tongue, hissing at her. “Geez!”

She exhales, long and slow.

“What do you want, Mr. Lawson?” She asks, feeling a little disappointed, because there is a real possibility he may still want sex.  “You wanna meet up tonight? Be ‘helped out’?”

“No –!” He looks disgusted, then apologetic. “I - I wanted to help you.”

“Help me?”

“Yeah.” He says. “I wanted to – give you some money. Maybe it’ll help you get out…of…whatever it is you do.”

She blinks - can’t really vocalize her words. “W-What?”

He shrugs.

“Money?” She echoes. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He smiles.

“In exchange for what?”

“Nothing.” He says. “Look – treat it as a loan if you have to. Pay me back whenever or don’t pay me back at all.”

“And do you make a habit of this? Just doling out money to call girls?”

“No!” He starts tugging at his beard. “Y’know what –? Forget it!” He slams some money on the counter - money, for the drink – and spins on the barstool.

“Why?” She blurts, stopping him.

He spins back to face her. “Look, I –“ He starts to say and then sighs. He rubs his forehead and scratches his beard. He sighs loud, a couple of times and then speaks, slowly.

“Not everyone makes it in life.” He says. “Sometimes, you’re able to earn an honest buck, and sometimes – you gotta hustle.” He says. “And – I’m not a guy to judge. If you are really into – your line of work. Like – if you like doing this, if it is your chosen profession in life, then hey! Great! But – “ He points to her cheek. “It doesn’t seem like it. And – sometimes people just need a break.”

Margie voices the exact same query that Someone is thinking. “Are you for real?”

“I’m not pretending to be some saint or social worker.” He says. “Life is tough. I know that. And – I just - I feel like you’re smart and you deserve better.”

He is for real.

She glances up, finds Vincent spying on them.

“You made a mistake by coming here, Old Man.” She says. “You should have listened to me that night. I can’t protect you if you keep coming around.”

“Protect me from what?”

“You need to go.” She whispers. “Please, go.”

“Margie?”

I’m Margie. “Yes?”

“Can – can I talk you? Can I call you?”

“Why?”

“I just want someone to talk to.” He groans. “I know it’s stupid…”

It’s not stupid. His wife cheated on him. He’s hurting and lonely.

She purses her lips. “I don’t think that’s such a great idea.” She says.

He looks forlorn. “Will you at least call me if you need help?”

“What if I kill somebody?” She retorts.

His face breaks into a smile and he chuckles, shaking his head. “I’ll help you bury the body.” He sniggers.

She bites back a smile by twisting her mouth.

He makes a cute-ish face of apprehension. “You’re not gonna - you won’t actually expect me to do that, would you? For real?”

She breaks into small laugh, and covers her mouth. “No.”

He gets that adorable look again. Like he can’t believe he made her laugh, like her laughter gives him joy – and self-worth.

She sighs, pushes a tissue at him. “Write down your number. I call you…not the other way around”

He looks relieved, and grateful.

“Mike.” She ducks her head and whispers in his ear. “Vinnie’s not your friend. Okay? Do you hear me? He’s nobody’s friend.”

He blinks with confusion. Then he nods, slowly.

At least, one can’t accuse him of being stupid all the time.

She was recruited, about three months before her formal graduation from the academy. They waited for her twenty-first birthday to swear her in private. The Captain and Blip Sanders were the only attendees. She wasn’t allowed to call Will, she wasn’t allowed to tell Mom.

Sanders would tell her later than he wasn’t for her, not at first.

“Too pretty and too young.” He would tell her later. “’S what I told the Cap. You’re the youngest UC I’ve ever trained. ‘Pretty’ ’s alright, you can use it to your advantage but ‘young’? Youth’s a major problem out on the street. Makes you jumpy – makes you wanna be a hero, make you run into open fire tryin’na prove something. I like my UCs to look young, not be young.”

“So why me?”

“You’re mature for your age, don’t get riled up easily and can use your head under extreme duress.” Sanders answered.

Traits, that she had from being a ballplayer. Traits that might have done her some good in the minors, maybe even carried her to the majors along with her screwball, if she’d taken up the Padres offer. Traits, that Sanders felt could be honed for Vice. And Sanders was correct. Turns out she was pretty good at Vice work.

Except – and there was no other nice way to put this – she hated it.

It was all fun at the beginning. Very cloak and dagger, the pay was slightly higher, and there was the fact that it looked really good on her CV.

But then reality slammed her like the swerving car, driven by a drunk, that killed her Pop.

Her first operation, she was nearly raped. Second operation, she was nearly killed. Third operation was a bust because of a departmental mole.  Fourth op – her partner, a woman with two kids, was found dead in the sewer, so she was extracted, prematurely.

They promised her this was the last one. They put in a hotshot, sexy-face, easy-going, ex-narco as her partner; had her ‘graduate’ her from a low-life hooker to a high-end one, promised her a lot of career-progressing placements once it was concluded.

Doesn’t stop her from wondering whether it’s worth it.

Every now and then, Duarte and her walk by the bay at night. Sanders encourages downtime, even while on the job. Says it will help her relieve stress, help her gain some feeling of normalcy.

She never feels normal, is the thing. She never feels like the person with the name she was given at birth. She’d been a Vera, a Dominique, a Chantelle, a Samantha. She always had a hard time remembering her cover names and more than once it got her into a sticky situation.

It was Blip’s idea – not to acknowledge her as her, to keep Someone separate from her cover. It’s been more than two years now since she’s heard Someone’s name. Problem is – she’s been under so long, she doesn’t know if Someone even exists anymore.

“You think he’s for real?” Duarte asks her after she confides her interaction with Lawson.

“I think so.”

He nods pensively.

“What do you think?” She asks him.

“You’re good at reading people, Mami. So...I trust your judgment.”

That's bullshit. Duarte doesn’t trust anyone but himself.

“Ah!” She grins, when she figures it out. “So you did check out his story?”

“His wife is having an affair for sure.” Duarte smiles at her. “Pediatric heart surgeon in LA. She moved out last week.”

She thinks of Pop. She thinks of him, lying dead on a pavement, never having known about Mom and Kevin. She thinks of Mike – this invincible, disciplined baseball player, a legend, star catcher and homer-cranker. This suave, charming, funny guy that she’s seen on TV.

She thinks of him as she saw him that night, feels her heart drop to her belly and shudders.

Maybe ignorance is bliss.

“An affair isn’t just about sex, Mami.” Duarte comments, like he’s sensing her musings. “It –  might be emotional at first – can turn into something more.”

“Doesn’t make it right.” She says.

“No.” He agrees.

“Do you think I should call him?”

“Do you like him?”

She doesn’t answer that.

“C’mon. The whole department knows you’re his biggest groupie.”

“I’m not a groupie!” She protests weakly. “I’m – a fan. There’s a difference.”

Duarte smirks. His cutey-pie dimples shine and somehow they make her feel lighter. He shakes his head and then speaks seriously. “I think it might complicate things with the operation.”

She groans and pinches her mouth. She agrees fully. “I’m sick of it, Papi.” She complains. “Does it make me a weak person that I’m sick of it?”

“Well – most UCs always get a break between missions. That’s never been the case with you.” He says. “So I say, you’re stronger than you think you are. I say – if you weren’t sick of it, you’d be less human.”

“Aww –“ She elbows him. “You’re such a sap, hermano!”

“Let’s make one thing clear – you’re no hermana of mine? Okay? I have dreams about you that I would not have about a sister.”

“Eh gross.” She gags and then giggles.

“We’re close to the fish, Mami.” Duarte rubs her head affectionately. “Just hang in there, bueno?”

Hang in there. She tells herself when the fucker punches her in the face – she feels a sharp pain in her lip and feels blood trickle down her chin.

Hang in there, don’t react.

He kicks her in the stomach.

Hang in there, wait. Duarte can hear you screaming.

He grabs her hair and slaps her face hard.

Hang in there…he’s coming.

And then he reaches for her skirt. She waits till he’s closer and then slams her knee up – jamming it at his crotch. He recoils, retreats back wailing like a hyena.

The door crashes. Duarte and the tactical team rush in. She scrambles away, crawls to the door, ignores the bodies rushing in, shouts from black-uniforms.

She doesn’t wait.  She runs.

Doesn’t stop – even when her partner calls after her. She runs out into the corridor, out of the hotel into the night. She runs away from Margie who’s trying to get her to calm the fuck down.

She’s done being Margie.

He picks up after five rings.

“It’s m-m-me – Gi- Gi Margie.”

“Margie who?”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Hey! Hey!” His voice becomes perky. Relief floods her. “I’m kidding. Of course I know who. Hi, how are you? What's up? D’you miss me?”

“Is this a bad time? Are you with some-”

“No…no…I was just watching the Cubs game footage-”

“Yeah, so I’m in trouble.” She huffs. “Like real trouble, Old Man.”

“Okay.”

“I need a place to crash. Just for tonight. Look, you don’t have to do this.”

“Okay!”

“You don’t have to help me.”

“Okay!”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Okay!”

Ugh! The man is so infuriating. “Okay what?” She shrieks.

“Okay – should I come pick you or should I give you my address?”

She half-laughs, half-cries with relief.

"Geez!" He adds. “By the way…” She hears the playfulness in his voice. “I do not appreciate you calling me ‘Old Man’.”

“Sure thing…” She grins, in spite of herself. “Old Man.”

It’s bad enough she’s bolted from her op, scurried away like a cowering rat, probably proved the naysayers right. It’s bad enough that Sanders and Duarte are probably freaking out, worried sick about her. It’s bad enough that she’s laid waste to months and months of hard work, jeopardized the operation...

Now, she’s endangering a civilian’s life.

A civilian who lives in the fanciest crib she’s seen since – well never.

She presses the buzzer on a gate to the gate of a ‘whatever’ that thing is called: Mansion, house, mini-palace, glorified fucking architectural fishbowl?

She hates it on principle: too much glass, too much visibility. But, she knows the security is state of the art.

The video pops on. “Hey!” A grainy image of him says. A beep sounds and she hears the gate open. “C’mon in.”

“I don’t have money for the cab.” She says, feeling stupid.

It doesn’t seem to bother him. “Oh sure – don’t worry about it. I’ll be out in a sec.”

She adjusts her hoodie, looks around hoping his neighbours aren’t the curious sort. The neighbouring houses on either side have high trellis walls covered in enough foliage to make a forest blush with shame. Clearly, they value the 'mind your own business' philosophy. Good.

She notices his biceps first. She can’t be blamed for it, can she? She’s never seen a man rock a Henley the way he does. He looks relaxed, cheerful. More the Lawson she knows from TV. He looks like he’s just taken a fresh shower, chewing gum with easy movements, and there’s a smile on his face when he emerges out of the gate.

It’s like he’s happy to have her come by; like, the fact that a woman of a dubious reputation seeking refuge with him is not a bad thing.

Of course, it's short lived. His eyes darken unhappily at the sight she presents. The smile fades – slowly.

The cab guy recognizes him. She skulks away into the shadowed driveway, while he pays the guy the fare, adds a tip. Sends him off with an autograph and a charming smile that would never betray that he’s seen her face under that hoodie.

She’s surprised at how quiet he is about it. She half-expects him to give her the third degree right there, outside his house – that’s how pissed off he looks. He’s masticating like he’s trying to kill that piece of gum between his teeth.

He says nothing, though. Merely catches her hand and leads her into his palatial abode.

She allows herself to be led – exhausted, limping, ready to pass out. Her whole body’s thrumming with excitement, but it’s a matter of time before the pain’s going to hit her.

“Jesus, Margie! What the fuck happened?” He exclaims, once they’re up the steps on the patio. “Let me call…”

I’m Margie.

“No, you won’t.” She orders him, shrugging his hand off. “You will not call 911, you will not take me to the hospital. I’m fine.”

“Sure fooled me.” He clenches his teeth.

“I’m fine. Just – looks worse than it is.” She says, bouncing on her heels, hugging herself.

“Margie - you’re not thinking straight! You might…” He reaches for the hood and pushes it off, thumbs her swollen temple and lets out a blasphemous expletive. “You might have a concussion.”

I’m Margie.

“Look you don’t have to do this,” She says. “I can’t go to the hospital because…”

“Because?”

“Because of what I do.”

“I don’t think that’s a problem for the ER docs…”

“Listen Old Man!” She hisses. “A lot of questions are gonna be asked and I can’t answer them.”

“What about a free clinic?”

“No.”

He sighs and nods. “Margie please…” He starts to say.

“Don’t call me that!” She screams.

Like - right there – outside his tempered glass front door, on his patio.

He’s stunned into silence.

Frankly, she’s surprised he isn’t on the phone right now calling the looney bin. His jaw ticks, he gives her a once over and then opens his front door.

“In, now.” He orders her. Like he’s a fuckin’ commanding officer. Like she’s a fuckin’ rookie on his team.

“Mike!” She pleads, aggravated and exasperated. “If I could go to a doctor, a clinic, a hospital or even a cop – don’t you think I would?”

“Yeah okay.” He mutters, sounding categorically annoyed. He places a hand on her back to nudge her in.

It’s comforting, steady. It feels like –

“You might be bleeding internally.” He states, as she saunters in.

“I wouldn’t be walking around.” She answers, looking around at his sophisticated urbane interiors.

Any given night, she’d be admiring his home. This isn’t any given night.

“Unless you’re in shock.” He says. “C’mon.”

“Where?”

He doesn’t answer her. Just grabs her hand and steers her. She feels like a six a year old, trotting after her disapproving father.

It’s a pretty long walk, or maybe she feels that way just because that’s how big his house is. They walk through a living room, a mini-kitchen, round a gorgeous infinity pool, into what seems like a guest room.

She’s barely aware of the whats, the whys, the wheres and the hows. Her brain – refuses to process anything. He is – for all purposes a stranger. They met under questionable circumstances. If she’s supposed to wonder why she feels so secure, trusting in a man who – well – she really doesn’t know – she doesn’t.

He gestures at her, points to a bed and then gives her a firm look that makes her feel like she’s fifteen again trying out for NC state: Pop’s put down the signal, she nods - all she has to do is pitch the screwgie.

She plonks down and winces. Everything starts to hurt – all at once. Pain smarts though her. Her whole body writhes from the inside out. She could claw off her face that’s how bad it is. She groans and falls back on the bed.

“I’m gonna ask you to take off your clothes now – okay?” His voice comes later.

“Why?” She sits up, grabbing her side.

“Because I have to check for injuries.” He says. “If you’re not going to get proper medical help – then at least let me use my pathetic, wimpy, basic sports injury knowledge to take care of you.”

“I just need a place to crash.” She sighs. “Nothin’ more.”

“Look, if you’re going to bleed out or die – you’re not doing it on my watch.” He barks.

She gapes at him.

He looks remorseful, suddenly.

So, that’s how he expresses worry and concern and…frustration: by being a crabby, grouchy, curmudgeon.

It’s kinda cute. He's like a grumpy softie and she’s seized with urge to just hug him.

“Besides,” He snorts. “All that blood wouldn’t go with my white interiors!”

She’d call him out on his stupid jokes but she’s too tired. She huffs and reaches for the zipper on her ankle length boots and slides it down. He looks away.

This –a one time playboy, a man who was planning to pay her for sex – looking away. Talk about ironies.

“Don’t take off your bra if you don’t wanna.” He mutters, keeping his eyes averted as she unzips her leather skirt.

“I’m not wearing a bra.” She says, unzipping her halter and shrugging it off. The tiny little audio unit flops on the bed. She sneaks her hand around it and tucks it into the little pocket sown into the halter.

She stands up, wearing only the cotton bikini-cut panties and nothing more. She crosses her arms over her exposed boobs groaning as her sides stretch achingly. The whimper she makes has him jerk his head towards her. Eyes worried at first – and then widening again at the sight of her.

His eyes darken – but not with anger. She notes the way he swallows.

His gasp – is – well – flattering.

Yeah, he’s seeing her naked, Yeah, he’s Mike Lawson. Yeah – this is highly inappropriate. Except, she’s too fucked in the brain to care.

If this ever comes up in court, she can always plead temporary insanity.

He comes forward hesitantly, lifts up an icepack that he’s been holding all this time. Gestures to her lip first then presses it to her face, and the side of the cheek. The icy hit makes her dizzy. She hisses, squeezing her eyes shut to stop the world from spinning around her and wobbles. His arm slips around her back. His palm presses on her skin.

Soft, comforting, steady – warm. It feels like –

Like home.

He helps her sit.

She trembles. It could be the ice pack – it could be the pain – it could the sensation of his open palm on her bare shoulder blades.

She’s far too woozy to make sense of anything. She just stays there like a lifeless puppet being commandeered. Vaguely aware that her wrists are being moved and that the ice pack is being lifted off her face.

She opens her eyes when she can. Somehow he’s managed to make her drape her arm over the breadth of her bosom, the forearm covering her breasts for modesty. The other wrist is being placed over her head, giving him a view of the side that also feels the worst. He prods gently and her arm snaps, grappling at his muscly bicep at first. He wraps his hand around hers, gives it a reassuring squeeze. She exhales and lifts her arm over her head again. She closes her eyes as he trails his fingers over the ugly yellow-purple blotches over her stomach and side. The pain is getting unbearable by the second. Everything’s spinning.

“What happened, Margie?” He asks. The tenderness in his voice evokes a flurry of tears that stop behind her eyes.

I’m Margie.

She says nothing.

"Who did this?"

She says nothing.

"Was it a client?"

She nods.

“This looks like -“ He gently pats the bruise on her stomach. “Did that motherfuckin’ SOB kick you?”

“Yes.” She says.

“Why?”

“Does it matter?” She winces.

She has a nebulous sensation of being covered. Like he’s pulling something around her, draping it over her shoulders. It feels fluffy – like a bathrobe. Something cool and wet is being smoothed over her face and hair. It pricks over specific points of her face.

Her vision is sort of unreliable now. All she can focus on is his beard. There are small little patches of grey in his beard. She feels him place the ice pack in her hand and guide it to her lips. She dabs it on her face obediently while he continues to clean up her face.

“He’s just that sort of man” She speaks.  

“What sort?”

“The kind that likes to hit women – maybe it’s what he gets off on.”

He nods, doesn’t urge her to speak. 

But she does anyway. “I told him to pay up first…” She starts with the truth, her voice shaking, her body trembling with every ugly sensation.

Divulging confidential information to a civilian? A new low for her. But hey - she can always plead temporary insanity, right?

“And – then…” She blinks the tears away.

“And then?”

“He said he’d already paid online.” She echoes, when something clicks in her mind. A small piece of a puzzle falling in its correct place. She puts the ice-pack down, thinking it over as he dabs something at her fat bleeding lip. A familiar, bitter taste enters her mouth, and it stings.

"It's antiseptic." He says. "It's gonna hurt a bit, okay?"

"Okay."

“You’re right.” He says. “It looks worse than it is. You were very lucky. Nothing’s broken, I think.”

“My ribs….?” She asks, looking down at throbbing her side.

“Probably just hairlines.” He assures. "Nothing major."

She doesn’t say anything.

“Margie.”

She hisses angrily.

“Okay –then.” He rolls his eyes. “Rookie.”

“Rookie?”                                                                                      

“What the fuck do you expect me to call you?” He bellows. “You’re acting like the stubborn twenty-something brats they hire as ballplayers these days!”

She would have laughed if his face hadn’t changed. It’s obvious he instantly regrets his outburst.

Oh god. She is not being fair to him here. She’s not even being sensible.

I’m Margie.

“Margie’s fine.” She mutters.

“Except, it’s not your name, is it?” He asks her. “It’s probably been your name for a while – but that’s not who you are, is it?”

Her vision is hazy. But damn - if his eyes weren’t a strange sort of beautiful. They looked grey under the brilliance of white light and white walls. He picks the ice-pack from her lap and starts dabbing it on her lip. She hisses as its cool numbness sings through her body.

“And how long have you been holding on to that brilliant idea, hotshot?” She taunts him.

“For a while…” He says. “Maybe since we first met. So, what is it? Your name.”

I’m Margie. “Margie.”

“No, it’s not.” He says.

I’m Someone…I haven’t been in a while.

“You’re right.” She whispers, mesmerized by his eyes. “It’s not.”

He combs her hair back. Picks at the grungy strands that are stuck to her forehead sealed by congealed blood. He looks at her with an affection she believes she does not merit.

“It’s okay.” He says, with a teasing smile. “It’s just you and me here. No one’s gonna know.”

“Ginny.” She says, even before he finishes. His eyes widen a bit, like he wasn’t prepared for her to give in so easily.

The word feels foreign on her lips. Her given name...feels strange, when she expresses it.

Tears slip out – one, another, and then they’re just trailing down her cheeks in a steady stream.

“Ginny, my name is Ginny.” She whispers. “Ginny Baker.”

His cheeks lift and the corners of his eyes crinkle. A heart-warming, unpretentious smile splays across his mouth. He nudges her till her head drops, tucked into the side of his neck. She closes her eyes and inhales his scent. Clean with a hint of cologne, mostly masculine, warm and refreshing.  A soothing hand caresses her hair.

“Well, well, well, look what we got here.” He rumbles softly. His voice is low, hypnotic, humourless, but kind and affectionate. “Ginny Baker, in the flesh.”