find a flask (we're playing fast and loose)

where the gin is cold (but the piano's hot)

Jack had just never expected he'd become that out-of-place old man.

Of course, Jack's age hadn't stopped a few beautiful young women—and one handsome young man—from approaching him with a wink and a casual hand trailing across his chest. One girl had curly dark hair and was even wearing a short red dress.

But none of them were Claire, and therein lay the problem.

Jack had to hand it to Claire—he wasn't sure he'd have gone chasing after any of his previous lovers through New York nightclubs as the clock neared midnight. To be fair, of course, with his first wife he might have been young enough to accompany her into a club without too many people eyeballing his entrance. Now?

Not so much.

Still, the fact that Claire had dragged this wild goose chase behavior out of Jack when no one else could've was a clear testament to a fact Jack tried very damn hard to ignore: Claire was different than those who had come before her.

Or maybe Jack was different, now.

By all rules that governed logic and reason and rationality in this universe, Jack McCoy knew he never should have gotten involved with Claire Kincaid. He was twice her age, she was his assistant, and in several areas their personalities mixed like oil and water.

Of course, the bedroom was not one.

But Jack knew, he knew a romance with Claire should've been forbidden ground, and hell, maybe that had been half of the appeal.

Still, there were only so many choices Jack could attribute to passion, attraction, attention. No amount of lust alone was powerful enough to get Jack McCoy prowling through New York's clubbing scene like a lion nosing for the kill.

But Claire Kincaid could.

Christ, the hold she had on him.

Club number nine, Jack thought to himself with a resigned sigh as he parked as close as he could to the nightclub's entrance without having to pay an additional fee. If this place struck out, he'd only have one more to go, a fact for which Jack wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

After entering the nightclub and receiving the expected amount of wary sidelong glances, Jack went to his first strategy: conducting a simple survey of the crowd. Not the most effective, but hey, maybe he'd get a lucky hit.

Of course, the eight previous misses probably should have clued him in otherwise.

Jack's second strategy was more practical: asking the bartender if they'd seen her. He would show them a wallet-sized picture of himself and Claire from when Claire dragged him into a photo booth at a carnival a few weeks ago. It'd been a joke, really, but they'd ended up looking so relaxed and carefree outside of the office that Jack found himself compelled to keep one of the pictures. He knew Claire was storing the others in a 'personal but private location,' according to her own words. Jack was yet to see them on display in her apartment, but then again, Claire had several more visitors to her place than he did his, and they weren't exactly trying to publicize their relationship.

As Jack approached the bar, he wished he'd brought some aspirin for the headache he was starting to get from the relentless bass pounding in each club he'd visited so far. It was amazing anyone here still had their hearing.

Damn. He really was getting old.

A flash of red in Jack's peripheral vision snagged his attention, causing him to quickly turn to—

No sale.

This woman was indeed wearing a beautiful red dress, but last Jack checked, Claire did not have blue and purple hair. Not that she couldn't pull the color combo off.