Carrie
"Damn," Kim commented, getting into my car at 9:01, on purpose, I was sure. "Hey, sexy, want to come upstairs?"
"Shut up," I warned harshly.
"But you're my girlfriend," she smiled, getting a kick out of this. I briefly wondered if she was always this irritating undercover.
"I'm your ADA," I corrected. "In fact, I'm not even your ADA. I'm just an ADA."
"Like ice," she commented, giving me flashbacks to that morning when I'd been told the same exact thing. For some reason, it didn't bother me. I just pulled coolly onto the road.
"So what scent is your car this week?"
"Clean linen," I answered truthfully, despite her derisive tone. Usually when she asked me questions designed to criticize me, I just answered them honestly and it generally took the fun out of it for her.
"Isn't that what it was last week?"
"No."
"What was it last week?"
"Clean cotton."
"Will you use anything with 'clean' in the title?"
"Absolutely," I agreed.
"To hide that you're dirty at heart," she continued to tease.
"You know me too well."
"What are you thinking about?"
"Pardon?"
"You sound, like, super pissed."
"Did you just say super pissed?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"You sound like my intern."
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing's the matter," I swore. "Just, thinking."
"Yes, so I gather," she pressed, before asking again, "About what?"
"About what it will be like to go on a date with the infamous Kim Hayden," I answered coolly.
"Infamous?" she smiled, loving the sound of that. "You mean the prospect of a date with me has made front page headlines in Carrie Everett's thoughts? I'm honored."
"Well, I think it's a valid thought," I rationalized. "You certainly seem to get a lot of them. I'm interested to see what all the hype is about."
"There's hype?"
"Don't be so flattered."
"I don't get a lot of dates," she dismissed. "I get a lot of sex."
"Dear God."
"I mean, given, I don't get a lot of sex anymore, but I sure used to."
"Aw, Kim, let me summon all the sympathy I have for you," I condescended. "It must be so tough not to be a complete slut anymore."
"Did you just call me a slut?"
"Uh, no, I believe I called the former you a slut. The use of the words not and anymore were supposed to make that clear."
"Okay, you act like you're so holy," she criticized. "I can't be that slutty, or else you wouldn't have had sex with me. God knows you won't touch anything dirty."
"You're really going to bring that up?"
"You're really going to pretend it didn't happen?"
"No," I argued. "It did."
"Twice," she noted.
I sighed. "Twice."
"What, do you regret it?"
"Of course not."
"That's what I thought."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just say it."
"Say what?"
She smiled, revelling in the moment. "I am the best you ever had."
"Oh please," I said in two very separate and distinct syllables.
"You loved it."
"You're so sure?"
"Positive."
"Whatever."
"You're not denying it."
"Yes I am."
"Fine, have it your way," she conceded, before muttering, "My milkshake brings all the lawyers to the yard."
"Kim, get the fuck out of my car."
"Okay, okay," she laughed, responding by putting her feet on my dashboard, which I promptly knocked off with my right hand. "You win."
"As always."
"You know what's funny, though?"
"This should be good," I anticipated. I found myself saying that a lot any time she prepared herself to speak. "What's funny, Kim?"
"When we hooked up, like, a hundred years ago," she began to muse. "We totally agreed that it was just your good old, run-of-the-mill, hit it and quit it, no strings sex. But now..."
"Now we've been together two years and we're going on a date," I finished. "I see the irony."
"Just goes to show that there are always strings," she considered.
"Yes," I agreed. "There definitely are."
***
The first sign I received telling me it would be a long night was the chorus of bar patrons who called "Hayden," the moment we walked in.
"Friends of yours?"
"Jealous?"
I rolled my eyes. "Just remember you're here with me."
"I don't know, Carrie," she sang. "You know how much I love men."
"Who's tending bar?" I asked clinically, paying her sarcasm no mind.
"Beats the shit out of me."
"Have you seen him before?"
"Beats the shit out of me."
"How do you not know?"
"Well I usually don't stay sober when I come to a bar."
"Whatever," I dismissed. "Let's drink."
"Hey, listen," she informed me. "We didn't get undercover cleared. So for all intents and purposes, this is just you and I going out."
"What's the difference?"
"I'm allowed to drink," she shrugged. "And not to interrogate."
"But you're allowed to engage in a friendly conversation with the kind attendant serving us drinks, right?"
"I'm glad you understand."
We took a seat at the corner of the bar and waited a full forty seconds before growing way too impatient. For two provocatively dressed women in a bar full of men, I was sure we'd both been expecting a red carpet to be rolled out, and were highly disappointed with anything less.
"Okay, bartender is not paying attention. We have to get it somehow. We have to get him to talk."
"Give it five seconds," I said under my breath. "Hey, honey, do you want to get me a drink, or am I going to have to beg for it?"
That got his attention fast, as he snapped around from the wall of liquors to face me. Then suddenly he was interested, because now he realized that I'd walked into that bar with my breasts half out and it wasn't an accident.
"I don't know," he said after he put his eyes back in his head. "Maybe I'd like to hear you beg."
"I bet you would, but, I'm a grown woman."
"That you are."
"Hey, easy," Kim interrupted, getting a kick out of slutty Counselor Everett. "She's with me."
"Is that so?" he smiled, his interest obviously piqued.
"Depends on who you ask," I teased, to which she elbowed me in the side.
"Hey," I reprimanded as a response to the sudden show of violence. "Keep that up and I'll have to take you home."
"You promise?"
"Well," the bartender considered. "I don't want to be a homewrecker here. Can I get you a drink?"
"That's why I'm not at home," I commented. "But, what do you suggest?"
"I suggest Patron."
"I'm more of a wine drinker," I said honestly.
"Fair enough. What do you like?"
"She'll have top shelf, whatever's best," Kim decided. "I'm buying."
At this point, I didn't care if it was a fake date. If she was buying real wine, Kim Hayden could take me out anytime.
"Isn't that nice of you," he commented.
"That's why I keep her around."
"That's not the only reason she keeps me around."
"And why else would that be?"
"I think you get the picture."
"I think I do. Anything to drink?"
"Get me something hard."
"He already got you something hard," I smiled under my breath, which he pretended not to hear as he began fixing drinks with no specific instructions.
"Me?" she whispered incredulously. "You are such a skank!"
"He's interested, isn't he?"
"Yeah, and so am I. God, put your tits away."
"You're not complaining."
"No, but Grace would be."
"Grace left you."
"Oh my God, you're such a bitch."
"Pot or kettle?"
"I picked last time."
At that point our hushed argument was curtailed as our new bartender friend returned with our drinks. I tried the wine that he'd picked out and was actually impressed; I just wondered how much we were paying for it. The way I was playing my cards, though, I was going for nothing.
"How is it?" she asked, the bartender well within earshot.
"It's lovely," I said truthfully, before adding on for effect, "Sweet, spicy, full, luscious...Kind of like you."
"Oh," she said passive aggressively. "Interesting, because I though my drink was kind of like you."
"And why's that?"
"Harsh and acrid, makes me want to go to sleep."
"What the fuck are you doing?" I whispered.
"That was for the below-the-belt shot you just took."
"How did I do?" the bartender asked, coming back for the chat we were pining for.
"Oh, you were amazing," I drawled. "I could drink this forever."
"Yeah, wine is the one thing you could ever get her to commit to," Kim chided.
I smiled back at him. "What is it with women anyway? All they want to do is put a ring on it."
"How long have you been together?" he asked.
I immediately pulled the number three out of nowhere, while Kim replied with "Four."
"Oh my God, Carrie, you can't even remember how long we've been together?" she chastised. "It's like I don't even know you anymore."
"All the anniversaries just blend together," I complained with an eye roll. "Every day it's the same thing, it's like Fifty First Dates."
"Yeah, commitment was never my thing," he agreed. "That's why I stayed single."
"Ugh. Jealous."
Kim hit me, feigning offense. "Yeah, because you're so tied down. That's why you go around hitting on bartenders."
"I'm not hitting on him," I smiled, before looking back at him, who seemed to be hoping I was. "He can't help it if he's cute. You know, just when I started to think there was no one friendy working at this bar. I mean, right, Kim? When we came by last night that guy barely took our order."
"Oh," the bartender realized. "Yeah, that was probably Clayton. He mostly keeps to himself."
"Does he?" Kim questioned, suddenly interested.
"Yeah, actually, he--"
The most perfect specimen of testimony we'd had all night was just about to get good, I was sure, when it was interrupted by some boisterous twenty-somethings at the opposite end of the bar, demanding service.
"Excuse me," he said before going to take their orders.
"Fuck," Kim lamented. "So fucking close."
"We're not done yet."
"Oh, yes we are. Look how many hot women are over there."
"Gross, they're like half your age."
"Whatever, they're fucking hot."
"Oh please, you're hotter than all of them."
"Yeah, you're drinking right now so I'm not going to ever bring that up again. You're welcome."
"Okay, whatever. He got their drinks. How do we get him back to talk about Clayton?"
She just laughed. "What kind of a name is Clayton?"
"Focus, Kimberly."
"Okay, he's coming back."
"Kiss me."
"What?"
"Did I stutter? Kiss me."
"But you...I mean, really?"
"Nothing you haven't done before."
"But...Carver, and..."
"Oh my fucking God." I was sick of hearing her protest and it looked like I was going to have to do the work here, before our witness got away forever and became more interested in some twenty somethings that I, personally, would have passed up a million times over. It was my job to take Kim by the arms and press her against the bar, forcing myself on her, but receiving no objection. I'd almost forgotten what it was like, kissing someone that wasn't Jenn, but when I kissed Kim that night, that kiss was just like every other aspect of our relationship: It was only serious when it pertained to the job, it didn't involve any love or feelings that weren't strictly platonic, and any transcendence of that relationship - that is, any step it threatened to take past friendship - was merely sexual, or nothing at all. That was life, I suppose, getting along every day with someone you'd hooked up with years ago, to whom you'd promised no strings.
Not thinking much of the kiss was what allowed me to protract it. The total lack of guilt allowed me to take it further than I would have if the situation were different. I'd actually gotten myself to believe that this was strictly business and no pleasure, which was not the full truth.
"I almost forgot what a good kisser you are," she whispered heavily into my neck after several moments.
"Almost?"
She smiled. "Almost. Is he looking yet?"
"He's not paying attention. You have to be vocal."
"Me? Why me?"
"Because," I decided, before swiftly kicking her in the calf.
"Ah!" she yelled, at first out of indignation, but then, seeing my angle, turned it into a cry of pleasure. "Ah, God, Carrie, you are turning me on."
"Well, then, let's get out of here," I suggested loudly, praying he'd started to listen.
"Hey, don't go, it's just getting hot in here," he called back. Success.
"Well I'd love to stick around, but I don't know how long I can make this one wait," I tried.
"Just have another round," he implored.
"I think we could be convinced to do that," Kim decided.
So three hours and several drinks later, that was how we'd gotten into a deep chat with the bartender, who later revealed that his name was Ted. What I'd gotten out of the statement was that he'd only been working at Alias for a few months, and had the most hours out of anyone. He worked every weeknight except Tuesday, and the alternate Saturday. We didn't care at all about his hours, but that was what came up.
"It's like you work all the time," Kim attempted after a while. "I mean, are there even hours left for anyone else?"
"Hardly," he agreed. "We're open seven days a week. We have a girl who does a full shift Sunday, and the alternate Saturday, and that guy Clayton picks up Tuesdays, and half my shifts on Friday and my Saturday."
"That's confusing," I thought out loud.
"Well, you know. They give me the most hours because I'm the favorite around here."
"Is that right?" I inquired rhetorically.
"Not that the competition is stiff," Kim added. "That guy who worked last night, he was weird."
"Yeah, everybody says that."
"How come?" I pried.
"Well he used to work a lot more hours," he began as I commenced making mental notes. "But the guy has no charisma. You know, he checks out the girls all night, but he never says a word. He's just awkward, I guess, that's why his tips suck. So the boss moved him to maintenance and inventory."
"What does that mean?"
"You know, taking in the shipments, keeping the liquor stocked, stuff like that. That's where he does better, you know. Behind the scenes."
"Well how did he get the bartending job in the first place if he had no people skills? He must have failed the interview."
"The guy's damn cousin owns the place," he lamented, emoting just a healthy dose of jealousy. "But even family realizes your shortcomings eventually."
"Well, I think the bar is doing great," I said, trying to close up this interaction now that we had all that we wanted. "Could do better on the clientele though."
"She just comes to places like this to see if there's anyone better she could be screwing," Kim derided, standing up behind me and sensing, like I was, that it was time to go.
"So far, no," I smiled. "But still looking."
"You know you're all mine," she drawled seductively, reaching around me and giving my chest a firm grab that startled me immediately, as I tried to pretend that it hadn't.
"Behave," I warned. "Save that for later."
"How about now?" she suggested, providing the perfect dismissal.
I smiled cordially back at the bartender. "I told you I couldn't keep her off me for long."
Kim reached into her wallet to pay however many thousands of dollars we'd racked up in top shelf alcohol, before he stopped her hand. "No," he protested. "On me. It was a nice chat."
"Oh, you don't really have to--"
"Yes he does," Kim had no problem saying. "Thanks Fred."
"It's Ted."
"Yeah," she said, putting a ten down as a tip. "Right."
***
"You know I'm not going to let you drive, right?"
"Why the hell not?"
"Because I'm a prosecutor, you're a police officer, and ilIegal conduct is not what we do."
"Well I have to get my car home somehow. Besides, I live, like, on the other side of town."
"Okay, but my apartment is four blocks over. Just come up, and I'll drive you back to your car tomorrow."
"I have work tomorrow."
"We'll go before work."
She rolled her eyes in a half assed protest. "But I so hate you in the mornings."
"Okay, fine," I said ambivalently. "I can walk. Enjoy your DUI."
"Alright, you're right," she decided. "You know usually I'm the one convincing women to come upstairs."
"Not anymore," I reminded her.
"Yeah," she sighed, with a little bit of nostalgia at the mention of the ghost of her promiscuity. Sometimes I thought she should have dug a grave for it so she could mourn every so often.
"So you know what I'm thinking?"
"Let me guess. You're thinking...that you finally understand all the hype about going on a date with me."
"No, actually, I don't. You're very handsy."
"Me? I guess I was the one who forced you into an impromptu bar hook-up."
"That was hardly a bar hook-up. Anyway, no, that's not what I'm thinking."
"Okay, fair. What, pray tell, are you thinking, Caroline?"
"I'm thinking, you know what Fred-Ted-whatever said about this Clayton guy, about taking in shipments and keeping liquor stocked?"
"Yeah," she said. "He must have really tanked in customer service."
"Right," I recognized. "But what I'm thinking, is that when they ship wine in, they do it in those big wooden crates. The kind you have to pry open."
"With a crowbar," she realized. "Too fucking perfect."
"Not to mention they have to stock in the back," I added. "Where, who knows, there might be a door..."
"That has to be enough to at least talk to him."
"I'd say so."
"You're a damn genius," she lauded as we walked into my apartment building and waited for the elevator. "Good work, Everett."
I nodded in acceptance of the praise, which I was never going to pass up. "You too."
After we'd gotten to my floor, I turned the key in the lock and prepared for the usual comment about how clean my apartment was.
"Sometimes when I come in here I wonder what it would look like as a crime scene."
"Okay," I said slowly. "That's...weird."
"You know, because you'd go into cardiac arrest if there was a blood stain on your white carpet."
And, there it was.
"Well, I think if there were a murder in my apartment, I'd be a little bit out of sorts, yes. Shoes off."
She made a face at me but obliged.
"Oh, it wouldn't be the murder that bothered you."
"You know, the fact that you even entertain these thoughts is perplexing. You've been on the job far too long."
"And yet, not long enough."
"Do you always just negate whatever I say?"
"Do you always talk like a spelling bee moderator?"
"Moderator. M-o-d-e-r-a-t-o-r. Moderator."
"Something tells me you were that kid in elementary school."
"What kid? You mean spelling bee champion eight years in a row? That kid?"
"Oh my God, I'm sorry I brought it up."
"Oh, I'm not," I smiled, sitting down. "Please, continue to give me the opportunity to speak about my accomplishments."
"I won't live long enough to hear about all your accomplishments."
"Yeah, not the way you drink."
"Clever."
"As always."
"Whatever," she dismissed, putting her feet up on my coffee table, just to see if I would whack them off, which of course I did.
"God help your family if you ever have one," she commented.
"Don't worry about that."
"What, you don't think you'll ever at least marry?"
"I don't think I'm the marrying type," I said honestly.
"Not even Carver?"
"I mean, if I were to marry someone, I suppose it would be someone like Jennifer."
"Someone like her? Or, her?"
"Someone who doesn't put her feet on my coffee table."
"So all neat freaks are interchangeable."
"Well, yes. Except me."
"You're just one in a million."
"Actually," I corrected. "I'm one in seven billion. Mathematically, by your logic, there would be 6,999 people just like me on this earth, which is just fallacious."
"God help me if there are seven thousand of you walking around here. I can't even handle one."
"Excuse me, I am not just something to be handled, okay?"
"Oh, really? Well what are you, then?"
I leaned my head onto the back of the couch, those few glasses of wine suddenly hitting me all at once. I didn't feel like searching for a clever answer, and so I just muttered, "I'm a fucking prize."
"Are you inebriated, Counselor?"
"Are you inebriated?"
"I don't know," she mused. "I'm probably inebriateder than you."
"You're always inebriateder than me."
She gasped in fake shock. "You must be drunk, you just used the wrong superlative form of inebriated."
"There are no superlative forms of inebriated," I groaned. "It's not an adjective, it's the past participle of a verb."
"Okay, never mind," she recanted. "You're clearly not too drunk to be a smart ass."
"I'm never too drunk to be a smart ass," I shrugged. "And I'm just too smart to be drunk."
"Oh, your confidence is so attractive."
"Not as attractive as your sarcasm."
"I've been told my sarcasm is very attractive."
"Yeah? By who?"
"Actually, it's by whom."
"That's so not cute when you do it."
"What, the whole correcting other people's grammar thing? I'm shocked, you know, having been subjected to it every day for the past two years of my life, every time I go to work, by a certain lawyer."
"Oh, please. You are so happy you met me."
"Bull. Shit. I hated you when I met you."
"Okay, I see your bull shit, and raise you, your eyes did not leave my chest for the first twenty minutes of knowing me."
"Yeah, and so what? I can hate someone with nice tits."
"No you can't," I pointed out. "And...thank you."
"I guess I didn't hate you that much," she considered. "You were a bitch, though, you know."
"I'm still a bitch."
"True," she agreed. "But when I first met you, I just remember thinking..."
"Thinking..."
"I don't know, just...Wow, you know, she's...kind of...intimidating."
"I'm trained to be intimidating," I reminded her. "If I weren't, I'd be in the wrong profession."
"You don't intimidate me anymore, for the record."
"Let the record reflect that the witness is lying."
"Oh, what, you think I'm intimidated by you?"
"Well, if you felt the need to clear the air about it..."
"Well, I'm not."
"Not at all?"
"Nope."
"Yeah, prove it."
I hadn't meant that literally, of course, but what followed was, well, evidentiary support that met that burden of proof. This time when she and I kissed, there was no proper pretense. We weren't doing it for the job; we were alone in my apartment. In fact, we were both in relationships with people who were miles away. Jennifer was off putting herself in the line of duty, and I was here in my living room, making out with her coworker. In fact, I was kissing Kim, while my girlfriend was off trying to save hers, and the more ways one looks at the situation, the more messed up it becomes. But none of that registered at the moment, and in hindsight, I blamed it on the alcohol and the benzodiazepines in tandem. Somewhere in the course of events, we'd ended up parallel on my couch, and I'd brought my hands around her back, ready to go further when I gained consciousness and stilled my body in a sudden fit of self control.
"I'm...sorry," was all I could say, sitting up. It was funny how I prided myself on my eloquence and verbal aptitude, and was able to string together long, persuasive summations without tripping on a single word - yet now I couldn't even put together a decent explanation to someone I'd known for years, with whom I had one of the closest relationships in my life.
"No, it was my fault," she tried. "I shouldn't have..."
"You didn't. It was...I mean, that was...That was wrong."
"It was...the alcohol," she tried, probably attempting to ease her guilt the way I was trying to rationalize my own. "We got carried away. And, that...will never ever happen again."
"Why don't you, um...Go to my room," I tried to strategize, rubbing a hand over my face, suddenly feeling flustered and exhausted all at the same time. "I'll take the couch. And, um...tomorrow we can forget that ever happened."
"No, you go, I'll take the couch," she offered.
"No, really," I protested. "I'm fine, I actually have to write something up for work anyway."
That was true in that I did have things to write up for work, but false in providing the idea that I'd actually be getting anything done in my present state.
"Really, Carrie, I don't mind."
"Don't argue with me," I instructed firmly. "You know you'll lose."
"Okay," she finally conceded. "I do. Thanks."
"I'll, um...yeah."
"Yeah, okay, um. Thanks."
"You said that already."
"Right," she said, standing up. "Okay, I'll um...I'll see you tomorrow."
"Okay," I said, watching to see that she'd left completely before falling back onto the couch and wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I briefly entertained the idea that I would sleep this off and feel better about it in the morning, but I knew that just wasn't true. As someone who had, apparently, suffered from anxiety and insomnia, I knew that even when sleep came, the respite from my own mind did not. And besides, I knew that tonight it wouldn't.
So I spent the next six hours staring at the ceiling, just feeling like I'd done something really, really wrong.