I’m currently lounging on Banks’ killer couch with the latest edition of the Rolling Stone on my face. I’m pretending to be asleep while Shoshana and Nathalia draw on my arms in texter. I try not to laugh because it tickles, but it’s also a great distraction to forget that Banks has taken it upon herself to create the world’s most awkward date, featuring me, Blake, Jax and Sam.
I don’t know why Banks decided to make the ‘date’ into a group affair, I personally wanted to sleep off the fact that my new home is Banks’ couch, the same couch that likes to crush my spine while I’m sleeping.
I still don’t understand how Banks got the Prat of all people to be social with a bunch of immature arse-hats. Yes, Banks and Jax may be older than us, but seriously, Blake and I are more mature than what they ever could be.
“What’re you drawing?” Shoshana whispers to her sister.
“A gun shooting roses,” Nathalia says loudly.
“It looks funny,” Shoshana snorts, “kinda like a wiener.”
“Stevens is gonna kill us if it looks like that,” Nathalia scrubs at my arm.
“She will if you keep talking so damn loud,” Shoshana whacks Nathalia over the head because the younger girl lets out a yelp and the two get into some sort of fight.
Banks wanders into the living room. I can tell it’s her because she can’t sing to save herself, and I mean anything to do with music, ends up sounding like a camel’s dying wish leaving her lips. She’s currently humming some pop hit before she stops walking to her room to glare at her siblings.
“Please tell me those aren’t Sharpies,” I guess that Banks’ nostrils flare because Shoshana and Nathalia whimper and drop the markers. “A’ight I see how you two are going to play this, scram before I tell Ma―me and Akira are going on a date tonight and this is really going to be a setback. Go on, shoo!”
The younger girls giggle when Banks tries to corner them for drawing on my arms. They take cover behind the coffee table that holds my sombrero and I think Shoshana’s going to use it as a shield if Banks’ nostrils flare any more. After a few more seconds staring at each other, the two siblings squeal with laughter and run off to their rooms, leaving me with Banks.
My best friend grabs the Rolling Stone from my face, rolls it up and proceeds to smack me over the head with it, causing me to snort and guard my stinging eyes with my drawn-on hands and arms. Banks isn’t angry, she’s laughing while I roll around on the floor and try to stand up.
“We have to be ready in an hour and you’re letting my sisters draw male genitalia all over you,” Banks stops her assault and hands me back the Rolling Stone. I cautiously take it from her and she snorts again.
“They’re flowers,” I lie; Nathalia’s drawings kind of do look like dicks. I fold my arms so Banks stops staring at my Sharpie riddled skin. I exhale, “I don’t even want to go on this stupid date.”
“Mmmm,” Banks hums with pursed lips. “I got your stuff from your room including your Criminal Minds boxset…sorry that you have to kip on the couch though.”
“Cheers,” I clap her on the shoulder.
“Don’t sweat it Stevens,” Banks clicks her tongue against the roof of her pallet. “It was better than Blake offering to take his dead Dad’s room…I don’t want to come off like a jealous hoe, but I’d rather have you under my roof than his.”
“I know,” I flip a towel over my shoulder, little did she know that Blake does think she’s a jealous hoe, but Banks won’t except defeat in her conquest for Blake’s love.
After I scrubbed off the drawings, courtesies of Nathalia, I’m forced to sit on the side of the tub while Banks does my makeup for the ‘date’. She’s already dressed in an elegant royal blue blouse that has a peplum at hem of the fabric that ripples above her tight black pencil skirt and heels.
“I won’t be able to get away with going in my suit, right?” I scrunch my nose up when Banks pokes my cheek.
“You won’t have a chance Ms Work-o-holic; I’ve already picked out the cutest outfit for you. Besides, we’re the same size, there’s no way you’ll be able to complain,” Banks grins.
I simply sigh, resistance is futile when it comes to Banks, I should know that by now, I’ve worked with her for almost a year. Banks flicks droplets of water onto my face before she applies the foundation. She pumps a blob of foundation onto her finger and smears a bit on my forehead before daubing two more squirts onto my cheeks and chin.
Banks puts the foundation bottle on the edge of the sink and pulls out one of those wide splay bristle brushes that were softer than any type of feather. Banks expertly began massaging the foundation all over my face with the Kabuki brush; she doesn’t leave any crease free of the stuff.
Banks twists the cap on the mineral powder and starts blotting my face with the stuff, causing a cloud of it to erupt, making me cough. She simply tuts me and goes back to work with the brush, smoothly coating my skin with the powder. When she’s finished, Banks puts the Kabuki brush and mineral makeup away. She informs me that she’ll ‘keep it simple for my sake’.
I don’t know how that’ll work; my face already feels like a meringue.
Next up is the mascara, three types for my eyelashes. The small stoutly one is supposed to stop my lashes from clumping together, the longer cylindrical one lengthens and the other one that’s got a wide-arse brush is to thicken them. I am now currently drowning in shit I don’t know.
Banks tells me to blink every time she strokes my lashes with the brush. The stoutly one is clear and Banks applies that first before moving onto the length mascara. When she’s satisfied that my lashes are ‘long’ enough, she uses the width mascara that’s thicker and resembles road-tar and coats my lashes heavily with it.
After the mascara, Banks goes for the eyeliner. It’s in a pen and she shakes it a little before twisting the cap. I try to move away and protest, the last time I had eyeliner on, it leaked all over my face and someone mistook me for a KISS fan.
“Just trust me on this Akira, when have I ever steered you wrong?” Banks says.
I give her a look, “My hair is blue because of you.”
“Hey, think about what you’ve gained through that traumatising experience of having blue hair, I think Mr Vanilla Latte digs it,” Banks wiggles her eyebrows at me suggestively and tries to near me with her eyeliner, but I pusher her back again. Sam hates my hair, hell, I hate my hair. “I’m not joking, I think he likes it, I bet Mr Vanilla Latte wants that PA of his to become a Smurf.”
“Imagine a bright blue sequined Persian carpet,” I grimace.
“I don’t want to imagine that, especially from the photo’s I’ve seen of the chick. Now shut up and close your eyes,” Banks instructs.
Banks is armed with the ‘black for cats’ eyes’ liquid eyeliner and I muffle my protests. She squats awkwardly in front of me so she can get a good angle at my eyes before she sets to work on my top lid.
I close my eyes as I feel Banks’ precision with the eyeliner. She carefully does the ‘flick’ by the corner of my left eye before touching the outline and shading it in strip by strip, replicating the steps on my right eye. I blink slowly when she puts the eyeliner away and allows me to stand so I can look in the mirror.
With a sharp intake of breath, I stare at my reflection; it’s kind of like a shock-horror moment because I don’t really recognise myself. The dark circles beneath my eyes are barely visible and my eyeliner is done to perfection. The mascara accentuates my lashes and I can’t stop blinking in disbelief.
Banks comes up behind me and rests her left elbow on my shoulder, “If Mr Vanilla Latte brings a friend tonight, I reckon he won’t be able to keep his hands off you.”
I flick her in the earlobe and scratch the back of my neck. I look moderately alright, despite Banks’ marvellous work that she’s performed to transform my sleepy face, it doesn’t help how I feel about myself on the inside or how I think other people are going to perceive me. I smile at Banks as a thank you and exit the bathroom towards her bed where she’s previously laid out an outfit for me to wear.
It’s a sleeveless chiffon blouse in my favourite colour, burgundy. It has a black lace collar and crimps around the waist. With it is a pair of leather jeans and grey Litas. Banks knows me too well, I never deviated from my jeans or pants combo, and she knows that I’m not comfortable enough to wear dresses or thin heels. I break out into a grin and toss off my work-suit and throw on my new outfit.
Banks gives a wolf whistle, “If our party of men don’t get uncomfortable down under then they’re positively homosexual or secretly women.”
“I wish I had your confidence,” I stuff my gun down the back of my jeans.
“Akira, looking like that, you don’t need confidence,” Banks extends her elbow to me and I grab it, but not before I loop Sam’s royal blue tie around my neck. As we walk out the door, I don’t care that the sombrero’s been left on the coffee table.
• • •
Just when I feel okay about going on an awkward group date so Banks feels comfortable, I find myself scratching at the windows of the cab that’s idling at the red lights near the Aries territory. Banks thought it’d be a pleasant ‘surprise’ for the date to be held at the Four Horsemen because it’s got a bar for the girls (who I might add are only me and Banks) and the arcade space for the boys (of which, there are presumably many).
She doesn’t know what the big problem is, because I haven’t told her about project Angel Blue, I would’ve since she’s my best friend, but Derek Banks doesn’t want anyone else to know―personally, I don’t know who else has heard of the Angel Blue protocol, but everyone that does, is in danger.
Banks believes that Four Horsemen is a ‘respectable’ bar with ‘exceptional’ staff. Yes, that’s all well and good until one of them tries to molest you. Aries have a permanent sex drive that’s stuck in the ‘on’ position―Banks doesn’t seem to realise that when human women walk into that bar, it’s very rare that they come out in one piece.
Also knowing Banks and her desperado act for love, she wouldn’t care if she left the bar in six dismembered pieces. She loves attention from men, Aries men especially. I don’t have to use my Detective skills to know what she gets up to in her ‘late nights’. And she still maintains the fact that Blake is her one and only.
“I don’t get what’s the problem you have with this place,” Banks hands the cabbie the fair through the window and slams the door.
“I have my reasons,” I press a hand to my tailbone where I can feel the cool silver of the gun.
“Get over yourself Stevens, you’re not getting out of this date so easy by denying to go into Four Horsemen,” Banks hooks her arm around mine and forcefully pulls the door of the bar open, and roughly pushes me inside.
In the Litas, I stumble slightly right into the charcoal grey vest of someone very important. They stagger forward and from an annoyed shriek, drinks have been spilt on a girl. I quickly turn around to run out the door but Banks is there to stop my retreat, I don’t understand why she’s laughing until the person taps me on the shoulder.
“Excuse m―” Sam cuts himself off, “Blue?”
Did he think I’m someone else? I bite my lip and turn on my heel to face Sam. His expression is unreadable; it’s a mix between confusion and shock. I quickly tighten my ponytail and laugh nervously, how fucking awkward right? He quickly gives me a discreet once-over look and his nostrils flare.
“Hey there Prat I didn’t expect to see you here,” I greet.
Sam’s wearing a white long-sleeved button up shirt underneath his vest. Tucked beneath the vest is a burgundy tie. His vest matches the colour of his tailored pants and leather shoes. Does this man not wear the same suit once? His bronze hair’s fluffed up slightly into a quiff; he sips a Long Island Ice Tea while I blink at him.
“The feeling is mutual,” Sam flicks his hands to get the alcohol off his skin.
Behind him, a girl places a hand on Sam’s shoulder and he flinches slightly in response. I can feel the top lid of my eye spasm when I see who it is. It’s the PA, the Amanda Jane chick or whoever. This is why I should’ve just stayed on the couch with Nathalia drawing dick-looking flowers on my arms. This is why I don’t like the FBI. This is why I hate Four Horsemen.
“Stevens, this is―” her girlish laughter silences him.
“I’m Samuel’s girlfriend, Amanda Jane,” she extends her acrylic clad hand to me as a gesture of greeting. She’s sipping daintily on what’s left of her Cosmo. “You must be Officer Anna Stevens; Samuel’s told me so much about you.”
I don’t pay attention to her; I simply feel my chest do something stupid, it feels like my ribcage is being crushed. I don’t care that she doesn’t know how to say my name, I don’t care that she demoted me in title, I don’t care that I spilt her drink, I do care that Sam didn’t tell me he was taken. Taken by his PERSONAL ASSISTANT.
I knew it wasn’t my position to ask him about his relationship endeavours when we first became a team, but he should’ve at least said to me, ‘Oh Stevens you annoying almost-nineteen-year-old, I have a girlfriend who just happens to be my PA. I’m just going to get a vanilla latte now, bye!’
“That’s funny because Prat here has never said anything about you,” I ignore her outstretched hand, I don’t know where it’s been, I could contract a disease.
Amanda Jane is in some designer dress from the amount of glitter on it. If she continues to call me Anna, I could string her from the ceiling and give her a spin, she’d be our own personal disco ball―oh, and piñata. The dress itself looks like it’s made from liquid gold; I think I can see my reflection in her boobs.
Amanda Jane lowers her hand while her glossed lips tighten into a pout, she takes a sip of her nearly empty Cosmo and smiles sweetly at me. If she keeps doing that, she’ll look like Bucky Toothless.
Sam looks extremely uncomfortable as his green eyes flick between me and Amanda Jane, “I’ll go get you another drink AJ. Stevens, do you want anything?”
Yes, a nice shot of bleach.
I can feel my lip tremble slightly, he calls her by an abbreviation, I thought the derogative nicknames were our thing. Sam will always be a Prat, and I’ll always be Blue until our case is solved―there’s no fucking AJ in between. I simply unlock my jaw, Sam notices because he sighs.
“No, I think I’ll just go catch up with the guys and play some Pool,” I shoulder past Amanda Jane towards the Pool table at the rear of the bar.
The rest of Banks’ date club is Jax Sinclair who’s currently staring at an Indian woman that’s shaking things that give me the idea to arrest her for public disturbance. He doesn’t see that from her hips down is a snake’s tail, but that’s because he doesn’t have the Diablo gene. I leave Jax to stay mesmerised by the woman’s hip swaying while I slap Blake across the face.
“Why do I always have to be slapped hello?” Blake pouts.
“Because I’m trying to put sense into you,” I retort.
“Tch whatever,” Blake passes me the green chalk so I can coat the tip of the cue. “Looks like you were gonna knock her teeth out Akira.”
“Oh believe me, I’m tempted to knock out more than her teeth,” I place the cube of chalk on the side of the table and lock my jaw back into place. “You gonna break first or am I?”
“Ladies first,” Blake rests his forearms on the cue and then places his chin on his intertwined fingers. He’s wearing a pea-green t-shirt with the ‘Kerplunk!’ girl on it from the album of the same name. To complete his shabby dress code, he’s wearing black jeans and red Converse.
“Y’know you’re practically begging Banks to come over here and smash my face in with a Miller Lite,” I use the cue with my left hand and hit the white ball. It breaks the triangular formation and the other balls separate around the green felt. Blake knows that whenever I, or any other woman, comes in a two metre radius of Blake, she goes ape.
“Makita should know by now that I don’t dig her. Like yeah, I’m flattered that she’s lusting after me, but if she was my age things would be different―I don’t want to be her toy boy or something, it’s creepy,” Blake takes a shot at the striped ball and sinks it, so that means I’m solids.
“Maybe if you tell her then she’ll back off,” I knock number 3 into the right corner of the table but it rebounds and hits Blake’s 9 closer towards the net. “I mean seriously, she’s put her career on the line for you to be in the Desk Squad and you just quit without telling her.”
“Don’t go raining on my parade,” Blake aims for 11 but hits my 7 which means I get two shots. “You honestly don’t think I’ve tried to tell her to stay away from me or that I don’t want to come into work because I’m unemployed? She won’t listen to me.”
I switch hands so I’m shooting with my right hand; I crouch on the left side of the table and aim awkwardly at number 2. When the white ball hops over on the felt slightly (I aimed too far at a downward angle), it taps the blue 2 before setting it up in the perfect position for me to sink the purple 4 and blue 2.
“You should make her listen; I couldn’t even comfort you at Keith’s funeral because she thought something was happening between us. It’s out of control and you’re the only one that can stop it,” I say when both of my targets sink.
“I’ll try, okay?” Blake runs a hand through his hair and misses his shot for 14, “But I’m not going to make any promises.”
I’m aligning myself so I can sink 4 and 7 but lose focus when Sam and Amanda Jane totter up to the table and pull up two stools so they can observe the game with Blake. Banks soon joins them and throws her arms around Blake’s shoulders from behind, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek as a ‘hello’.
I try not to slam my forehead against the cue.
I interchange between my right and left hand as I try and angle myself perfectly. The white ball’s wedged between Blake’s 12 and 9, it’s a risky shot but I’m up for the challenge. Blake tussles his hair again and moves to the end of the table, the furthest away from our company and raises his brows at me.
The shot would’ve gone in if the PA hadn’t grabbed the end of the cue to stop the motion. The felt tip simply nudges the white ball and it stops rolling one centimetre from where it originally had been. I unlock my jaw.
“That’s two shots for me,” Blake moves next to me and casts me a glance to not do something that’ll get me thrown out of Four Horsemen.
“Oh I’m sorry Anna,” Amanda Jane smiles sweetly and swings her long legs. It’s like talking to a Cabbage Patch Kid. She places her glass on the small table between her and Sam as she slides off the stool, “Can I take a shot?”
No.
“Your call Stevens,” Blake’s already taken his two shots and consequently sunk his 9 and 14. He’s chuckling slightly on the other side of the table as he decides on what ball to go for next.
“Try and aim for the red number seven,” I hand the cue to Amanda Jane and mimic what she’s supposed to do with it (and believe me, I want to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine).
Amanda Jane giggles again and tucks a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear and inexpertly digs the end of the cue into the felt. The white ball knocks one of Blake’s and flies off the table towards two Aries playing Snooker. One of the creatures lifts the ball up and inspects it for a few moments before tossing it to Blake.
“Cheers man,” Blake nods to the Aries before setting it back in the semi-circle on table. Two shots for him, no three. I unlock my jaw again, I’m going to lose against Blake Donovan, this isn’t going to end well.
“I totally suck at this,” Amanda Jane clicks her fingers in an ‘ah damn’ way and takes a sip of her Cosmo, her evil eyes flicking over Sam as he tries to forget that he’s at Four Horsemen. “Samuel do you reckon you could teach me this game? I promise it’ll only be for one turn.”
Sam must’ve been out of it, or purposely ignored her because he turns to the group slowly with his lips parted. Amanda Jane repeats her request and Sam’s nostrils flare slightly, he doesn’t say anything, he just places his Long Island Ice Tea on the table and I pass him the cue with a smirk while Blake hands his cue over to Amanda Jane.
While Sam explains the inner workings of Pool, Blake and I lean back against the Jukebox. Banks’ brown eyes trail us and she narrows them at me while she tips the neck of her Miller Lite. Jax places his large hand on Banks’ thigh and she punches him in the shoulder, growling a threat in his ear.
“Got a dime?” I ask.
Blake turns his head towards me and smirks, he digs around in the front pocket of his jeans and hands me the small coin. Blake and I have the same music taste, classic rock with no in between. I could tell from his face when I walked in that he hated the techno song playing from the Jukebox, so we were going to put on some rock to make the ‘date’ a little more bearable for both of us.
I insert the coin and paw through the genres, it takes me some time to find the album I’m looking for, and Amanda Jane still hasn’t taken Blake’s shot so Blake faces the Jukebox and snorts at my selection.
“Mick Jagger, really?” he says.
“No hate on the Stones, punk,” I poke his shoulder, which scores me a cold glare from Banks as she continues to roll her eyes at Jax’s attempt at conversation.
“Alright,” Blake raises his arms in surrender. “Don’t put on one of their sappy ballads like As Tears Go By―and please don’t pick I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.”
“What do you take me for Donovan, some generic hipster white girl? Please, I don’t even walk into Starbucks let alone drink that stuff,” I give him a look, “Paint It Black or Get Off My Cloud?”
“What mood are you in at the moment?” Blake concurs. He has a strong point; both songs should correspond to my mood. I inhaled deeply; the Stones never did a song titled Drop That Damn Pool Cue Now so I pick the latter option and the chorus roared to life.
Blake and I start jumping around jamming to the song and at the bar, a few of the Aries employees follow suit. At least some of them have good taste in music―well, that’s until a glamour queen like Amanda Jane ruins the party by asking the worst question to a Stones fan.
“Who’s this?” she asks and misses the white ball completely.
“The Rolling Stones,” Sam responds.
“Isn’t that a magazine?” she continues.
“Listen to the chorus and you’ll fucking find out,” I say.
Amanda Jane tucks another stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear and sniffs as if she’s actually hurt by my comment. Surely she can hear the sarcasm or hostility in my tone, or is she going to fit the typical PA mould and be deaf-dumb-and-dicky?
“Oh,” she mumbles, “This was my dad’s favourite song before he was shot in Iraq fighting for our motherland.”
I try not to laugh; she’s playing all of her cards to make Sam frown at me, to make him chastise me like I’m some kid. I bet her father’s a white-collar business man that spun that dress himself to keep his little girl happy.
Amanda Jane sniffs again and passes the cue back to Blake, “Thank you for letting me have a go, that was really kind of you.”
“Stevens, watch your tongue,” Sam murmurs in my ear when he presses the cue into my hands. He says nothing more and returns to his PA, taking a long pull of his Long Island Ice Tea―Prat.
“I think I need some air,” I announce and rest the cue next to Blake who seems like he’s lost the knack to continue our game. I whisper in his ear, “Do you still carry around a deck of ciggies?”
“Why, do you wanna bum one?” Blake asks and I nod. “I think I’m gonna get some air too, it’s really hot in here.”
Without another glance, we shuffle through the crowd of Aries and others to get to the door of the bar and slip out. I breathe a sigh of relief when the cool night air bites at me, Blake does the same and rests against the lamp post on the curb and lights up a cigarette, he takes a short drag and hands it to me, exhaling smoke.
“I didn’t think you smoked,” he observes.
“I don’t, but those people inside are driving me to nicotine since drinking is officially off limits,” I tap my left index finger against the Marlboro cigarette and pass it back to Blake.
“Your FBI chum…he’s making a huge mistake with that chick―even I can see that she’s acting the way she is to get under your skin,” Blake says.
“It’s most definitely working,” I exhale smoke through my nose.
Blake hands me the cigarette again, “I better go back inside or else Makita will think we’re doing the bump and grind in the gutter. Will you be okay out here by yourself?”
“Yeah go inside and have fun,” I press the ciggie to my lips and watch Blake scuff his heels all the way to the door.
“I’ll try not to neck myself,” Blake calls back before disappearing back inside Four Horsemen.
I put the cigarette into my mouth when my phone starts to ring, it’s an unknown number and I exhale more smoke through my nostrils before I tap to answer, “Stevens.”
“I would have messaged you but my texts won’t deliver,” the voice was course, almost like listening to sand or a rake against concrete. “I see you changed your number to evade my riddles, it’s just a shame that your treasured Medical Examiner had both of your contacts listed in his phone.”
The cigarette slips from my lips and falls to the sidewalk, spraying hot ash all over the grey Litas. I take three deep breaths before I respond, there’s rustling on the other end of the line, like laughter.
“How can I believe you?” I challenge.
“Oh I’ll be more than happy to prove it to you, Detective,” there’s more shuffling before Snag’s voice comes over the line, “get your hands off me!” there’s no doubt that it’s Snag, and the killer has him. “If you want to save your Medical Examiner and his assistant, come to your cherished precinct alone.”
“Fine,” I say.
“You better hurry; it’ll take you around forty-five minutes with no traffic to get from where you are in Harlem back to East Village. If you don’t arrive within the next twenty minutes, you’ll be going on a scavenger hunt for their bodies,” he clips.
“Twenty minutes? That’s insane,” I shout. “A cabbie won’t dare go that fast!”
“Well you better tell him to step on the gas, Detective,” the killer taunts, “bye-bye now.”
As if my night can get any worse.