Real People
by Pic
Series: Second in the series-- Back in Circulation, Running On Empty and An Evening To Remember
Disclaimer: Recognizable characters aren't mine.
Rated: M
Pairing: I don't really know what category this is - I'll call it -- Anson Greene/Other - Het fic, more or less, with a guest appearance by Matthew from Lunch with Charles.
Spoilers: Minor for Moloney and as infinitesimal as I could make them from Lunch with Charles.
Summary: Anson is further readjusting to not always so polite society with a little help from a new acquaintance, a certain recently re-employed journalist from Canada. This is a sequel of a sort to Back in Circulation, but you don't really have to have read that one to understand this one.
Author's notes: This one is for Sue on her birthday in the year 2001 -- to commemorate the auspicious occasion. Seems like the only time Anson wants to talk to me is if there's pressure of an occasion. Thanks to Missy for once again diving in to beta this puppy without knowing either of these characters; her questions really made me think long and hard about quite a few things and improved the story.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Anson Greene sat alone in a small bar. It was relatively quiet by LA standards, allowing him to consider his life. It wasn't so bad, really, if he didn't think too much about the thrice weekly shrink appointments and the very strict prohibitions against having any kind of contact with his daughter other than the pre-screened letters he'd just been permitted to begin to send to Annabel. Anson wasn't thinking about those things tonight. As was becoming more and more prevalent these days, he was thinking about sex.
His shrink, Dr. Sidney Kerrigan, kept telling him that his preoccupation was quote-unquote normal. Nearly a year with only a few chance, negatively-charged encounters would have the same impact on just about any man, according to Dr. Sid. Anson didn't care about anyone else. He just wanted to get laid. So much so that he almost gave into the temptation to dial when he'd come across Sara's phone number a few weeks ago. Dr. Sid had been so proud that he hadn't, praising Anson for having what he called the strength of character to avoid diving head first into that particular darkness again. Anson still wasn't sure he'd made the right decision.
Because here he was, alone, sipping a beer, pessimistically wondering if his cock would atrophy from lack of proper exercise. Shaking his head to banish that unpleasant thought, Anson decided it was time to get real. Unless he wanted to pay for it, which he didn't, he had to meet someone.
Ok. Step 1. Meet a woman.
Surveying the crowd, his eyes were drawn to a small, animated group off to his right. Two women and four men. Not good odds at all for what he had in mind, but the way they were sitting - the two women at the bar, next to a tall dark haired guy with the three other guys at a nearby table - suggested that they hadn't arrived as a group. A few moments of further observation revealed that the guy at the bar spoke up whenever the conversation lagged. His easy manner drew the others into conversation and whatever he said kept them laughing. Wishing he could talk to people like that, Anson suddenly wondered whether the guy was a shrink.
If he's not, he'd make a good one.
Anson reflected for a moment on what he thought distinguished a good shrink from a bad one before he remembered his goal. I'm not in the market for a new shrink. It's taken forever to break in the one I've got.
Duly refocused, Anson looked over the two women. They did nothing to decrease the tension that had escalated at the fleeting thought of wanting to emulate a shrink, but they did channel it differently. One was about 5'7", stacked and blonde. The other was petite and raven-haired. To Anson's mind, either would feel very good naked and wrapped around him.
So, now what?
[Time to go to the church for the wedding, Anson.]
No!
Anson's hands shook as his aunt's excited, happy voice sounded in his mind, cavalierly announcing the end of his childhood. Refusing to acknowledge his fear or the bile rising in his throat, he returned his attention to the group of people he'd randomly selected.
The smaller woman leaned forward and whispered something in the dark haired guy's ear. He looked at her for a moment and then turned slightly, glancing Anson's way.
Green eyes met green eyes, and Anson knew that his face had to have a "What the fuck?" expression just like the other guy's did. They looked enough alike to be brothers.
Things might have been different if I'd had an older brother.
The longing that accompanied that thought scared Anson, so he hastily invoked a mantra of Dr. Sid's, repeating, "Reality not fantasy," under his breath. Belatedly, Anson realized he'd been caught staring and glanced away, but not before he'd noticed the other man's curiosity and that he was standing and reaching for his drink. Panicking, Anson looked at his beer. It was too full to chug with the meds he'd taken today and he didn't want to let it go to waste.
[Naughty boy.]
Christ, not now!
"Hi."
Sensing the presence hovering by the barstool next to him, Anson took a deep breath and turned. His look-alike extended his hand and said, "Matthew Seagul."
While he fought to keep his breath even and prayed that his mother's voice would leave him be, Anson mechanically reached out with his. "Anson Greene."
"Hey, Anson, mind if I sit down?"
[Is this seat taken?]
Anson shuddered as Sara's voice echoed in his mind.
"You do mind," Matthew said, actually looking concerned.
"Nah. Go ahead … um … is it Matthew or Matt?"
"Matthew," he specified as he straddled the barstool, smiling at the bartender and gesturing for a refill for himself and Anson. "My dad hated nicknames."
The casual reference to an entity that Anson had never truly had in his life shook him further, so he directed careful attention to Matthew's action. "Oh, you don't have to --."
"I know, but it isn't every day that I meet a long lost little brother."
Anson generally got agitated when interrupted, but the way that Matthew's words dovetailed with his earlier thoughts put him more at ease. Trying to match Matthew's light tone, Anson smiled shyly and asked, "That kind of a once a year thing for you?"
Laughing, Matthew countered, "I guess I've got twelve months to see if you're the start of a trend."
"That's me," Anson muttered, his earlier melancholy reasserting itself a bit. "A trend starter. Setter, I mean."
Matthew didn't seem fazed by moodiness, asking, "Why not?" With an engaging grin, Matthew tugged lightly on the shirt Anson was wearing over a plain white t-shirt. "Keep wearing this stuff where impressionable young women can see you and you might bring back plaid single-handedly."
He looked down at his red, white and black shirt with a sheepish smile on his face, murmuring, "My ex-wife gave me this. I don't know why I still wear it."
"No sense throwing it away, is there? Besides, it actually looks good on you. Or," Matthew added with smiling eyes, "so I've heard."
[Anson hears voices in his head! They tell him that they wish he was dead!]
The old singsong playground taunt made Anson's heart pound.
What the fuck is happening? I'm past this crap, aren't I? We fucking worked through it. Every damn session for two months was about this shit!
"Anson?"
A deep voice and a hand on his shoulder called Anson back to the bar, but he couldn't remember where they'd been in the conversation. "Huh?"
"You ok?"
"No." Anson gasped as he heard the truth escape his lips. Scrambling, he added, "What I meant was … ah …"
Gently, Matthew asked, "You meant exactly what you said, didn't you?"
Looking away, Anson grudgingly admitted, "Yeah." The arrival of the next round and the other man's insistence on paying allowed him to say, "Thanks for the beer, Matthew."
"No problem. I've got an expense account for this trip."
"Expense account, huh? You a salesman? You don't seem like one."
Shaking his head, Matthew reached for some of the popcorn that the bartender had hastily brought the two of them after he'd seen the tip he'd been left. "What would you guess that I do?"
Why not? Go ahead and ask.
"You a shrink?" The laughter that greeted that question permitted Anson to admit that he'd been holding his breath, hoping that this guy wasn't another Dr. Sid. "Ok, so what do you do?"
"I'm a writer. Freelance. I'm here doing a piece on the LA club scene."
Now it was Anson's turn to laugh. "Then what are you doing here? This isn't exactly happening."
Matthew smiled, seeing how different Anson's face looked when it lost its guarded, wary, almost … haunted cast. To try and keep that open expression where it was, Matthew made a show of looking carefully at his surroundings as though seeing them for the first time. "Definitely not," he finally assessed, grinning. "But I've got all my material and that stuff gets old. Fast. I wanted to meet some real people."
"How long did it take you to get sick of plastic?"
"I got tired of the Ken dolls in about fifteen minutes. California Barbies kept me interested for about a week."
"Rather go home to the wife and kids, Matthew?"
"I've got neither. How about you?"
"A daughter. Annabel. She's ten."
Matthew smiled wistfully, "That would be something very special, I think. A daughter even more so than a son." Voice dropping to a near whisper, he murmured, "Well, maybe someday."
Amazed, Anson recognized that Matthew was envious of Annabel. A nasty part of him noted that he wouldn't be half so impressed if he knew that Anson's only contact with her were letters approved by his shrink, however that glum perspective was inexplicably defeated by a defiant one.
I have a daughter and Dr. Sid let the last two letters go without changing anything
Eyes intent, Matthew watched Anson closely carefully, speaking just before he sensed that the other man was going to begin to squirm. "You are a real person, aren't you?"
"With all the problems I have, I can't be anything else."
The bitterness in Anson's voice called to Matthew and, true to form, his mouth charged ahead of his brain. "You getting help?"
Looking sharply at his virtual double, Anson saw Matthew's wince of regret at his words and bit back an angry retort in favor of the truth. "Yeah, so they say."
Carefully and slowly, Matthew leaned slightly closer. "They?"
[Your son is disruptive in class.] [Anson got into a fight on the site.] [If it wasn't for your injury, you'd be locked up already.] [You aren't fit to see your daughter.]
Mind whirling with the condemnations of a lifetime, Anson growled, "The people who decided I needed it."
"What do you think, Anson? Do you need it?"
Angry retort stuck in his throat, Anson stared at the next best thing to his own image, mouth open, unable to speak. When Matthew merely waited, his expression genuinely open and non-judgmental, the answer leapt forth of its own accord. "Yeah, sometimes. Some days it's worse than others, and … and today's been a pretty bad day."
"You've had a lousy day and here I am asking you personal questions." Appearing suitably chagrined, Matthew muttered, "Sorry. Look, why don't you talk about whatever you want and I'll just listen for a while."
Anson couldn't help but smile, countering, "You're more of a talker."
"I'm a writer. I listen for a living. The talking is to prime the pump, you know, to get other people in a talkative mood."
Maybe Matthew was right about that. Words were lining up in Anson's head alarmingly fast. He didn't know if he could get them out in any kind of coherent order, though.
What's the harm? You'll never see the guy again.
Making a start, Anson muttered, "I just wish …"
"What?"
Suddenly, the thought coalesced and Anson blurted, "That I was more like you."
Surprised, Matthew asked, "Like me? How?"
Gesturing to the group that Matthew had left behind, he said, "You didn't know any of them before you came in here, but by the time I noticed you, they were eating out of your hand. Talking to you, laughing at your jokes, the whole nine yards. How long did that take, Matthew?"
"I don't know," Matthew mumbled in self-deprecating fashion. "Twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five."
"I can't do that."
"Yes, you can."
Disbelief evident, Anson shook his head. "Not me, Matthew."
"You're wrong. Anson, all you need is an introduction and a little help from whoever you decide to approach." Matthew let Anson mutter additional denials for several moments before he asserted, "I can prove I'm right."
"How?"
Matthew was pleased that his people radar was working properly. He had an idea that he thought had merit; however, Matthew instinctively suspected that the way that he posed it would be the key to whether Anson accepted or rejected it. Shrugging casually, Matthew turned toward the group, inquiring, "Anybody there you'd like to meet?"
Eyes instantly tracking to the two women, Anson warily said, "Maybe."
"How about this? I'll introduce you. You sit down next to them, try talking and we'll see what happens."
Sliding his barstool backward, Anson muttered, "I don't know, Matthew."
The small retreat was noted but ignored. "C'mon, what have you got to lose? Worst case, they hate plaid and refuse to speak to you on principle and, be honest now, would that be all that bad?"
A very quiet, "No," was all Anson could manage.
Flush with that small success, Matthew focused. "You have a significant other, Anson?"
"A …? No, I don't have a girlfriend."
Matthew nodded, looking as though he was cataloguing Anson information in his head. "Is the girl thing exclusive for you?"
Blushing without being sure precisely why, Anson said, "Yeah."
Questions just kept coming. "The blonde or the brunette?"
"The brunette."
Cocking his head, Matthew considered Anson's choice. "That was pretty definite, Anson. What is it - hair color? Size? Both?"
"She … she just looks … nice."
"Nice, as in nice girl or totally hot?"
This guy just wouldn't quit. Even Dr. Sid wasn't this relentless. Hesitantly, Anson replied, "Both."
"You know what, Anson - you are like me."
Relieved that the interrogation appeared to be over, Anson dutifully asked the question that seemed to be expected. "How do you mean?"
"You watched a group of people for a few minutes and figured out that I didn't really belong in it and that Callie is the one who isn't into adding broken hearts to her collection. Anything else you noticed?"
"The guys and girls didn't know each other before you … ah … introduced them."
Smiling triumphantly, Matthew stated, "You're pretty damn observant. I have to be to do what I do for a living. What about you? What profession are you in?"
With a shrug and after a long swallow of beer, Anson provided the requested information. "I'm a carpenter."
"A carpenter who can people watch with the professionals. Hmm. That's interesting."
The only person who had ever called anything Anson ever did interesting was Dr. Sid. Parallels that should be disturbing were mounting, but Anson couldn't make himself care. He was actually enjoying this conversation, particularly since the possibility of meeting Callie had sweetened the pot.
Smiling bravely, Anson noted, "We'll have to see if Callie thinks so."
"True enough," Matthew agreed. "So what's your strategy?"
"Strategy?"
"I introduce you and then what?"
In a rare mischievous moment, Anson replied, "I sit next to her and try talking."
Matthew grinned and inclined his head in Anson's direction, acknowledging the repetition of his earlier suggestion. "Talking about what?"
Uh Oh. The Grand Inquisitor is back.
[The witness will answer the question.]
Dismissing the judge's annoyed voice from his mind had never been easier for Anson. "I have to decide ahead of time?"
"I find that it helps to have a few topics in mind beforehand. But you can always just go with the flow if the conversation takes off in different directions."
Anson was out of his element and he knew it. Social interaction wasn't his thing. He was glib enough when he was in trouble and did what was necessary to do the work and to fit in on the construction site, but those efforts pushed his communication skills to the limit. Talking to Dr. Sid wasn't communication; it was his own personal hell.
"She knows a bit about football," Matthew hinted helpfully. "Seems to enjoy it."
"Ok."
"Just don't say anything bad about her Bruins."
That was certainly fair warning. "She go to UCLA or something?"
"That's my guess. Why don't you ask her yourself?"
Matthew moved like he was preparing to stand, forcing Anson to speak. "Wait, I … I can't, Matthew."
"Why not? You do know something about football, don't you?" Smacking his own head in an "of course" gesture, Matthew confidently asserted, "Sure you do, you're an American after all."
"You're not?"
After hesitating for an instant in view of the danger of the conversation getting away from the matter at hand, Matthew relented. "Canadian, but I went to college in the States. Even dated the head coach's daughter for a while, but that's all beside the point. Why are you opposed to this?"
[Can't you do anything right? Annabel is too young for that!]
His ex-wife's voice barely registered, as Anson struggled to find the right words -- ones that Matthew would accept and that he felt comfortable saying. Frustrated, he simply muttered, "I … I'm not very good with women."
Thinking about the problem, Matthew watched Anson's eyes drift back to Callie and linger on her longingly.
"Things always go wrong," Anson wistfully whispered, instantly recalling what Dr. Sid said about Sara and Joyce. "I can't interact without … without forming an unhealthy attachment … or something like that." Fearfully, Anson glanced at Matthew, sure that he'd make an excuse to pick up his drink and hightail it back to the group or out of the bar entirely and back to Canada. "You have a girlfriend, Matthew?"
"Yeah."
Jealousy flooded Anson's system at the tender expression that formed on Matthew's face as he thought of his lady, but he did his best not to show it. Sometime in the last ten minutes, it had become important to Anson not to offend Matthew.
Smiling, Matthew expounded, "She practically shoved me back into the world of journalism. I needed the push, and she needed the space. She says I can be stifling, if I'm not distracted by work." Eyes twinkling, he asked, "Can you believe that?"
Anson laughed. It wasn't something he did often, other than as expected at the dirty jokes and innuendos that flew around the construction site, and it felt strange in a good way. "I think so, because I think that's my problem, too. Sort of."
[You seduced a young woman you'd just met into an exhibitionist sexual encounter, followed by a violent one. Would you call that healthy, Anson, regardless of how good it felt physically?]
Dr. Sid hadn't been happy about Sara and had torn Anson from his unaccustomed place of well being and sexual satisfaction and returned him to a maelstrom of more familiar emotions -- guilt and anger.
Matthew's voice cut into his thoughts. "When you look at Callie what comes to mind?"
Without thinking, Anson replied, "Sex."
"You're a male of the species, all right."
Almost pleading for understanding, Anson said, "But that's the problem."
"You aren't seriously thinking about a sex change, are you? You'd make a pretty imposing woman. Tall, broad shoulders. Nah, don't do it, Anson."
"Huh?" Anson's hands clenched around his beer before he realized that Matthew wasn't making fun of him. "No, I mean sex."
"How's that?"
"Fuck, Matthew, you ask way to many questions." When Matthew didn't react to an intense glare, Anson mumbled, "I've been kind of gun shy lately, and she's … Well, look at her, she's hot. I don't want to embarrass myself."
"So forget sex."
"Forget sex?" Anson queried incredulously. "I'm a guy, remember."
Laughing, Matthew clarified, "I mean as a goal for tonight. Just talk to her, see if you like her, and save the orgasms for later in the week." Looking slyly at Anson, Matthew suggested, "Just think of all the quality fantasizing you could get in between now and whenever the two of you go for it."
Anson sighed, taking another peek at Callie. "I don't know."
"Maybe you go too fast," Matthew speculated gently. "That's what I generally do. I'm so gung ho to prove I can commit that I just steamroll over real issues. Take it from me, they always come back to bite you, Anson. Always."
"Maybe," Anson allowed, still uncomfortable and wary, but tempted to be swayed by Matthew's logic. "Why do you want to do this for me?"
"Does that matter?"
"Yeah, it does." Suddenly, something the other man had said earlier came back to Anson, distracting him. "Wait a minute. You said you heard that my shirt looked good on me. From who?" When Matthew just grinned, Anson whispered, "Callie?"
"And the grand prize goes to the gentleman in plaid." Seeing Anson's face cloud over and a frown forming, Matthew executed a pre-emptive strike, standing and saying, "C'mon, Anson. The lady awaits."
Grudgingly and with a too rapidly beating heart, Anson followed Matthew back to the group. Without speaking, Matthew dropped back next to him and threw a companionable arm around his shoulders, subtly steering Anson, before announcing, "After rounds of intense negotiation, I've convinced my double to join us."
When Matthew halted, Anson did as well, feeling like a younger brother literally under the wing of his elder sibling. He found himself standing next to Callie, making the barstool next to her at the very periphery of the group the most logical place for him to sit after introductions were made. Admiring Matthew's planning abilities, Anson missed most of the introductions, tuning back in just in time.
"And this lovely creature is Callie."
"Great, Matthew. Ellen is a vision and I'm a creature." With a dramatic sigh, she turned to Anson and smiled. "Hi."
"Hi." Gesturing to the barstool, he mumbled, "Do you mind if I …?"
"I'd be hurt if you didn't. Creatures are sensitive."
She looked so sad that Anson found himself blurting, "It sounded to me like the emphasis was on the lovely part."
"Thank you, Anson" Callie said with a smile that drew a long slow swallow out of him. To his surprise, she turned away from the others to face him and whisper, "You two may look alike, but I think I could grow to like the non-performing version better."
Lifting his beer to his lips, Anson tried desperately not to think about how tight her black sweater was. "That's me," he muttered, lowering his eyes. "Non-performing."
Callie gasped when he looked up at her tentatively through long, luxurious lashes, and silently congratulated herself on the success of her impulsive move of pointing out Anson to Matthew. He was gorgeous and shy - a very nice combination in her view. Placing her hand on his forearm, she leaned slightly closer after letting her eyes dart briefly to Matthew who was holding forth on genetic engineering. "I meant the speech-making."
Anson knew he was blushing, but there was nowhere to hide from her. He had to say something. "Are you a … a spectator, too?"
After a moment's consideration, she mused, "Performers and spectators in the game of life, hmm? That's a different way of looking at it."
Anson wasn't sure how to react to the look of what appeared to be respect that she was bestowing on him, so he remained silent.
"Well, Anson, if I'm going to be honest, I guess I'd have to say that in public, generally, yes. I am a spectator."
The words emerged without editing. "What about in private?"
Anson winced slightly as his body reacted to her wicked grin and the light, almost absentminded movements of her fingertips on his arm. Her low, husky tone and words only added to the effect.
"I like to watch, but I'd rather perform."
A vision of himself as a child, fascinated with his mother's gardening activities swam into his mind and the words he very much wanted to say matched those he'd uttered then. "Can I watch?"
Oh fuck! I said that out loud. Shit!
"I mean … uh … Jesus, I'm sorry, Callie, I only … um … what I meant to say was …"
She put one of the playful fingertips across his lips. "Yes, you can." Startled, he met her eyes and she added a condition. "Once we get to know each other better."
Relaxing fractionally and brightening as her words penetrated his frantic mind, he smiled and said, "So, how about those Bruins?"
~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~
An hour or so later, Callie managed to stop giggling at Anson's description of how construction workers really view women. Regretfully, she noted the time, not quite able to forget her early meeting the following morning. Pressing her lips to Anson's cheek, she sighed and stated, "I have to go."
Anson wasn't ready for her exit. "I'll walk you to your car."
"That'd be a hike, Anson." Digging in her purse for her cellular telephone, she added, "I'm cabbing it tonight."
"You need a ride home?" He waited for her reply, anxiously biting his lower lip.
Smiling, she touched his cheek to rub away the faint remnants of her lipstick. "That's sweet, but I live in Manhattan Beach. I don't want to take you out of your way."
"That's not that far," he asserted before reality came crashing in around him, hard enough that he almost didn't hear her question.
"You're sure?"
Tentatively looking her in the eye, he replied, "Yeah, but … my truck isn't much."
She laughed, but it wasn't one of amusement. "Does it run?"
"Well, yeah."
"Then it's ok in my book," she said, replacing her phone in her bag and standing. "Mine's in the shop waiting for parts from the UK."
"Callie, are we headed out?" Ellen asked, drawing everyone's attention, making Anson decidedly nervous.
"Anson was kind enough to offer me a ride, so you're off the hook."
The look that Ellen flashed Anson was one with which he was more than passingly familiar - suspicion. She stared at him, even as she directed her words to Callie. "Can I talk to you a sec?"
"I'll be right back," Callie informed Anson, squeezing his shoulder before following Ellen toward the ladies room.
"So was I right or what?" Matthew asked, grinning broadly at Anson and clapping him on the shoulder like a teammate or a fraternity brother.
Looking off in the direction the women had gone, Anson muttered, "Her friend doesn't want her going anywhere with me."
"Ellen doesn't want Callie going anywhere with anyone, Anson. She - Ellen, that is - just got out of an abusive relationship. She's got enough fear for half the women in LA, although if she saw a clear path to screwing some guy over she'd take it in a heartbeat, if she deliberated that long. Don't take it personally."
[You hurt her, Anson. You took advantage of your size and strength. That's a dangerous habit to form.]
He answered Dr. Sid in his mind. I won't. Not with Callie. I swear.
"I won't," he vowed once again, aloud.
"Good," Matthew stated. "Forget about Ellen and focus on Callie; she's strong enough to stand up to anybody. And, remember, take it slow and easy tonight. You want a good deed to lead to a date that'll lead to another date, not just a quick fuck, right?"
The word "date" sounded strange to Anson's ears. The very few, furtive encounters he'd had with women since he'd passed his psych eval and been released could hardly be called that.
"Anson?" Matthew prompted.
"A date, yeah, that's right. Sorry, Matthew, I zoned out on you a little."
"No problem." Offering his hand once again, Matthew winked and whispered, "Good luck."
Anson shook it. "Thanks for introducing me to Callie and … be good to your lady."
"You're welcome and I will."
Hesitantly, Anson brought up something that had been in the back of his mind for some time. "You … you never answered when I asked you why you were going to do this for me."
"Because it doesn't matter," Matthew asserted. When Anson frowned and tensed, he added, "Look, she wanted to meet you; you wanted to meet her. We're not talking anything all that complex here."
Anson nodded, but the explanation seemed to be lacking. "But it's more complicated than that, isn't it?"
"A little, maybe. Look, I've just come out of a time in my life where I closed my eyes to a lot of things, because I thought I had everything I needed and had gotten it by acting selflessly. I didn't and I wasn't doing things for anyone else's benefit. Opening my eyes again hurt, Anson. More than it needed to."
Puzzled, Anson ventured, "But what's that have to do with me?"
"I think more than your eyes were closed."
Knowing that he never would've approached Callie on his own, Anson muttered, "But why would you care?"
"Why not? What did this cost me? Not a thing and I can feel like I helped someone out without demanding anything in return. That's not a bad feeling, Anson."
Anson murmured, "Guess not," and both men turned to face the returning women.
Seeing that his explanation seemed to suffice, Matthew caught Callie's eye, stating, "I was just telling Anson not to exceed the legal limit with a lady detective in his car."
"A what?" Anson croaked.
"Thanks, Matthew," Callie stated with a scowl. "You couldn't let me break it to him gently."
Gesturing dismissively, Matthew asked, "What's to break? You don't bring the office out on the town with you, do you?"
Making exasperated noises, Callie moved to Anson's side, calling, "Goodnight, everyone. It was nice meeting you guys." Eyeing Matthew with mild distaste, she added, "Except maybe for you."
Undaunted, Matthew countered, "And who was it that delivered your chauffer?"
"Are all Canadians this much of a pain in the ass?"
"Just the men."
Everyone, including Callie, laughed at Matthew's deadpan delivery. "You, sir," she murmured, "are a piece of work."
"Thank you, my lady," Matthew gallantly accepted her assessment. "Take it easy, Anson."
Anson nodded. "You, too."
Callie stepped closer and took Anson's arm. Looking down at her, he asked, "Are you ready?" Her nod sent him reaching for his jacket, his heart pounding in the face of the new information. She was a cop; he'd killed a cop. Sure the charge wasn't murder and there was an explanation, but nothing another cop would buy.
What the fuck do I do now?
~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~
Anson pulled his Toyota pickup into a parking space in front of the building that Callie had identified as hers. No longer having the distractions of the traffic and excuse of concentrating on Callie's directions, he wasn't sure what to say into the silence that fell when he removed the key from the ignition. Trying to think of how Matthew might approach the situation, he ventured, "Nice place."
"It's home," she replied with a shrug. "Three blocks off of The Strand is the best I could do and keep the mortgage payments under control."
He took another look at the building and whistled. "You own that?"
Laughing softly, she said, "I wish. The condo on the top floor is mine and the bank's. Well, mostly the bank's."
There was no comparison between this and his small studio apartment in a borderline seedy neighborhood and making one further eroded the small amount of confidence that Anson had built over the course of the evening.
"Thanks for the ride, Anson."
"Welcome," he mumbled, watching her pick up her purse from the floor. Suddenly angry, he couldn't stop himself from adding, "So you can tell your friend that I didn't try anything."
"I knew you wouldn't. My complete asshole filter is very, very good."
[You want a good deed to lead to a date that'll lead to another date.]
Matthew's voice startled Anson out of his descent into a funk at the thought of being just a plain old, everyday sort of an asshole. He'd never heard someone in his head so soon after they'd actually spoken.
A date with a cop, though? Use your head, Anson.
Dr. Sid's voice then argued with Matthew's. Or was it his own?
[Why do you think you have such problems with authority figures, Anson?]
[Who cares what she does for a living? Do you like her or don't you?]
[Your need to dominate her will drive her away, or worse.]
[She won't let you do that - she's too strong. That's all to the good, Anson. She can free you, if you let her.]
Callie's voice called to him, seemingly from far away. "I've got a busy morning, so it's time for me to say goodnight."
"Yeah," Anson whispered, thoughts racing, what he wanted at war with what he feared and in conflict with Dr. Sid's assessments of his moral fiber. Knowing he had to say something or burst several major blood vessels from the stress of remaining quiet, he began, "Um … before you do, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Can I …? Will you …? Could we …?" Feeling like an idiot after three aborted attempts, Anson took a deep breath and risked a glance at Callie.
"I think the answer's yes, Anson," she noted, taking one of his hands and interlacing her fingers with his.
Eyes wide, he blurted, "You'll have dinner with me?"
"I'd like that." Returning his bright smile with a broad one of her own, she asked, "When did you have in mind?"
Remembering Matthew's admonitions about taking it slow, Anson managed not to shout, "Tomorrow," instead opting for a murmured, "Friday?"
"That works for me," Callie noted. "If we can eat a little late, say 9:00 pm or so." When he mutely nodded his acceptance of her condition, she added, "There's a great little Italian place within walking distance from here. Do you like Italian, Anson?"
"Yeah."
[The way to a man's heart is through his stomach.]
Cringing at the memory of his mother merrily preparing dinner for the man who'd eventually become her second husband, Anson bit his lip hard to banish it, focused on the pretty woman seated next to him and muttered, "I'll be here Friday at 9:00 pm."
"Great."
Her enthusiasm helped Anson to relax. The two looked at each other for several long moments, both smiling. Callie was a little giddy with how differently this evening had turned out from what she'd expected when Ellen picked her up a few hours earlier, but she saw something she couldn't identify suddenly appear in his eyes. "Anson? Something wrong?"
He shrugged. Looking out the window, he said, "I could borrow a car for Friday."
"Why?"
Still refusing to look at her, he gripped the steering wheel tightly with his free hand. "So we wouldn't have to walk."
"The truck doesn't bother me, Anson. Ok? I'd just rather walk and enjoy the night air after a long week at work, especially if I'm planning to have a couple glasses of red wine."
"You sure?"
"Allow me to demonstrate how sure," she murmured, placing the hand that she was holding on her shoulder. "Come here."
Heart beating fast, Anson released the steering wheel and leaned over the gearshift to allow Callie to slide her arms around his neck. As gently as he was able, he gripped the back of her neck and steadied her chin with his other hand. When she touched her lips to his, it was the sweetest thing Anson had experienced in years. The kiss was nearly chaste, but his body didn't seem to care and his mind went curiously blank and mercifully silent. He became a sponge for sensation, every nuance magnified as never before.
As they broke the kiss, she licked her lips. His breath caught and he barely resisted the urge to trace the same pattern with his own tongue. The desire to surge forward and possess her mouth was longer in coming and unusually fleeting, but Anson didn't question the shift. "Slow and easy," he reminded himself.
Matthew's advice was sorely tested as Callie pulled him closer again and opened her mouth underneath his, her tongue darting out to tease his lips apart. Anson gave in to the temptation and they deepened the kiss. Tacitly calling an end to the event that they both were enjoying, they parted, breathing hard.
Anson's erection was pressing painfully against the denim of his jeans when he whispered, "Jesus, Callie."
"We better not do that again, huh?" she asked. "Not tonight, anyway."
Mind scurrying back to an earlier topic in a futile effort to distract himself from the ache in his groin, Anson said, "I meant it about the car."
Shaking her head, she put a forefinger across his lips once again. With a small sigh, she rewarded him for his dropping of the subject by running that fingertip along his upper lip and then more slowly upon the lower.
Sensing an opportunity, Anson shifted slightly and took her finger into his mouth, alternately teasing it with his tongue and sucking gently on it.
Callie whimpered, "Oh, God."
Smiling around her finger, Anson maintained the stimulation until she softly moaned. He took her wrist and slowly withdrew his mouth from her finger, watching her eyes close in pleasure. "The detective has a very sensitive trigger finger."
Her voice was low and sultry as she vowed, "And I'm going to use that very finger to get myself off tonight. Would you mind terribly if I moan your name when I come?"
His mouth opened but nothing came out other than a choked, "Mind?" His cock, on the other hand, reacted quickly and decisively to the visual images that his brain not so helpfully supplied. Overly stimulated, Anson held onto his control doggedly, feeling it slipping further away with each passing second.
"Please, Anson," she whispered, drawing out his name to give him an idea of what it might sound like when she moaned it. "Tell me it's ok."
He managed a nod.
She smiled, kissed him lightly on the lips and opened the car door as though she was eager to get on with the evening's program. Before he knew it, she was around the truck and leaning in the driver's side window. "See you Friday. Goodnight, Anson. Sweet dreams."
Finally finding his voice as he contemplated the possibility of some very pleasant dreams, Anson countered, "Goodnight, Callie."
As she went inside, Anson Greene reflected on what a difference a few hours made. He was even hornier than he had been, but now he had a prayer of some relief other than what he'd have to give himself tonight. A small part of his mind suggested that Callie might represent more than welcome relief and registered his amazement that the evening had transformed beyond any reasonable expectations, all because someone who looked like him had wanted to meet some real people.
When the lights started to illuminate the windows on the top floor, Anson smiled. Moments later, he could see Callie silhouetted in a bay window facing the street. She waved. Anson returned the gesture, feeling not only real, but substantial and cautiously optimistic as well. Despite his progress, hope was something he hadn't felt for a very long time. Anson felt it now.
~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~
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