How much did I have to
drink last night and how much
of a fool did I make of myself in the process?
This thought pushed
through the muddled painful
throbbing in David Hodges’ head as he woke up to the feel of the
sunset cutting
through his bedroom blinds. Closing his eyes once again he took a quick
self-inventory. Headache? Check. Queasy stomach? Check. Socks and
boxers and
nothing else on? Check. Vague feelings of apprehension mingled with . .
.
smugness? Okay, that was new, he decided. Generally hangovers
didn’t come with
a sense of self-satisfaction; at least his didn’t. He
hadn’t actually been hung
over since his wedding reception lo these twelve years past, and even
then when
he had a damn good reason to feel smug, he hadn’t. Waking up with
Isabel had
only left him feeling glad that someone a bit more sober than himself
was
around to order coffee from room service.
Hodges rolled to his side
and thought about getting
up. Checking the clock with a groan, he realized he had enough time to
get
ready for work or call in. The debate took only a few moments and he
heaved
himself up to a sitting position, wincing and wishing he didn’t
feel this sense
of panic.
So
he’d had a
little to drink at
His eyes flew open, his
stomach gave an alarming
lurch, and suddenly David Hodges remembered exactly why he was feeling
smug. He
shot to his feet and made his way gingerly to his bathroom, nearly
yelping as
he flicked on the light, which cut through his pained senses like a hot
knife.
Bracing his hands on either side of the sink, he forced himself to open
his
eyes, working through his squint to look at himself in the mirror.
Not pretty.
Hair in sweaty flyaway
shambles, face a lovely shade
usually found on the belly of a dead fish, and his dark beard stubble
working
through it to give him that terrific prison con look popular with winos
and
child molesters everywhere. Hodges
groaned a little.
“So it’s
either shave and risk cutting my throat, or
perhaps starting the grunge Forensics look, which will go over SO well
with
Grissom.” He commiserated with his reflection. Then he looked
again, and saw
it. Unbelievingly, he tipped his head to the right, making it throb
anew as he
noted the unmistakable mauve tint of a serious hickey.
***
*** ***
How much did I have to
drink last night and how much
of a fool did I make of myself in the process?
Mia Dickerson lifted her
head from the pillow and
groaned; wishing the dampness under her cheek was only sweat and not
drool. She
blinked muzzily, trying to put her bedroom in focus and not succeeding
too
well. One hand slid to the side of her face, which stung a little, and
even
that slow gesture seemed to take forever. She noted with interest that
she HAD
managed to hang her dress up, but she herself was now tangled in her
slip and
had on only one fuzzy slipper because the other one was across the room.
David!
Her eyes flew open wide,
and Mia burped as she
suddenly remembered. David Hodges. The bottle of Krug, and David losing
his
damned superior act with every glass, making her laugh, laughing
himself. Oh
God—
Mia rolled back across
the mattress, reaching blindly
for the wastepaper basket next to the nightstand, and for a long noisy
minute,
she temporarily stopped thinking about anything but letting her
outraged
stomach empty itself. Once done, she clung to the rim, breathing hard
and
feeling the wave of despair roll through her.
Getting trashed at a
retirement party wasn’t bad in
itself. Everyone had been drinking, most of them in their familiar
little
cliques around the tables. She doubted anyone had been paying attention
to her
indulgences except her partner in crime. At least—she hoped not.
Rising
unsteadily, Mia carried the wastepaper basket to the toilet and emptied
it,
then filled it with hot water from the shower and poured that into the
toilet
too. As she sprayed a heavy layer of Lysol inside the plastic trashcan,
she
caught a glimpse of her reflection in the bathroom mirror and stopped.
She looked utterly
rumpled, with smeared makeup and
tangles that would take serious work with a pick if she were going to
make into
the lab tonight. And something else—
Rubbing her jaw line, she
saw that the soreness there
was a rash of whisker burn, extending almost to her ear.
***
*** ***
The lab was a busy hive
of activity tonight; several
shootings, a high-speed chase ending in fatalities, and two mysterious
deaths
at an ice cream parlor. One--the chase--had overlapped into the night
shift,
and evidence was coming in twice as fast as it could be processed. This
made
the CSIs on duty grumpy, but for at least two of the lab technicians,
it was a
godsend. Work meant no time to brood, or worry or think about anything
but what
was under the microscope or spinning in the centrifuge.
At least that was the
theory.
Hodges chafed a little,
wishing he could loosen his
tie and knowing full well he couldn’t. It irked him to resort to
something so
uncomfortable to hide the little nip on his skin. Part of him wanted to
flaunt
it, childish as that might seem. He wasn’t Sanders after all,
taking pride in
flashing the evidence of a PDA like a merit badge in Making
Out—but seeing it,
knowing Mia Dickerson’s beautiful hibiscus bloom of a mouth had
put it there
made him slightly crazy. Tenser than usual.
It was coming back to him
now in odd moments,
disjointed memories of the night before. Seeing Mia in her frosted
peach satin
dress, the way it clung to her long body as she strode into the banquet
room.
Switching the place cards to sit near her instead of being sandwiched
between
Franco and that new guy from QD.
He looked up, a small
smile crossing his face as he
snapped his gloves off and tossed them in the nearest waste can.
She’d liked
his tux. Well, obviously she’d liked a lot more than just his
tux—
“Hey Hodges, can I
get the results of the Cory case
sometime TONIGHT?” Nick Stokes demanded, breaking into his
reverie. Looking
over with annoyance, Hodges shot what was supposed to be a quelling
glare at
Nick.
“Yes you can.
Whether you WILL is a different question
altogether. You may not have noticed it, being in your own little
ego-driven
Hardy Boys mode there, but the entire lab is a wee bit backed up
tonight.”
“Hardy Boys,
huh?” Nick rolled his eyes. “Great. I’ll
be Joe and—“
“—Let me be
Frank, oh snicker chortle, heeheehee.
Here, take your fiber. It’s a long double strand polyfill most
commonly found
in stuffed animals of the cheaper
“Okay,
gotcha—hey, what’s with the tie? Didn’t you get
enough of playing dress-up last night?” Nick muttered, scanning
the sheet that
Hodges handed to him. He didn’t catch the other man’s
sudden twitch.
“Worry less about
my neckwear and more about your
case, okay? I’ve got work to do here.”
Nick loped out slowly; he
turned and shot him a
meaningful look. “Yeah, whatever man. All I know is you’re
not fooling anybody,
Hodges.”
A little unnerved by this
last remark, Hodges risked
looking through the layers of glass over to the DNA lab at the exact
same
moment that Mia Dickerson was looking from her side at him.
***
*** ***
She worked. The job
wasn’t always easy, and for that
she was grateful, putting her concentration in getting things as
perfect as
possible. It almost helped to have chaos around her; the cocoon of
familiar
sounds and voices kept Mia focused on the pipettes, the slides, the
machinery.
His eyes. God, it was the
first time she’d ever really
seen how expressive they were, taking in everything with sharp clarity.
He
looked good in a tux, too—the man had a set of shoulders, and
when he wasn’t
slouching, he could carry off a sort of elegance.
Yeah that was whole
‘nother side of David Hodges right
there. Sly. Funny. Damn it, attractive. They’d been stuck at the
back table
near the kitchen doors, back in the peon seating section, and yet in
that
semidarkness he’d jacked the one hundred and fifty dollar bottle
of Krug that
was MEANT to go to
The good stuff.
And it WAS good. Not that
she was any connoisseur of
champagne but still—rich, tart and tingly, she could still
remember the flavor
on her tongue. Liquid gold, and a taste she wasn’t going to
afford again any
time soon.
Mia tipped her head a
little, praying that the
concealer and foundation were doing their job. The lighting in the lab
wasn’t
the best anyway, but she was still a bit nervous about anyone noticing
or
commenting, either on her face or her behavior last night, because if
there was
one thing Mia knew about herself it was that she wasn’t a
particularly quiet
drinker.
She fiddled a moment
longer with the swab, dipping it
carefully in the test tube, and looked up through the glass windows to
see
Hodges looking at her.
She dropped the test tube.
With an oath, Mia bent
down under the table, trying to
gather up the pieces and not slice open her fingertips through the
latex.
Seeing him like that unnerved her, even though she’d been working
up the
courage to nonchalantly glance his way. She was nearly done when she
heard
footsteps and the sound of her chair being moved out of the way.
Another pair
of knees, and hands and there he was.
“Hi.” Hodges
could feel his face growing a little red.
The space under the table was cramped, and dark.
“Uh, hi. Watch your
fingers.”
“I think
you’ve said that to me before,” he muttered,
looking as if he couldn’t believe the words had escaped him. Mia
thought for a
second.
“No, that was watch
your hands.”
“Which I
couldn’t do, since they were out of my line
of sight--”
“—And on my
butt. Oh God.” Mia groaned, closing her
eyes and fighting a whimper. “I don’t believe this. You
actually had your hands
on my BUTT, David!”
“It was
conveniently located, right within reach,
Mia—and considering where your MOUTH was, I don’t think
you’re the only one
feeling a little debased tonight.” He snarled, tugging on his tie
and shifting
his collar. Mia peered at his pale throat in the dark.
“Isn’t that
a—?”
“—Mais oui,
une sucon ala Dickerson, merci. Talk about
taking a DNA sample—“
“Hey, you left your
legacy on me too, you know!” she
shot back, angling her jaw at him. He leaned closer in the darkness to
get a
better look at what the hell she was trying to show, and dropped his
hand right
on a shard of glass.
“Ow!” His
yelp reverberated. Mia jumped, conking her
head on the table.
“Ow!”
With alacrity they
clambered out from under the table,
Mia rubbing her head and Hodges holding his bleeding palm, only to find
Greg,
Warrick and Sara standing in the DNA lab, looking at them with
expressions
ranging from broad amusement to intense curiosity.
“Lose a
contact?” Sara asked lightly. Warrick shook
his head knowingly.
“I’d say they
were making one.”
Mia scrambled up, a
protest on her lips as Greg
chuckled, slouching against the doorframe.
“These two? Not
hardly.”
“What do you mean
not hardly?” Hodges snapped rising
from his hands and knees. “That’s rich, coming from the man
whose idea of
romantic evening consists of a front row seat at the
Greg went red; Sara and
Warrick snickered heartlessly.
Mia took the opportunity to peel off her latex gloves and reach for the
tiny
dustbuster clamped on the wall near the biohazard box. Sara took it
from her
and motioned to Hodges.
“He’s um,
contaminating your work station—“
Ungraciously, Mia grabbed
his wrist and towed him out,
leaving all three CSIs hiding their grins. Hodges permitted her to tug
him
three steps before pulling his arm away and glaring at her. The first
aid
alcove was just around the bend of the hallway and he ducked into it,
flicking
the faucet on over the stainless steel sink.
“Thanks so much
nurse Diesel, but I can take it from
here—“ he told her gruffly. Mia pursed her beautiful mouth
and shook her head.
“No you
can’t. That glass particulate is nearly
impossible to tweeze on your own, David; we both know that. Hold still
and I’ll
do it for you.” She murmured, fishing in the cabinet on the wall
for new gloves
and a pair of surgical grade tweezers. He wanted to protest, but knew
she was
right, so he held still and let her tend to the bloody gash on his palm.
Fortunately it
wasn’t deep, and whatever pain he felt
was fairly minor. He watched her intently, noticing a faint pinkness
along her
jaw.
“What happened to
your cheek?”
“That is whisker
burn. Comes from close grinding
contact with a man’s stubble.”
“Ah.” He felt
his blush rise, hot and deep, rolling
across his face. Mia’s touch was gentle, one long hand cradling
his as the
other probed for the glass shard. “Sorry. Five o’clock
shadow runs in my
family.”
“Strain of
lycanthropy?” but she smiled as she asked
it, tugging a tiny particle from his palm. He dropped his gaze to his
hand and
swallowed hard.
“Possibly. Listen
Mia. I’m sorry. Whatever happened
last night—“
“—Was pretty
lively.” She finished, flashing a grin up
at him. “I found my purse full of napkins with some really
raunchy limericks on
them. And drawings.”
“Oh God. I
drew—“ Hodges stammered, blinking a little.
Mia nodded.
“Ohhh yeah.
I’m impressed. The one with the Shetland
pony and the two roller skaters is almost worth framing.”
“Tell me I
didn’t do the one with the pole vaulter and
the—“
“--Yep, that too.
Although I’m convinced that paper
napkin and ball point isn’t really your medium,” she
replied, padding his palm
with gauze and taping it up. Hodges stood stock still, feeling the heat
searing
through his face, wishing desperately he had some sort of retort to
that, but
drawing a complete blank when he stared into Mia Dickerson’s soft
brown eyes.
And then she smiled. It
was the same saucy grin of the
night before, the impish one that made him steal a half magnum of
champagne
just to impress her. The smile he tried to wear on his own mouth by
kissing it
off of her.
“There.
You’re lucky all that tube had in it was
sterile water. So.”
She hadn’t let go
of his hand; Hodges drew in a deep
breath.
“So. About last
night—“
“You want to talk
about last night?” she asked, her
voice dropping lower, “Okay then. Last night was fun—what I
remember of it,
anyway. You made me laugh, and you stole champagne for me, and necked
with me
and most importantly you didn’t say a damn thing about that last
part to
ANYONE. I can’t believe it, David. You’re either gallantly
discreet, or—“
“—Convinced
no one would believe me even if I did,” he
finished, finally managing a small smile. With his eyes downcast he
looked
endearingly boyish. She laughed a little.
“Whatever. In any
case it was a tactful, gentlemanly
thing to do, and I appreciate it.”
He raised his eyes to
meet hers again, feeling his
mouth go dry. Now or never. A Krug of an opportunity—
“Enough to perhaps
try again? WithOUT the petty
larceny this time?” he croaked. Mia gave him an appraising stare,
letting her
cool fingers slide away from his.
“Just what are you
asking?”
“No champagne, but
I can offer you art. Better art
that is. The Skyline Gallery is having a Monet retrospective this
Thursday,
and . . . well . . . if you’re
willing
to do the walking tour . . .” he trailed off weakly.
She stared at him, long
and hard. Hodges didn’t
blink—after all, this was Vegas, home of wild, once-in-a-lifetime
chances;
lucky breaks; amazing odds.
“Okay. Just promise
me . . ..” She leaned close to his
ear and whispered, then straightened her shoulders. Mia walked away,
sailing
down the hallway, leaving him standing at the sink, stunned. As the
exhilaration rose through his chest, David Hodges finally let her last
remark
sink in. He shot an indignant look over his shoulder at her departing
figure.
“I never
yodeled!”
END
