“Skirmish, Pt. 2” by Scripted Starlet

A.N. Again, a thousand thanks to Marion for catching what I miss.

Credit to Kismet23 for allowing me to use her “ex-girlfriend” line via Mike Logan. (That girl is just too funny for her own good! Hence, the fantastic way she writes Eames.) And Gail might recognize some of her own dialogue in here, as well.

Bobby

“She probably just needs some time to cool off.”

“How much time?” I pulled at his wrist and glanced at Mike’s watch. “Around you she acts like there’s no problem but then the second we leave coat check, she’s off at the bar. Alone. And I know she hasn’t eaten. She’s avoiding me.”

“Like I said, just wait ’til she’s had her drink and she’ll probably be a lot looser. You can’t blame her for being pissed off that you had another woman inside your apartment, Bobby. Especially when that woman’s wearing her face.”

“How the hell would you know?” I nearly snapped.

“I’ve heard the rumors, my friend.”

“Right, the rumors...” I dug my fingers into my temples. “I only wish I could figure out why she feels threatened. If I hadn’t fallen for Alex then there never even would have been a Sheila. And I know it’s cheap of me but that’s all she was—a substitute. Before Eames I used to have a thing for Brazilian women.”

Logan let out a chuckle that could only be described as raunchy. “Who doesn’t?”

“Mike, seriously, what do I do?”

“Boy, you must be in bad place,” he grunted, downing the remainder of his beer in one avid gulp. I eyed the froth of my own and resented that it held no appeal. “You have to apologize.”

“But it didn’t mean anything. She didn’t mean anything,” I complained. “Haven’t you heard a word I just said?”

“Goren…” Mike was beginning to look exasperated. “There is no way you’re gonna get out of this on a technicality. It’s another woman. Period. Trust me, I’ve been in your shoes more times than I care to remember and it does not matter how inconsequential it seems or how irrelevant the person is to you. You’re going to have to grovel.”

“She keeps denying she’s jealous,” I said pensively. “Says she’s angry because I didn’t tell her.”

Mike leveled his back against the booth. “Makes ya look like you got something to hide, don’t it?”

Awarding him my best glare, I gave in to a swig and took comfort in the subsequent heat that spread through me. “She knows I didn’t sleep with Sheila.”

And this is such a raw deal. Couldn’t we have gone at least a week without an episode like this?

“Did she say that?”

More boozing on my part. “To some effect.”

“Then be happy, Bobby. She’s not mad about Sheila. She’s mad about you.”

“What?”

I was beginning to question whether Logan was the infallible expert on women that he reputed to be. Maybe he’d had more experience in general but surely I’d had more successful relationships…

“It’s actually a lot easier to fix,” he was traipsing. “You don’t have to worry about someone riding on your tail, snapping pictures of you and whatever doll you happen to wave hello to. You don’t have to worry about her rifling through your drawers or scanning your voicemail or offering to do your laundry just to check if she can find someone’s digits in your pockets.

“And you don’t have to worry about her watching you like a hawk every time you two go out together, or throwing a fit whenever there’s a…” he smirked meaningfully, “sexy Brazilian in the smoking section.”

What is he getting at?

“Eames is cool, man,” Mike finished off, like some bizarre, middle-aged adaptation of Fonzie. “Just be happy.”

“You’re telling me to be happy,” I said slowly.

“That your girlfriend isn’t a monopolizing drama-monger? Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”

“Logan…” I peered down into the amber glow of my pint and gathered my bearing. “Alex is not ‘cool’ right now. And the fact that she’s over there and I’m over here does not make me very happy.”

“Then fix it, Goren. It’s not that hard to do.”

“How?” I smacked my hands against the table in frustration. “How do I ‘fix it’? She won’t even talk to me. And I don’t understand why she’s so riled up over something that meant nothing.”

“Oh, not this again. Didn’t we just go over this?”

“Go over what?”

“She’s not ‘threatened’ by Sheila, genius. She’s ‘threatened’ by you. By you not mentioning the drop-in to her.”

Oh, don’t give me that crap, Logan…

“Would you have mentioned it to her, Mike?” I goaded, smelling blood when his eyes escaped mine. Scurrying elsewhere. “Put yourself back in my shoes for a second. Would you have mentioned it to her when the very act of mentioning it is giving the whole thing more merit than its worth?”

I knew what his answer would be.

And I knew that I was right not to tell Alex that Sheila had stopped by. My only mistake was failing to notice that she’d left another one her little calling cards behind. Or, as hindsight would deem it, one of her little booby-traps.

Three hours and some odd minutes earlier…

“Who is it?” I spoke into the intercom, automatically ruling out Eames because she would’ve called.

“It’s Sheila.”

The barb of trepidation was spiked and swift, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to pretend I hadn’t heard the buzzer to begin with.

“…Rogers,” she said impatiently. “We met about two weeks ago. No wait, correction—we fucked about two weeks ago.”

I gritted my teeth at the rise in volume, worried about her causing a scene in front of the neighbors. I imagined eighty-one year old Mr. Montazemi, with his bad ticker and his Iranian aphorisms, shuffling up the walk only to be greeted by Sheila’s mouth. Or Ms. Ellis, the sour former librarian who lived right down the hall and had led the city’s campaign for censorship…

This is going to be bad.

“What do you want?” I asked, careful not to come off as too much of a prick.

“For you to buzz me up. What else?”

Steadying my breath, I was hoping against hope that she wouldn’t be able to justify it. “Why?”

“I’m missing a ring and I know I was wearing it that night. Celtic knot. White gold. I didn’t even realize it until yesterday because this one was, y’know, unintentional. Have you seen it?”

I supposed lying would be of no use here. “No.”

“Well, do you mind if I take a look around the apartment? I can’t remember where I left it.”

You mean where you planted it?

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

Worst. Idea. Ever. would be a more accurate way to put it.

“Why? You got a girl over there?”

Dropping my head against the wall, I resisted the urge to bash my brains in. “No.”

“You got an Alex over there?”

“Sheila, for Christ’s sake—can’t you just let this go?”

“No. It happens to be very important to me. A keepsake, if you will. And I’m not giving it up just because you’re an asshole who used me for sex and who doesn’t want to face what he’s done.”

And just like that, I was the villain.

Choking on my own liability, I let her up and waited in dread. Why now? Why when I had gone out of my way to close the book on disgruntlement and regret?

Maybe this is the last chapter, I brightened, and—resting on that angle—I wasted no time in telling her as much when I opened the door.

“You are to go in and out, do you understand me?”

Her lips curled with amusement. “Yes, Sir.”

“It’s not funny, Sheila. This time you’re not overstaying your welcome. I don’t care if I have to escort you out of here by force. I have the authority to do so.”

My tone was harsh, exuding both will and decisiveness. A throwback to my military days, as memory served. All the same, my demeanor softened when Sheila grew taciturn. Her eyes took on a wounded shape as she stared, in apparent fascination, at a spot on my floor. No words. Just quiet.

It was more effective than anything she could’ve said.

“Where do you think you left the ring?” I sighed, mostly to hear someone speaking.

“Bathroom,” she mumbled. “Or bedroom…”

“Over there,” I pointed, knowing that she knew, but wanting her to get a move on so that the avalanche of guilt she evoked with her mere presence would leave. Cracking and crumbling after we’d bid our farewells.

I didn’t bother her the five or so minutes she spent in there. Didn’t flinch when I heard the creaks and squeaks of her moving stuff around or going through my personal things. She was entitled. I had used her, and she was entitled.

But I was relieved when she finally walked out, a sliver of sparkles encircling her pinky finger.

“You found it,” I smiled, turning around in my armchair and snapping a portfolio shut.

“Yes.” She didn’t smile back.

“That’s a small one. No wonder I didn’t see it. Where was it?”

“Underneath your bed.” And for some reason… the expression on her face as she said that… left me slightly unsettled.

She stood there a short while, scanning me mutely while I did everything in my power to read her. “Congratulations,” she said finally.

“For what?”

“You and Alex.”

My tongue flattened against the roof of my mouth as I considered my response.

She’s bluffing.

“What about me and my partner?”

“There’s a picture on your dresser now. That sure as hell wasn’t there when I was here.”

Yes it was, I thought. It had always been there. Only inside the dresser and, up until a few days ago, without a frame.

“Thank you,” I said flatly, not trusting myself to emit any emotion for fear that it would be hostile.

And that was it.

Without so much as a parting shot, Sheila had left and I had assumed that I could rest easy. That I would never have to hear from or speak to her again. I should’ve known better. I should’ve known that Sheila would find a means of sabotage without having to be physically on hand.

After all, there was still that nagging weight in the pit of my stomach. That telltale pebble that rendered it impossible for me to be one hundred percent certain.

…

“I’m not sure, Bobby,” Mike told me.

And I did not appreciate his lapse of a comeback.

“What do you mean you’re not sure?”

Standing up then and motioning towards the dance floor, I followed him reluctantly. “It depends on the woman, y’know? Okay, all right—so maybe I wouldn’t have mentioned it to her,” he acknowledged, “but you always gotta think about the possibility that she could find out. And when you’re dating someone like Alex, honestly Bobby, how could she not find out?”

“But the room was clear as far as I could tell! It’s not like I got down on my hands and knees and combed the floorboards. How was I supposed to know?”

“You don’t really have to know. It’s all about precaution. And when the ex-girlfriend comes to visit, you must always tell the current girlfriend while also mentioning how bad the ex-girlfriend is looking these days.”

“She’s not my ex-girlfriend.”

“She’s your ex-something.”

“So you want me to tell Eames what? That Sheila put on twenty pounds? That she’s got a bad case of psoriasis?”

“Sure, sure. All that shit’s great,” Logan waved, seemingly distracted.

“In a week,” I carped. “You want me to say that all this has happened in a week.”

“Uh, Bobby…” Mike tapped my shoulder and, swinging round, I was disturbed by the spell of diffidence that came over him.

“What?”

“Don’t look now but,” he hitched his thumb sideways, “Alex’s other boyfriend is making his move.”

My head jerked so fast that it was the closest I’ve ever come to whiplash. And that’s when I saw him. Some short, scrawny, and fair-haired excuse of a man who was leering and beaming in my partner’s direction. And from the coy of her smile, Eames had no trouble receiving him. Matter of fact, it was almost as though she knew him. I swallowed harshly.

Who the fuck is that?

“Oh, would ya get a load of him,” Mike muttered as the lech sat down beside her. “He’s got a lotta nerve, doesn’t he?”

“Who is he?” I could barely see straight.

Please don’t tell me she has history with this guy…

“He was here last week. Eames danced with him.”

Alex’s soft lips wrapped around the rim of her glass. Her brown eyes were shining…

“A couple of times, I think. Anyways, I kept a close watch on him because he was all over her.”

Her smooth, svelte legs were crossed and on display. Her fingers were teasing her hair…

“‘Course, eventually I had to break it up.”

“Break it up?” I fumed, one eye on Mike and one eye on the bar. “Break what up?”

Please don’t tell me she actually responded to the son of a bitch…

“He was trying to get her to go home with him. Didn’t work but, hey—I guess he wasn’t too discouraged. Right, Goren?”

The entire club had gone black except for Alex and the stranger. The nobody who had the audacity to believe that he could just sit there and flirt with a woman who was already spoken for. A woman who, by all accounts, was out of his league. A woman who would never, ever touch someone like him.

And then the unthinkable happened.

He touched her.

“Whoa!” Mike ribbed me. “You better get over there, Bob—”

But I was already out of earshot.

I shoved at least five men to the side and elbowed my fair share of what may’ve been women to get over there faster. Fast… but still not fast enough to prevent the bastard’s finger from running further up Alex’s thigh. I was going to kill him.

Eames was observing me the whole time. Peering at me with two blank and indifferent eyes. Two beautiful but dispassionate eyes. And when I was finally in front of them, I started tearing her down with my own. How could she do this? How could she let him touch her?

“Mitch,” she said then. “I’d like you to meet my boyfriend.”

Mitch’s paw left the sanctity of her skin and then he swiveled quickly. That spray-on tan of his whitened as he stretched his neck to look up at me.

“Robert Goren,” Alex supplied when I made no move to stick out my hand.

“Detective Robert Goren,” I added, really longing to pull out my piece but thinking it’d be a bit much. I wanted him intimidated, not wetting his pants.

But to my surprise, the nutcase began to laugh.

“Oh, wait, wait, wait—I get it,” he breathed hard, holding his chest. “Oh, you are good!” He turned to Alex and my blood pressure reached new heights when he patted her knee again. “You both are so, so good. I mean—that last guy was bad enough but,” gasp, “would’ya look at the size of this one?!” He slapped his palm against the bar and the people around us began to watch. Wanting to know what was so hilarious that it had reduced this man to hysterics.

I was wondering that myself.

Giving Alex a look of remand that paled in comparison to the one she’d given me earlier, I waited for her to act. Eames rolled her eyes and grabbed the guy’s arm. “Mitch, listen to me, this is not a joke—”

“Not a joke!” he guffawed. “You just don’t let up, do you?” And then he did something even more unthinkable. He touched her face.

His fingers were pressing into the clean of her cheek as he said the words that were the last straw, “You are a riot, sweetheart! When are you going to let me take you out? When are you going to let me show you what you’ve been missing?”

Eames tore her head away but she needn’t have bothered. In a second I was grabbing the clown by the shirt and hoisting him up from his booster seat.

“She said,” and my words were dripping with menace, “that she’s taken. As in me, Bobby, her boyfriend and her, Alex, my girlfriend. What are you deaf?”

Shell-shocked, it took the halfwit several attempts to respond in the negative.

“Oh, not deaf?” I mocked scathingly. “Just desperate then?”

He regarded me with a mixture of irritation and inquiry, and I was more than prepared to enlighten him.

“I look at you…” I started off, noting the Sean John labels that were at least two decades beyond him, “and I see a number of wives. All very immature. All very photogenic. All very money hungry.”

“And you’re what? Forty-six… forty-seven?” At that Mitch’s delicate mouth, that same mouth that was planning on desecrating my girlfriend, dropped even further.

That’s right, Mr. Metrosexual. Better pony up for the Botox.

“So here you are… backed up in alimony payments… thinking that you’d better get on that. That you’d better hurry up and find the one that sticks before another one of these little girls finds you.”

When he didn’t deny it, I decided to shoot for the jugular.

“We all know how you like them young, Mitch. It explains why your idea of hitting on Alex is so painfully juvenile. And maybe that’s more your scene, isn’t it? That’s what worked for you in the past? Only what you never realized is that you’re the easy target. You’re the one that those barely dressed, ripe and nubile, practically irresistible young women are hunting down. Am I right?”

And everyone around us could see that I was.

“The working man. The older man. And despite your success in… well, whatever it is that you do, all you know is that you’ve got a bad track record.” I wagged my finger in front of his face, knowing that he was paralyzed. Unable to flee my and the gathering audience’s disdain. “And now you want someone... different. Someone smart. Someone sharp. Someone with a job and a pension and a plan of her own.”

Walking past him, I wrapped my arm around Eames’ shoulder.

“Someone like her, right Mitch? A real woman. That’s what you want, huh? That’s what you want but what you’ll never be able to have because you, pal…” and I leaned in nice and close for this one, “are not a real man.”

The bartender started to crack up. And so did Mike from three or so stools over. Slowly but surely the fractures rose until at least a dozen onlookers were rolling in the aisles and Mitch was scrambling to leave, sliding through the mass of derision with no problem whatever. But it was comparably easier for someone as puny as him.

Satisfied and sated, I watched him go. Smiling from ear to ear.

That’s when I felt her.

Eames had crawled up onto the barstool and was balancing on her knees as she grabbed me by the mop of my hair and dragged my mouth to hers. The force of her lips was fierce and possessive, and with the stroke of her tongue plundering my own I saw no reason not to tug her closer. My palm spanned her nearly nude back, enjoying the intricate pattern of mesh and net that banded her hot skin. Never one to be outdone, Alex’s fingernails sank into my shoulders, pushing the wall of my chest up against her breasts. Stiff and jeweled, I felt the prick of her nipples pierce through no less than four layers of fabric.

It was the first time Alex and I ever kissed in public.

And it was fireworks.

So much for discretion, I mused.

Eames broke with a moan and, ignoring the catcalls, said firmly, “Take me home.”

“Home?” I looked over her head and saw Logan giving me the go ahead.

“Home,” she repeated. “You’re more than welcome to emphasize your claim on me there.”

Who was I to deny her?

…

A.N.

Yup, sorry I had to bring back the ghosts of Christmas Past. But they were convenient for this story’s purposes. Hope it translated that I was trying to refashion Mitch as the anti-Bobby, (and hence the guy that girls like Sheila are perfect for). Glad you guys liked the first part so much. Let me know if you thought the silly strings were worthwhile because maybe I’ll write diversions like this more often.

Sidenote to men: Anyone over thirty-five wearing Puffy gear is pathetic. Okay… I’m done being hypercritical now. ;)