I don't own any rights to the A-Team and make no profit from my stories. I'm just borrowing them
Despite the darkness of the alley it was good to be outside. The heat of the club claustrophobic, oppressive. He could feel his shirt clinging to his body. Sweat moulding the light material over the tense muscles of his back. A coolness in the breeze welcoming, but carrying the scent of rotting garbage. Unconsciously he took a shallow breath, trying to ignore the insult on his senses.
"You like that?" The woman in front of him glanced up to ask.
He offered a halfhearted smile hoping it would be enough. Obviously it was, she returned to her ministrations. What was her name? Candy – Charisma. Not that it mattered. His hands found a comfortable ledge behind him. Probably a trash can. Using his finger tips he checked for any dirt. Once satisfied it was clean as a lid could be in the seedy alley behind the Kozy Kat Klub, he settled his weight back. Trying to focus on the nameless woman serving him.
He deserved this, the others had forced him to this point. No one could blame him. What did they expect? The stupid comments, the ridiculous plans, the looks. The looks were the worst. He tried to push the smug images of their faces away. The reality hit him, the others had caused this. It was their fault. He relaxed in the knowledge he was guilt free.
His eyes involuntarily snapped shut, as her tongue lashed a pleasantly sensitive area. He controlled his breathing, keeping it steady so she didn't stop to request confirmation again. Her voice irritated him, he had no desire to hear it. Luckily Mother Nature provided a beautiful body to compensate for the annoying whine she'd been cursed with. Oh yes the body. Focus on the body. 34" 24" 32". Perfection in numbers. Numbers didn't let you down, they are just there. No need for assurance, no emotional minefield, only stoical solid numbers.
His shoulder started to ache, protesting at the lack of movement. Not used to supporting his weight in that manner. Old injuries reminding him of the past. Subtlety shifting his stance to the other side to not disturb the kneeling woman. He needed to concentrate on her. Block out the thoughts assaulting his mind. Shoulder still complaining, he brought his hand into the tangle of her deep auburn hair. Gently, but firmly guiding her. Come on take the hint darling, stay right there.
"I need to find him." The familiar voice, like a gut punch. "Blond. Angelic like," the voice drawled, grating on his already fragile nerves.
"Candy, honey, I've gotta go." Using a hand either side of her head, he pushed her away.
She sat back on her heels, glaring indigently up at him. "Clarissa," she snapped. Well it would have been snapped if her whine hadn't removed the emotion she was aiming at.
He offered another weak smile while fastening his pants, as the pilot rounded the corner. Taking in the scene the tall thin man froze. No attempt to mask the horrified expression.
"Clarissa darling, I gotta go. Here take this for a cab." He simultaneously pulled her up to her feet, while passing over a couple bills from his back pocket. Picking up his black leather jacket from where it had laid under her knees, he started towards the angry pilot. "I'll call you," he flippantly called over his shoulder, ignoring her protests he didn't have her number. He strolled past the pilot, expecting him to fall into step. No need to create a public spectacle.
"Classy Faceman. Getting kicks out of whores now?" Quietly said, but disgust evident in every word.
"It's not what it looks like," Face growled, reaching his car and getting in. "Why are you here?" He turned to Murdock as the pilot slid into the passenger seat.
"There's been an accident. Trailer and truck totalled. BA tapped the police report after the second missed check in call," he glared his reply.
"Shit. Alive? Injuries? Where? When?" The questions tumbled from his mouth with no conscious control. Starting the car he swung it round, leaving burning rubber as he pulled away.
"There's no bodies, even Topper's gone," Murdock replied, still firing daggers at his best friend. "Hannibal's sorting a bird. It's up near Yellowstone. BA's gonna follow in the van." Murdock sighed loudly, resting back in his seat not wanting to look at the conman anymore. "Surprised you give a flying fuck based on your performance with Clarissa," he muttered darkly.
His hands tightened on the wheel. Anger mounting. How dare he, can't he understand it was the pilot's fault. Him and Hannibal both to blame in equal measures. If they'd just left him alone, Clarissa would never have existed. Even as he thought it the wave of guilt hit him. Like a tsunami. He gasped to force air into his lungs to stop from drowning in the flood. Leaving the city limits he pushed the Mustang faster.