Author's Note: First, I own neither the song nor the title to this fic. I also need to thank flashpenguin for her fabulous beta on this story. You're awesome and I can't thank you enough for coming through for me. I also need to take a moment and thank tonnie2001969 for being the best co-author and best friend anybody, anywhere could ever ask for. I'm a lucky, lucky girl to have such great friends. And lastly, I want to thank the readers. Criminal Minds readers are the best in the world.
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Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off
Sitting at the corner table in the back of the dim bar, he tried to keep his observations casual.
Tonight, he wasn't the boss. He was simply a single father out for a rare night out with his colleagues and good friends. But after years of profiling, simply turning off his radar was harder than the average person would have expected. His radar was honed on one woman in particular, and she was hell on wheels tonight.
Normally, controlled and poised, Emily Prentiss seemed determined to knock him off his safe and secure perch. And all because of one simple fact that he'd never been cognizant of before this evening.
Tequila makes her clothes fall off.
Even now as she took what had to be her seventh shot at the bar with Morgan, she was unbuttoning the red silk blouse she'd worn to the office this morning, the lace of her black satin camisole being slowly revealed to the hungry eyes of male patrons across the bar. And for a moment, he grinned.
It had been a long time since he'd been in a barroom brawl. Ten years... at least. But if the skin show continued, it wouldn't be long before one erupted. Oh well, he supposed he was as good once as he ever was. And hell, they did all have Morgan on their side.
But as his eyes tracked her movement from the bar to the dance floor, he groaned as her practical heels went sailing and the neon light caught those cute pink toenails on the foot she held aloft.
His mind stuttered, barely comprehending that the cool Prentiss would take the time to do something as mundane as paint her nails. Her fingernails were always filed and well-shaped...but never polished. Let alone, polished pink.
Storing away that bit of random information to turn over in his mind later, he instead concentrated on her trim body, now grinding and swaying to the rock beat pulsating through the tavern. And he had to give credit where it was due: the woman could move, her hips keeping easy time to the bass thumping in the song.
It was true, he thought, listening to the song blaring out of the speakers. The hips didn't lie. In fact, hers told the cold hard truth.
He struggled to pull his thoughts away from that unscheduled detour...and her hips... when she finally slid the silk shirt off her arms completely, twirling it over her head like a lasso. Oh, hell, now clad in her form fitting camisole, she was a true sight to behold and he shifted uncomfortably in his high-backed chair as he watched her, his dress slacks suddenly seeming a size too small.
Christ, this wasn't good. She'd lost her silk suit jacket around her fourth shot...now the damn blouse. What in the hell had he done to piss off God this week?
He relaxed marginally as Morgan smoothly insinuated himself between Emily and the rest of the dance floor, while Garcia, JJ and Will formed a rough circle around her, shielding her from prying eyes. At least he knew they wouldn't allow any would-be suitors to coerce her into shedding any more of her valuable clothing. Quite frankly, she was running out of material.
"Stare any harder and you're gonna burn a hole in her," a familiar voice chuckled to his left.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Hotch replied, his flushed cheeks belying the calm statement he made.
"Bullshit," Rossi snorted, grinning wide as he raised one eyebrow at his longtime friend. "If anybody knows that look you're wearing, it's me."
"I don't know what look you're referring to, Dave. I'm simply sitting here enjoying a drink with my friend," Hotch murmured, lifting his long-necked bottle to his lips.
"I don't know what worries me more. The fact that you might be trying to lie to your oldest, dearest friend or the fact that you might actually believe the garbage you're spewing," Rossi complained, lifting his glass to his lips.
"Go to hell," Hotch muttered, wishing that for once his best friends weren't as skilled at spotting lies as he was.
Laughing outright at Hotch's obvious discomfort, Rossi nodded approvingly. "Thank God it's the prior, then. At least I know you aren't delusional now."
"Would you shut up," Hotch grumbled, his eyes once again drawn to Emily as she stumbled against Morgan. Damn, he'd seen her in a lot of situations in various moods. But, a drunken Emily was definitely a new experience.
"Fine," Rossi sighed. "But the rest of the team and I worked damned hard to get her to this level of inebriation tonight, man. Thankfully, Garcia knew that tequila was her Kryptonite."
Flashing Dave a surprised look, Hotch growled, "You set this UP?"
"Of course we did," Rossi nodded.
"Are you insane?" Hotch hissed. "Why?"
"Because, my friend, when you're lucky enough to have a woman that looks that good after ten tequila shots," Rossi said with a nod toward an exuberant Emily, "within your reach every day, you MAKE A MOVE! Or, WE make one FOR you."
And in that moment, Aaron Hotchner knew with friends like these, he couldn't afford to make any enemies.