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Rick pinched the bridge of his nose, restraining the petulant sigh that wanted to escape his mouth, knowing that letting it out would just aggravate Waller, who on a normal day was challenging enough to deal with, aggravated Waller being ten times worse.
“Why does it have to be the Squad that handles this again? Why can’t The Company do it?”
“Because,” she replied, with a long-suffering tone, “as I said earlier, they suspect a mole on the inside, and they want this bastard nailed to the wall already. So they discreetly passed their request to me.”
“Fine. I’ll have the guys do recon.”
“No need, The Company already provided me with the recon packet. Schmidt is having a party at his Paris mansion next week, and that’ll be your insertion point,” Waller said as she threw a folder down in front of Rick.
“Are you kidding me? A party? There’s too many variables there—there’s no way we’ll be able to get through the back door, the place’ll be crawling with people,” he indignantly replied, thousands of ways the mission could go wrong immediately coming to his mind. “And how do we know the intel’s clean?”
“The intel’s clean, Flag, they assured me,” an intense look on her face, that in a lesser woman would be a glare.
But then, a sharp smile curled the woman’s lips. “Which is why you won’t be entering through the back door—you’ll go right through the front.”
Rick stood in a Parisian hotel penthouse, tugging at the perfectly tailored black tuxedo he was wearing, barely resisting the urge to run his hands through his pomaded hair.
He settled for twisting the gold band around his left ring finger.
It was almost time to leave for the party, and Rick began pacing, reviewing the op in his head.
Manfred Schmidt was, for all intents and purposes, a tech mogul, venture capitalist, and philanthropist.
But everyone in the intelligence community and their mother knew that Schmidt was up to some shady shit, arms, drug, and human trafficking the least among them.
The Company had been investigating him for an age, but Schmidt was slippery, and The Company having a leak was plausible.
However, a trusted asset close to Schmidt revealed that the air-gapped drive containing evidence of his crimes was going to be at his mansion to be manually updated while he was having another lavish party, supposedly to benefit orphanages in Africa.
The mission was to retrieve the drive and deliver it to The Company.
No, the irony was not lost on Rick, that this time, the drive had to be revealed.
Theoretically, the op was simple.
Get into the party, get the drive, get out.
The mission team consisted of Harley, DuBois, Cleo, and him.
DuBois and Cleo were posing as Alistair and Isabel Montclair, father and daughter, art dealers to those with more money than sense, who might know where you could obtain… well, let’s just call them one of a kind pieces.
He was posing as Rikard Lindström, an American-educated Swedish businessman looking to… expand his portfolio, while Harley would play his trophy wife, Jessica, an American model.
He wanted to wring the neck of whoever made up the legend for him and Harley—seriously?
Sweden?
He wished his and Harley’s roles were reversed, actually.
She was more than competent to play a businesswoman, but they had to make do.
He had a feeling that whether or not Waller knew about the Jotunheim thing, she was genuinely trying to get him killed.
In more ways than one.
For a while now, he’d been feeling more and more drawn to Harley, and not just as her friend, ever since that night he dyed her hair, and especially since he visited Lucy with her.
He would even go so far as to say that he was beginning to fall for her.
He stood at a precipice, hanging on by a thread, but part of him faintly wondered what it would feel like, if he let himself fall.
He and Harley weren’t so different after all, in the end.
Here, DuBois and Cleo walked in, the former dressed in a dark burgundy suit with a black velvet shawl collar, a black shirt and a bow tie with tiny red dots on it, the latter in a dark teal evening gown, a gold clutch under her arm, emeralds gleaming on her ears, neck, wrist, and finger, her dark hair curled, face elegantly made up.
“Isn’t that getup a bit on the nose?” Rick asked DuBois.
The other man spread his hands, “Bloodsport and Alistair like red.”
Rick rolled his eyes and said, “You look great, Cleo,” nodding towards her where she was casually admiring herself in the mirror.
“Thank you, I intend to enjoy this while it lasts,” she girlishly smiled.
“Where’s Sebastian?”
Cleo only held up the small clutch bag.
“What’s the holdup?” DuBois broke in.
Rick gestured to the shut bathroom door.
“Are you almost done?!” He shouted towards the door.
“You can’t rush perfection, Colonel,” their stylist imperiously shouted, from behind the door.
The Company had offered the use of one of their stylists, Flavia, as the Squad’s usual attire would hardly get them in the door of Schmidt’s exclusive party.
Hence, the fancy clothes.
Flavia had taken a liking to Harley upon first meeting the team, and it was agreed that there would be some level of transformation in regards to Harley.
She was well known for her crimes and unique appearance, and Harley Quinn couldn’t just walk into Schmidt’s party looking like… well, Harley Quinn.
“Just a finishing touch, and…” The door opened, revealing Flavia, before she stepped aside, clasping both hands to her chest.
“My finest work yet,” the woman gushed.
“It better be, given how long you—” Rick cut himself off as he saw Harley.
Harley’s now golden blonde hair was curled into large waves, a piece from the front twisted and clipped into place at the side of her head with a gold jeweled comb.
Gone was her bleached, white skin and the heart shaped tattoo on her face, replaced with healthily flushed skin and makeup perfectly calculated to bring out her features.
Her hands too, matched her face, nails painted deep purple to match her gown.
It was a long-sleeved floor-length deep purple silk gown, gathered at the waist, the ruching flowing to her left, adorned with a jeweled brooch, the mid-thigh slit of the skirt revealing skin which matched her face and hands, sapphire jewelry bringing out the color of her eyes.
“What do you think, Rick?” She didn’t even sound like herself, her tone lower and lacking the accent he’d grown so used to.
He was speechless.
“I—you, I, um…” Frustrated at his inability to form a coherent thought, Rick finally sighed, putting his hands on his hips, looking away.
A throaty laugh came from Flavia. “See? What did I tell you, darling? My work here is done!”
Flavia wrapped her arms around Harley, giving her an air kiss to both cheeks, gathering her things and chirping a bright “Good luck! Ciao, darlings!”
Exhaling heavily, Rick pulled himself together, “Alright, um, we’re all clear on the plan?”
DuBois spoke up, “You and Quinn are going to keep an eye on and distract Schmidt while Cleo and I get the drive—quick in, clean out.”
“Good—we all meet back at the safe house if we get separated. If you have the drive, but Harley and I aren’t at the safe house within two hours, you get to exfil without us, understand?
And no bodies, you got me?”
“Got it,” the other man nodded.
“Comms in, everyone.”
After a comm check, Rick and Harley left first, and as they walked out of the hotel, Rick was, in the back of his mind, not-so-secretly enjoying the feeling of Harley on his arm, despite the dissonance between what he saw and felt.
The hand he felt on his arm was definitely Harley’s, he’d know her touch anywhere, and yet she looked nothing like herself, while at the same time… she did.
It was the most confusing thing ever.
He knew he was beginning to spiral, so to take his mind off of his internal struggle, he quizzed Harley, “So, who are we again?”
“You’re Rikard Lindström, you’re a Swedish Harvard-educated businessman with an up-and-coming investment firm in Malmö, you’re looking to expand your portfolio in the more nefarious end of the law.
I’m Jessica Lindström, your wife of three years, we met during London Fashion Week, I modeled for Prabal Gurung, and you fell in love with me when you saw me walk down the runway.
We married in Tahiti, and we’ve been stupid in love ever since,” she replied, in that foreign tone.
Honestly, the story alone sent his heart racing, but that was beside the point.
“Good—” he cleared his throat, continuing, “that’s good. You ready, Harls?”
“Who’s Harls? It’s Jessica,” she fired back, a sparkle in her eyes that made a proud, sharp smile come to his lips.
This woman was absolutely incredible.
Stepping out of their borrowed Lamborghini, he and Harley made their entrance at the extravagant foyer of the even more extravagant mansion.
Rick surreptitiously looked around as they moved further in, cross-referencing what he saw with what he recalled of the blueprints, making note of the exits.
They spotted Schmidt, a thirty-something-year-old man, with slicked-back light brown hair, wearing an obnoxiously-patterned silk suit, an equally obnoxious air about him, holding court in the center of the living room, a woman on each arm, laughing heartily, not knowing that, if all went well, tonight was the end of his criminal empire.
“There he is,” Rick noted, as Harley took a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.
“Mmm. He even looks like a dick, please tell me I can kill him a little, Rick,” she muttered into her glass.
Rick turned away, covering his mouth, feigning a cough to cover his laugh.
“We’ll see. There’s his Consigliere, Simon Moreland. We’ll need to talk to him to secure an introduction to Schmidt.”
Simon Moreland was a black-haired, spectacled, unassuming, even nerdy-looking man around Schmidt’s age, wearing a much more tasteful suit, who had a sharpness in his look that showed that there was much more than met the eye.
Shortly after, DuBois and Cleo made their appearance, a quiet “Let’s get this party started,” from DuBois coming through the comms.
“Glad you could make it,” Rick snarked.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“Execute the plan once we’ve got Schmidt’s attention.”
“Copy.”
“How are we going to do this?” Harley asked him.
Rick was silent for a beat before saying, “By making a scene.”
He took Harley’s hand in his, leading her to the dance floor across the living room, where a six-piece string ensemble was playing.
They were playing a tango, and Rick thanked his lucky stars that that was what they were playing—tango had always been his best dance.
More breathlessly than he felt the situation technically warranted, he asked, “Do you trust me?”
She looked up at him, lips parted ever so slightly. “Always,” she murmured.
Exhaling heavily, he pulled her close, his body moving into the dance hold. “Follow my lead,” he whispered into her ear.
They danced to the center of the floor, and Rick allowed the motions from those long-ago dance classes to come back to him.
He was running on pure muscle memory, his heart racing not just from exertion, but from the feeling of having Harley completely in his arms.
She was gazing at him as they danced, an indecipherable expression on her face, her lithe body easily keeping up, and the thought that he could get lost in those eyes of hers, his heart feeling just one beat away from swan-diving into their depths, the continuing parallel between he and Harley not eluding him, flitting through his mind as he became dimly aware of the admiring eyes of all moving to them, the dance floor emptying to give them space.
Rick knew that the two of them made an attractive sight, and he was glad to see Schmidt’s gaze on them, when he glanced in the man’s direction.
Dubois’ voice came through the comm, “Brilliant distraction, Flag. Executing plan now.”
He effortlessly spun Harley out of his arms, before pulling her back against him, her hand at the back of his neck sending a shiver through him.
If anything else, because of this very moment, this mission was a gift he had half a mind to thank Waller for.
It was entirely overkill, but he incorporated Argentine elements with a couple of lifts which she added her own elegance and flair to.
The song was drawing to an end, and they really had to make sure they made an impression if they hadn’t already.
Coming out of a lift, Rick spun Harley out again, and as he pulled her back, he plunged them into a dip, her back arching against him, both her hands at the back of his neck, toying with his hairline, as she daringly extended her leg, his hand moving to her thigh on instinct.
Their heaving breaths were mingling as they gazed into each other’s eyes, time seeming to slow as they just existed in this moment.
It was a moment he’d gladly stay in forever, but the sudden applause of those gathered around them shattered it, reminding them why they were here.
As he righted her, he saw the surrounding crowd parting, revealing Schmidt, an admiring expression on his face as he applauded, the indecipherable Simon Moreland trailing him.
“That was absolutely wonderful,” Schmidt cried, speaking with a slight German accent, “simply wonderful! Come, I must know who you are!”
Rick could see the hungry look in Schmidt’s eyes as his gaze raked over Harley, and he began to pull her closer to him before she stepped forward, hand extended as she chirped, “I’m Jessica Lindström, this is my husband, Rikard.”
Schmidt took her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it that Rick had to prevent himself from reacting to, as he said, “Enchanted, Madam Lindström.”
He turned to Rick, extending a hand. “Mr. Lindström, a pleasure.”
He shook Schmidt’s hand, fighting to keep the pleasant expression on his face as he replied, careful to keep his accent neutral, “The same, Mr. Schmidt. It’s an honor to be here, your reputation precedes you even all the way in Malmö.”
“Oh, Malmö? It’s been so long since I went to Sweden.” Schmidt’s eyes lit up. “Oh, where are my manners? Come, come, sit with me.”
Schmidt led them them to where he had been holding court, Moreland sitting across from them, as Schmidt dismissed the two girls who had been on his arms earlier. “Now, tell me about yourselves, I know I sent out the invites, but it’s so hard for me to keep track of who’s who.”
Rick could feel Moreland’s suspicious gaze on him and Harley, but he began, “Well, I run a small investment firm in Malmö—”
Harley cut him off, “Oh, Rik’s being too humble. His firm is one of the hottest up-and-coming investment firms in the city. Stop selling yourself short, darling, especially to Mr. Schmidt.”
The “darling” was distracting, but Rick managed to keep his wits to notice Schmidt tilting his head with a shrewdness that hinted at how he gained such a vast criminal empire, before the expression cleared and brightened again. “Fascinating. Oh, both of you must call me Fred, none of this Mr. Schmidt nonsense, that was my father. I insist.”
“Well,” Harley chirped, “Then you have to call us Rik and Jess.”
Moreland summoned one of the bodyguards who were milling about, whispering something in the goon’s ear before dismissing him, and turning his attention back to the three of them.
Rick knew Moreland was checking their bona fides, but he wasn’t worried, their covers were handled by The Company, it’d hold up under whatever scrutiny Moreland put them under.
“If you insist,” Schmidt smiled charmingly at Harley. “But on a separate topic, I must know how you met, though, tell me how you met.”
Rick had the story on the tip of his tongue, but Harley began, “Oh, we met at London Fashion Week!
I was modeling for Prabal Gurung, and I walked down the runway, and as I did, I felt someone watching me, like, watching me, and I glanced down into the crowd, and I saw this handsome man watching me as if I were the moon and stars.
I winked at him and made my way backstage.
Imagine my surprise at the end of the night, when I spot that same guy waiting for me with a bouquet of two dozen roses!
We went for a drink, and the rest is history!
We’ve been stupid in love ever since our wedding three years ago in Tahiti.”
“And your love certainly shows, if that display on the dance floor was anything to go by!” Schmidt proclaimed.
“What can I say, we bring out the passion in each other,” Harley beamed, putting her hand on Rick’s chest.
“Back to our original topic, Rik, please tell me about your humble investment firm, I’m always looking for new partners, after all,” Schmidt declared, leaning back in his seat.
Harley had managed to charm Schmidt, now it was up to him to keep the man’s attention.
“I have quite a few prominent people in my portfolio, and they’ve told me that they’re quite keen on expanding their horizons. They’ve been pushing me to… find new frontiers.”
“Hmm,” Schmidt smiled, “new frontiers? I think I can recommend some of those to you. Are your clients… averse to, shall we call it, risk?”
The man was hooked.
“Not at all, they’re quite bored with the investment field nowadays. They’d welcome the risk—in fact, many of them are… in risky ventures themselves,” he replied.
“My kind of people.”
Here, the goon Moreland had called over earlier returned, tablet in hand, which he handed over to the Consigliere.
Moreland scrolled through it before looking up at him and Harley. The man’s gaze was penetrating, and Rick prayed things weren’t about to go south.
Then Moreland cast his glance to Schmidt, nodding—their identities checked out.
Schmidt eagerly continued, “I do have a few things that your clients might appreciate…”
And the man launched into a discussion of financial stuff which Rick barely followed, but managed to look fascinated by, when shortly after, DuBois’ voice said, “Got the drive, heading to safe house now.”
Rick and Harley had to make their getaway soon.
Suddenly, as the music filtering in from the dance floor changed, Harley exclaimed, “Oh, darling, isn’t this what we danced to at our wedding? We have to dance again!”
Brilliant.
Rick offered his hand to Harley again, saying, “I’m sorry to cut our conversation short, Fred, but what my Jessica wants, she gets.”
Schmidt spread his hands, “Who am I to stand in your way?”
They rushed onto the dance floor, letting the couples around them obscure them from Schmidt’s sight, before calmly moving to the other end of the dance floor and heading to the closest exit.
Just as they were halfway to the exit, they heard footsteps following them at a leisurely pace.
They slowed slightly, wondering if it was just a coincidence, but the footsteps continued, and they were getting too close.
Rick weighed his options.
If they made a run for the exit, and the person following them was one of the goons, they’d have company on their tail pretty soon.
The other option… had the potential to kill him six ways to Sunday, but it’d probably get them out alive, and without any complications.
Regarding the mission, that is.
He looked down at Harley, as she hissed, “What do we do?”
“I’m so sorry, please don’t kill me, Harls,” he urgently whispered, before gently pushing her against the wall.
She looked up, wide-eyed, searching his features.
He shut his eyes tightly before sending her an apologetic look as he tangled his fingers in her hair, and pressed his lips to hers.
Harley froze in his arms, and for a second, he was afraid she’d justifiably punch his lights out, but instead, she almost melted, threw her arms around him, ran her hands through his hair, and kissed him back.
His heart stopped, and for a moment he wondered if this was some sort of fever dream, because this was too good to be true.
But he knew this wasn’t a dream—he could never have imagined the passion with which she was kissing him, the softness, nor the taste of her lips.
This, now this was a moment he wouldn’t have minded living in forever, but the sound of a clearing throat made them pull away from each other.
Rick, fighting to keep his thoughts straight, turned, an apology and an attempt at a pithy remark on his lips.
Simon Moreland was standing there, arms crossed, a wry look on his face as he cut him off. “Spare me,” he spoke in a refined English accent. “I know who you are, and if you want to get out without interference, I recommend you use the exit two corridors down from the one I assume you were going to use.”
“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rick tried to play off.
“I know the two of you are part of the team sent by The Company, and I sincerely hope you have the drive after what I went through to make sure this party was held today,” Moreland sighed.
Rick’s jaw dropped. “You’re the source.”
“Yes, and I’m afraid you don’t have much time. I only made the surveillance footage in the corridors loop for ten minutes, and that time is expiring in… seven minutes,” he continued, after checking his watch.
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Rick asked, stepping closer to Moreland.
“You don’t. But right now, following my advice is your best chance.”
Moreland was right. Reluctantly, Rick said, “We’ll take your advice, but you’re coming with us.”
“Fine, if it makes you feel better. I assume you want my hands where you can see them.”
Rick inclined his head, as he ushered the man forward, and Harley, all business as she pushed off from the wall, circled Moreland briefly.
“Don’t think of pullin’ any funny business, Mister,” she said, her accent becoming more normal, “even if you take Rick here down, ya still gotta deal with me.”
“I wouldn’t; believe me, I want Manfred taken down as badly as you do. Perhaps even more.”
“Why the sudden change of heart?” Rick asked, wondering why the second-most-powerful man in Schmidt’s criminal empire would seek to take him down.
Moreland looked away, before saying, “What is it Thackeray said? ‘Love makes fools of us all’? Well, I have been made a fool. I know I will not escape unscathed at the end of this, my hands are as stained as Manfred’s, but as long as Sonia is free, I will be happy enough.”
Harley, ever the romantic, whispered, “You’re in love.”
A smile came over the other man’s features, “Madly. Now, time is running out, if we are going, we must go.”
Moreland started forward, Rick behind him, Harley watching his six as he knew she would.
As they moved through the mansion, Rick knew that he and Harley would have to talk about that kiss in the corridor. Even the thought of it had him fighting the urge to run a finger across his lips, still burning from her kiss.
In no time, Moreland had them at the door, as he tapped in a code, which led to a set of stairs, and to an underground tunnel.
They arrived at another door, and Moreland unlocked it with a key he pulled from his breast pocket.
“Go,” Moreland exhorted. “I had your car parked in a blind spot outside our surveillance system.”
Moreland gave them directions before continuing, “And… if either of you could deliver a message to Sonia, Sonia Marquez at the Calais brothel. Tell her… tell her I’ll always love her, that I did this all for her, and I will gladly pay the price for her freedom. Tell her to be happy, not for my sake, but for her own, because she more than deserves it.”
“I’ll tell her,” Rick promised.
“Now go, quickly, I’ll cover for you with Manfred.”
“Thank you,” Rick nodded.
Moreland shut the door, prompting Rick and Harley to run down the small hill, the latter quickly slipping her heels off as she went.
Before he knew it, they were in the car, taking the route that they had planned before, avoiding cameras all the way to the safe house two hours out of Paris.
When they arrived, the lights were off inside, and he turned to Harley, whispering, “The lights aren’t on.”
“I know,” she grimly replied.
Rick immediately took the pistol he’d hidden under the driver’s seat as Harley pulled a stiletto blade from up her sleeve and her own pistol from somewhere on her person.
He stared at her for a second, his wonder at where on earth she could have hidden those momentarily distracting him from the fact that their entire op might have just gone sideways.
“Uh, Harls?”
“Yeah?”
“Where—where exactly did you keep those? We were patted down.”
A wicked smirk curled her crimson lips. “That’s fa me ta know, and you ta wondah,” she answered, before bouncing out, making a quiet curse spill from his lips as he cut the engine, running after her.
Harley stalked to the door, pressing her back to the wall on the right side of the door, Rick taking the left.
She looked to him, relying on him to call the breach.
He gestured that he’d breach on three, Harley nodding and adjusting her stance.
Rick counted to three on his hand, before kicking the door down, Harley covering him as he got his gun back up.
The sound of guns flicking their safeties back on echoed through the safe house.
“Bloody hell, Flag, nearly blew your head off,” DuBois sighed, lowering his gun.
“Thanks for not doing it,” Rick gasped, triggering the safety of his gun, hearing Harley do the same behind him.
“Almost got worried about you there for a bit,” DuBois said as he secured the door, propping it shut with a couple of loose boards of wood from somewhere in the house.
“Never would’ve been able to tell from our welcome,” he snarked back. “Where’s the drive?”
DuBois jerked a thumb behind him, gesturing to a room further in the house.
They quickly checked the drive, verifying that it was what they were after.
True enough, the drive contained all the evidence The Company needed to take Schmidt down, and it was with no small sense of satisfaction that Rick called the secure line direct to Waller’s office.
“Yes?”
“It’s done,” he simply replied.
“Good. Exfil tomorrow, 0500.”
And the line clicked off.
Sighing, Rick breathed sarcastically, “And a good night to you too.”
It was later, after the adrenaline had long since passed from his system, that he recalled what had happened in the hallway of Schmidt’s mansion.
The memory played back for him in perfect clarity. His breath hitched remembering the touch of her lips on his.
Rick sighed as he lay in bed, running a hand down his face. He’d long since ditched the tux, and was wearing a soft, dark t-shirt and gray sweatpants, but despite the comfortable clothes, he was restless.
He couldn’t get her out of his mind, and it frustrated him—she was his friend, his best friend, but now that he knew what it was to kiss her, he’d never, ever be able to forget it.
He’d hurled himself off of the precipice without even thinking.
Rick rose, going to the kitchen for a glass of water, hoping it would clear his mind a little, though he knew the odds of that were extremely low.
His steps halted as he saw the object of his thoughts sitting at the dining table, dressed similarly to him, except in much brighter colors, running a towel through her wet hair, once more platinum blonde with red and black ends, her skin again porcelain-pale, tattoos visible.
She was beautiful in her role as Jessica, which had her looking more like her old self than she had in decades, but it wasn’t quite right.
Her like this, as she really was…
She was beautiful, and it tugged at his heart.
“Rick,” she murmured, catching sight of him in the doorway.
“H—Harls.” He swallowed reflexively. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she nodded, with a slightly shaky smile. “How ‘bout you?”
“Fine, fine.” He cleared his throat, pointing to the sink. “I was—was just going to get a glass of water.”
“Oh, okay.”
He grabbed a glass, filling it from the tap, as Harley asked, “I haf’ta know—where on earth did ya learn to dance?
I’ve neva seen you do anythin’ like that before!”
“I’ve danced with you before, Harley,” he replied.
“Yeah, but that was jus’ slow dancin’ in ya livin’ room, not a full-out tango. C’mon, spill.”
“Gramma Helen,” he sheepishly said.
“Gramma Helen? Ya mean to say that not only did she teach ya how ta be an amazing cook, she also taught ya how ta be an amazing dancer too?” Her jaw was slack.
Rick sighed, “Kind of. She—she had weekly ballroom dancing classes on weekends, which was when I was there.
She would always drag me along, saying that my father and mother trusted her to keep me out of trouble, and having me alone in a house was just courting trouble, so I’d end up going with her.
And there was always a shortage of men in the class, so… yeah.
That’s how I learned.”
“Well, ya’re really good at it, neva woulda thought ya’d be a great dancer,” she smiled.
“Thanks.”
There was silence for a while, before Harley sighed, “Ya know, I actually loved this mission.”
As much as the feelings swirling inside him were scrambling his mind, he couldn’t help but ask, “Why’s that?”
Harley replied, “Because…” She paused, twisting and pursing her lips like she was looking for what to say. She finally settled on, “I got to feel pretty again, like when I was Harleen.”
Rick took a fortifying drink, before moving to sit across from her. “What are you talking about, Harls?
You’re beautiful.”
He leaned forward on the chair before continuing, “Yeah, you were beautiful as Harleen, but you’re still beautiful—so beautiful,” he breathed, as he reached to tuck a damp strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips grazing her cheek slightly as he slowly pulled back.
He heard Harley’s breath catch slightly, and he could have sworn that she leaned into his touch ever-so-slightly.
Just then, the recollection that he still needed to talk to her about the kiss crashed full force into his mind.
He began, “Harls, um, about… about that kiss, I—“
Harley practically leapt out of her seat.
“I know, it—it was just fa the mission,” she rushed out, as she backed out of the kitchen, not allowing him to get a word in edgewise. “No hard feelin’s whatsoeva.”
His mouth hung open, “Harls—”
“It’s fine—what’s a kiss between friends anyway?” She hesitated just long enough to say, “But um, I do gotta say that uh… you’re a fantastic kisser. Good night, Rick.”
And she practically ran out of the kitchen after that.
After that, on the transport back to Belle Reve, and for a whole two weeks after that, she avoided him, leaving Rick tired and drained after staying up for practically whole nights waiting, hoping she’d come, distracting himself momentarily with delivering Moreland’s message to Sonia in the wake of the collapse of Schmidt’s criminal empire, both Schmidt and Moreland facing a bevy of charges that would keep them in prison for the rest of their lives.
And in those two weeks, he admitted it to himself, named it in no uncertain terms, no more euphemisms.
He loved her.
Plain and simple.
He and Harley, they were the same now.
Finally, he caved and slipped a note into her latest batch of coffee beans for her espresso machine, asking her to come and see him that night.
Rick paced around his living room that evening, his emotions a ball of nerves, pondering what Harley had said as she ran from him.
“A kiss between friends”.
That was the problem.
He didn’t want just friendship anymore.
He wanted more.
He hoped for more.
Then the door of his apartment creaked open, and he turned to face the entry hall.
As soft footsteps approached, one thought rang through his mind: He’d hurled himself off of the precipice, and now, it was up to her whether she’d follow him.