Chapter Text
JOE VELASCO TRIED TO KEEP HIS EYES on his drink, his fourth spaced out over the course of the night. Even if his glass was filled with a relatively clear liquid tinted a hushed lime green that left a tingling sensation in his throat like the past three, he was certain that the other option—to watch the door that used to open and close like a shopping mall’s when the Friday night had just begun—would burn his chest much more.
Besides, the night was now growing old, its wrinkles twinkling in the sliver of the night sky Velasco could see out one of the windows that decorated the bar’s face. He shouldn’t have been expecting anyone else to come in, shouldn’t have been breaking from his glass to see if she would shimmy through the door with her hair pulled up into a ponytail; yet, hope, even in his line of work, was something the detective held onto.
He couldn’t help but wonder if maybe that was why Captain Benson had recommended he receive a promotion in the first place, and it wasn’t simply his “command presence.” Sure, anyone could work hard, steer a room, fill in the lines on case reports. However, Velasco had always thought that if he believed religiously in real, lawful, justice—not the sort of justice that had been skewed to mean entirely something else where he came from—he’d help the wheels of the nation’s judicial system function like they’re supposed to and each kidnapper, each murderer, and each rapist would see their day in court.
And while Velasco knew there were screw-ups, like dirty cops or false confessions, he’d kept his eyes aligned on the belief that justice would prevail.
As well as the thought that someone special to him would walk through those bar doors at any moment and find him seated on a red cushioned stool at a wood counter with a Mojito in his hand, apparently. But, unlike his hope in the contemporary justice system that landed him a promotion to Detective Second Grade, this straggler of an aspiration was losing its potency with each hour that skirted by.
“Damn you, Joe,” the detective murmured to himself as he rubbed his palm against his sweating drink, the cops—his colleagues—next to him too tuned in on some reiteration of a recent arrest for a double homicide to hear him. At least, most of them.
“You know, with your promotion and all, you’ve got more game now,” Terry Bruno’s playful smile reached his glossy eyes, and he brought his mouth close to Velasco’s ear so Velasco could smell the Genesee Cream Ale on his breath. “Plus, that brunette you just watched walk in has been eyeing you up.”
“I wasn’t watchi—” Velasco started while Bruno took another sip of his own bottle before smacking his wet lips together and interrupting the Detective Second Grade point blank. “Though I’m still the one with the bigger pocketbook, Velasco.”
“Is that what all women are interested in these days?” He went along with Bruno absentmindedly, tearing a stubborn glance at the door. Bruno recaptured Velasco’s gaze as the detective clapped his hand on Velasco’s exposed forearm, the cold buckle on Bruno’s 1951 Omega wristwatch meeting his skin. “Not all of ‘em. And clearly not green eyes over there.”
He had resisted looking at the woman before, the green-eyed brunette in the tight, black cocktail dress that had sat down at the table near the door with a few giddy friends. Yet, now, Velasco eyed the woman, whose legs were long and smooth and whose breasts were covered by her dress’s fabric like two perked pears. She looked young—and out-of-place—at the cop bar, though she was in the right spot if she was craving the best selection of bottled craft beers in town. Just like Bruno had said, the woman’s gaze stayed on Velasco as she pushed her beach waves off her neck and leaned towards the blonde to her right, who quickly zeroed in on Velasco like he was the owner of una paleteria selling strawberry paletas on a summer day in Ciudad Juárez.
But, even as the pair of hungry eyes left the detective’s neck warm, the detective couldn’t do much else—wouldn’t do much else—for Captain Benson came up behind the two detectives then, her commanding voice swapped for one much more casual and softer.
“Gentlemen, as much as I have enjoyed relishing in Velasco’s promotion, I think it’s time I head home for the evening,” Captain Benson, to prove her point, glanced down at her phone and slipped it into her cream colored trench coat. “Noah’s been texting nonstop.”
Velasco’s eyes shot away from the pretty brunette in the corner, and he immediately turned his attention to his boss, whose tired eyes spoke enough words for her. Like Velasco, Bruno too, had abandoned the woman, letting out a little cough as his posture straightened like a traffic light pole.
“Thank you again, Captain. For setting this up,” Velasco motioned at the row of colleagues seated along the bar with his chin, “and for everything.”
Captain Benson’s lips twitched into a smile. “I told you I wasn’t that bad. But you’ve earned it, all of it.”
Velasco nodded as Bruno, after tossing back a glass of tap water that the bartender had slid his way, hopped off his bar stool and zipped up his own jacket. “She’s right, you know. But you’re still paying our tab.”
“I already picked up mine,” Benson sent Velasco a reassuring smile. “Some traditions aren’t meant to last forever, at least, not in this economy.”
“Got out of that one, didn’t you?” Bruno addressed Velasco jokingly as he set a few big bills on the bar counter. Velasco grinned at him in thanks—though he was a bit surprised—and Bruno only rolled his eyes, his lips resisting a grin of his own.
“Walk you out, Cap?”
Benson looked up at Bruno as she reached for her phone again. “Sure, Terry.”
“You should probably call him a cab,” Velasco brought the rim of his glass to his lips, his eyebrows wiggling at Bruno. True, Bruno was standing up straight; yet, alcohol still reeked off his person despite the half a bottle of fancy cologne he must’ve emptied on himself before Benson led Velasco to this bar for a surprise party to commemorate his promotion.
“I’m all right, Captain,” Bruno’s eyes met Velasco for a quick look as the detective tried to shed any doubt of his sobriety by putting on his signature smirk, the one that told anyone—everywhere—that he’s the type of guy who’s got it together.
Still, Benson looked with uncertainty between the two detectives, and Velasco dropped his drink back down without a taste and listened to Bruno try to outsmart one of the city’s finest. “I can walk off the what—” he held up his fingers, putting down each one until only two remained, “two drinks I had. I’m no lightweight.”
A beat later, and Benson finally caved. Well, partially.
“I believe you, Terry,” she did that thing with her lips, when she pulled them together in a plump line whenever she was getting serious, “but I’ll be taking you home.”
“Even better,” Bruno said with a twinkle in his eye, throwing a smug look at Velasco. Once Benson was out of earshot, bidding her farewell to their colleagues that were left, Velasco echoed what Bruno had said to him earlier. “You got out of that one, didn’t you?”
Rather than answer him, Bruno merely winked and nodded to Velasco’s left. “Don’t you have a life to live?”
He followed Bruno’s gaze to the group of women at the table near the door. The blonde’s attention had faltered, but not the brunette’s, who chewed on the small black straw that came with her Jack and Coke as she sent Velasco a red-lipped smile.
When did they get drinks?
“Yeah, right,” Velasco muttered as Bruno brushed his arm, his watch’s buckle leaving a cool spot on the detective’s arm again. “Just give yourself one night.”
“I—” Velasco began, but his voice lost steam like Velasco’s legs did whenever he and a certain someone would have a three-mile treadmill race as Benson called Terry’s name. Bruno sent Velasco one last smile before joining their superior at the door; the door Bruno opened respectfully as he and Benson ducked out into the night. Part of Velasco wanted to join them, wanted to get out of this bar and find solace in the mute tones of his two bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side.
But then he looked back at the group of girls and glanced at his phone next to his untouched drink, its screen curtained in darkness.
The least she could have done is texted that she couldn’t make it after he sent her directions to the bar.
Yet, Grace Muncy had left Velasco responseless, a stomach ache-inducing revelation that sent the detective hopping out of his seat and facing the brunette.
Just give yourself one night.
So that’s what Velasco resolved to do with the buzzy confidence that alcohol had pumped into him.
Until Detective Silva called out to him.
“Not so fast, jackass. The one with the promotion still has to pay for our drinks.”
Although the alcohol had left him feeling frisky, the detective reluctantly stopped in his tracks and tore a glance over his shoulder. His eyeline was enveloped by the nearly ten detectives that eyed him back expectantly, with Silva leading the pack. Captain Curry and Sergeant Tutuola must have slipped out.
“That’s right,” Velasco said, deflated, as he turned his body back to his colleagues, already reaching for his leather wallet in his jean pocket. By the time he had fished out a fifty, the girls at the table had left, their night not ending at the cop bar.
Though, then and there, Velasco felt like his own night was.
———
He had gotten a block away from the bar before he heard her. Her footsteps sounded unsettled, however, for Velasco gathered that jogging in strappy heels would be nothing short of ungraceful.
By the time he had turned around, Velasco could make out the shimmery bronzer along her cheeks; he could make out the feathery false eyelashes that framed her emerald eyes. Her chest moved up and down quickly, her cleavage pressing against her dress with each breath.
“Hey,” she spoke through a fit of giggles, and Velasco had to step closer so he could hear her clearly. As he did so, her perfume pervaded his nostrils, a mix of roses and vanilla. He tried not to get too caught up in her scent, for the detective did not want to make it obvious that he hadn’t been this close to a woman in some time.
Not since she left.
“I’m Jen,” her bottom lip disappeared between her teeth. “I saw you at the bar earlier.”
Velasco tried to keep his eyes on her own, but he let his gaze fall to her lip, still turned into her mouth. Jen grinned then, with her skin caught up in her teeth and all, and Velasco brought his hand up to the back of his neck. “I’m Joe.”
Her eyes lit up like a refrigerator light, and she stepped closer to him. “I heard that it’s good luck when two people who both have one syllable names meet.”
“Really?” He answered coyly, and when Jen nodded, a curtain bang swept over one eye. “And it’s even better luck when they meet on Amsterdam Avenue.”
Velasco glanced up at the street sign illuminated by the tall street lights that lined the city streets. The sign did indeed say Amsterdam Avenue, and he realized that his car was parked a block east from where they stood.
“So Joe,” Jen reached up to rest a hand on his chest, close to his left pec. Velasco silently thanked himself for slipping on his black jacket before he left the bar, for the brunette would be able to feel his heart quickening if he hadn’t. “What should we do about our good luck tonight?”
He wasn’t sure how long he just stood there, taking in the woman’s presence before him. Sure, Detective Silva was cute, and he had let his eyes wander the precinct on the late nights he had to take a break from paperwork or else he’d go cross-eyed. But he had never allowed himself to act, never allowed himself a night with a woman with a nice ass and an understanding of what their night together was—and wasn’t.
The detective knew who he had to thank for that.
“You tell me,” Velasco found himself saying finally, his hands reaching for his car keys in his pant’s pocket opposite the one with his wallet. “My ride isn’t far.”
Jen’s eyes widened, and the woman trailed her hand down his torso, her touch leaving a streak of heat down his body even with his jacket and his gray t-shirt. She stopped at his belt, which was sticking out so its buckle flashed in the streetlight. “Neither is that alleyway behind you.”
Time was not able to push out a minute before she fell into him. Her arms wrapped around his neck roughly, Velasco’s jeans felt tighter and less breathable as her lips met his, and he felt the need to grab her waist and pull her closer. For a second, they just made out, her lips no doubt leaving his red; yet, it was within that second he caught a whiff of it, the alcohol emitting as perspiration from Jen’s neck and chest.
“Wait—” Velasco said, breaking the kiss and looking into her eyes, which seemed rimmed with more red than if she was only tipsy like him. “How much have you had to drink?”
Jen’s arms loosened their hold around his neck, and the girl cocked her head to the side. “Excuse me? You sound like my RA.”
“Your RA?” Velasco was feeling uneasy now, dirty even, as it dawned on him.
“You’re in college.”
His statement came out so matter-of-factly that he shouldn’t have been surprised that Jen didn’t dispute it, or even acknowledge it. If anything, the college student confirmed it, for some default ringtone sounded from her phone just then, and she was forced to untangle herself from Velasco and dig through her clutch, which happened to be decorated with the NYU emblem.
Avoiding Velasco’s questioning gaze, Jen glanced at the phone’s number and, with a yellow acrylic nail, pressed the red “decline” button. She stared at the screen for a few more seconds before looking up at Velasco, who saw only a drunk, college kid unlucky enough to run into a SVU detective on a Friday night across from him.
“I’m not that drunk and I’m old enough to have sex in an alleyway,” Jen affirmed, though what flirtatious spirit that was left had inevitably drained from her voice entirely. She sounded sour.
He was too thanks to the near erection in his jeans.
Yet, Velasco knew it’d pass like everything else, and whilst running a hand through his hair, looked at the girl frustratingly. “All right, here’s the deal. I’m going to pay for an Uber to take you back to campus.”
Jen’s mouth fell open. “You’re going to do what?”
He sighed, already pulling out his phone and going to the Uber app to type in their location. “Look, Jen, I’m a cop, and I know how this goes. You’re young, pretty, and intoxicated, and some son-of-a-bitch could take advantage of you.”
“Like you?” She snapped back. Ignoring her, Velasco put a few feet distance between them, and suddenly felt more like a father than a hip, eligible guy.
Now if that didn’t sound like a turn-off, then the detective didn’t know what did.
———
Two rounds of puke—not his—in a Chinese takeout bag later, and Velasco was back in his own car, which smelled like the beef lo mein he was forced to order so Jen had something to puke in. Shortly after he had called the Uber, she had become even more disorientated and unsteady, and with it, nauseous. He had spotted the Chinese restaurant a few establishments down and ordered the first thing he recognized on the menu, as well as two plastic bags.
Looking back, he supposed that he could’ve just asked for a bag without ordering food; however, seeing Jen made Velasco feel partly sick himself, and he realized that, except for some salty peanuts, he had drunk on an empty stomach.
That was why Velasco’s only passenger was the lo mein, sitting in his passenger seat as he drove steadily through the East Side of Manhattan. All that fresh air had helped the buzz the alcohol gave him wear off, and now Velasco felt about ninety-five percent himself. This meant he could wallow in the disappointment of the evening, which wasn’t the most pleasant, but at least he had food to distract him once he got home.
After a few more blocks, Velasco’s apartment came into view, a few windows glowing like fireflies on the side of the twenty-story building. He pulled into his parking spot and shut the car, bracing for a near pitch black walk until he heard his phone.
Unbuckling his seatbelt and taking his phone out of his jacket, her name and a text message flashed across the screen, and while part of him wanted to read it once he got inside the confines of his apartment, Velasco betrayed himself by reading it then.
Scrolling past Muncy’s congratulations text message and his senseless text message offering her directions to the bar, take W 81st Street to Columbus Avenue, then make a right on W 79th Street, Velasco paused at Muncy’s most recent text.
I need you, Joe. My house is at 322—
He didn’t need to read the rest of her address, for he had been over to her place in Queens plenty of times before. A new sense of understanding dawned on him, as he wondered if something was wrong and that’s why she couldn’t celebrate his promotion.
That part scared him, but Velasco would be living a falsehood if he said that the text didn’t also give him hope; hope that perhaps Muncy hadn’t meant to leave him hanging, and they were still as close as he thought.
Either way, Velasco was reversing out of his parking spot in record time, and as he turned back onto the street, knew that if there was one person he was a fool for, it was Grace Muncy.