Zaccaro

and you are…?”
The energy in her tone takes it down a notch. She glances at my hand and then folds her arms. “I'm not telling you. For all I know you could be some creep. I came to the bar to be entertained, guess I fell into the ‘assumption’ trap by assuming you and that guy in there had some sort of problem. Tell me what this thing was between you and...”
“You don't even know his name? But you allowed him to buy you a drink,” my eyebrow rises.
“Sure. Look, Evan, it’s been a crazy damn week, you can bet your ass I was gonna milk a few more drinks out of him. As far as entertainment, I had my bets on The Hulk in the bar wiping the floor with your white ass.” She pauses to point to herself, and says, “But I, being the unfortunate person I am, have a load of shitty luck. I thought; why not help out the underdog. You looked desperate, and I needed to tip the scales of karma.” The woman ceases her theory, and starts for the parking lot. It’s almost comical when she begins to cuss under her breath. “Shit, Sandra left me here for Mr. Tubs!”
She mentions some person named Jamie, who’d never leave her at a bar. I put two and two together. The broad in red, has to be Sandra, wasn't accompanying the bartender for a marathon fuckfest the fat-ass must've clocked out instead of taking a quick break.
“Come with me, Sweetheart.”
“I'm not some slut that can't handle herself. I'm going back inside to call a taxi. And despite the sweetheart face, I had no problem stepping outside with you. I know Taekwondo in case you have any bright ideas.” Those hips of hers begin to sway as she plants one foot behind the other. She begins to back toward the front door.
One stride to her three, and I’m right in her face. I take her forearms and allow my thumbs to softly rub. The passive assertion often helps anxious persons.
As expected, her pupils dilate, I’ve arrested her attention. Do not confuse my kindness for weakness, Lamb.
Tone authoritative, I reply, “No taxi. I'd prefer taking you home instead, sweetheart.” I add emphasis to the nickname which I assume would hold more weight than dominating her. Those plump lips of hers sneer as I add, “I'm a cop.”
Just the mention of my occupation sets her off. Normally it provides a safety net… for law-abiding citizens. Now the Lamb’s hands rise in the air as if this situation has become too dramatic for her. “Oh, dang, you're a cop? You know what, this just became highly amusing. For a moment there, I was second-guessing your little ploy.”
“No ploy at all.” I stop myself from addressing her mention of me being desperate and say, “I truly am a cop, a Narc detective.” I begin to take out my badge.
“This isn't a cop bar. And you look a little too spiffy...”
Her voice trails off as she observes my Los Angeles Police Department badge. My instincts are on alert. No, this isn't a cop bar. How would she know?
There’s a sliver of a moon above us and the lights are dim. Reese squints. “Detective Evan Zaccaro. Zaccaro, that Italian?”
I nod.
“Hence the suit, I see. So you were staking out the place, Mr. Hot and Buff on your radar, eh? That why you'd prefer I didn't go back inside?” The interest begins to twinkle in that gaze again.
She must have a cop boyfriend or something. I nod. “Sort of.”
“Alright, my momma didn’t raise no fool. I've got a photogenic memory, Evan Zaccaro. Reese Dunham. But I need a drink, first. A real man’s drink. You can drop me off at the next bar, whatever suits you.”
There was no fucking way I’d drop the lamb off at another bar. We’ll end up at my place. Not that I was hypnotized by the sultry rasp of a voice, or those innocent eyes. I just needed a real drink too. That is before I tell the captain I possibly blew my cover for a woman that isn't even my type. I prefer blondes. And I also prefer women at a distance, in my own timing who also don’t remind me of home. While we headed over in my Porsche, I almost closed my fucking eyes with just the image of being back at home, twenty years ago, as a little-ass kid while sneaking into my mom’s fresh baked brownies. This woman makes my stomach tingle with thoughts of sweets.
Reese steps onto the white limestone of my four-thousand-square-foot penthouse apartment. Her eyes sweep over the all-white studio which is all open spaces but designed in sections. There are splashes of color, where antiques and statues are situated throughout. But besides that, the entire living space is all white.
From the state-of-the-art kitchen to my Cal King bed, her narrowed gaze lands back on mine. Before she can speak into existence my own thoughts about this not being a hookup, not in the least, she silently moves past expensive artwork. Those ample hips sway, not in exaggeration as I'm used to viewing, but Reese is in a class of her own as she saunters to the floor-to-ceiling window.
In the ultra-bright lights of my studio, I’m at war with myself. I’ve fallen even harder for her. There’s no dim bar lights, no smoky hazed curtain to mask her view. Outside it was dark, but here, bathed in light she’s an earthy-golden with a certain bloom about her, like a delicious ripe fruit.
As if on cue, Reese does another three-sixty in slow motion. “Damn, I'm speechless,” she says of the million-dollar view of Los Angeles below.
I’m fucking speechless too. My eyes tear away from her giving proportions, though she’s preoccupied anyway. I step over to the wet bar, grab two glass tumblers. My index finger skims over the various alcoholic drinks. There’s a toxic persuasion for any event. I pick up the