DISCLAIMER: Law & Order and its characters are the property of Wolf
productions, NBC etc. CSI is the property of Jerry Bruckheimer and CBS.
FANDOMS/PAIRING: Law & Order: SVU/CSI Alex Cabot/Sara Sidle
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Business or Pleasure
"Do you mind?" Sara looked up, sandwich still poised right before her open mouth. Stared up and gazed at pale skin contrasted with shiny strawberry hair and the bluest eyes she'd ever seen.
"This place seems to have suddenly turned into a meat market," she nodded her head coyly to a table of gentlemen sitting caddy to Sara. They were drinking from what looked like their second pitcher, not hiding the lasciviousness in their stares. That meandered from the woman, to Sara and back again. "And I don't want to be mistaken for something on the menu."
"I wouldn't mind the company." Which, two seconds ago, would have been a lie.
"Rebecca," she held out her hand, Sara clasps with her own.
"Sara," she found herself unable to keep her lips from upturning into a smile. "What brings you to Vegas?"
"How'd you know I was a tourist?"
"No woman of sound mind and body comes into this place without knowing it's a meat market? That either makes you a tourist or.."
"You?" Rebecca asked with the flash of a coy grin.
"Yeah, well they know better. I'm a cop. Okay, technically, a forensics investigator," she explained off the curious expression. "But, cop sounds more intimidating. Seeing as how most guys are intimidated by women who carry guns, it keeps my date card pretty empty. And I'm not particularly interested in the ones who aren't.
"Shame," Rebecca looked down at her tea, vigorously shaking the packets of sugar with her fingertips. "I, apparently, have a thing for girls with guns."
"So, why are you in Vegas? Business or pleasure?"
"Business." Her expression changed, darkened almost, an instantaneous mix of pain, anguish and anger that, had it been anyone else sitting across from Rebecca would have gone unnoticed. Sara had seen the expression one too many times. Just like that, the expression was gone, replaced with the hint of a coy smile. "And pleasure. Who goes to Vegas without experiencing a little of that?"
The first shot had almost been true. A millimeter to the left, and it would have. She hadn't seen it, or heard, but she felt it. Felt the heat of it as it grazed just past her temple. Blew back her hair as it embedded into the wall.
She didn't wait around for the second shot. Heard it this time. The slightest puff of air, the ping as it ricocheted off something in the background. Ducked behind the empty cubicle, scrambling for her purse. Shaky fingers flipped open the cell phone.
"I don't know why you're hiding," a male voice, thick with a Spanish accent, cut through the silence. "You know we're going to find you."
"C'mon," she whispered frantically. She'd turned her cell off. Turned it off! The device chirped happily, the sound as loud as a chainsaw erupting in a church. The bookshelf above her head exploded into bits of paper. Rained down on her as she scrambled for another hiding place.
And if she lived, it would be another hiding place after that. She'd forgotten how many names she was up to know, five, six? To think, she was beginning to like this place. Like the people who called her Jenna and didn't notice when she forgot to answer to her name or came up with anecdotes about places she wasn't supposed to have been.
"911, please state the nature of your emergency."
She almost cried out in joy. Almost. Except for the steps that were too close.
"We found you before," he turned the corner to her aisle. Stepped in front of her cubicle. Six feet of menace and malevolence stood before her, aimed the gun at her forehead. "And we'll find you..."
This time, she screamed. The side of his neck tore open, spattering her in his blood. Their eyes met, both wide and in terror. She could see the indecision on his face - shoot her or save himself. He chose himself. Turned towards the shooter and fired.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
And then - silence.
Alex/Sharon/Angie/Glenn/Marie/Hannah/Jenna rose to her feet. The 911 operator screaming at her through the phone. She closed the device, cutting off the connection.
She stepped over the dead body of her attacker. His eyes wide open in death, blood pooling around him. Walked towards her savior. His name was Carl. He was the night Security Guard. Was. He had a wife, three children. He was going to retire in two years.
She dropped to her knees. The anguish inside her erupted outwards in a guttural cry. She couldn't take it anymore. The hiding. The running. The always on alert. The bodies, meant to keep her alive, that lay in her wake. She was better than this. Better than a frightened rabbit relying on others to keep her safe.
The pain and anguish, roiling back and forth in her stomach, twist and turned. Rolled into something harder. Anger. Rage. She opened her eyes. Stared into blank gaze of Carl's and swore to herself.
This had to end.
Sara had always found the city slogan - What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, to be rather stupid. As if it were an invitation for everyone to do what they wanted, when they wanted and to Hell with the consequences because, hey, they weren't going to be there come Monday morning.
Now, she welcomed the slogan. Because it gave her Rebecca. Rebecca - who sighed throatily at every kiss. Ground against Sara's palm through the tight constraints of her jeans, making out in the backseat of Sara's Bronco like two high-schoolers after prom. Allowed her, allowed both of them, to drop their inhibitions, go with the flow and if it felt good - do it.
And she felt good. Smooth skin covered firm, tight muscles, soft, silky breasts and an ass that perfectly conformed to her hands. Soft, sultry lips she couldn't get enough of. Kissed them until they were swollen, wet and panting breathlessly for more.
She hadn't meant to linger over the striated flesh just below Rebecca's shoulder. But linger she did. Licked and sucked the bullet wound as if she could kiss Rebecca's pain away. Continued until the soft, sticky flesh gripping her fingers practically demanded to be tasted. Joined her fingers with lips and tongue, thighs over her shoulders and Rebecca's screams ringing between her ears.
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas and, as Rebecca rolled the two over and pinned Sara to the mattress with strong arms and the sultriest bedroom eyes, Sara wanted this to stay in this place and let it happen forever.
She wore black. Black slacks, turtleneck, boots, shades, coat even a black scrunci to tie around the same colored locks. It seemed overkill at the time, a little too cloak and dagger for what was a simple exchange. But as the man across from her opened the small bag and began methodically counting the money before him, it didn't seem cloak and dagger enough.
He smiled with dirty yellowed teeth as he counted the last bill. Pulled up a case from by his feet, set it flat on the table and slid it towards her.
"Anything else I can do you for?" He drawled lasciviously with a thick Southern accent.
It went against everything she believed in. She'd never done an illegal thing her entire life. But, that had been several lifetimes ago. Back when she had been a different person. One with strict morals, and ethics, and the desire to put men like the one sitting across from her behind bars.
She opened the case. Inspected each and every item, visually and physically, before placing the items back in the case and closing it shut.
"Well, if you need anything else," he leaned forward his eyes going down her frame and back up again, smacking his lips loudly before continuing. "You know how to reach me. And I do make house calls."
"I'm sure you do," she sneered distastefully.
Sara awoke to the sound of her beeper chirping angrily from somewhere within the room. Her eyes fluttered, then snapped open at the sensation of a pillow and bed that was not her own. Immediately, the memories came flooding back to her, and the sensations, the languid tightness of her muscles and the memories of their exertion. The heady scent of sex that still lingered in the air and on her skin. She stretched, rolled her arm out only to realize -
She was alone.
Lifted onto her elbows to stare at a décor that hadn't been so gaudy the night before. She reached for her beeper, checked the number and dialed it with the hotel room phone.
"Sidle," she mumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
"I don't know where you are," Warrick warned. "But, you better get your ass here and, like, right now."
She ignored Warrick's 'you owe me' look. Walked up the steps of a luxurious mansion. There was an odd tension in the air. Thick and heavy with the hint of malice. She hadn't found the stream of cop cars outside particularly unusual. As unfair as it was, the rich were treated differently. Figured today's victim had held some high status within Vegas's upper crust. But, once inside, she realized the status this victim held was much, much different.
"What have we got?"
Brass pulled the toothpick from his mouth, used it to point at the very dead man lying on the bed. "One Carlos Zapata. Alleged," his voice dripped with sarcasm, "Columbian drug lord."
"Former alleged drug lord from the looks of it."
He was face down. The white silk pillow now saturated with blood, three distinct bullet holes stood out prominently on his closely shorn scalp. Sara knelt down by the side of the bed. Stared into glassy, blank eyes. "He was awake?"
"Looks like it," Brass sighed patronizingly. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. I wouldn't get your hands too dirty. The Feds'll be crawling around here eventually."
"The Feds? What'd this guy do, allegedly do?"
"You name. Last I heard they've been trying to bring him in for the assassination of a New York District Attorney. A real looker too. Long legs, eyes as blue as an ocean."
Sara could feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing on edge. She pulled a pair of tweezers, carefully picking a lone, long strand of hair from the bed. "What color hair?"
"Blonde. What you got there?"
"A hair, strawberry blonde," she rose to a standing position. "What's an alleged Columbian drug lord doing in Las Vegas?"
"Well," Brass chewed on his toothpick. "You know what they say."
"Yeah," Sara looked down at the body of Carlos Zapata, wondering what the Hell she'd gotten herself into. "I do."
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