I Fell in Love (Semi Hiatus)

“–woah woah woah, hey, hang on a second–” mike’s hands are up, showing that he’s unarmed. he’s not here to hurt her – just the opposite, actually. “my name is special agent mike warren, i’m fbi, i’m here to get you out.”

they’d been tracing the solano cartel for what feels like years, even though it’s only been eight weeks since mike had been captured and nearly suffocated by carlos solano’s hired thugs. he wants nothing more than to see the man locked in a prison cell for the rest of his mortal life, but first mike needs to figure out a concrete link, something he can bring to his superiors. as much as his mind is telling him that bringing down as many big fish as he can will get him a fast track to deputy director… his heart is starting to tell him something else entirely. the thrill of being undercover, of doing this job that so few are able to do… while he’d been stuck behind a desk in washington he’d missed it. and now that he’s back… he’s not sure if he actually wants to leave again.

one thing at a time, though. for now, he needs to focus on getting this woman out of here. he holds out a hand to her, glancing over his shoulder at the sound of gunshots. paige, he hopes, and the tac team behind her, dealing with the people in the warehouse. 

“c’mon– put that chair down, and let’s go.”

“I DON’T BELIEVE YOU—“ She immediately said, with anger in her voice. “You’ve given me no reason to.”  A fire burned in her chest and around her eyes, that were now rimmed red with heavy purple bags laying beneath them. She kept the chair in front of her for protection, and when she heard the gunshots she flinched, pulling the chair higher.  She was ready to fight “Special Agent Mike Warren” with everything she had.  Her muscles came in tight; her pulse raged against the inside of her rib cage. 

It wasn’t until Sally heard the voice of a woman that she began to calm down.  A thick voice — a furious yet calm one shouting “FBI” made Sally look at the man in front of her in a different light. The FBI was here.  She carefully set the chair down, and observed Mike again. With his hand outstretched, he suddenly looked like a friend rather than a foe.  

She took a deep breath in.  “—Okay—“ She then said with haste, holding her hand out and grabbing his.  Her four fingers fit perfectly in between his thumb and his index finger.  She couldn’t help but notice how strong this stranger felt, as his fingers wrapped around her palm.  He felt like a protective shield in a scenario she managed to get herself into.  “—Tell me what to do,”  She asked of him.  “I’ll do it.”

‘Even though,’ She thought to herself. ‘I’m insanely idiotic to put my trust into someone else today’.

She thought about her car outside, filled to the brim with moving boxes. Important things — like her passport, her license, her wallet, her birth certificate — they were all in there, behind a caged in lot.  No doubt her baby blue car stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the black ones her so-called friends had carpooled in.  Not only was the color of her vehicle something spectacular in comparison, it was an expensive (and somewhat older) Porsche 911 Carrera, whereas all of the other cars in the lot were beater Fords, Hondas, Dodges, or other inexpensive vehicles in comparison. 

She wondered if that’s what tipped the FBI off that someone wasn’t supposed to be here; that someone had been tricked into this drug-dealing mess.  Maybe not the expense of the car ...but maybe the fact that she did nothing to conceal it, as she didn’t think she had a reason to.  

It hadn’t been until she pulled into the lot that she suspected something.  She immediately called her friend to see what was going on, but she should have left the area before doing so.  Her car had been attacked, and now the driver’s side window was busted.  She was forcibly yanked out of the car, with a hand (stronger than the special agent’s) thrown over her mouth.  When she was asked to help them get into a place that they couldn’t because they were thugs and she was a nice, unsuspecting blonde woman, she immediately refused to help her ‘friend’ from high school, and was thrown into the room Mike had found her in.

THERE’S A CHAIR IN THIS SMALL ROOM, and an even smaller window far beyond Sally’s reach. The door to the room is locked, and there was no way she was digging through the dirt floor to the other side. It would take too much time.

She needs the chair to reach the window …but she also needs the chair to break the glass. She has nothing on her person other than her phone, and she can’t decide if she can call 911 without tipping her “friend” off.

I’m so stupid, she said to herself. Why didn’t I just leave? Why did I agree to help?

She took a second against the wall, and let herself breath in and out. Five second count inhale; five second count exhale.  Then …she came up with her plan.  Call 911 quickly and make sure to whisper, and use her GPS on her phone to give location. Then use the chair to get up to the window.  She would have to punch the glass with the last bit of strength her adrenaline gave her …but she could do it.  Even if it meant having a bloody arm.

She dialed the phone …and then heard the knob of the door move.

She sank her phone back into her hoodie pocket, and gasped, grabbing the chair as quickly as she could and pulling it in front of her.  The legs of the chair aimed at the man who came in through the door, and she snarled.

“Don’t get ANY closer!”  She warned.  “I will harm you.”

She took note of what the man looked like for her police report.

Tall; white male.  Chiseled jaw; brunette …or a dark blonde perhaps.  Blue eyes.  

WE’RE BACK BEYOTCHES

@guncontrcl

                ANOTHER MESS WITH HIS PARENTS had left Mike downtrodden. He hadn’t been okay for days now, and every time Sally saw him ( which was every single day ) her heart took a bit of a toll, bleeding out from the inside. It killed her to watch her best friend mope around; worse -- he was down and out with a big, purple bruise on his arm. She’d insist on telling someone -- getting her father involved. “A lawyer! Mike you need a lawyer! He’ll do it pro bono! I’ll make him!” But Mike always declined her offer. 

                “If he doesn’t want help,” Her father would say. “you can’t help him.”                “He does want help --” Sally argued. “Just ...not that way.”

                Of course, it wasn’t as though Alan Carrera cared enough about Sally’s best friend to actually call the police himself, or insist upon helping Mike. And there was only so much Sally could do. 

             OWEN WAKES up the next morning with a distinct certainty that he had made a mistake. The migraine is less like a pulse, now, and more like a faint buzz, honeybees in the cotton-spun static in his head. He shuts his eyes, feels the skin between his brows and cheekbones tighten and crease as he does. Rolls his shoulders, stretches the trapezius muscles until the cartilage crunch and resets between vertebra; yawns, deep and leonine and involuntary. 

     He reaches for his flip phone, compelled by the memory that blurs and fades. Owen remembers thumbing through his phone’s push-button keypad, writing something, texting someone, but it ends there. He checks his recent contacts, Sally’s number, his inbox. The last message he sent to her was the entire lyrics to Toot Sweet, and then a followup joke: ‘you’re toot cute.’

     Owen drags his palm over his mouth, something like embarrassment hot under the skin of his neck. He gets up, and dumps his Ambien prescription into his kitchen sink, watches the chalky little pills drain into the garbage disposal. Owen is a decisive man, this way. He glances at his phone, and seems to count for a solid sixty seconds before he picks it up again, sends Sally a decidedly lucid text: 

TO SALLY (BLONDE): Does this mean you’ll put me out of my misery? TO SALLY (BLONDE): Sorry about that.  

                        AT SOME POINT, Sally ignored his texts.  When Toot Sweet came through her phone, she turned on ‘Do Not Disturb’, just to make sure that she wasn’t awake all night.  She didn’t want to be taking Ambien to sleep, that was for sure.  But when Owen texted her, no longer high, this time, she shook her head, but gave a pleasant smile before texting back.

                        TO OWEN;; I don’t kill. Sorry.                         TO OWEN;; You’re fine.  I hadn’t meant to bother you.                         I just wanted to know if you were free soon/if you were                         interested in getting drinks with me.  Although, if you’re                         taking Ambien, getting drinks may be a bad idea.  Coffee                         is always an option.

You probably do and I’m glad you agree. She drives me nuts. I have her blocked here, and I can’t block her on my other account because she’ll “win” in her mind because she hates me. She is so high and mighty and talks about things she has no room to. Like? She takes the “ally” title way too far. She thinks she’s so special for “fighting for mental illness issues” by bullying others.

She does the same thing with race too. Marking every time she talks about it with “i’m white” thinking that what she’s doing by saying that is good but it’s really just excusing any ignorance she might have when trying to stand up for POC rights and it disgusts me. like “i’m white so i don’t understand completely so you can’t get mad at me because i disclaimed it” like ugh

She’s also privileged as heck as far as money goes but pretends she isn’t. Like? As if money doesn’t count in privilege, just your skin tone and gender and if you have mental illnesses or not. Like? She goes to all these concerts with T.veit and buys all kinds of episodes of TV with him in it just to gif it (like she made a point to make sure everyone knew she BOUGHT EVERY EPISODE WITH MONEY one time) and it just disgusts me that she’s so ignorant but pretends like she’s the most knowledgable about ALL THE SOCIAL ISSUES.