#partylitos

Officer Jannik Sinner fell in love the second

he set eyes on Carlos Alcaraz.

It was cliché. Embarrassing, really. Still, he had a job to do and that came second to the infatuation.

"We got a noise complaint," he had told Mr. Carlos, who was buzzed and happy.

His eyes were hazel. He had a Spanish accent made thicker by the booze.

He was not at all Jannik's type. Jannik preferred slim blondes with blue eyes.

Who were quiet and did not provoke cops to their doors.

"Sorry about that, Mr...?" Carlos said with a mocking grin.

Carlos' hand was still extended, and of course Jannik wanted to grab it. It was large and broad and callused, and Jannik wondered what he did for a living to make it so.

"Officer Sinner." He did not shake Carlos' hand. "Just -- keep it down. You know, it is a late hour and people are trying to rest."

He kept his voice friendly, light. Most noise complaints needed to be dealt with quickly. Los Angeles was a busy place, and actual crimes were happening elsewhere.

Not here, in Bel-Air, in this stupidly large mansion that was too much space for anyone to own, with a gate he and Jack had to buzz several times to be even able to walk up the rose-laden path past a guest house that could just be a regular house, to the main house, which was --

Loud.

Booming throughout the whole neighborhood, and it was a bit much -- that they could make so much noise in such a big space.

"You're right," Mr. Carlos said. His hand was still up, and it was creeping forward. "It is just -- I win you see. Ah -- big. Big match last week. You know. Tennis? I play tennis. Career grand slam! So my friend he throw a party --"

Jannik remained impassive. He was a football guy. AC Milan.

Carlos stumbled. He was used to wowing people. "Ah. Well. It's not important. We will be quiet now."

He turned around and shouted, "¡Hay que callarse! ¡ÁLVARO! ¡Fran! ¡La música -- la música! ¡Bajadla! ¡Todos! ¡Demasiado fuerte!!! ¡Que nos callamos, joder!"

Mr. Carlos swayed, then looked at Jannik. "I take care of it. I make sure."

Jannik and Jack had glanced at each other. That was it. They followed protocol for a noise complaint. They would return if they got another call.

"Okay, sir," Jannik had said. "Thank you very much. Enjoy your party."

He turned to leave, but then -- he felt a tug at his sleeve. Training told him that shouldn't happen. Someone grabbing him meant danger.

But it all felt perfectly natural somehow when he followed the motion of it, turned his head and met Mr. Carlos --

-- who pulled him down into a kiss.

that there were cops at his door -- and he WAS, definitely -- but the anxiety over being in trouble over something was taking second place to the immediate feeling of infatuation at the two very good looking men looking sternly at him from the doorway.

"Hola," he said and tipped up his red cup in greeting.

The brief hope that they were strippers came and went when the one who knocked -- red curls and freckles and unnaturally pale in the scant moonlight -- said with a frown, "Are you the owner of this residence?"

The other one -- with a sharp widow's peak and even sharper cheekbones -- menaced. He looked at his partner, then at the party behind Carlos.

"It's my house, yeah," Carlos said.

"Mr....?"

Carlos extended a hand, instinct. "Carlos."

Freckles looked down at his hand, frown deepening.

Carlos giggled.

"Mr. Carlos," he said, because actually, the worry and the infatuation were coming behind the most immediate feeling of the night, which was: being totally plastered.

Part 2 HERE