𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗶𝘃𝗲
𝗄𝗁𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗏 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽𝗒

𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱| 𝟣𝟣.𝟢𝟨.𝟤𝟢
𝗲𝗱𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗱| 𝗇/𝖺
𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁| 𝟣𝟩𝟥𝟧
𝘁𝘄| 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗅 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗒/
𝗂𝗆𝗉. 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗇𝗎𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗒
𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀| 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖼𝗁𝗅𝗈𝖾́ 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗁𝗂𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗃𝗈𝖻

𝘃𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗻𝗮, 𝗮𝘂𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗮
𝗍𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋
𝟫:𝟥𝟨 𝖺𝗆

     𝗖𝗛𝗟𝗢𝗘́ 𝗔𝗪𝗢𝗞𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 of the street outside the hotel, shifting her weight in bed. The room's french doors were open, the cool morning air off the balcony ruffling the sheets. She rolled over on her side, grunting softly as she found herself pressed against Richie's back. Chloé was careful to be gentle, resting her head over his shoulder. "G'morning," she murmured sleepily in his ear. "...It's cold."

     Richie nudged her off, rolling over to face her. His eyes were still glassy with sleep, but he managed to reach out and run a thumb down her cheek. "Mmm—well, I know one way to fix that," he said horsely, tilting her chin and slowly moving in for a kiss.

     Chloé's finger shot out, pressing itself against his lips. Richie's brows knit. "I thought we talked about...that," she reminded him.

     "Oh," he chuckled, "so, I can put my mouth anywhere else?"

     Chloé tugged the covers away from Richie, burying herself. "Maybe I'll think about it," she told him, "if you close the doors."

     "Well, I can't say no to that, can I?" He told her, rolling out of bed in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. "And—by the way," Richie reminded her, stopping to stretch on his way to the balcony, "it was your idea to open them last night, you—"

     "Alright, okay...wait—leave them for a second." Chloé swung her legs over the side of the bed, picking up Richie's discarded button down from the floor and pulling her arms through it. "Do you have a light?" she asked him as she knelt, rifling through the drawer of the nightstand.

     "You're kidding, right?" Richie sighed, but came over to the edge of the bed and pulled a suitcase out from underneath. "Here," he unzipped the front pocket and handed it to her. "Before coffee and everything, huh?"

     Chloé shot him a harsh look, opening a pack of cigarettes from the drawer. She stuck one between her teeth as she cupped her hands to light it. "Mmm," Chloé mused, brushing past him to walk out to the balcony, leaning up against the railing. Her free hand worked at buttoning up the shirt. "You're concerned. It's cute—girls like when guys show they're sensitive, you know." A smile lingered on her lips as she exhaled smoke, tapping the cigarette.

     Richie joined her at the railing, slipping an arm around her waist. "Yeah? I think you might be with the wrong guy, then."

     "With you?" she raised an eyebrow. "Are we calling it that, now?"

     "You know what I meant," Richie murmured, watching the smoke from the cigarette rise over the narrow rooftops. "Or would you prefer the term 'nighttime companion'? I've got plenty others," he joked, "just let me know—"

     "Shut up," Chloé laughed softly, "you're such an idiot. And, you sound like Haden—on the job in Miami he said he thought you fancied me."

     "That so?" Richie mumbled, kissing under her jawline. "Well, I...fancy certain things about you," his other hand trailed downwards, stopping at the small of her back.

     Chloé took a drag of the cigarette. "Oh, I think you've made that clear," she told him, unable to help but smile again.

     She didn't know how they always ended up like this, really. But she'd felt it the day she'd met him—there was no way in hell she'd be able to stay away from Richie Olsen. It was so long ago that it barely felt real, more like a dream than a memory.

     Chloé sipped her wine with two hands, delicately bringing the glass to her lips. She could feel her father standing at her shoulder, watching the man—Ryan? No, Richie—take a call in the garden, taking deliberate steps as he paced in Italian leather shoes.

     "What do you think?" Nathan asked her, her father's voice hoarse from cigarette smoke. "About bringing him on?"

     Chloé allowed herself more wine, letting her answer stew. "...I dunno. I thought you had a problem with outsiders—now you're on about a team all of a sudden."

     "I'm...diversifying," her father told her, affectionately tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Olsen knows his way around a new circle of buyers. Don't worry about me," he winked, his soft eyes sparkling. "I'll keep doing what I'm doing." Nathan eased himself into the patio chair next to hers, reaching out to pour himself a glass of wine. "You didn't really answer my question, though."

     "I told you," Chloé said stiffly. "I think it's unlike you, but it isn't my place to say."

     Nathan looked nearly offended. "You know I value your opinion—what do you think about him?"

     She gave Richie as good a look as she could from a distance: smartly dressed, chiseled features, gorgeous eyes, and undoubtedly skillful hands. Those fucking hands. "Oh," Chloé said suggestively into her glass. "I don't think you want to know the answer to that one."

     Nathan chuckled a little. "Hmm—I'm starting to suspect that I don't."

     There was a sharp knock at the door, which caused Chloé to start a bit. "Rich? You better not be still fucking sleeping—Cam's got the ship yard schematics all labeled, we're waiting on you," Ishani's muffled voice came from the adjoining room. "And don't answer the door naked again...please."

     Richie's eyes widened, gently taking Chloé's arm and motioning toward the bed. She seemed to get the message, climbing in and burying herself under the sheets. She could hear Richie crossing the room, the wooden floor creaking slightly.

     "It's open, Iz."

     "Seriously," the door opened, "what are you—oh, bloody hell, Rich!" Ishani averted her eyes. "What did I say?"

     Richie just leaned against the doorframe. "Well, I'm not naked."

     "Just—ugh—clothes, coffee table, five minutes." And with that, Ishani closed the door in his face.

     Chloé waited until Ishani's footsteps receded, sitting up in bed, grin plastered on her face. "You reckon I should have shot up and scared her?"

     Richie rolled his eyes, crossing back over to the bed and pulling out his suitcase again, rummaging around for clothes. "Yeah, and prove Haden right? I'd rather jump off the balcony."

     Chloé studied his expression as he tugged on a pair of dress pants. "Is he?"

     "Is...what?" Richie demanded, fumbling with the belt buckle.

     "Haden—right—about you? Do you fancy me?"

     "...I was in your guts a few hours ago, you tell me."

     "That's not an answer," Chloé's face turned pink. "If you you're going to treat me like a joke, then we don't have to do this anymore."

     Richie didn't say anything for a minute, picking out a shirt from the suitcase. He brushed her remark aside. "...You should wait for ten minutes or so when I leave—so it doesn't look like we came out together."

     Chloé just turned away from him, unplugging her phone from the outlet on the nightstand. "Whatever. You're being—"

     The door flew open. "Rich, we have a major prob—oh, fuck—" Ishani was standing in the hall, mouth agape, eyes darting between Richie and Chloé. The pair froze, the palpable tension finally extinguished when Ishani cleared her throat. "Uh—you should see this," she continued awkwardly. "On TV..."

     They got up, following Ishani out into the sitting area, where Cameron was hunched over a gigantic map on the table. Haden was lying across the couch, hugging a satin pillow to his chest. They both scrambled to sit up when Ishani, Richie—and a still pants-less—Chloé stumbled into the room. Chloé made it a point to half-hide behind Richie, tugging at the dress shirt as far as it would go.

     "Oh—good, you guys are...uh—" Cameron looked puzzled "—here." He searched around near his feet, glancing behind him at Haden. "You got the remote?"

     Haden dug in the couch cushion, holding it up triumphantly. "Here—catch, Urkle."

     "Haden had on some American news station," Cameron explained, fumbling the remote as he caught it. "To, uh...what he called 'check game scores'—"

     "—it's the playoffs."

     "—and we saw something else. Look familiar?" he rewound the TV, stopping to let part of what looked like an interview play.

     A blonde woman in a pantsuit was being hounded by reporters, a beach boardwalk in the distance. She was incredibly composed, leaning in to speak into the microphone closest to her. "—and we can assure the public that the F.B.I is working diligently to close this case. This is, as we know of, simply the place where the body was found, and the Santa Barbra Police Department has asked us to stress that the beaches are completely safe. However, we ask that anyone who knows the victim—who we've identified as Ronald Krause—" A file photo of a balding man in his early fifties appeared on the screen "to contact the tip line below immediately, as anything at all could be pertinent to—"

     Cameron shut the TV, turning back to the ensemble of stunned faces.

     "Isn't that—" Richie began.

     "The dock worker from the job in California that Haden took care of?" Ishani finished, glaring at Haden on the couch. "Yes."

     Haden just threw up his hands. "Hey—it was weeks ago! I just remember tossing 'em off the dock in the bag and calling it a day. I don't—"

     "What did you do?" Chloé spat. "You didn't weigh the body down, did you, you absolute fucking wanker—"

     "What did I do?" Haden wondered. He gave her a once over, noting her outfit—or, rather, lack of one. "Who did you do?" he nodded towards Richie with a smirk.

     "Don't change the subject," Richie growled at him. "You know how fucked we are? No evidence, ever. No paper trail. That's the rule."

     "And do you know how incompetent the feds are over there? I spent years running from them," Haden countered. "You think they'll get anywhere with this? Seriously?" He stretched out, crossing his legs. "It'll blow over."

     "It better," Richie told him.

♡︎