Reunion – Law & Order Fan Fiction

I found this on an old external drive today, and it’s dated June 2, 2002.  It was a challenge from a Law & Order fan fiction website called Apocrypha, and it’s a story that I DID NOT submit since I ended up submitting something else which was included in their challenge issue.  

Apocrypha was this venerable Law & Order Fan Fiction website that disappeared after a few years but I’ve just discovered that it’s been archived so three of my works are available on there (which I don’t even have copies of at all – so what a surprise it was tonight to find my stories on there still!). 

I submitted stories from 1999 – 2002 and it’s amazing to me, after reading this story for the first time in more than ten years, how my writing has changed.  I have to admit, I was actually much better back then because now I totally suck because I describe everything TOO DARN MUCH and lose out on the action.

If you’re unfamiliar with the original Law & Order series, its original stars included Christopher Noth as Mike Logan and he was my favorite character to write about, the perfect foil for my writing fantasies.  His partner in this story is Lennie Briscoe, played by the amazing Jerry Orbach, his third partner in the series.  I always loved the original and still have the DVD’s.  It was grittier and because it was so new for its genre, truly original.   Those were the days…

Anyway, hope you enjoy this one!  


I hadn’t seen him in ages, and I wondered if he’d even remember me.  He hadn’t shown up at the recent reunion held at the Bayside Club in Manhattan, and even the other women wondered what had happened to him.  Somehow, speaking to Yvette, Colleen, and Natasha, I had a feeling that they all had slept with him.

After all, said Colleen, it wasn’t easy to say no to those Irish eyes.

And, oh, that wicked smile, Natasha added.  Unfortunately I had nothing to add to their sexual updates.  I found myself playing observer, just as I always did for work.

“I know he’s a detective in Manhattan,” said Yvette coyly.  If David hadn’t gotten her pregnant straight out of college, she said she would have gone after him herself.

“Difficult to do now when you’ve got three children running all over the house,” she added wistfully.  And an alcoholic for a husband, I wanted to add.  But there was no point twisting the knife any more than was necessary.

Colleen made a face.  “Heck, for all we know, he’s probably some loser cop walking the beat, the midnight shift or something.”

“With a pot belly, too.”  Natasha piped in, dipping her face into her martini, still trying to be cool with her totally seventies helmet hair.  She turned to face me, catching me staring at her.  I could have sworn I smelled hair spray.  Didn’t that go out in the eighties?

“So, what about you?  What do you do now?”

I shrugged.  “I work for KABC in Los Angeles, doing the news.  Day to day stories, stuff like that.”

Colleen’s eyes widened.  “You mean, like talking on TV?”

I shook my head.  “No, I do journalistic reporting.  In fact, the reason why I’m here is because I’m going to do a story on how detectives crack the case.”

“No, you’re not,” shrieked Yvette.  “Are you going to be seeing him?  Oh make sure you tell me how he is!  Maybe he’s still single?  Divorced?”

“Sleeping around?”  Natasha cooed.

I laughed.  It must really be such a bore being married, I thought.  “No, that never crossed my mind.”

Yet on a cold day in November, after a brief rainstorm that left the sidewalks of Manhattan glistening in the sun, I left the camera crew to film background shots at Precinct 13, by Greenwich Village, and walked the five blocks that I knew would lead me to a glimpse of my past.  The camera crew had wanted me to stay and join them for dinner at Little Italy.  I told them I’d join them later.  I still had something to do.

I had lied back at the reunion.  It had crossed my mind to see him, old Mikey, and see how he was doing, pot belly and all.  I ducked into the entrance, as if afraid that one of those women would see me.  More than once, it had crossed my mind.

A detective chomping on a stale doughnut pointed him out for me, a knowing gleam in his eye as he walked away.  The place was abuzz with activity, yet it was easy to spot him.  He hadn’t really changed much, except that he probably had a few lines around his eyes, but that boyish look still dominated his face.  And there was no pot belly, I discovered, with a sense of relief.

I found him with a phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, scribbling notes on a small notepad with a pencil.

Around him people were going about their work, walking to and from one room to another, talking on phones, and typing up reports.  In the far end of the room, I could see a black woman inside a glass-lined office, talking to two people standing in front of her desk.  She seemed to be in charge, I thought, from the way she sat behind her desk, listening to two men sitting across from her.  At least, she was in one of the few offices I could clearly see from where I stood.

It was just like the news desk in Los Angeles, I thought wryly.  Except that we were equipped with more technology than Precinct 27.  I could see ancient IBM machines on some of the desks.  We had news feeds every hour beamed straight to our desks.

He was wearing a white shirt and plaid tie that seemed to have been salvaged from a decade earlier.  His hair was cropped short, yet a wayward curl had placed itself in the middle of his forehead, giving him that boyish look I had always remembered about him.

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, listening intently to the other person on the phone.  “Yeah, I got that.”

The man in front of him was doing some finger pecking on a typewriter that seemed as old as he was.  His hair was slicked back with cheap pomade, his forehead high and glistening.  It was humid.

“Hey, Lenny,” Mike Logan said as he placed the phone on the cradle.  “You gotta tell your girlfriend to lay off calling me.”

The man named Lenny chuckled, then cursed as his finger hit the wrong key.  “What can I say, Mikey?  She thinks you’re cute.  You should just ask her out.”

Mike shook his head.  “What is she?  Twelve?”

“Twenty three, Mike.  Jesus, what?  Losing your touch already?”  Lenny was furiously erasing a mistyped letter on the paper, blowing on it afterwards.  Reminded me so much of my father.  I began walking towards the desk, but they still hadn’t noticed me.

“I don’t care.  I don’t date twelve year old girls.”  Mike said, picking up the phone to dial another number.

“You dated me.”  I suddenly said, catching them by surprise.  I couldn’t have been given the perfect cue for a segue.

Mike looked up, and for a moment, he frowned, trying to figure out who I was.  I didn’t think I had changed much.  But then, twelve years can change anyone.

Suddenly his eyes widened, and his smile grew.  I smiled, seeing the teenager I used to know.  He jumped from his chair and rushed towards me, then stopped as if to survey me a little bit more closely.

“I can’t believe my eyes,” he said, gathering me in his arms in a bear hug.  I could smell the scent of aftershave.  “It’s been, what?  Twelve years?”

I nodded.  “Give or take.  Mikey, it’s so nice to see you.”

“Ainsley,” Mike breathed.  For a few moments, he simply stared at me.  “Lenny, I want you to meet Ainsley.  She used to live next door to me when I was a kid.  Ains, this is Lenny Briscoe, my partner.”

I took Lenny’s hand and shook it.  “Nice to meet you, Lenny. ”

Lenny smiled.  “Gee, you certainly don’t look twelve to me.”

“When I turned twelve, I asked Mikey what it was like to date.” I said, and for a moment I thought I saw Mike blush.  “He was fifteen then.”

“And did he fill you in with all the gory details?”  Lenny asked.

I laughed.  “I had to pay him to date me, just so the girls in the neighborhood would get jealous, and stop calling me a tomboy.”

“You certainly don’t look like a tomboy to me now,” Mike said, his voice lowering.  As if on cue, Lenny excused himself to return to the form he was typing up.

Mike took me by the elbow gently, steering me towards the break room.  He offered me some coffee, which I accepted.  There were other people in the break room, but one by one, they left to return to their work.  The man I had spoken to earlier was still there though, digging his hand into a pink box filled with doughnuts.

“Hey, Profaci,” Mike called and Profaci looked up just in time to see Mike tilt his head towards the door.

Profaci smiled that same knowing smile again as he walked towards the door.  “Sure, Mike,” he said.  Then to me:  “Glad to see you found him.”

I sat down.  “So does everyone do as you say around here?”

“Nah,” Mike replied, asking me if I wanted cream or sugar.  “Only when I bring a beautiful girl in.”  He winked.

“I went to the reunion last Saturday,” I said, accepting the cup of coffee from him.  “I was expecting to see you.”

“I had a date Saturday.  Sorry to disappoint you, Ains.”

“Not me, Mike.  Just Natasha, Colleen, and Yvette,” I replied.

He laughed and I could see that he still had that killer smile I had fallen for when I was a teen-ager.

“I hear you’re doing news in Los Angeles,” said Mike.  “Saw you last when I graduated from college, and by then, you were just about entering your junior year in journalism.”  Then he added softly, “I’m really proud of you, Ains.  You really did go for it after all.  Even with all the stuff you had to go through growing up.”

“As did you, Detective Mike Logan.”

There was a moment of silence between us as two detectives, a man and a woman, came in to get some coffee.  Then they left the room, leaving Mike and I alone again.

All the stuff you had to go through growing up.  And boy, did we ever go through stuff.  Our parents were either child abusers or alcoholics, leaving both of us to fend for ourselves most days, but somehow we had both made it through.  I looked at Mike, realizing that although he had grown older, he didn’t seem to have changed too much.  He seemed to move the same, talk the same as he did when I last saw him.  He was still cocky.  And he had somehow acquired a taste for the most awful checkered ties.

“So are you here for work?  Or vacation?”  He asked, breaking the silence between us.

I nodded.  “Both, actually.  I’m here doing a piece on one-three, in the Village.  And then I need some serious rest and relaxation.  Maybe even do the carriage ride around Central Park, you know?”

“Why should you?” Mike scoffed.  “You’re practically a native.  That stuff’s for tourists willing to part with eighty bucks and change.  Hey, you got something in your eye.”

Mike leaned forward, bringing his finger towards my face and brushing something off my eye.  I flinched unexpectedly and for a brief moment, his finger froze a few centimeters from my face.  “It’s just your mascara,” he said softly.  “Man, they do pile on that make up, don’t they?”

I smiled, nodding, suddenly feeling self-conscious as his gaze never left my face.  He was staring.

“Yes, they do.  It’s what makes me presentable on TV.”

“You don’t need all that make-up, Ains.  Really, you don’t.  But I guess that’s how it’s like in your business,” he said.  Then he added as he looked closely at my face, the detective back at work.  “Or if you’re trying to hide something that has no business being there in the first place.”

I suddenly wanted to leave, feeling uncomfortable beneath his gaze.  You couldn’t get anything past Mike Logan.  “It’s so nice to see you, Mike.  I hope I’m not taking you away from your work.”

“I really am glad you stopped by.  Look, Ains, if you need anything, anything at all, you call me, okay?”

I smiled, nodding.  I had tried to dial his number so many times through the years, but never had I allowed myself to complete the call.  Maybe it was pride.  Or maybe it was the shame.

He sipped his coffee, finishing the cup and crumpling it.  We could hear the phone ringing, and Lenny answering the call.

“So where are you staying?”  He asked.

“I’m at the Plaza.  Room 467.”

“Whoa,” he exclaimed.  “And your network is paying for this?”

I shook my head.  “No, he is.”

Mike pushed his chair back and stood up.  His eyes alighted on my hands, his gaze resting on the large diamond nestled on my finger.  “That’s more than what I make in a year, Ains.”  He tossed the cup into the trash can and stood there with his back facing me.  I got up, the chair scraping the floor loudly.   “You’re too good for him, Ains.  You know that.”

I wanted to say, I know, Mike, but I let the moment pass.  Mike knew me too well.  That’s what happens when you grow up with someone, experience all the growing pains together, the highs and the lows.  And then one day, you grow up and you go your separate ways.  For Mike, it was making sure justice was served, while for me, it was getting out of poverty, no matter the cost.

“Ains-“

Lenny poked his head through the door.  “Hey, sorry to interrupt this reunion.  Mikey, time to go.”

Mike seemed lost, unable to decide what to do.

“Go, Mikey.  Do your job.”  I said, gathering my purse and slinging it over my shoulder.  “It was great to see you again.”

He walked towards me, and hugged me tightly one last time before turning to leave.  I watched him gather his coat, a flag pin upon a lapel, and put it on.  Then with one last look towards my direction, he left, rushing out the door behind Lenny.

“Hey, you’re that journalist who’s doing the feature on one-three,” said the dark skinned woman entering the break room.  “The Lieutenant cued me in.  How’s that working out?”

That night, it rained hard, and I watched from my window as the lights glistened in the park across the street from the hotel.  Thanksgiving was fast approaching and already, the Christmas lights had been put up.  The white transoms that had taken couples around the park were now gone, the horses safe from the pouring rain.

I found myself smiling at what Mike said.  He was right.  Native New Yorkers didn’t need to ride those carriages around Central Park for eighty bucks.  Just because I had moved to the west coast didn’t make me any less a New Yorker.

There was a knock on the door and I gathered my robe closer about me, suddenly feeling cold.  I had ordered some room service and I was famished.  As I reached for the door knob, I glanced at the ring on my finger and felt a pang of guilt.  He wasn’t due to come in till tomorrow night, leaving me tonight free to do as I pleased.  I smiled at the thought, my other hand touching my cheek where Mike’s trained eye had spotted the bruise beneath all that make-up as I opened the door.  Maybe I was too good for him, just as Mikey said earlier.

The attendant wheeled the tray in, uncovering each entrée as he introduced it to me.  For a meal close to a hundred bucks, he better tell me what each one was, I thought wryly.  Then he uncorked the wine, and poured a little into the glass, swirling it for me.  Shiraz.

After he left, I slipped off the ring and placed it on the nightstand, next to the clock.  It was only eight thirty, and outside, the rain came down harder.  Just for tonight, I wanted to feel free.

Midway through the meal, I realized that the waiter had forgotten to include the crème brulee I had ordered for dessert.  I was reaching for the phone to call Room Service when there was a knock on my door.

“About time,” I yelled as I got up from the chair.  At least they remembered, I thought, licking some of the raspberry sauce from my fingers as I opened the door wide.

Mike was leaning against the door frame, his hair slightly drenched from the rain.  I found myself wetting my lips nervously, forgetting to invite him in.  He still wore the same suit beneath his coat, but he’d removed that horrible tie and his shirt was unbuttoned.

“I was hoping you’d be alone.”  He murmured as I stepped aside to let him in.

I never did get the crème brulee.

 

Pantser or a Plotter?

Someone asked me this today on Twitter and although I’ve never heard of the first term, since we were talking about writing, I figured it out right away.

And so I answered that I am a “seat of your pants” type of writer these days – a pantser.

I used to be a plotter – oh was I ever!  I plotted everything from the beginning of the story to kingdom come, till the cows came home and till the ink ran dry from both my pen and my mind, and I was left too dry and too exhausted to actually write out the damn story.

Sometimes it would happen in the middle of the story, by the time I’d reach 25K words, and once, when I reached 65K.  I plotted so much that I actually ran out of steam, and fall out of love for my technically drawn out characters and all their character arcs.  Oh, the tables and the charts would all be filled out, but the writing page would end up…empty.

And so, after almost ten years of not writing – totally burned out and besides, I had a real life to tend to, a baby to birth, etc. – I picked up the pen and began writing again.

Armed with my new iPad (this was a year and a half ago) and all the writing apps I could get my hands (and wallet) on, I started plotting…and plotting…and plotting.  I had story boarding apps, index card apps, even writing complete with music apps.

But my writing was dry and devoid of that oomph that comes with writing that seems just so organic, as if words just flowed freely from my pen, or from the artery that I’d just cut deep enough to produce a healthy flow of creative juices.

Then I came across this quote by Ray Bradbury:

Jump and unfold your wings as you fall

It told me about writing organically, just allowing words to flow through your fingers, just letting them all hang out.  And maybe later on, I could just trim them down or add to it, but at least there was something real on the page.

I also got rid of all those damn apps.

I started with a paranormal novel and looking back now – this was begun in September 2012 – I wrote without a muse inside my head.  Just faceless creatures walking to and fro reciting dialogue as I wrote – dialogue that was actually really good, but impersonal.

I was too afraid to put faces to the characters then, afraid that I would revert back to my old ways of plotting till the ink well ran dry and I’d fall out of love with the faces I’d chosen.

But being organic in my writing also meant welcoming new ideas in, allowing things that used to scare me back into my life.  It meant allowing a new muse to enter the threshold of my ‘mind palace’ and feel at home – and be an inspiration for me.

It meant that I needed to find him, and let him in.

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So these days, I can definitely say I’m an organic, seat-of-my-pants type of writer, one who has let the muse into her life and allows herself to play with words each and every day, even when the plots that form on the page often go on overdrive and become a bit too wild and crazy at times – but at least I can rein them all in later.

Plotting for me has become like making a sandwich.  I have the two pieces of bread to start with – my beginning and my end – and what goes inside, the filling, I fill it up as I go – as long as the goal is the same – to make it to the second piece of bread, that ending that I had loosely ‘written’ or thought out inside my head.

And so if you’re reading my stories these days, you’ll probably be asking yourself, ‘what is she thinking?’ or ‘where the hell is this going?’.

And the answer is – it’s a journey that begun at the beginning and is making its way to the end.  And along the way, you and I are simply on this one huge adventure – with you as the reader, and me, as its writer.

And boy, am I having fun.

I hope you are, too.

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Valentine’s Day Redux

Can I just preface this post before you begin that I finally do cuss – a lot.  So be forewarned.  Although it’s very tame compared to what might have been…

Girls-at-Valentines-day-with-fun

Valentine’s Day always does something to me.  Maybe it’s from those years spent trapped in an all-girls’ Catholic high school and watching every girl get roses delivered to them (we were all 15 years old for crying out loud – who are these boyfriends who could afford these humongous bouquets of roses??) that one year I finally told my dad to send me one anonymously ASAP – and he did.

Not that it made me feel better, since I knew who they came from.  And knowing that your daddy just sent you a beautiful humongous bouquet of roses because he took pity on you isn’t exactly romantic.  Right?

But I digress.

It’s now years and years later and this day still gets to me.

Not because I still don’t get roses (because when I do, I’m like, so you wanna get laid or what?  what are you trying to say????), I’m so used to that – my SO’s idea of a romantic gesture is take-out from California Pizza Kitchen even after I show him all the same humongous bouquets of roses the same high school friends now on Facebook paste all over my time line with captions that read “After 20 YEARS I finally get a bouquet of roses from hubby!”

I’m sorry, but captions like that should be kept under wraps, and that hubby needs to get flogged.  Twenty fucking years? You had to wait twenty fucking years to get a humongous bouquet of roses???  Hell, if it did happen to me, I’m not saying anything on Facebook at all!

Besides, I buy myself these humongous bouquets of roses already.  Who needs the hubby to do that?  I so wanted to do that on her timeline but why burst that bubble?

See what Valentine’s Day does to me?

Anyway, after an amorous evening (totally not!) spent skulking over the CPK take out, the little guy running off with MY Thai Chicken pizza, and the tiff over the unfolded bits of laundry lying about the house (I am trying to finish a darn book after all), I decided to see how romantic I do get as a writer with passages of my own – all penned on non-Valentine’s Days because it is my belief that this day is totally not all it’s cut out to be.  It also made me realize that if I were to have a romantic evening with lots of hot sex like I write about in my stories, there is NO way I’m eating more than one slice of that Thai Chicken pizza.  And the tiramisu?  Fuggedaboutit.  Any one with me on this?

I always wait till it’s over before I raid the fridge and eat what I was supposed to eat hours before.  That’s my secret.  It’s my M.O.  Don’t tell anyone.

That and my blood sugar has gone down so dangerously low from all that in-bed-out-of-bed-hot-sex that now I’ve got a headache to boot as well, thank you very much.

This led me to wonder about how the opposite sex (or same sex for that matter, I can bat for both teams if I need to) feels about this.  Does doing it on a full stomach feel much better than not a full stomach?  I have a feeling that the answer might be – it doesn’t matter either way, baby, but I could be wrong.

You see, women like me have to keep that tummy as flat as possible in trying to emulate every damn sex scene we see in our heads all manufactured from Hollywood.  Not that I’ve long lost that belly I somehow acquired after having the little guy via C-Section and trying to get it flatter with DDP yoga (I did buy into Arthur’s awesome transformation and got the whole package to be just like him – in like ten years), but pizza and tiramisu don’t help it look any flatter either.

But if all else fails, just turn off that damn light even though he might like to “see”.  Um, not if you want to tap this, you’re not.  But if you pay for the lipo, tummy tuck, nose job, skin peel, and over-all overhaul, be my guest.  And while we’re at it, why not my teeth, too.

I’ve digressed yet again, I see.

Anyway, so I went to look at some of my ‘romantic’ stories posted on Wattpad, the only ones I do post since they’re fanfic and my original stories are still in my hard drive with scenes totally NSFW, if you know what I mean.  These posted stories are the erotica ones that I’ve been working on to challenge myself that I can write better than that gal who does Whatever-Number-Shades-of-Gray (having a too-beautiful man as a muse doesn’t hurt either – you know who you are!) and after a few minutes of reading this line and that line, I ended up editing the whole bit and spent the next four hours making a fanvid for one of them just because it was Valentine’s day and I had nothing really better to do.

So anyway, I ended up hopping right back into the fangirl rabbit hole and I’m just barely climbing my way out two days later.  So in honor of this over-rated, there’s-just-too-much-pressure-for-me-to-be-romantic-and-didn’t-you-know-I-hate-doing-house-work-that-one-day-I-will-pay-for-a-damn-maid day, I made this fanvid for my story, Return to Sparkhouse.

And oh, just to make it a bit harder for English-only speaking folks, the song playing is Creo En Ti, Spanish for I Believe In You (and that’s going to be the only romantic thing about this post today) – even though I don’t speak Spanish at all but for the perfect Mr. Right-Now with the accent to die for, I just might start doing so.

Glossary:

SO – Significant Other

ASAP – As Soon As Possible or ASAFP with F representing you-know-what

NSFW – Not Safe For Work

MO – Modus Operandi

CPK – California Pizza Kitchen – I just love their Thai Chicken pizza!

And if you’re still reading this far down, here’s to those who had a wonderful Valentine’s day.  Since this post has much to do with sex, or lack of it, here’s one for those who did get some: