13/12/2016 4:30 AM Downtown Brooklyn, New York. The Man Cave.

It's kind of sad. Here he is, truly opening up to a complete stranger whom he's only just known for about a good half an hour. I didn't really expect him to go into such detail, based on his past behaviours. And to be honest, I really wish that he hadn't. He looks a bit 'detached' once he muttered in the voice of a mouse, the last few words of his story and gazes out almost through me, behind me at the other empty tables and chairs that fill up this end of the room. Eventually, he snaps out of his trance and returns his gaze to his drink, lifts it up to his lips to drink the last few drops of the dry, first-quenching liquid left in the bottle and sets it back down on the table. I'm shocked into a moment of silence.

"Oh....what did you do after that?" I ask in a meek voice, I can feel my eyebrows furrowing in sympathy.

"That, that's irrelavant. What matters is what I do now."

"Spencer. Spencer....Spencer!" a distant, far away voice shouts at me, desperate for my attention. It wasn't until moments later that I realised Samuel had been grasping at my attention ever since Joshua's story ended.

"Uh, Joshua, sorry if this seems a bit rude but I'll be right back. I have to go to the bathroom." But all he does is smiles and shrugs in response. I make my excuse and ensure that Samuel is aware of my whereabouts. I fling my head over my shoulder, cast him a look and from his corner of the room, he seems to get the idea. However, he isn't alone. By that, I don't mean, getting with the ladies like I had assumed he would've been when he proposed the idea of coming here. His company consist of a fuming, skimpily dressed red head and a lanky male, dressed in the uniform of a security guard. Both stand expectantly in front of him, eyeing Samuel down with their arms crossed. The female taps one of her heels against the carpeted floor with haste.

I hurry myself in the direction where I originally stood at the start of this night, reach the curtains, take a right and shove open the toilet door. An incredibly irritating scratching noise can be heard on my end of the connection, whatever it may be about, they seem to be having a heated discussion. The feeling in my ear is like that of a fly that just doesn't want to leave you alone, buzzing around your head. As soon as I arrive in the black and gold tiled bathroom, I check each stall individually for any other people, but there's no one to be found.

I let out a frustrated growl and fling my dark hair over my shoulder and away from my ear. "My god, that sound is annoying. What. Is. So. Urgent?" Just as I say this, the sound of a woman coughing can be heard somewhere behind me.

I take a glance over my shoulder to where the sound seems to be coming from. That's when I realised, I didn't bother to check beside the last stall, where a gap lies between the last stall and the wall and in its place resides a bin. A young girl, who seems to be working as a stripper, sits on her knees, scrunched over a small rubbish bin, wiping away at her mouth. Groggily, she forces herself up on her own two feet with a groan and throws me a peculiar stare. The blonde hot mess, wobbles past slowly, giving me a glare as if to say, "Why the hell are you talking to yourself? You weirdo." With me being all hot and bothered, it seems like ages pass until she finally exits. With a roll of my eyes, I forcefully push the tap sideways, sending water gushing like a waterfall into the shining ceramic sink.

"Samuel?" I repeat. "Sam?" I say again more heatedly.

"I'm here, I'm here." He mumbles. By the sound of it, the redhead and the security guard no longer sound like they're bickering with him, but each other. "Apparently, this place's owner heard word of me and doesn't like the idea of me overstaying my welcome without purchasing any..services," Sam complains in an exasperated tone. "Look, they're about to throw me out. Just arrest him."

The feeling in the air suddenly goes static, I swish those three unpleasant word around in my head for a few moments of complete quietude. Nope, no matter how much I rephrase it in my head, it still doesn't sound nor seem appealing.

I chuckle a little at the absurdity of it. "Just arrest him. Just like that?"

"We have enough to prove that he's up to something illegal with those guns of his and that he is indeed quite mentally unstable due to past traumatic events, he has not fully recovered and his sentence and where he'll end up is none of our concern. The court will figure that all out and he'll end up where he needs to be," Samuel says matter-of-factly.

Despite this, I continue to resist. "But we don't have the names of his associates. The men that sold him those weapons."

Samuel groans deeply in annoyance. "Don't tell me you've gotten yourself attached. He'll talk."

"No. He won't. Not under the custody of the police department or any authority for that matter."

"They'll make him talk. Just do it Collins," Samuel says, if a voice could be the definition of 'putting one's foot down', that would be it.

Furiously, I grab my earpiece in both of my hands, pressing it deeply against my ear as if that would make my voice any louder, in a hushed tone, I lecture him," You listen here, Samuel Cacy. Are you in any position to make outright demands of me? I'm your boss."

"Spencer," he replies calmly, with such a cocky tone in his voice that makes me just want to rip my hair out. "I wouldn't expect you to understand this term because of previous things you've done to me in the past..but we're partners. Meaning, we work together." I can almost feel him glaring at me through the thick, plastered walls, all the way from where he sits at that little table in the corner of the room.

"Ha! I think you've forgotten where we stand, Cacy. You were placed under my wing as my partner when you arrived only a year ago. I have been in this field longer than you, I have more experience than you and I know more than you," I hiss at him, my voice full with venom through gritted teeth.

"Well then," he states in a bitter tone. "As your inferior subservient, I sincerely recommend that you walk over and cuff the son-of-a-bitch. Look, they're coming back and they're kicking me out. This argument is no longer some petty charade, this is now about whatever deep-seeded issues you have with trusting and working with the people closest to you because I swear, if you don't work with me on this, this time, I'm walking out on you. You can do your future cases, without me." His words cut deeply into semi-healed wounds, twisting the sharp edge of a dagger in slow circles into my heart. His sudden cursing caused me to take a step back. He rarely curses. His jokes, yes, they poke fun of me, himself or other people but they're rarely serious. This is unlike any version I've heard of Samuel, it's much too serious. And I don't like it. Have I perhaps stepped over the line? Gone too far with what I'd said?

I can't help but feel that his own wounds have been re-opened too. And I find myself sobbing softly uncontrollably against the bathroom sinks, not because of just what he said but because what he said was true.

***

"Sorry I took awhile," I mumble under my breath, I'd be surprised if he even hears me, all my energy and all my ambitiousness has left me for the time being.

Luckily enough, we found a costume that actually contains pockets. To store money in, I presumed, when Samuel and I picked it out. My fingers fumble in one of my back pockets, in search of a pair of cold-to-the-touch handcuffs. I find them and return to my original position behind him, placing one hand on his shoulder as if I were going to resume the massage I was giving him earlier. It doesn't feel right, not to me. Not at all. But I do it anyway, it's for his own good. His arms relax on top of the chair and I gently grab both of them and hold them together.

"What are you doing?" he asks with suspicion, his shoulders tense and he attempts to pull them away but I grip tightly.

Before I know it, the words, "Joshua Diaz, you're under arrest," slip out of my mouth. What also slips are my handcuffs going around his wrists.

That's when he really starts to freak out. I meant you can't blame the poor guy, having a trauma induced fear of the authorities, I wouldn't of expected a reaction like that no less than how I expect that Sunday comes at the end of every week. I tell him who I really am and I begin reciting him his rights, the good ol' speech you'd often hear cops say in crime films. He struggles, shakes and heaves but I pull him up on his feet and start walking towards the exit. He shouts atrocities, causing everyone else to become alert and crowd around the scene taking place. But they're bickering and Joshua's cursing becomes nothing more than white noise.

"Joshua, everything will go so much more smoothly if you don't resist arrest," I attempt at reasoning with him.

Suddenly, he begins to get viscous. He kicks and pushes, one kick actually landing on my shin causing me to yelp out in pain. Eventually, I can take no more. Security come rushing to my rescue but I hold my own. Still holding him in an iron grip with one hand, I reach down to my high-heeled boots, pull out a small taser and tase him in the middle of the dance floor.

"You lying little-" he starts but he doesn't get to finish as he shakes and convulses onto the smooth, wooden floor.