C11: Date night
[8 PM]
The low growl of an engine rolled softly through the quiet street as a matte-white Aston Martin One-77 eased to a stop in front of Lanie's apartment building.
The headlights dimmed and the engine settled into silence.
Travis stepped out a moment later, closing the door. He straightened the cuffs of his navy blue suit jacket and looked up at the building.
He checked the time on his watch.
"Right on time," He mumbled.
He walked up the short path to the front door and pressed the doorbell. The chime echoed faintly through the hallway inside.
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Travis stood there patiently.
Then the lock clicked.
The door swung open.
Lanie stood in the doorway.
For a brief moment, Travis forgot how breathing worked.
She wore a deep red dress that hugged her figure perfectly. The neckline dipped just enough to show a generous hint of cleavage without crossing the line into anything obvious. The fabric caught the hallway light in soft waves as she shifted slightly in the doorway.
Her hair fell smoothly around her shoulders, and a pair of small earrings caught the light when she moved her head.
Lanie noticed the exact moment Travis stopped breathing.
A slow smile appeared on her face.
"Well," she said, leaning lightly against the doorframe, "that reaction usually means I picked the right dress."
Travis blinked once and finally pulled in a quiet breath.
"Give me a second," he said calmly, though his voice carried a hint of amusement. "My brain needs to restart after that entrance."
Lanie laughed softly and stepped aside.
"You clean up pretty well yourself, Detective."
Travis's eyes moved over the dress again before he caught himself and lifted his gaze back to her face. "You might be the first person in the city capable of making a three-piece navy suit feel underdressed."
"That sounds like a compliment," Lanie replied.
He nodded. "It absolutely is."
She grabbed a small black clutch from the table beside the door and turned back to him.
"Ready?"
"Ready."
She locked the door, and both of them walked toward the car.
Lanie noticed the car parked at the curb and paused mid-step. Her eyebrows rose slowly as she took in the sleek lines of the car. She asked, "That's yours?"
Travis slipped his hands casually into his pockets.
"Yeah."
She walked toward the car and circled halfway around it, studying the polished curves and low profile like she was examining a very expensive piece of evidence.
"That is a One-77."
"Yes," Travis nodded.
Lanie looked at the front and said, "Only seventy-seven of these were made. Aston Martin built them for collectors who enjoy spending the price of a small house on a car."
Travis leaned lightly against the side door.
"You sound like you know your cars."
Lanie gave him a playful look.
"My uncle restored vintage sports cars in Atlanta when I was growing up. I spent half my childhood handing him tools while he talked about engines like they were sacred texts."
She gestured toward the car again.
"So how exactly does an undercover detective end up owning one of the rarest cars in the world?"
Travis opened the passenger door for her.
"Long story."
Lanie slid into the seat gracefully.
"Oh, good," she said while settling in. "I like long stories."
Travis closed the door gently after Lanie settled in, then walked around to the driver's side. He slid behind the wheel. The interior smelled faintly of cedar and new car, a quiet contrast to the bullpen coffee and gun oil he had spent the day breathing.
He started the engine with a low push of the button. The V12 woke up with a restrained rumble that vibrated through the seats more than it announced itself to the street. Lanie fastened her seatbelt and turned slightly toward him.
"Long story," she repeated, picking up exactly where she left off. "You have the floor, Detective. We have traffic ahead, and I have all evening."
Travis pulled away from the curb smoothly, merging into the evening flow on the Upper West Side.
"The car was not always mine. It belonged to a man named Victor Reyes. Mid-level player in the Sinaloa network I infiltrated. He liked flashy things: watches, women, cars. The One-77 was his crown jewel. He kept it garaged in a private warehouse in Queens, under heavy security. Cameras, guards, the works."
Lanie tilted her head. "You stole it?"
"Not exactly." Travis glanced at her, then back at the road. "First year in, the first operation was winding down. We had enough to take down the crew, but Reyes was slippery. Always one step ahead of the raids. The higher-ups wanted him alive and talking, not dead in a shootout. So I got creative."
He eased the car through a yellow light and continued.
"I convinced Reyes I was the perfect guy to move some high-value product out of the city. He liked the idea of using this car for cover. Like cops don't generally stop luxury cars like a Rolls-Royce and ask the driver for a license or insurance in traffic. So, this limited edition model was perfect with a fake license plate. I told him I would drive it to a safe drop in Jersey, then bring it back clean."
Lanie's eyes narrowed with interest. "You took the car and never brought it back."
"Close." Travis's mouth curved slightly. "I drove straight to a federal impound lot instead. Handed the keys to the task force commander myself. Reyes showed up at the warehouse the next day with two SUVs full of men. Found the place empty except for flashing lights and rifles. He surrendered without a shot fired. The car was seized as evidence."
Lanie let out a low whistle. "So FBI kept it?"
"Nope. Since the operation didn't exist in the books and I needed to get deeper into the cartel, they spun the story and made it look like I took down the rival of Owen Miller. And this car was like a trophy that I took from Reyes. It helped me get into Owen's gang, and after the job was done and I got enough cars and cash... Well, the higher-ups decided not to take the cars for all the sacrifices I've made by putting my life in danger and taking down one of the biggest cartels," Travis explained.
They turned onto Central Park West. The city lights reflected off the dark windows of the buildings, turning the glass into moving mirrors.
Lanie reached over and brushed her fingers lightly along the edge of the dashboard. "It suits you. Quite powerful. Looks beautiful, but you know it can bite if it has to."
Travis glanced at her hand, then at her face. "You flirting with the car or with me?"
"Both," she said without hesitation. "The car is impressive. You are more interesting."
He let out a quiet laugh. "Careful, Doctor. I might start believing I have a chance tonight."
"You already have a chance," Lanie replied with a confident smirk. "The question is how much trouble you are willing to cause to keep it."
The car eased to a stop outside Q3. The restaurant's entrance glowed softly behind frosted glass. A valet in a crisp black uniform stepped forward as Travis killed the engine.
Lanie unbuckled her seatbelt.
Travis got out and opened the door for her. He offered his hand. Lanie took it, her fingers warm against his palm as she rose from the low seat with effortless grace. The valet nodded politely, accepted the keys, and slid behind the wheel without a word. The One-77 purred away toward the private garage.
They walked side by side up the short flight of steps. The doorman held the heavy glass door open, and a wave of warm air scented with citrus and something faintly floral greeted them.
Inside, the space felt intimate rather than crowded. Dimmed pendant lights hung above dark walnut tables. The hostess recognized Travis immediately, smiled, and led them past the main dining room to a quieter alcove near the back. A single table waited, already set with crisp white linen, two candles, and a small arrangement of white orchids.
Lanie glanced at him as they were seated. "You really did get the reservation on short notice."
"Perks of knowing the right people," Travis said. He pulled out her chair, then took his own. "The chef owes me a favor from a few years back. Nothing dramatic. Just helped his sister out of a bad situation. Then, saved the owner's dog during one of my runs. So, favors..."
Lanie unfolded her napkin across her lap. "You collect favors the way most people collect parking tickets."
"Only the useful ones." He signaled the waiter, who appeared almost instantly with two menus and a chilled bottle of sparkling water. "Shall we start with wine?"
"Red," Lanie said. "Something bold. Cabernet or Malbec. Surprise me."
The waiter nodded and looked at Travis.
"French Bloom La Cuvée Vintage," Travis ordered.
The waiter nodded before walking away.
Lanie rested her elbows lightly on the table and studied Travis across the candlelight.
"That's non-alcoholic wine," she said.
Travis met her eyes without the slightest hint of embarrassment.
"Something like that," he replied calmly. "I like my evenings clear-headed. Especially when the company is worth remembering."
For a second, she simply looked at him.
Then a slow smile spread across her face.
"Well," she said, leaning back into her chair, "that might be one of the smoothest answers I have heard in a long time."
"I try to keep my record clean," Travis said.
[A few minutes later]
The waiter returned with two glasses and placed them carefully on the table. Lanie received a deep ruby Malbec, its aroma rich with blackberry and dark spice. Travis had his French Bloom La Cuvée Vintage, pale gold and sparkling faintly under the candlelight.
They touched glasses with a soft clink.
"To clear heads and good company," Travis said.
Lanie smiled and took a slow sip. "To both."
The first few minutes passed easily. They talked about the small, safe pleasures that had nothing to do with crime scenes or autopsy reports. Lanie confessed her weakness for old black-and-white films, especially anything with Audrey Hepburn gliding through Rome on a scooter. Travis admitted he preferred the grit of classic noir, the kind where the hero never quite wins and the city always feels like it is watching.
"Casablanca still gets me every time," he said. "The airport scene. Rick letting Ilsa go. That quiet choice hurts more than any shootout."
Lanie nodded. "It is the restraint that makes it powerful. No grand speech. Just a man deciding what matters most."
The conversation drifted to food next. She described the perfect plate of shrimp and grits she once had in Charleston, creamy and smoky with just enough heat to wake up the tongue. Travis countered with a memory of street tacos from a late-night truck in Los Angeles, corn tortillas grilled crisp, carne asada dripping with lime and cilantro.
"Simple food done right is hard to beat," he said.
"Agreed. No need to complicate perfection."
The waiter appeared again with the menus open. Lanie ordered the seared scallops with cauliflower puree and brown butter. Travis chose the duck breast, medium rare, with cherry reduction and roasted parsnips.
After the waiter left, Lanie leaned forward slightly. "You strike me as someone who enjoys cooking."
Travis considered the question. "I do. Nothing fancy. Steak on a cast-iron pan, good salt, maybe some garlic. The kind of meal that fills the kitchen with the right smells."
She tilted her head. "And the soundtrack?"
"Jazz. Something low and smoky. Coltrane or Miles Davis. Keeps the mind quiet while the pan does the talking."
Lanie laughed softly. "I can picture that. You in a dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, flipping a steak while 'Kind of Blue' drifts through the room."
Travis raised his glass in a small salute. "Accurate. Your turn."
"Me? I bake when I need to think. Bread mostly. Sourdough. Kneading dough is the best kind of therapy. You feel every stage. The stretch, the rise, the crust forming in the heat. When it comes out perfect, the whole apartment smells like home."
Their appetizers arrived, small plates of olives marinated in citrus and herbs. They shared them without hurry, conversation flowing between bites.
Lanie spoke about growing up in Atlanta, summers thick with humidity, fireflies lighting up backyards like floating lanterns. Travis mentioned foster homes in different cities, the way each one had its own smell, some warm, some cold, but none ever quite like his.
Neither mentioned the precinct nor their jobs.
The night stayed light, the words easy, the glances lingering a little longer each time.
By the time the main courses arrived, the candles had burned lower, and the alcove felt like its own small world.
...
[11 PM] [Travis's apartment]
The elevator doors slid open on Travis's floor with a soft chime. They barely made it two steps into the hallway before Lanie pulled him close again, her hands sliding up the back of his neck as their mouths met in a hungry, open kiss.
Travis fumbled the key into the lock without breaking contact. The door swung inward; he kicked it shut behind them with his heel. The apartment was dark except for the low city glow filtering through the blinds. Neither of them bothered with lights.
Lanie pressed him back against the wall just inside the entry. Her fingers worked the top button of his shirt open while she kissed him deeper, tasting the faint sweetness of the non-alcoholic sparkling wine still on his tongue. Travis's hands found her waist, then slid lower, pulling her hips flush against his. A low sound escaped her throat when she felt how hard he already was.
He broke the kiss long enough to murmur against her lips, "Bedroom's that way."
"Show me," she breathed.
....
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