Birthday Fic: Turn the Page ~ Chapter One
Title: Turn the Page ~ Chapter One
Author: bugs
Genre: AU (of course), Drama, Romance
Rating: T
Word Count: 1,900
A/N: I'm behind on everything, including starting a birthday fic for miabicicletta. This is an idea I've been tossing around for a while and it dovetailed into elements I hope Mia will enjoy. And with this fic, I'm afraid bsg_aussiegirl has brought me over to the dark side of multiple WIP's going at the same time. *gulp*
~*~
Laura shimmied between the chairs and tables of the crowded coffee shop, balancing her mug of hot water while trying to keep her handbag tucked under her other arm. She spotted an empty table...Just as a broad back sat in one of its chairs.
"Oh--"
The man looked at her, even as he placed his laptop on the table with a very definite proprietary air. It was a complex, beaten-up face, as though she were flipping through a magazine, seeing ten different stories go by her.
"Sorry," he rumbled. He glanced around at the full tables. "We can share," he offered.
She looked around as well. No one else met her gaze to offer her a seat--in fact, they lifted newspapers to cover their faces; turned their shoulders around to block her impeaching gaze.
The mug was burning her fingers. She fell ungracefully into the empty chair.
The man had already opened his laptop and powered it up. He had no drink or pastry. As she dunked her tea bag in her hot water, she pursed her lips. One of her pet peeves were people who hogged tables at coffee shops without buying anything.
He unwound a thick scarf and unzipped his leather jacket before shucking it off, revealing a dark blue mock turtleneck. He fished out a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses from his jacket's pocket and put them up. Pushing his longish salt and pepper hair back, he squinted at the screen.
Then his gaze shot up and he caught her watching him. To her shock, his eyes were an intense shade of blue. With his olive skin and dark hair, she expected corresponding brown eyes.
"Yes?" he asked coolly.
"Could you get me a napkin off that table?" she asked, thinking fast. Holding her dripping teabag, she waited as he excused the other table's occupants to pull some paper napkins from the dispenser.
She accepted the crumpled paper with a smile of thanks, finally dropping her gaze...To his large, strong hand. He withdrew it, and immediately began typing two fingered, an absurd dance across the small keyboard, like two graceful hippos at play.
She shifted in her seat; she still couldn't see his screen. But she could track his letter by letter keystrokes. The beautiful dame gave me a seductive smile--
Flushing, she rooted in her purse and retrieved her book, as well as her own glasses. She shifted in her seat again; he'd stretched out his legs, bringing them close to touching hers.
"What chapter are you on?"
She stifled a sigh. She disliked when people asked about the book she was reading. "Just started," she told him tightly. Now he was going to say something about a nice lady like her reading that sort of book...
"It's not his best stuff. Have you read his first book?"
"Blood Runs at Midnight? Of course." She took a quick sip of her cooling tea.
"It's better, right?"
After asking his question, the man glanced at the cafe's counter. The barista with hot pink, spiked hair returned his nod and poured a cup of coffee. A skinny young server, his saggy jeans weighed down a heavy chain fastened between a belt loop and his wallet, brought it to their table.
Confused, Laura blinked. "I think this book shows great growth for William Adama. You can't expect people to simply write the same thing over and over."
The man grumbled under his breath and took a deep draught of his steaming hot coffee. "He's losing his edge," he insisted. "Gettin' soft." His gaze fell to his thick torso, and then away.
Laura fought the urge to giggle. Her sense of the ridiculous was often triggered and rarely understood by people.
"It's okay. You can laugh," he said.
His voice had such an entrancing quality. It sounded rough and yet soothed and smoothed her jagged nerves.
She gave a weak shrug, self-conscious. She wasn't accustomed to a man looking at her with this much interest. Glancing down quickly at her somber dark suit, she checked to assure a button hadn't come undone on her blouse. Surely he noticed her wedding ring as well...
Changing the topic, she asked, "You've read all of Adama's work?"
"Yeah." He squinted at his laptop again, and tapped the backspace key, removing everything he'd written.
"I think he's marvelous." Her voice sounded too cheerful. Clamping her lips together, she decided that she needed to improve on making small talk with strange men.
Yet she chattered on. "He's part of the reason I came to Oakland. He makes the city sound so interesting."
He frowned, still staring at the blank screen as though facing down a demon. "He's become a pussy," he grumbled.
"How would you know!?" She was outraged for her favorite author.
His warm gaze swept over her once more and she forced herself not to check for that stray button again. "What's a nice lady like you reading something like his books anyway?"
Despite the fact he was saying just what she'd expected, she became so outraged that she actually saw red. She knew that she was hardly the sort of female who lived in Adama's pages, being a middle-aged woman with her plain clothes, simple bobbed hair and glasses, but she didn't need this stranger pointing this out.
"I didn't realize there was an admission's policy for reading his books," she said sharply.
The man had the decency to look admonished. "Sorry," he mumbled, and yet she could tell that had taken a lot for him to apologize.
Deciding that silence was her best response, she reopened her book and took a sip of her cool tea.
But after one page, he spoke up again: "Haven't seen you in here before."
She looked at his laptop pointedly, but he'd crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.
Looking around, she said dryly, "And there's an admission policy here as well?"
"I come here every day. I've got an eye for faces."
That explained his interest; he wasn't making a pass. Somehow comforted by the thought, she lay aside her book.
"I just moved to the neighborhood," she confessed carefully.
He waited.
She'd heard about these sort of con men who'd get all sorts of details from you to steal your identity. Perhaps that's what he did all day on his computer. She drained down the last of her tea. She wasn't going to give him more.
He cocked his head. "But you're not new to the Bay Area."
"How do you know?"
"You aren't as scared looking as most newcomers are in Oakland."
"This is a lovely neighborhood," she insisted.
Wryly, he nodded. "Yeah, Oakland gets a bad rap. Ninety percent of it is fine, but that doesn't make the headlines." The sharp gaze was back. "But William Adama's books don't make Oakland seem like the sort of place nice ladies would want to move to."
There was that term again. She frowned at him.
Ignoring her expression, he asked another question. "Came for a job?"
She gulped; he'd reminded her. "I have an interview in..." She checked her watch. "An hour."
"Teacher."
"How do you know!?"
He glanced her over again. "I used to be a cop. I read people well."
"William Adama used to be a police detective too," she said, then paused.
He grinned at her and she was shocked at what a bright, engaging smile it was on his craggy face.
Accusingly, she turned her book over to reveal the blank cover. "You don't put your picture on the books."
He shrugged. "Not a face to sell books."
"Oh yes it is," she protested. "You've got the perfect face for hard-boiled fiction!"
As she frantically tried to imagine how she could reword what she'd said, he only grinned again. "So you're applying at the charter school around the corner?"
"Another fine deduction," she sputtered.
"I chat with the administrator," he admitted. "He comes in here a lot for coffee. He mentioned an opening for his civics teacher."
"So it's like living in a small town where everyone knows your business?" She wasn't pleased.
He laughed. "I'm just a nosy old fart. And I'll keep your business to myself."
She released a relieved sigh.
"Where did you teach before?"
She must become accustomed to questions like that. She might as well practice with him. "St. Joseph's Preparatory School in San Raphael."
"Catholic high school," he said, squinting at her. His tone wasn't particularly warm any more.
"Yes." She tucked her book away in her purse and patted her lips before crumbling the napkin and putting it in her empty mug.
"Decided to come over to this side of the bay and teach more diverse students than in Marin," he asked, a sneer on his lips.
Raising her chin, she looked him in the eye. "Exactly," she said flatly.
He narrowed his eyes again. The storyteller wanted to know her tale.
She stood and put on her best social smile. "It's been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Adama. I enjoy your books so much--"
He cut her off by raising his thick eyebrows in astonishment. "Sure. Nice to hear. Good luck with the interview."
"Thanks." She gave another shattering sigh and looked around for the rest room.
"You have to ask for a key at the counter," he offered helpfully.
As she pushed through the crowded tables, she forced herself to not look back. She hoped it was just this man's finely-tuned instincts and that her secret wasn't obvious.
She was able to keep her confidence through the beginning of her interview with the young school administrator until he flipped through her job history one more time. "So you've only taught at St. Joe's."
She winced at the slangy way he said the institution's name. "Yes, Mr. Gaeta."
He smiled quickly. "Please, call me Felix. I look around for my father when you call me Mr. Gaeta."
She forced out a laugh. "All right, Felix."
"Although I suppose you're used to more formality, teaching for the church."
She nodded, choosing not to say more.
He smiled again. "I thought all the teachers at St. Joseph's were nuns and priests though. A holdover from the old days."
Laura focused on her twisting hands in her lap, turning the gold band on her ring finger. "Yes, yes they are."
She raised her gaze to meet the young man's, and saw his dismay morph to doubt. She wasn't getting the job, she realized with a sinking heart.
End, chapter one
Author: bugs
Genre: AU (of course), Drama, Romance
Rating: T
Word Count: 1,900
A/N: I'm behind on everything, including starting a birthday fic for miabicicletta. This is an idea I've been tossing around for a while and it dovetailed into elements I hope Mia will enjoy. And with this fic, I'm afraid bsg_aussiegirl has brought me over to the dark side of multiple WIP's going at the same time. *gulp*
~*~
Laura shimmied between the chairs and tables of the crowded coffee shop, balancing her mug of hot water while trying to keep her handbag tucked under her other arm. She spotted an empty table...Just as a broad back sat in one of its chairs.
"Oh--"
The man looked at her, even as he placed his laptop on the table with a very definite proprietary air. It was a complex, beaten-up face, as though she were flipping through a magazine, seeing ten different stories go by her.
"Sorry," he rumbled. He glanced around at the full tables. "We can share," he offered.
She looked around as well. No one else met her gaze to offer her a seat--in fact, they lifted newspapers to cover their faces; turned their shoulders around to block her impeaching gaze.
The mug was burning her fingers. She fell ungracefully into the empty chair.
The man had already opened his laptop and powered it up. He had no drink or pastry. As she dunked her tea bag in her hot water, she pursed her lips. One of her pet peeves were people who hogged tables at coffee shops without buying anything.
He unwound a thick scarf and unzipped his leather jacket before shucking it off, revealing a dark blue mock turtleneck. He fished out a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses from his jacket's pocket and put them up. Pushing his longish salt and pepper hair back, he squinted at the screen.
Then his gaze shot up and he caught her watching him. To her shock, his eyes were an intense shade of blue. With his olive skin and dark hair, she expected corresponding brown eyes.
"Yes?" he asked coolly.
"Could you get me a napkin off that table?" she asked, thinking fast. Holding her dripping teabag, she waited as he excused the other table's occupants to pull some paper napkins from the dispenser.
She accepted the crumpled paper with a smile of thanks, finally dropping her gaze...To his large, strong hand. He withdrew it, and immediately began typing two fingered, an absurd dance across the small keyboard, like two graceful hippos at play.
She shifted in her seat; she still couldn't see his screen. But she could track his letter by letter keystrokes. The beautiful dame gave me a seductive smile--
Flushing, she rooted in her purse and retrieved her book, as well as her own glasses. She shifted in her seat again; he'd stretched out his legs, bringing them close to touching hers.
"What chapter are you on?"
She stifled a sigh. She disliked when people asked about the book she was reading. "Just started," she told him tightly. Now he was going to say something about a nice lady like her reading that sort of book...
"It's not his best stuff. Have you read his first book?"
"Blood Runs at Midnight? Of course." She took a quick sip of her cooling tea.
"It's better, right?"
After asking his question, the man glanced at the cafe's counter. The barista with hot pink, spiked hair returned his nod and poured a cup of coffee. A skinny young server, his saggy jeans weighed down a heavy chain fastened between a belt loop and his wallet, brought it to their table.
Confused, Laura blinked. "I think this book shows great growth for William Adama. You can't expect people to simply write the same thing over and over."
The man grumbled under his breath and took a deep draught of his steaming hot coffee. "He's losing his edge," he insisted. "Gettin' soft." His gaze fell to his thick torso, and then away.
Laura fought the urge to giggle. Her sense of the ridiculous was often triggered and rarely understood by people.
"It's okay. You can laugh," he said.
His voice had such an entrancing quality. It sounded rough and yet soothed and smoothed her jagged nerves.
She gave a weak shrug, self-conscious. She wasn't accustomed to a man looking at her with this much interest. Glancing down quickly at her somber dark suit, she checked to assure a button hadn't come undone on her blouse. Surely he noticed her wedding ring as well...
Changing the topic, she asked, "You've read all of Adama's work?"
"Yeah." He squinted at his laptop again, and tapped the backspace key, removing everything he'd written.
"I think he's marvelous." Her voice sounded too cheerful. Clamping her lips together, she decided that she needed to improve on making small talk with strange men.
Yet she chattered on. "He's part of the reason I came to Oakland. He makes the city sound so interesting."
He frowned, still staring at the blank screen as though facing down a demon. "He's become a pussy," he grumbled.
"How would you know!?" She was outraged for her favorite author.
His warm gaze swept over her once more and she forced herself not to check for that stray button again. "What's a nice lady like you reading something like his books anyway?"
Despite the fact he was saying just what she'd expected, she became so outraged that she actually saw red. She knew that she was hardly the sort of female who lived in Adama's pages, being a middle-aged woman with her plain clothes, simple bobbed hair and glasses, but she didn't need this stranger pointing this out.
"I didn't realize there was an admission's policy for reading his books," she said sharply.
The man had the decency to look admonished. "Sorry," he mumbled, and yet she could tell that had taken a lot for him to apologize.
Deciding that silence was her best response, she reopened her book and took a sip of her cool tea.
But after one page, he spoke up again: "Haven't seen you in here before."
She looked at his laptop pointedly, but he'd crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.
Looking around, she said dryly, "And there's an admission policy here as well?"
"I come here every day. I've got an eye for faces."
That explained his interest; he wasn't making a pass. Somehow comforted by the thought, she lay aside her book.
"I just moved to the neighborhood," she confessed carefully.
He waited.
She'd heard about these sort of con men who'd get all sorts of details from you to steal your identity. Perhaps that's what he did all day on his computer. She drained down the last of her tea. She wasn't going to give him more.
He cocked his head. "But you're not new to the Bay Area."
"How do you know?"
"You aren't as scared looking as most newcomers are in Oakland."
"This is a lovely neighborhood," she insisted.
Wryly, he nodded. "Yeah, Oakland gets a bad rap. Ninety percent of it is fine, but that doesn't make the headlines." The sharp gaze was back. "But William Adama's books don't make Oakland seem like the sort of place nice ladies would want to move to."
There was that term again. She frowned at him.
Ignoring her expression, he asked another question. "Came for a job?"
She gulped; he'd reminded her. "I have an interview in..." She checked her watch. "An hour."
"Teacher."
"How do you know!?"
He glanced her over again. "I used to be a cop. I read people well."
"William Adama used to be a police detective too," she said, then paused.
He grinned at her and she was shocked at what a bright, engaging smile it was on his craggy face.
Accusingly, she turned her book over to reveal the blank cover. "You don't put your picture on the books."
He shrugged. "Not a face to sell books."
"Oh yes it is," she protested. "You've got the perfect face for hard-boiled fiction!"
As she frantically tried to imagine how she could reword what she'd said, he only grinned again. "So you're applying at the charter school around the corner?"
"Another fine deduction," she sputtered.
"I chat with the administrator," he admitted. "He comes in here a lot for coffee. He mentioned an opening for his civics teacher."
"So it's like living in a small town where everyone knows your business?" She wasn't pleased.
He laughed. "I'm just a nosy old fart. And I'll keep your business to myself."
She released a relieved sigh.
"Where did you teach before?"
She must become accustomed to questions like that. She might as well practice with him. "St. Joseph's Preparatory School in San Raphael."
"Catholic high school," he said, squinting at her. His tone wasn't particularly warm any more.
"Yes." She tucked her book away in her purse and patted her lips before crumbling the napkin and putting it in her empty mug.
"Decided to come over to this side of the bay and teach more diverse students than in Marin," he asked, a sneer on his lips.
Raising her chin, she looked him in the eye. "Exactly," she said flatly.
He narrowed his eyes again. The storyteller wanted to know her tale.
She stood and put on her best social smile. "It's been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Adama. I enjoy your books so much--"
He cut her off by raising his thick eyebrows in astonishment. "Sure. Nice to hear. Good luck with the interview."
"Thanks." She gave another shattering sigh and looked around for the rest room.
"You have to ask for a key at the counter," he offered helpfully.
As she pushed through the crowded tables, she forced herself to not look back. She hoped it was just this man's finely-tuned instincts and that her secret wasn't obvious.
She was able to keep her confidence through the beginning of her interview with the young school administrator until he flipped through her job history one more time. "So you've only taught at St. Joe's."
She winced at the slangy way he said the institution's name. "Yes, Mr. Gaeta."
He smiled quickly. "Please, call me Felix. I look around for my father when you call me Mr. Gaeta."
She forced out a laugh. "All right, Felix."
"Although I suppose you're used to more formality, teaching for the church."
She nodded, choosing not to say more.
He smiled again. "I thought all the teachers at St. Joseph's were nuns and priests though. A holdover from the old days."
Laura focused on her twisting hands in her lap, turning the gold band on her ring finger. "Yes, yes they are."
She raised her gaze to meet the young man's, and saw his dismay morph to doubt. She wasn't getting the job, she realized with a sinking heart.
End, chapter one