fic: Bare Essentials (Pete/Patrick, AU, challengefic, 1/2)
This is my DYW Romance Novel Cliché Challenge Fic. It is 28 pages, in two parts. It hates me like I murdered its spouse in cold blood. Enjoy!
Warning: contains many, many, MANY guys you will recognize as strippers, and more pairings than I care to list. Seriously. I got a little spastic around the middle. Pete/Patrick, AU, surprisingly little porn but read it anyway. (The porn is coming in the epilogue. NO, REALLY. STUPID BRAIN.)
Bare Essentials
by Gale
SUMMARY: Straight-laced, by-the-book police officer Patrick Stump has always lived by the letter of the law -- that is, until he is assigned to work with Detective Pete Wentz, a tough-as-nails, arrogantly handsome cop who knows exactly how to press his buttons. Staking out Klub Kashmir, Chicago's hottest gentleman's club, Patrick and Pete go undercover to bait the kidnapper of three young men -- including two strippers from the club -- while trying to keep their clashing personalities at bay.
i.
"Patrick!" Joe yelled. "There’s a guy waiting for you in the break room. Said he wanted to talk to you."
"Uh-huh," Patrick said absently, not looking up from his paperwork. "Great."
Being a cop wasn't a lot like an episode of Law & Order. For starters, Patrick was behind a desk most of the day -- thank you, less-than-perfect vision and excellent firearms rating, for fucking up most of the instructors' heads from day one -- not wearing a snazzy suit or walking around New York City. Also, he'd never met Jerry Orbach or Jesse L. Martin, which was just sad.
"Dude." Joe walked over and poked him in the shoulder. Patrick smacked his hand away. For a civilian assistant, Joe could get really hands-on. It would have been irritating, if he wasn't so goddamn affable. "Seriously. I think he's from IA or something."
Patrick blinked and looked at him. "What?"
"I'm saying." Joe nodded across the room. "He didn't want to wait at your desk, something about causing a scene."
"He's fucking IA, and he doesn't want to cause a--" Patrick shook his head. "Never mind. Break room, you said?"
Joe nodded. "You can't miss him," he added, rolling his eyes. "Trust me."
Patrick rolled his chair back and stood up, wincing when it squeaked. What the hell? IA was for dirty cops, people under investigation. There were old cops' stories about everyone having an IA file, just in case, but he gave that as much credence as he did that story about stepping on a crack causing your mother's back to break.
--of course, he didn't step on cracks, so really, that was just hypocritical. Patrick rubbed his forehead and went inside, automatically glancing at the coffee pot.
There was a guy sitting on the counter, talking to CSI Salpeter. But that couldn't be who Joe was talking about; IA cops were always neatly pressed and looked pissy at best, and this guy...didn't. In Vans and a hoodie, the guy looked like a college kid come in to complain about something.
"--but we'll finish that later," Greta said, smiling into her cup. "Here he is now. Patrick!"
Patrick waited 'til he'd poured himself a cup to turn around and manage a smile. "Morning," he said. "Everything go okay last night?" Most people complained about working nights; Greta got cranky if she got stuck on days. If he lived to be a hundred, Patrick was never going to get lab techs.
"Two shootings," she shrugged. "Nothing interesting. Speaking of interesting--" She nodded at the guy sitting on the counter. "Officer Patrick Stump, Detective Peter Wentz. He just transferred in from Vice."
"Hi," Patrick said, giving a little wave. No reason to be rude.
The guy -- Peter -- looked at him, cocking his head. "I thought you'd be taller," he said after a few seconds. "Not as paunchy."
--okay, maybe some reason to be rude.
"Great," Patrick said. "Sorry to disappoint you. Greta." He nodded at her and turned to leave.
"No!" Greta said. "That's not. I mean." Patrick could almost hear her wince. "...Pete's your new partner."
Patrick turned and looked at both of them.
Pete looked sympathetic. "I know, right?" He swung his feet a little.
Oh my God, it was eight-thirty Monday morning and he already hated everything ever.
*
And it didn't get any better after that, either, because--
"You two," Lieutenant Howard said, "are going undercover."
--well. Yeah.
"No offense, sir," Patrick said, because it was never good to start out pleading your case by calling your boss a fuckwit (even when you really, really wanted to), "but that's not. I'm on a desk, remember?"
Howard raised an eyebrow. "Of course I remember," he said calmly. "And now you're off of desk duty. Congratulations."
"That's not what I--"
"Also," he added, "I need someone to keep this one--" he nodded at Pete "--in line. That would be you."
"I don't need a babysitter," Pete snotted, crossing his arms over his chest. Howard rubbed his eyebrow with his finger and tried not to look too pissed off.
"Wentz," he said flatly, "it's bad enough that your old boss pulled some strings and got you transferred away from him. But *I* got stuck with you. So unless *you* want to pull desk duty--"
"Can he do it for me?" Pete nodded at Patrick. "He seems to like it."
Patrick opened his mouth to answer.
"You," Howard said, pointing at him, "sit down and shut up." Patrick did. "You," that one directed at Pete, "follow suit."
Pete dropped into the chair next to Patrick's and somehow, without actually moving his body or face, managed to do the most staggering impression of a pissy eight-year-old Patrick had ever seen. For a second, he thought about clapping.
"You've heard of Klub Kashmir, right?"
But no, the lieutenant would be pis-- "What?" Patrick asked. He looked at Pete.
"It's a gentleman's club," Pete said, shrugging. "Downtown. We never had a lot of problems with it; they're pretty strict about people not dealing or using on the property, and if anyone prostituted themselves, they did it on their own time and not on club property. Their licenses and codes are always up-to-date. Why?"
"Two employees have gone missing in as many weeks." Howard slid a pair of pictures across the desk. One featured a blond man dressed like a college student, complete with a messenger bag slung over one shoulder; the other was what looked like a mug shot of a dark-haired man with a tight, slightly bored expression.
"Quinn Allman," Howard said, tapping the picture of the blond man, "and Branden Steineckert," the brunette. "Allman went missing almost two weeks ago--"
"Almost?" Patrick asked.
"His roommate said he kept weird hours," Howard said. "Mostly worked nights, sometimes afternoons."
"Ew, afternoon strippers," Pete said faintly. Patrick ignored him.
"Steineckert went missing the night before last. Witnesses said they saw him in the parking lot, talking to someone wearing what looked like a security uniform. The manager says that's not surprising, they get a lot of customers in just before and just after their shifts. We're tracking the leads down now."
"Okay," Patrick said slowly. "So if you have people tracking leads down, why are you telling me--"
"Us," Pete said, kicking his ankle. Patrick glared at him.
"--us all this?"
"Because," Howard said, smiling grimly, "you two are going undercover."
*
"No fucking way," Patrick said flatly.
"Dude--"
"No fucking way."
"You're not--"
"No. Fucking. Wa--"
"No fucking way, I get it." Pete rolled his eyes. "So could you tell me when you're done with your Napoleonic hissyfit? Because I'm actually trying to make a point, here."
Patrick stopped and looked at him.
"Thank you," Pete said. "Seriously, it won't be that bad. It's probably something boring, like the two of them are shacked up somewhere together. But people aren't going to talk to us if we come in as cops, so undercover makes sense."
"At a strip club," Patrick said precisely. "For guys."
Pete looked amused. "There's no set rule that says you have to fuck anyone, man."
Patrick sighed. "That's not the point," he said, scratching his forehead. "It's just...it's weird."
"This isn't weird," Pete said. "Weird is buying coffee and bagels for a group of transvestite hookers six blocks over and admiring the way Mischa's eyeshadow helps hide her Adam's apple." He dangled the car keys in Patrick's face. "I'll drive."
*
"You guys are the cops, right?"
Patrick blnked. "Um. We're not--"
"It's fine, your lieutenant already called and told me you were coming over so I wouldn't be surprised." The guy behind the desk stood up, offered his hand. "Jon Walker. I manage the place."
"I'm Detective Wentz," Pete said, shaking Jon's hand. "This is Officer Stump."
"Have you heard anything yet?" Patrick asked.
"No," Jon said, looking grim. "Which is weird. I mean, less weird for Quinn -- yeah, go ahead, have a seat -- but it's completely out of character for Branden. He's a college student, for God's sake; he does this nights and weekends to earn books and tuition. Never misses a shift, and if he's going to he calls ahead. Like a regular job."
Patrick perched in one of the two chairs on the other side of the desk. Pete, he noticed absently, lounged. "And Allman?"
"Quinn's a little iffier," Jon admitted. "But he'd have gotten in contact with someone by now, even if it wasn't me." He sat behind the desk. The office looked -- normal, actually. There was a computer open to an Excel spreadsheet, papers stacked in neat piles. One corner of the desk had what looked like an air plant; the other, a tiny desk-sized Japanese rock garden. It didn't look at all like what Patrick thought a strip club manager's office should look like.
"--but that was over weeks ago," Jon was saying. Patrick mentally whacked himself in the head and glanced over, relieved to see that Pete was actually taking notes. "The guy was a dick, but Quinn didn't need a restraining order or anything."
"Uh huh." Pete nodded. "Okay. We should probably get started, then." He uncurled himself from the chair. "Through the back, right?"
"And to the left," Jon nodded. "Officer Stump, if you want, I can show you where you'll be working."
"Um," Patrick said. "Not as a. Not as talent, right?"
Jon shook his head, smiling. "No. Come on, let me show you around." He came out from behind the desk and went back into the club proper, Patrick following.
The layout of the club was about the way he'd figured it would be: the front of the club was mostly taken up by the stage, extending out into the audience complete with a pole, no less. There were seats up against the stage, with the rest of the floor taken up by tables. The DJ booth was off to the far left, the bar was far right, and there were shadowy tables near the back of the room, helpfully roped off.
"It's not that big," Jon said, "but we do okay. It's all completely above-board--"
"It's okay," Patrick said. "You already went through all this with the investigating officers. Detective Wentz and I are strictly here to see if we can catch whoever's doing this." He tried very hard not to notice how sticky the floor was; if he noticed, he'd have to ask why.
"I know," Jon said. "I'm just being upfront." He ran up the small flight of stairs -- seriously small; like, three stairs -- and went into the booth. No door, Patrick noticed.
Jon fiddled with the stack of records next to the turntables. "I figured we'd put you up here, if you don't mind."
"Fine with me," Patrick said quickly. "I know I don't exactly have the body for it--"
"What? No." Jon shook his head. "But we already have a bartender, and I've been making noises about having to hire someone to DJ a couple nights a week while I get ready for tax season and stuff. No one'll ask too many questions."
Patrick nodded. "And Wentz?"
Jon glanced out the front of the booth and smiled, nodding at the stage. "Take a look."
Patrick looked.
Pete, still wearing his jeans and hoodie, had one leg wrapped around the pole. He grabbed the pole and swung around in a surprisingly neat motion, using the force to spin him around. A couple of guys behind him clapped.
Jon grinned. "He starts tomorrow night."
*
"You're fucking kidding me."
"Why?" Pete said, buckling his seatbelt. "We need to get in there and talk to people, and the easiest way to do that -- no offense -- is not from the DJ booth." He poked in the arm. "*Some* of us can't pussy out and not get the job done."
"My not taking my pants off doesn't make me a pussy," Patrick said. "So, what, you're just going to do it?"
"They have a liquor license," Pete said, rolling his eyes, "which means I won't have to get totally naked. And I'm getting a paycheck from the department, so I'm turning over all monies earned, including tips, to the house. It's fine."
"You're going to be stripping," Patrick said again. It was a terrible argument, he knew, but it was the only one he could think of at the moment.
Pete shrugged. "I did it in college for about a year. It was that or get a student loan."
--and since Patrick didn't have anything to say to that, he started the car.
ii.
"Tell me you're not wearing that," Pete said flatly.
Patrick blinked at him. "Pete? What the hell, it's not even five yet--"
"And we start at eight," Pete said, "so you need to start getting ready." He brushed past Patrick and walked inside. "Your bedroom's back through here, right?" he yelled.
Patrick hurried after him, shutting the door. "That's not -- I don't need help getting dressed, Jesus. I'm not ten."
"You might as well be," Pete said. It took Patrick a minute to find him, mostly because most of Pete was rooting around through his closet. "Oh my God, I have not seen this many polo shirts in...actually, in my entire life. And I went to private school as a kid, so riddle me that."
"You went to private school," Patrick said flatly. "And you paid for college by stripping?"
"I don't like being beholden to people," Pete said. "My parents are included in that." He tossed out a pair of chinos and said, "Okay, yeah, no."
"Pete, that's not -- could you stop?" Patrick reached for his arm and tugged. "I'm wearing jeans, okay?"
Pete stuck half his face out, exposing one eye. "Like the ones you have on now?"
Patrick glanced down at himself. "Um. I was thinking so, yea--"
"Turn around."
Glare. "No."
Pete just looked at him.
"Oh, for--" Patrick turned around for a couple of seconds, then faced front again.
"Those are fine," Pete said, poking his head back in the closet. "They'll show off your ass."
"What?" Patrick didn't have to fake sounding bewildered. "I don't -- I'm going to play music! Why would that necessitate showing my ass?"
"Because it's a strip club," Pete said, and handed Patrick a hanger. "Here. Wear this."
Patrick looked at it. "No," he said, "no way. That fit me when I was in college--"
"Which was maybe two years ago, not ten," Pete said. "Come on, change. You need to get there early so Jon can show you your call list."
"How would you know that?" Patrick asked.
"I went by earlier," Pete said. "Had to drop off some of my stuff, meet my co-workers. You know, usual first day stuff."
"Uh-*huh*," Patrick said, and turned around to change his shirt. "Uh, you do remember that you aren't actually a stripper, right?"
When he turned back around, Pete was staring at him. He didn't look at all like a cop, Patrick noticed; most cops did a little, even in civvies. Pete just looked exasperated and kind of like he wanted a cup of coffee. Like a college student, actually. God, how old was he?
"Look," Pete said flatly. "You don't like me. I get that--"
"I said hi and you called me fat," Patrick said, just as flatly. "Do you want a hug, too?"
"--but we have to work together. I have to know that you have my back in case something goes wrong, and vice versa. It'll probably turn out to be that Steineckert got called out of town to visit a family member and Allman's shacked up with his girlfriend, something innocuous, but until we know otherwise, we have to presume that they've been kidnapped. Or worse." He scrubbed at his face with his hand. "And I'm sorry about the fat thing. It was a shitty joke. You're not fat. You're solid, maybe, but that's not a bad thing."
Patrick looked at him for a long minute.
"You're right," he finally said. "And I'm - I was being a jerk, and I apologize."
"Good." Pete let out a long breath. "Now let's get to work."
*
As soon as Patrick walked in the front door -- Pete went in the back, through the talent entrance -- a guy with short black hair practically tackled him and said, "You're Patrick, right?"
"Um," Patrick said. He blinked. "Yeah. Can I--"
"I'm Gerard," Black-Haired Guy said. "Do you need a tour, or did--"
"No, Walker -- Jon gave me one the other day, when he hired me," Patrick said. "I just need to know where I can keep my stuff."
"The locker room's through the back," Gerard said. He looked neat and sort of tidy in a button-down black shirt and matching pants, and a little harried. "I'm sorry, I'm usually not this spastic, but we've got a new dancer starting tonight, two bachelor parties, and you."
"It's okay," Patrick said, adjusting the strap on his bag. "I've done this before. I just need everyone's playlists, unless they want me to just pick stuff."
"Oh, fuck, no, are you kidding?" Gerard snorted. "One or two of them would be okay with it, but most of them would have a conniption fit. And by 'most of them', I mean Ryan and Spencer." At Patrick's blank look, he added, "It's fine. Jon keeps a setlist up in the booth. He actually typed it this afternoon so you wouldn't have to deal with his handwriting. Frankie!"
"WHAT?" bellowed a voice from over near the bar.
"Stop fucking around with the spritzers and say hi!" Gerard yelled back. When he raised his voice, he sounded kind of raspy. Patrick felt something uncurl in his stomach and told himself to cut it out; he was here to work, not make friends or -- anything else. Especially not ogle guys.
"Fuck off," the voice said amiably. It was, apparently, attached to a guy maybe two inches taller than Patrick, with dark hair and tattoos. A lot of tattoos, actually, as well as gauges and a lip ring. Patrick had about ten seconds of happy thoughts before he successfully smacked them down. "So this is the new DJ, huh?"
"Patrick, Frankie the bartender," Gerard said. "Frankie, this is Patrick, the new DJ. He's going to be doing a couple nights a week, at least until Jon's done with the taxes."
"Oh," Frankie said. "So he's never leaving, then."
Gerard whacked Frankie on the shoulder. "Manners," he said, voice going mock-British for a second. "Did you want to take him backstage to meet the guys?"
Frankie lounged against the host's station. "Do I have to?" he whined.
Patrick flushed. "It's okay," he said quickly. "I just need to know where the lockers are, so I can put my--"
"I'm kidding," Frankie said, grinning. "Come on, this way." He started for the back.
"I'm not trying to get under anyone's feet," Patrick said, hurrying to follow him. "I just want to get my bearings and not fuck up, that's all."
Frankie looked at him, one hand on the door. Behind it, Patrick could hear hoots and catcalls. "You're the DJ," Frankie said. "Just don't screw up the music cues, and you'll be fine. Not that the customers would care, exactly, but some of the guys can be--"
"Temperamental?"
"I was going to say heinous bitches, but temperamental works too." Frankie banged the door open. "Guys! One minute, okay?"
Patrick came in behind him, trying not to stare. Most of them were in various states of undress, standing around or perched on the benches. It looked like any high school boys' locker room, except most boys' locker rooms didn't involve people standing around wearing thongs. At least, not the ones at Patrick's high school.
"Guys," Frankie said, "this is Patrick. He's going to be taking over for Jon a couple nights a week. Be nice, don't scare him, and for fuck's sake, Bill, don't traumatize the guy with a blowjob on his first night."
"You have to work up to Bill!" someone hooted near the back. "You can't just thrust him at newbies!"
"Emphasis on thrust," said a guy wearing a holey green sweater and not much else. He was about eleven feet tall -- all right, six, maybe six-two -- with longish spiky brown hair. He weighed maybe thirty pounds, and Patrick was pretty sure that was all dick. He coughed into his hand.
"Be nice," Frankie said again. "Patrick, these are Bill--" Holey Green Sweater Guy, oh God "--Brendon, Ryan, Spencer, and Nick. Kele and Gabe have the night off, so you'll probably meet them next time, and the new guy's in the back."
"Auditioning," the guy Frankie had introduced as Brendon said, leering a little. Patrick started. "He's in with Tyson."
"Jesus," Frankie muttered. "As long as they're on stage when they're supposed to be, I don't even want details, Urie."
"Ruining all my fun," Brendon sighed. He, at least, was wearing pants, but no shirt. "So you're the new guy, huh?"
"Um," Patrick said, and shook his head. "I. Yeah."
"Don't fuck up," warned a skinny kid who looked all of sixteen -- or he would've, if he was wearing something other than a thong, Jesus GOD, and a dark pink shirt embroidered with roses. Ryan, Patrick's brain supplied, already making a note to get their tax records from Jon and run names tomorrow morning. "Seriously. I know this is Jon's bright idea--"
"Ryan," Nick (silver earrings in each ear, wide grin) said, "don't be a bitch this early, all right? Please?" He wasn't wearing a stitch, and if he was amused -- or discomfitted, even -- by Patrick turning a new shade of red every ten seconds, he didn't show it. "Hey. Nice to meet you, man."
"Okay," Frankie said, "you guys finish getting ready, and I'll get Patrick set up in the booth." He fished a set of keys out of his pocket. "You can lock your stuff in the office 'til you get a combination lock. Jon's cool with that, I already asked."
"Okay," Patrick said, "thanks." He waved a little, feeling immensely stupid. "Um. It was nice to meet you all."
"Jesus, he's nice," Patrick he heard someone groan. "I give it a week."
Patrick hurried into the office and wondered, for the hundredth time in two days, exactly who he'd pissed off to get stuck doing this.
*
It was a little easier, after that, mostly because it was busywork and not dealing with people; and when it came to not dealing with people, Patrick was practically Batman.
The sound system was two levels: mp3s and actual records. The mp3s were organized according to dancer, so you could just start their particular playlist and let it run through. The records were there more for a backup, in case, God forbid, a file got corrupted or something, or if one of the guys got a wild hair up his ass and decided he didn't *want* to use his particular pre-selected song choice.
Sure enough, there was a list taped up in the booth, neatly typed. Each dancer had between three to six songs, depending on what time of night they danced; there was even a file folder sitting inside, labeled "Sunday" and "Monday" through to "Saturday", since they rotated dancers out. It seemed simple enough, except for the patter, and Patrick had actually DJ'ed enough parties in college to fumble his way through. Not that the customers were staring at him, anyway, which was a relief.
Halfway through the night -- and Brendon's first set, which meant "Mustang Sally" -- someone tapped Patrick on the shoulder. He jumped.
"Sorry," Bill said, holding up one hand. The other was holding a drink of some kind. "Um. Frankie sent this up, wanted me to see how you were doing."
"I'm fine," Patrick said, shaking his head. "I didn't mean -- you just startled me, is all." Though now that he was actually looking, Bill's choice of outfit -- tight jeans with the knees ripped out, and nothing else -- was just as startling, but for different reasons.
"You get really focused," Bill said. "Jon doesn't. I mean, he's got to try to manage and do paperwork and stuff at the same time, but still." He handed Patrick the glass. "Here."
"Um--"
"It's non-alcoholic," Bill said, "just a Diet Coke. It can get stuffy up here, and it's not like we're allowed to drink on the job."
"No, non-alcoholic is fine," Patrick said quickly, taking it. "Thanks."
"No problem." Bill hooked his thumbs in his pockets.
It took Patrick a couple of swallows to notice that Bill wasn't exactly leaving. "I don't -- is everything okay?" he asked.
"Frankie was kidding," Bill said, scooting a little closer. To be heard over the music, Patrick told himself, so don't start reading into it. "About me blowing guys on their first night, I mean."
"I didn't assume," Patrick said. "I'm just--I'm new in town, I like music, I'm used to being up nights."
"You just graduate?" Bill asked.
Patrick nodded. "Music major at Northwestern," he said. He'd actually graduated a couple of years earlier, but the rest of it was true; made as good a background as any.
"Northwestern," Bill said. "That's where Jon went. You know him?"
"Not before yesterday," Patrick said truthfully. "I saw his ad in the paper, came in and gave him my resume."
Bill nodded. "Jon did that last year too," he said. "Usually does for a month or so, around tax time." He looked out at the stage. “Brendon looks good out there, don't you think?"
Patrick glanced over for a few seconds. Brendon was down to a pair of pinstripe pants, a lot of eyeliner, and a smile. "I guess," he said.
"That means 'yes'." Bill grinned. "I should get back down there."
"Okay," Patrick said. "Um. Thank you for the drink. And tell Frankie thanks too."
"No problem," Bill said, and leaned in to kiss him very briefly on the mouth.
Patrick froze, more out of reflex than because he was freaked out.
Bill sat back after a couple of seconds, smiling a little. It looked sad. "Sorry," he said quickly.
"No!" Patrick said, too loud in the closed space. "No, that's." He took a breath. "I haven't dated a guy since college," he said, and that was the truth, too. "It's just. I'm not used to guys paying me attention, is all."
Bill reached up and tugged on Patrick's hat. "You'd better get used to it, then," he said, smiling for real this time. "We're. Friendly around here."
Patrick glanced back at the stage. Brendon was pulling a kid from the audience up on stage; the kid, blushing, didn't look all that upset by the attention. And from the way he was grinning, neither did Brendon.
"Yeah," he said, "I'm getting that."
*
The problem with being up in the booth was that it didn't give Patrick any time to talk to any of the dancers -- or even Jon, who was taking the break to actually work on the taxes, even though he was open and cooperative any time he or Pete asked anything of him.
The good thing was, it let him watch the crowd.
Everyone looked fairly normal, from what Patrick could see: mostly working-class guys, some of them too embarrassed to make eye contact until or unless a dancer came up and actually dropped himself in his lap. Some students, though Jon said they tended to get more of those on weekends. A surprising amount of guys in suits and ties.
And uniforms. Guys in uniforms. Those were the ones Patrick tried to focus on, though not to the exclusion of anyone else; that was just bad police work. But the only actual lead they had to go on involved Steineckert last being seen talking to a guy wearing a uniform just after closing.
He was so busy staring he almost didn't notice what time it was, hands loading a fresh playlist and glancing at the list to doublecheck on reflex. And sure enough--
Pete was up next.
Patrick almost didn't realize it at first. Pete had traded the hoodie and jeans for a striped rugby shirt and what looked like soccer shorts, some kind of sneaker and kneesocks -- and holy crap, he actually had a soccer ball up there with him, and was kicking it around like he knew what the hell he was doing. And to the sounds of a bass-heavy version of Under Pressure, no less, which was weirdly impressive.
Patrick made himself stop looking and go back to surveying the crowd. Not Pete, he told himself; he was a big boy, he knew what he was doing, and there wasn't anyone crazy enough to try and get onstage unless expressly invited. Patrick took notes instead.
Two guys in security uniforms, seated about halfway up, more interested in their drinks than physical distractions. Both were dark-haired; the one on the left was 5'8", his friend directly opposite 5'11".
One guy, maybe 5'5" with jaw-length dark hair, wearing some kind of jumpsuit with his name stitched over the top left breast. He nursed a drink and stared entirely too long at Spencer; Patrick starred that one.
A table of guys in dark pants and white dress shirts, with some kind of individual name tags over the top left breast; they spotted Ryan and waved him over, hooting and waving dollars at him. Patrick , in the safety of the booth, raised an eyebrow, but Ryan just smiled and batted his eyes and slinked his hips over.
When Patrick looked up again, the soccer ball was gone and Pete was down to just shorts.
And really, Patrick told himself not to stare, but come on: there was a hot guy with too many tattoos stripping essentially across the room from him. Pete was practiced; he had good eye contact with the crowd, and he didn't seem to mind the attention at all. Everyone was staring, even a couple of guys from Ryan's table, and oh, didn't that earn a couple of dirty looks from the kid in question.
As soon as he reached for the waistband of the shorts, Patrick made himself look away and go back to his notes.
*
By the time the club closed at two in the morning, Patrick had a page of descriptions to try and match up with DMV tags -- Jon had let them put security cameras up in the parking lot, for which Patrick was grateful; and kind of pissed, since if they'd had cameras up in the *first* place, maybe they would have more to go on -- and a crick in his neck from staring.
"Hey," Gerard said, knocking on the booth's plexiglass. Patrick looked up. "Sorry to bother you, but could I bug you for a minute?"
Which was how Patrick found himself stacking chairs on tables and changing bulbs along the stage in a men's club at two-thirty in the morning, listening to Gerard and Frankie (who were, apparently, dating, and my God his gaydar was awful) bitch about their co-workers.
"You know he's holed up somewhere with that guy from Houston," Frankie said, giving the bar another swipe.
"Who?" Patrick asked absently, tossing the dead bulb in the trash.
"Quinn," Frankie said, "guy who used to work here. Excuse me, *still* works here, at least until he shows up in three days and Jon fires his ass."
"You don't know that," Gerard said. He flipped a chair over and put it on one of the tables. "Something bad could have happened to him."
"First, it's Quinn, no it didn't," Frankie said. "Second, you're too soft a touch." He blew Gerard a kiss.
Patrick smiled a little. "So he's kind of a slacker, huh?"
"How can you slack at stripping?" Frankie demanded, shaking his head. "That takes fucking talent, I'm telling you."
"Quinn, fine," Gerard said, hand still on a chair leg. "But Branden?"
Patrick made himself look bewildered. "And Branden's--"
"Another guy who works here," Gerard said. "Jon went down to the station and filed a missing persons report on them yesterday. A couple of cops came down and took statements and everything." He climbed up on the stage and half-ducked backstage, flipped the stage lights off. "It's just been a weird week, man. You picked a hell of a time to start."
"It's not that bad," Patrick said. He got off the stage and helped Gerard down. "I'm mostly worried about the mp3s skipping and breaking someone's rhythm."
"Hasn't happened yet," Gerard said. "You'll be fine. You did good tonight."
Patrick wrinkled his nose. "Eh," he said, "I could do better. But thanks." He smiled.
"Gee doesn't just hand out compliments," Frankie said, leaning up and kissing Gerard's cheek. Gerard looked long-suffering and amused, which Patrick was starting to get was kind of his default expression. "Guys! Anyone who's leaving, get out here now! We're closing up shop!"
A couple of the guys -- Spencer, Bill, Brendon -- came out. Dressed in regular clothes, Patrick couldn't have picked them out of the line at a movie theater. They looked normal, in t-shirts and jeans and sneakers, laughing and checking for car keys.
"You're gonna want to wait a minute," Ryan said, sweeping a scarf around his neck. He was dressed a little like a character from a Dickens novel, complete with artfully tattered scarf and fingerless gloves. "Tyson and the new guy are. Almost finished up."
"The new guy has a name," Gerard pointed out.
"Fine, Tyson and Pete are almost finished up," Ryan said, sticking out his tongue. "They said they'd clean up the showers after."
"They're having sex?" Patrick blurted out.
Ryan stared at him, eyebrow going up. "You're quick," he said dryly. Patrick flushed.
"Shut up," Frankie said, smacking his shoulder. "I'll walk everyone out and wait for you outside," he told Gerard, kissing his cheek.
Patrick shouldered his bag. "Is this a regular thing, walking people out?"
"Since Quinn and Brand stopped showing up," Frankie said. He opened the door and stepped outside, dug a cigarette out of his bag. "Jon figured better safe than sorry, you know? It's a well-lit parking lot, but still, sometimes people get ideas about people who work at a strip club."
"So, what, you know judo?"
"Not quite," Frankie said. He reached into his jacket pocket, took out a switchblade. "Worse for long-distance fights, but it'll scare people off."
"Yeah," Patrick said. "I can believe that." He didn't think whoever was behind this -- if it was even a kidnapping -- would be stupid enough to do it in front of a crowd of people, but he was still glad he had his gun in a shoulder rig under his jacket. Not that he could exactly tell Frankie that.
"All good," Gerard said, propping the door open. "Come on, you two, out."
"We're going, we're going," Tyson laughed. He was almost as tall as Bill, with floppy brown hair and strong cheekbones. His t-shirt was on inside out, and his jeans were zipped but not buttoned. His face looked flushed.
"Gerard Way," Pete said solemnly, "mood killer." He was pressed tight to Tyson's side and laughing too, hair disheveled and what looked suspiciously like a love bite on his shoulder.
"Fuck off," Gerard said, smacking his arm. "Patrick, where's your car?"
"Down there," Patrick said, pointing. "I'll be fine."
"You sure?" Frankie said, frowning a little.
"Yeah," Patrick said. "You guys go. I'm good." He gave a little wave. "Eight tomorrow, right?"
"Eight tomorrow," Gerard agreed. "G'night, man."
"Night," Patrick said. He didn't look at Pete.
*
In a perfect world, getting off work at quarter to three in the morning would've been cause for sleeping in 'til at least noon. But Patrick had to live in *this* one, he was in Lieutenant Howard's office at nine AM. Still in civvies, thank God. At least undercover had something going for it.
Pete strolled in ten minutes later, still yawning and clutching his coffee. "I don't think it's anyone from the club," he said without preamble, and yawned again. "Not any of the employees, anyway."
"Good morning to you, too," Howard said. "Why the hell not?"
Pete dug a stack of files out of his bag and dropped them on the desk. "I got here at seven," he said, "ran everyone's names through the computer."
First file. "Gerard Way, the club's host, two arrests for public intoxication and one for underage drinking, both in New Jersey," Pete said. "Nothing stronger than that."
Second file. "Quinn Allman, the first guy to go missing, has one arrest for solicitation and two for drugs: coke and heroin, once each. The last time was in 2003. He completed probation and has been clean ever since, at least according to everyone I've spoken to."
Third file. "Frank Iero, bartender. He's been detained a few times for assault, but always on the job and no formal complaints have ever been filed. He was a bouncer at one point, so that accounts for some of it."
Fourth file. "This one is kind of interesting: Ryan Ross, one of the dancers at the club. Nothing on *him*, but the cops were called on his father, George Ross, in Las Vegas more than once when he was a kid. By Ryan's mom, no less. Apparently he was a verbally abusive drunk."
Howard frowned and paged through the file. "Any sign of him?"
"Nothing," Pete says. "I mean, I don't really expect Ryan would've said to someone who met him twelve hours ago."
Patrick had some thoughts about expectations and how sleeping with a possible suspect didn't do much to help with that, but he stifled them and shuffled through his notes.
"There's a couple possibles on the customers," Patrick said, flipping to his notes. "Two, actually. The first is a Brent Wilson. He works security at an office building a couple of blocks away, finishes his usual shift around midnight."
"That guy," Pete said suddenly, "is kind of weird. He really likes Spencer, though he'll go after Brendon in a pinch. He can't stand Ryan."
"The second," Patrick said, ignoring him, "is Thomas Conrad. He's an assistant manager at Washington Mutual. There were a table of guys there last night, and *he*," he nodded at Conrad's picture, "was one of them. They seemed really interested in Ross."
"Ryan didn't say anything," Pete added, "but again, he's not going to be chatty with someone he just met."
"So you're making nice with the other employees?" Howard asked.
"Fine," Patrick said smoothly, folding his hands on his thighs. "No problems."
Pete looked at him for a second, then nodded. "It's not a bad working environment," he said. "I've been in worse."
"Okay," Howard said. "Run Wilson, Conrad, and George Ross through BCI, see if anything comes up, and ask Walker tonight if he knows anything about these guys."
"I'll do that," Patrick said quickly. "It'd make more sense for me to go in and talk to him, since I'm basically doing half his job for the time being." That earned another look from Pete, but Howard just nodded.
*
"Hey," Pete said when they left Howard's office. He caught hold of Patrick's arm. "You okay, man?"
"I'm fine," Patrick said. He didn't move his arm away, even though he wanted to. "Why?"
"Because you haven't looked at me for more than ten seconds since we got to the club yesterday." One eyebrow went up. "It's kind of weird."
"I was doing my job," Patrick said. "So were you." He tried not to stare at the mark on Pete's neck.
"Okay," Pete said after a minute, still staring at him. "Because -- I mean, neither of us can afford to get distracted. It's not like we've got any other backup in there. Right?"
Patrick nodded. "Right."
"Okay." Pete looked at him for another minute. "So I'll see you tonight?"
"Yeah," Patrick said. "I just have to run those names through BCI, and I'm going home to get some sleep."
"All right." Pete clapped him on the shoulder. "See you, Trick."
"What?" Patrick blinked.
"Trick," Pete said. "Short for Patrick. Unless you *want* to be called Pat or something, which just--"
"Yeah, no."
"My point." It would have been a lot easier to believe Pete's smile, Patrick thought, if he hadn't seen the same expression on his face for half-hour sets the night before, not to mention when he came out disheveled from the bathrooms. "Have a good day, partner."
"Sure," Patrick said, managing a smile. "You too."
Part 2
Warning: contains many, many, MANY guys you will recognize as strippers, and more pairings than I care to list. Seriously. I got a little spastic around the middle. Pete/Patrick, AU, surprisingly little porn but read it anyway. (The porn is coming in the epilogue. NO, REALLY. STUPID BRAIN.)
Bare Essentials
by Gale
SUMMARY: Straight-laced, by-the-book police officer Patrick Stump has always lived by the letter of the law -- that is, until he is assigned to work with Detective Pete Wentz, a tough-as-nails, arrogantly handsome cop who knows exactly how to press his buttons. Staking out Klub Kashmir, Chicago's hottest gentleman's club, Patrick and Pete go undercover to bait the kidnapper of three young men -- including two strippers from the club -- while trying to keep their clashing personalities at bay.
i.
"Patrick!" Joe yelled. "There’s a guy waiting for you in the break room. Said he wanted to talk to you."
"Uh-huh," Patrick said absently, not looking up from his paperwork. "Great."
Being a cop wasn't a lot like an episode of Law & Order. For starters, Patrick was behind a desk most of the day -- thank you, less-than-perfect vision and excellent firearms rating, for fucking up most of the instructors' heads from day one -- not wearing a snazzy suit or walking around New York City. Also, he'd never met Jerry Orbach or Jesse L. Martin, which was just sad.
"Dude." Joe walked over and poked him in the shoulder. Patrick smacked his hand away. For a civilian assistant, Joe could get really hands-on. It would have been irritating, if he wasn't so goddamn affable. "Seriously. I think he's from IA or something."
Patrick blinked and looked at him. "What?"
"I'm saying." Joe nodded across the room. "He didn't want to wait at your desk, something about causing a scene."
"He's fucking IA, and he doesn't want to cause a--" Patrick shook his head. "Never mind. Break room, you said?"
Joe nodded. "You can't miss him," he added, rolling his eyes. "Trust me."
Patrick rolled his chair back and stood up, wincing when it squeaked. What the hell? IA was for dirty cops, people under investigation. There were old cops' stories about everyone having an IA file, just in case, but he gave that as much credence as he did that story about stepping on a crack causing your mother's back to break.
--of course, he didn't step on cracks, so really, that was just hypocritical. Patrick rubbed his forehead and went inside, automatically glancing at the coffee pot.
There was a guy sitting on the counter, talking to CSI Salpeter. But that couldn't be who Joe was talking about; IA cops were always neatly pressed and looked pissy at best, and this guy...didn't. In Vans and a hoodie, the guy looked like a college kid come in to complain about something.
"--but we'll finish that later," Greta said, smiling into her cup. "Here he is now. Patrick!"
Patrick waited 'til he'd poured himself a cup to turn around and manage a smile. "Morning," he said. "Everything go okay last night?" Most people complained about working nights; Greta got cranky if she got stuck on days. If he lived to be a hundred, Patrick was never going to get lab techs.
"Two shootings," she shrugged. "Nothing interesting. Speaking of interesting--" She nodded at the guy sitting on the counter. "Officer Patrick Stump, Detective Peter Wentz. He just transferred in from Vice."
"Hi," Patrick said, giving a little wave. No reason to be rude.
The guy -- Peter -- looked at him, cocking his head. "I thought you'd be taller," he said after a few seconds. "Not as paunchy."
--okay, maybe some reason to be rude.
"Great," Patrick said. "Sorry to disappoint you. Greta." He nodded at her and turned to leave.
"No!" Greta said. "That's not. I mean." Patrick could almost hear her wince. "...Pete's your new partner."
Patrick turned and looked at both of them.
Pete looked sympathetic. "I know, right?" He swung his feet a little.
Oh my God, it was eight-thirty Monday morning and he already hated everything ever.
*
And it didn't get any better after that, either, because--
"You two," Lieutenant Howard said, "are going undercover."
--well. Yeah.
"No offense, sir," Patrick said, because it was never good to start out pleading your case by calling your boss a fuckwit (even when you really, really wanted to), "but that's not. I'm on a desk, remember?"
Howard raised an eyebrow. "Of course I remember," he said calmly. "And now you're off of desk duty. Congratulations."
"That's not what I--"
"Also," he added, "I need someone to keep this one--" he nodded at Pete "--in line. That would be you."
"I don't need a babysitter," Pete snotted, crossing his arms over his chest. Howard rubbed his eyebrow with his finger and tried not to look too pissed off.
"Wentz," he said flatly, "it's bad enough that your old boss pulled some strings and got you transferred away from him. But *I* got stuck with you. So unless *you* want to pull desk duty--"
"Can he do it for me?" Pete nodded at Patrick. "He seems to like it."
Patrick opened his mouth to answer.
"You," Howard said, pointing at him, "sit down and shut up." Patrick did. "You," that one directed at Pete, "follow suit."
Pete dropped into the chair next to Patrick's and somehow, without actually moving his body or face, managed to do the most staggering impression of a pissy eight-year-old Patrick had ever seen. For a second, he thought about clapping.
"You've heard of Klub Kashmir, right?"
But no, the lieutenant would be pis-- "What?" Patrick asked. He looked at Pete.
"It's a gentleman's club," Pete said, shrugging. "Downtown. We never had a lot of problems with it; they're pretty strict about people not dealing or using on the property, and if anyone prostituted themselves, they did it on their own time and not on club property. Their licenses and codes are always up-to-date. Why?"
"Two employees have gone missing in as many weeks." Howard slid a pair of pictures across the desk. One featured a blond man dressed like a college student, complete with a messenger bag slung over one shoulder; the other was what looked like a mug shot of a dark-haired man with a tight, slightly bored expression.
"Quinn Allman," Howard said, tapping the picture of the blond man, "and Branden Steineckert," the brunette. "Allman went missing almost two weeks ago--"
"Almost?" Patrick asked.
"His roommate said he kept weird hours," Howard said. "Mostly worked nights, sometimes afternoons."
"Ew, afternoon strippers," Pete said faintly. Patrick ignored him.
"Steineckert went missing the night before last. Witnesses said they saw him in the parking lot, talking to someone wearing what looked like a security uniform. The manager says that's not surprising, they get a lot of customers in just before and just after their shifts. We're tracking the leads down now."
"Okay," Patrick said slowly. "So if you have people tracking leads down, why are you telling me--"
"Us," Pete said, kicking his ankle. Patrick glared at him.
"--us all this?"
"Because," Howard said, smiling grimly, "you two are going undercover."
*
"No fucking way," Patrick said flatly.
"Dude--"
"No fucking way."
"You're not--"
"No. Fucking. Wa--"
"No fucking way, I get it." Pete rolled his eyes. "So could you tell me when you're done with your Napoleonic hissyfit? Because I'm actually trying to make a point, here."
Patrick stopped and looked at him.
"Thank you," Pete said. "Seriously, it won't be that bad. It's probably something boring, like the two of them are shacked up somewhere together. But people aren't going to talk to us if we come in as cops, so undercover makes sense."
"At a strip club," Patrick said precisely. "For guys."
Pete looked amused. "There's no set rule that says you have to fuck anyone, man."
Patrick sighed. "That's not the point," he said, scratching his forehead. "It's just...it's weird."
"This isn't weird," Pete said. "Weird is buying coffee and bagels for a group of transvestite hookers six blocks over and admiring the way Mischa's eyeshadow helps hide her Adam's apple." He dangled the car keys in Patrick's face. "I'll drive."
*
"You guys are the cops, right?"
Patrick blnked. "Um. We're not--"
"It's fine, your lieutenant already called and told me you were coming over so I wouldn't be surprised." The guy behind the desk stood up, offered his hand. "Jon Walker. I manage the place."
"I'm Detective Wentz," Pete said, shaking Jon's hand. "This is Officer Stump."
"Have you heard anything yet?" Patrick asked.
"No," Jon said, looking grim. "Which is weird. I mean, less weird for Quinn -- yeah, go ahead, have a seat -- but it's completely out of character for Branden. He's a college student, for God's sake; he does this nights and weekends to earn books and tuition. Never misses a shift, and if he's going to he calls ahead. Like a regular job."
Patrick perched in one of the two chairs on the other side of the desk. Pete, he noticed absently, lounged. "And Allman?"
"Quinn's a little iffier," Jon admitted. "But he'd have gotten in contact with someone by now, even if it wasn't me." He sat behind the desk. The office looked -- normal, actually. There was a computer open to an Excel spreadsheet, papers stacked in neat piles. One corner of the desk had what looked like an air plant; the other, a tiny desk-sized Japanese rock garden. It didn't look at all like what Patrick thought a strip club manager's office should look like.
"--but that was over weeks ago," Jon was saying. Patrick mentally whacked himself in the head and glanced over, relieved to see that Pete was actually taking notes. "The guy was a dick, but Quinn didn't need a restraining order or anything."
"Uh huh." Pete nodded. "Okay. We should probably get started, then." He uncurled himself from the chair. "Through the back, right?"
"And to the left," Jon nodded. "Officer Stump, if you want, I can show you where you'll be working."
"Um," Patrick said. "Not as a. Not as talent, right?"
Jon shook his head, smiling. "No. Come on, let me show you around." He came out from behind the desk and went back into the club proper, Patrick following.
The layout of the club was about the way he'd figured it would be: the front of the club was mostly taken up by the stage, extending out into the audience complete with a pole, no less. There were seats up against the stage, with the rest of the floor taken up by tables. The DJ booth was off to the far left, the bar was far right, and there were shadowy tables near the back of the room, helpfully roped off.
"It's not that big," Jon said, "but we do okay. It's all completely above-board--"
"It's okay," Patrick said. "You already went through all this with the investigating officers. Detective Wentz and I are strictly here to see if we can catch whoever's doing this." He tried very hard not to notice how sticky the floor was; if he noticed, he'd have to ask why.
"I know," Jon said. "I'm just being upfront." He ran up the small flight of stairs -- seriously small; like, three stairs -- and went into the booth. No door, Patrick noticed.
Jon fiddled with the stack of records next to the turntables. "I figured we'd put you up here, if you don't mind."
"Fine with me," Patrick said quickly. "I know I don't exactly have the body for it--"
"What? No." Jon shook his head. "But we already have a bartender, and I've been making noises about having to hire someone to DJ a couple nights a week while I get ready for tax season and stuff. No one'll ask too many questions."
Patrick nodded. "And Wentz?"
Jon glanced out the front of the booth and smiled, nodding at the stage. "Take a look."
Patrick looked.
Pete, still wearing his jeans and hoodie, had one leg wrapped around the pole. He grabbed the pole and swung around in a surprisingly neat motion, using the force to spin him around. A couple of guys behind him clapped.
Jon grinned. "He starts tomorrow night."
*
"You're fucking kidding me."
"Why?" Pete said, buckling his seatbelt. "We need to get in there and talk to people, and the easiest way to do that -- no offense -- is not from the DJ booth." He poked in the arm. "*Some* of us can't pussy out and not get the job done."
"My not taking my pants off doesn't make me a pussy," Patrick said. "So, what, you're just going to do it?"
"They have a liquor license," Pete said, rolling his eyes, "which means I won't have to get totally naked. And I'm getting a paycheck from the department, so I'm turning over all monies earned, including tips, to the house. It's fine."
"You're going to be stripping," Patrick said again. It was a terrible argument, he knew, but it was the only one he could think of at the moment.
Pete shrugged. "I did it in college for about a year. It was that or get a student loan."
--and since Patrick didn't have anything to say to that, he started the car.
ii.
"Tell me you're not wearing that," Pete said flatly.
Patrick blinked at him. "Pete? What the hell, it's not even five yet--"
"And we start at eight," Pete said, "so you need to start getting ready." He brushed past Patrick and walked inside. "Your bedroom's back through here, right?" he yelled.
Patrick hurried after him, shutting the door. "That's not -- I don't need help getting dressed, Jesus. I'm not ten."
"You might as well be," Pete said. It took Patrick a minute to find him, mostly because most of Pete was rooting around through his closet. "Oh my God, I have not seen this many polo shirts in...actually, in my entire life. And I went to private school as a kid, so riddle me that."
"You went to private school," Patrick said flatly. "And you paid for college by stripping?"
"I don't like being beholden to people," Pete said. "My parents are included in that." He tossed out a pair of chinos and said, "Okay, yeah, no."
"Pete, that's not -- could you stop?" Patrick reached for his arm and tugged. "I'm wearing jeans, okay?"
Pete stuck half his face out, exposing one eye. "Like the ones you have on now?"
Patrick glanced down at himself. "Um. I was thinking so, yea--"
"Turn around."
Glare. "No."
Pete just looked at him.
"Oh, for--" Patrick turned around for a couple of seconds, then faced front again.
"Those are fine," Pete said, poking his head back in the closet. "They'll show off your ass."
"What?" Patrick didn't have to fake sounding bewildered. "I don't -- I'm going to play music! Why would that necessitate showing my ass?"
"Because it's a strip club," Pete said, and handed Patrick a hanger. "Here. Wear this."
Patrick looked at it. "No," he said, "no way. That fit me when I was in college--"
"Which was maybe two years ago, not ten," Pete said. "Come on, change. You need to get there early so Jon can show you your call list."
"How would you know that?" Patrick asked.
"I went by earlier," Pete said. "Had to drop off some of my stuff, meet my co-workers. You know, usual first day stuff."
"Uh-*huh*," Patrick said, and turned around to change his shirt. "Uh, you do remember that you aren't actually a stripper, right?"
When he turned back around, Pete was staring at him. He didn't look at all like a cop, Patrick noticed; most cops did a little, even in civvies. Pete just looked exasperated and kind of like he wanted a cup of coffee. Like a college student, actually. God, how old was he?
"Look," Pete said flatly. "You don't like me. I get that--"
"I said hi and you called me fat," Patrick said, just as flatly. "Do you want a hug, too?"
"--but we have to work together. I have to know that you have my back in case something goes wrong, and vice versa. It'll probably turn out to be that Steineckert got called out of town to visit a family member and Allman's shacked up with his girlfriend, something innocuous, but until we know otherwise, we have to presume that they've been kidnapped. Or worse." He scrubbed at his face with his hand. "And I'm sorry about the fat thing. It was a shitty joke. You're not fat. You're solid, maybe, but that's not a bad thing."
Patrick looked at him for a long minute.
"You're right," he finally said. "And I'm - I was being a jerk, and I apologize."
"Good." Pete let out a long breath. "Now let's get to work."
*
As soon as Patrick walked in the front door -- Pete went in the back, through the talent entrance -- a guy with short black hair practically tackled him and said, "You're Patrick, right?"
"Um," Patrick said. He blinked. "Yeah. Can I--"
"I'm Gerard," Black-Haired Guy said. "Do you need a tour, or did--"
"No, Walker -- Jon gave me one the other day, when he hired me," Patrick said. "I just need to know where I can keep my stuff."
"The locker room's through the back," Gerard said. He looked neat and sort of tidy in a button-down black shirt and matching pants, and a little harried. "I'm sorry, I'm usually not this spastic, but we've got a new dancer starting tonight, two bachelor parties, and you."
"It's okay," Patrick said, adjusting the strap on his bag. "I've done this before. I just need everyone's playlists, unless they want me to just pick stuff."
"Oh, fuck, no, are you kidding?" Gerard snorted. "One or two of them would be okay with it, but most of them would have a conniption fit. And by 'most of them', I mean Ryan and Spencer." At Patrick's blank look, he added, "It's fine. Jon keeps a setlist up in the booth. He actually typed it this afternoon so you wouldn't have to deal with his handwriting. Frankie!"
"WHAT?" bellowed a voice from over near the bar.
"Stop fucking around with the spritzers and say hi!" Gerard yelled back. When he raised his voice, he sounded kind of raspy. Patrick felt something uncurl in his stomach and told himself to cut it out; he was here to work, not make friends or -- anything else. Especially not ogle guys.
"Fuck off," the voice said amiably. It was, apparently, attached to a guy maybe two inches taller than Patrick, with dark hair and tattoos. A lot of tattoos, actually, as well as gauges and a lip ring. Patrick had about ten seconds of happy thoughts before he successfully smacked them down. "So this is the new DJ, huh?"
"Patrick, Frankie the bartender," Gerard said. "Frankie, this is Patrick, the new DJ. He's going to be doing a couple nights a week, at least until Jon's done with the taxes."
"Oh," Frankie said. "So he's never leaving, then."
Gerard whacked Frankie on the shoulder. "Manners," he said, voice going mock-British for a second. "Did you want to take him backstage to meet the guys?"
Frankie lounged against the host's station. "Do I have to?" he whined.
Patrick flushed. "It's okay," he said quickly. "I just need to know where the lockers are, so I can put my--"
"I'm kidding," Frankie said, grinning. "Come on, this way." He started for the back.
"I'm not trying to get under anyone's feet," Patrick said, hurrying to follow him. "I just want to get my bearings and not fuck up, that's all."
Frankie looked at him, one hand on the door. Behind it, Patrick could hear hoots and catcalls. "You're the DJ," Frankie said. "Just don't screw up the music cues, and you'll be fine. Not that the customers would care, exactly, but some of the guys can be--"
"Temperamental?"
"I was going to say heinous bitches, but temperamental works too." Frankie banged the door open. "Guys! One minute, okay?"
Patrick came in behind him, trying not to stare. Most of them were in various states of undress, standing around or perched on the benches. It looked like any high school boys' locker room, except most boys' locker rooms didn't involve people standing around wearing thongs. At least, not the ones at Patrick's high school.
"Guys," Frankie said, "this is Patrick. He's going to be taking over for Jon a couple nights a week. Be nice, don't scare him, and for fuck's sake, Bill, don't traumatize the guy with a blowjob on his first night."
"You have to work up to Bill!" someone hooted near the back. "You can't just thrust him at newbies!"
"Emphasis on thrust," said a guy wearing a holey green sweater and not much else. He was about eleven feet tall -- all right, six, maybe six-two -- with longish spiky brown hair. He weighed maybe thirty pounds, and Patrick was pretty sure that was all dick. He coughed into his hand.
"Be nice," Frankie said again. "Patrick, these are Bill--" Holey Green Sweater Guy, oh God "--Brendon, Ryan, Spencer, and Nick. Kele and Gabe have the night off, so you'll probably meet them next time, and the new guy's in the back."
"Auditioning," the guy Frankie had introduced as Brendon said, leering a little. Patrick started. "He's in with Tyson."
"Jesus," Frankie muttered. "As long as they're on stage when they're supposed to be, I don't even want details, Urie."
"Ruining all my fun," Brendon sighed. He, at least, was wearing pants, but no shirt. "So you're the new guy, huh?"
"Um," Patrick said, and shook his head. "I. Yeah."
"Don't fuck up," warned a skinny kid who looked all of sixteen -- or he would've, if he was wearing something other than a thong, Jesus GOD, and a dark pink shirt embroidered with roses. Ryan, Patrick's brain supplied, already making a note to get their tax records from Jon and run names tomorrow morning. "Seriously. I know this is Jon's bright idea--"
"Ryan," Nick (silver earrings in each ear, wide grin) said, "don't be a bitch this early, all right? Please?" He wasn't wearing a stitch, and if he was amused -- or discomfitted, even -- by Patrick turning a new shade of red every ten seconds, he didn't show it. "Hey. Nice to meet you, man."
"Okay," Frankie said, "you guys finish getting ready, and I'll get Patrick set up in the booth." He fished a set of keys out of his pocket. "You can lock your stuff in the office 'til you get a combination lock. Jon's cool with that, I already asked."
"Okay," Patrick said, "thanks." He waved a little, feeling immensely stupid. "Um. It was nice to meet you all."
"Jesus, he's nice," Patrick he heard someone groan. "I give it a week."
Patrick hurried into the office and wondered, for the hundredth time in two days, exactly who he'd pissed off to get stuck doing this.
*
It was a little easier, after that, mostly because it was busywork and not dealing with people; and when it came to not dealing with people, Patrick was practically Batman.
The sound system was two levels: mp3s and actual records. The mp3s were organized according to dancer, so you could just start their particular playlist and let it run through. The records were there more for a backup, in case, God forbid, a file got corrupted or something, or if one of the guys got a wild hair up his ass and decided he didn't *want* to use his particular pre-selected song choice.
Sure enough, there was a list taped up in the booth, neatly typed. Each dancer had between three to six songs, depending on what time of night they danced; there was even a file folder sitting inside, labeled "Sunday" and "Monday" through to "Saturday", since they rotated dancers out. It seemed simple enough, except for the patter, and Patrick had actually DJ'ed enough parties in college to fumble his way through. Not that the customers were staring at him, anyway, which was a relief.
Halfway through the night -- and Brendon's first set, which meant "Mustang Sally" -- someone tapped Patrick on the shoulder. He jumped.
"Sorry," Bill said, holding up one hand. The other was holding a drink of some kind. "Um. Frankie sent this up, wanted me to see how you were doing."
"I'm fine," Patrick said, shaking his head. "I didn't mean -- you just startled me, is all." Though now that he was actually looking, Bill's choice of outfit -- tight jeans with the knees ripped out, and nothing else -- was just as startling, but for different reasons.
"You get really focused," Bill said. "Jon doesn't. I mean, he's got to try to manage and do paperwork and stuff at the same time, but still." He handed Patrick the glass. "Here."
"Um--"
"It's non-alcoholic," Bill said, "just a Diet Coke. It can get stuffy up here, and it's not like we're allowed to drink on the job."
"No, non-alcoholic is fine," Patrick said quickly, taking it. "Thanks."
"No problem." Bill hooked his thumbs in his pockets.
It took Patrick a couple of swallows to notice that Bill wasn't exactly leaving. "I don't -- is everything okay?" he asked.
"Frankie was kidding," Bill said, scooting a little closer. To be heard over the music, Patrick told himself, so don't start reading into it. "About me blowing guys on their first night, I mean."
"I didn't assume," Patrick said. "I'm just--I'm new in town, I like music, I'm used to being up nights."
"You just graduate?" Bill asked.
Patrick nodded. "Music major at Northwestern," he said. He'd actually graduated a couple of years earlier, but the rest of it was true; made as good a background as any.
"Northwestern," Bill said. "That's where Jon went. You know him?"
"Not before yesterday," Patrick said truthfully. "I saw his ad in the paper, came in and gave him my resume."
Bill nodded. "Jon did that last year too," he said. "Usually does for a month or so, around tax time." He looked out at the stage. “Brendon looks good out there, don't you think?"
Patrick glanced over for a few seconds. Brendon was down to a pair of pinstripe pants, a lot of eyeliner, and a smile. "I guess," he said.
"That means 'yes'." Bill grinned. "I should get back down there."
"Okay," Patrick said. "Um. Thank you for the drink. And tell Frankie thanks too."
"No problem," Bill said, and leaned in to kiss him very briefly on the mouth.
Patrick froze, more out of reflex than because he was freaked out.
Bill sat back after a couple of seconds, smiling a little. It looked sad. "Sorry," he said quickly.
"No!" Patrick said, too loud in the closed space. "No, that's." He took a breath. "I haven't dated a guy since college," he said, and that was the truth, too. "It's just. I'm not used to guys paying me attention, is all."
Bill reached up and tugged on Patrick's hat. "You'd better get used to it, then," he said, smiling for real this time. "We're. Friendly around here."
Patrick glanced back at the stage. Brendon was pulling a kid from the audience up on stage; the kid, blushing, didn't look all that upset by the attention. And from the way he was grinning, neither did Brendon.
"Yeah," he said, "I'm getting that."
*
The problem with being up in the booth was that it didn't give Patrick any time to talk to any of the dancers -- or even Jon, who was taking the break to actually work on the taxes, even though he was open and cooperative any time he or Pete asked anything of him.
The good thing was, it let him watch the crowd.
Everyone looked fairly normal, from what Patrick could see: mostly working-class guys, some of them too embarrassed to make eye contact until or unless a dancer came up and actually dropped himself in his lap. Some students, though Jon said they tended to get more of those on weekends. A surprising amount of guys in suits and ties.
And uniforms. Guys in uniforms. Those were the ones Patrick tried to focus on, though not to the exclusion of anyone else; that was just bad police work. But the only actual lead they had to go on involved Steineckert last being seen talking to a guy wearing a uniform just after closing.
He was so busy staring he almost didn't notice what time it was, hands loading a fresh playlist and glancing at the list to doublecheck on reflex. And sure enough--
Pete was up next.
Patrick almost didn't realize it at first. Pete had traded the hoodie and jeans for a striped rugby shirt and what looked like soccer shorts, some kind of sneaker and kneesocks -- and holy crap, he actually had a soccer ball up there with him, and was kicking it around like he knew what the hell he was doing. And to the sounds of a bass-heavy version of Under Pressure, no less, which was weirdly impressive.
Patrick made himself stop looking and go back to surveying the crowd. Not Pete, he told himself; he was a big boy, he knew what he was doing, and there wasn't anyone crazy enough to try and get onstage unless expressly invited. Patrick took notes instead.
Two guys in security uniforms, seated about halfway up, more interested in their drinks than physical distractions. Both were dark-haired; the one on the left was 5'8", his friend directly opposite 5'11".
One guy, maybe 5'5" with jaw-length dark hair, wearing some kind of jumpsuit with his name stitched over the top left breast. He nursed a drink and stared entirely too long at Spencer; Patrick starred that one.
A table of guys in dark pants and white dress shirts, with some kind of individual name tags over the top left breast; they spotted Ryan and waved him over, hooting and waving dollars at him. Patrick , in the safety of the booth, raised an eyebrow, but Ryan just smiled and batted his eyes and slinked his hips over.
When Patrick looked up again, the soccer ball was gone and Pete was down to just shorts.
And really, Patrick told himself not to stare, but come on: there was a hot guy with too many tattoos stripping essentially across the room from him. Pete was practiced; he had good eye contact with the crowd, and he didn't seem to mind the attention at all. Everyone was staring, even a couple of guys from Ryan's table, and oh, didn't that earn a couple of dirty looks from the kid in question.
As soon as he reached for the waistband of the shorts, Patrick made himself look away and go back to his notes.
*
By the time the club closed at two in the morning, Patrick had a page of descriptions to try and match up with DMV tags -- Jon had let them put security cameras up in the parking lot, for which Patrick was grateful; and kind of pissed, since if they'd had cameras up in the *first* place, maybe they would have more to go on -- and a crick in his neck from staring.
"Hey," Gerard said, knocking on the booth's plexiglass. Patrick looked up. "Sorry to bother you, but could I bug you for a minute?"
Which was how Patrick found himself stacking chairs on tables and changing bulbs along the stage in a men's club at two-thirty in the morning, listening to Gerard and Frankie (who were, apparently, dating, and my God his gaydar was awful) bitch about their co-workers.
"You know he's holed up somewhere with that guy from Houston," Frankie said, giving the bar another swipe.
"Who?" Patrick asked absently, tossing the dead bulb in the trash.
"Quinn," Frankie said, "guy who used to work here. Excuse me, *still* works here, at least until he shows up in three days and Jon fires his ass."
"You don't know that," Gerard said. He flipped a chair over and put it on one of the tables. "Something bad could have happened to him."
"First, it's Quinn, no it didn't," Frankie said. "Second, you're too soft a touch." He blew Gerard a kiss.
Patrick smiled a little. "So he's kind of a slacker, huh?"
"How can you slack at stripping?" Frankie demanded, shaking his head. "That takes fucking talent, I'm telling you."
"Quinn, fine," Gerard said, hand still on a chair leg. "But Branden?"
Patrick made himself look bewildered. "And Branden's--"
"Another guy who works here," Gerard said. "Jon went down to the station and filed a missing persons report on them yesterday. A couple of cops came down and took statements and everything." He climbed up on the stage and half-ducked backstage, flipped the stage lights off. "It's just been a weird week, man. You picked a hell of a time to start."
"It's not that bad," Patrick said. He got off the stage and helped Gerard down. "I'm mostly worried about the mp3s skipping and breaking someone's rhythm."
"Hasn't happened yet," Gerard said. "You'll be fine. You did good tonight."
Patrick wrinkled his nose. "Eh," he said, "I could do better. But thanks." He smiled.
"Gee doesn't just hand out compliments," Frankie said, leaning up and kissing Gerard's cheek. Gerard looked long-suffering and amused, which Patrick was starting to get was kind of his default expression. "Guys! Anyone who's leaving, get out here now! We're closing up shop!"
A couple of the guys -- Spencer, Bill, Brendon -- came out. Dressed in regular clothes, Patrick couldn't have picked them out of the line at a movie theater. They looked normal, in t-shirts and jeans and sneakers, laughing and checking for car keys.
"You're gonna want to wait a minute," Ryan said, sweeping a scarf around his neck. He was dressed a little like a character from a Dickens novel, complete with artfully tattered scarf and fingerless gloves. "Tyson and the new guy are. Almost finished up."
"The new guy has a name," Gerard pointed out.
"Fine, Tyson and Pete are almost finished up," Ryan said, sticking out his tongue. "They said they'd clean up the showers after."
"They're having sex?" Patrick blurted out.
Ryan stared at him, eyebrow going up. "You're quick," he said dryly. Patrick flushed.
"Shut up," Frankie said, smacking his shoulder. "I'll walk everyone out and wait for you outside," he told Gerard, kissing his cheek.
Patrick shouldered his bag. "Is this a regular thing, walking people out?"
"Since Quinn and Brand stopped showing up," Frankie said. He opened the door and stepped outside, dug a cigarette out of his bag. "Jon figured better safe than sorry, you know? It's a well-lit parking lot, but still, sometimes people get ideas about people who work at a strip club."
"So, what, you know judo?"
"Not quite," Frankie said. He reached into his jacket pocket, took out a switchblade. "Worse for long-distance fights, but it'll scare people off."
"Yeah," Patrick said. "I can believe that." He didn't think whoever was behind this -- if it was even a kidnapping -- would be stupid enough to do it in front of a crowd of people, but he was still glad he had his gun in a shoulder rig under his jacket. Not that he could exactly tell Frankie that.
"All good," Gerard said, propping the door open. "Come on, you two, out."
"We're going, we're going," Tyson laughed. He was almost as tall as Bill, with floppy brown hair and strong cheekbones. His t-shirt was on inside out, and his jeans were zipped but not buttoned. His face looked flushed.
"Gerard Way," Pete said solemnly, "mood killer." He was pressed tight to Tyson's side and laughing too, hair disheveled and what looked suspiciously like a love bite on his shoulder.
"Fuck off," Gerard said, smacking his arm. "Patrick, where's your car?"
"Down there," Patrick said, pointing. "I'll be fine."
"You sure?" Frankie said, frowning a little.
"Yeah," Patrick said. "You guys go. I'm good." He gave a little wave. "Eight tomorrow, right?"
"Eight tomorrow," Gerard agreed. "G'night, man."
"Night," Patrick said. He didn't look at Pete.
*
In a perfect world, getting off work at quarter to three in the morning would've been cause for sleeping in 'til at least noon. But Patrick had to live in *this* one, he was in Lieutenant Howard's office at nine AM. Still in civvies, thank God. At least undercover had something going for it.
Pete strolled in ten minutes later, still yawning and clutching his coffee. "I don't think it's anyone from the club," he said without preamble, and yawned again. "Not any of the employees, anyway."
"Good morning to you, too," Howard said. "Why the hell not?"
Pete dug a stack of files out of his bag and dropped them on the desk. "I got here at seven," he said, "ran everyone's names through the computer."
First file. "Gerard Way, the club's host, two arrests for public intoxication and one for underage drinking, both in New Jersey," Pete said. "Nothing stronger than that."
Second file. "Quinn Allman, the first guy to go missing, has one arrest for solicitation and two for drugs: coke and heroin, once each. The last time was in 2003. He completed probation and has been clean ever since, at least according to everyone I've spoken to."
Third file. "Frank Iero, bartender. He's been detained a few times for assault, but always on the job and no formal complaints have ever been filed. He was a bouncer at one point, so that accounts for some of it."
Fourth file. "This one is kind of interesting: Ryan Ross, one of the dancers at the club. Nothing on *him*, but the cops were called on his father, George Ross, in Las Vegas more than once when he was a kid. By Ryan's mom, no less. Apparently he was a verbally abusive drunk."
Howard frowned and paged through the file. "Any sign of him?"
"Nothing," Pete says. "I mean, I don't really expect Ryan would've said to someone who met him twelve hours ago."
Patrick had some thoughts about expectations and how sleeping with a possible suspect didn't do much to help with that, but he stifled them and shuffled through his notes.
"There's a couple possibles on the customers," Patrick said, flipping to his notes. "Two, actually. The first is a Brent Wilson. He works security at an office building a couple of blocks away, finishes his usual shift around midnight."
"That guy," Pete said suddenly, "is kind of weird. He really likes Spencer, though he'll go after Brendon in a pinch. He can't stand Ryan."
"The second," Patrick said, ignoring him, "is Thomas Conrad. He's an assistant manager at Washington Mutual. There were a table of guys there last night, and *he*," he nodded at Conrad's picture, "was one of them. They seemed really interested in Ross."
"Ryan didn't say anything," Pete added, "but again, he's not going to be chatty with someone he just met."
"So you're making nice with the other employees?" Howard asked.
"Fine," Patrick said smoothly, folding his hands on his thighs. "No problems."
Pete looked at him for a second, then nodded. "It's not a bad working environment," he said. "I've been in worse."
"Okay," Howard said. "Run Wilson, Conrad, and George Ross through BCI, see if anything comes up, and ask Walker tonight if he knows anything about these guys."
"I'll do that," Patrick said quickly. "It'd make more sense for me to go in and talk to him, since I'm basically doing half his job for the time being." That earned another look from Pete, but Howard just nodded.
*
"Hey," Pete said when they left Howard's office. He caught hold of Patrick's arm. "You okay, man?"
"I'm fine," Patrick said. He didn't move his arm away, even though he wanted to. "Why?"
"Because you haven't looked at me for more than ten seconds since we got to the club yesterday." One eyebrow went up. "It's kind of weird."
"I was doing my job," Patrick said. "So were you." He tried not to stare at the mark on Pete's neck.
"Okay," Pete said after a minute, still staring at him. "Because -- I mean, neither of us can afford to get distracted. It's not like we've got any other backup in there. Right?"
Patrick nodded. "Right."
"Okay." Pete looked at him for another minute. "So I'll see you tonight?"
"Yeah," Patrick said. "I just have to run those names through BCI, and I'm going home to get some sleep."
"All right." Pete clapped him on the shoulder. "See you, Trick."
"What?" Patrick blinked.
"Trick," Pete said. "Short for Patrick. Unless you *want* to be called Pat or something, which just--"
"Yeah, no."
"My point." It would have been a lot easier to believe Pete's smile, Patrick thought, if he hadn't seen the same expression on his face for half-hour sets the night before, not to mention when he came out disheveled from the bathrooms. "Have a good day, partner."
"Sure," Patrick said, managing a smile. "You too."
Part 2