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He takes another sip of his beer, and leans against the bar, surveying the crowd.
Months of hiding in various small towns across the country, from sleepy Southern villages to tiny Midwestern farm hamlets, and he'd all he can tolerate. He needs someplace where he can blend with the crowd, where the sidewalks aren't rolled up at 9 pm, where there's always something going on. He needs a city that doesn't sleep, and he can't go back to New York. The small town life is starting to make his teeth itch in a way that he can't explain, other to say that he feels like his skin's too small and that it feels like the towns are shrinking around him, like a geographic claustrophobia attack.
He'd been making his way towards California, hoping to hide out in some surfing community or hippie commune, hoping the ocean would help calm some of his wanderlust, but someone had left a discarded magazine on the bus seat – an ad for Las Vegas stared up at him, and he felt a flicker of hope.
Vegas.
Another city full of perpetual motion and noise, another place where he can blend in with the multitudes, maybe even make some cash easily for once. The money he'd made working the fields in Iowa was almost gone, but he'd learned enough about poker cheats from Patterson that he knew he could turn that last twenty bucks into a couple thou. He also knew that there's got to be a hundred and one no-tell motels that will accept him with his highly dubious fake license, if he's not able to find some woman in a resort bar more than willing to share her bed and room for a 'what happens in Vegas'-style weekend.
He'd cleaned up as best as he could as the bus depot, shaving any little bit of dirty stubble from his face and washing the dust from his hair in the chipped porcelain sink, and headed straight for the Strip, playing it smart and slipping from one casino to the next after each small win, until he'd accumulated a sizable wad of cash without making himself known to security. Making money had to be priority #1, even before being able to relax a bit, having a drink, and finding some company, but once he could breathe easier, he'd decided it was past time to move on to the rest of his Vegas experience.
He chose a resort that he'd not gambled at, slipping into the tiki-themed bar with only the mildest grimace. The place was some sort of horrific tourist-trap hell, but one that fit well with his plans. The bartenders had been more than happy to give him a beer or three, and he'd found the perfect place to people watch.
Now that it's getting later, it seems like everyone's starting to unwind a bit faster, a bit harder. The late afternoon crowd has ceded to the early evening party crowd. The music's faster, headier, with a bass line that's a bit more primal. The women are now dressed in shorter, tighter party dresses instead of the more demure sundresses from earlier; they've let their hair down, figuratively and literally. The older, paunchy middle aged men he'd exchanged polite nods with earlier have left to go to overpriced shows with their aging wives, and the younger men who'd replaced them are clearly there for the same reasons he is, all of them seemingly dressed in scandalously tight T-shirts and pants and wearing entirely too much cologne.
Still, he people watches. It's too early, and the idea of picking up a woman just to use her for the night hurts. He's been relying on an identity that Kat had set up for him when they'd decided to elope earlier, one that he's certain that Weller and Patterson never uncovered, because why would they? They were only interested in the links to Shepherd that Kat could provide, not the ties that she had with him. It feels wrong to introduce himself as that man, Kat's soon-to-be-husband, as if he'd already forgotten her again.
He refuses to think about the other reason it feels wrong. If this is betraying Kat, well, that would be betraying her too.
Letting the music flow over him and the beer to start buzzing in his veins, he starts to make a mental list of his options. He can't look at the redheads without wanting to cry; the women that look too much like Jane are also out, as are those that remind him of Tash or Patterson. He wants someone who doesn't remind him of the past, wants someone that wouldn't be like trying to hold on to a ghost or a memory, but every woman he sees has Jane's eyes or Tasha's ponytail or Kat's lips or Patterson's smile. The worst is the woman who shares Shepherd's curls; he almost bolts from the bar as soon as he sees her, and has to fight every instinct he has when she smiles at him.
If he wasn't so busy watching all the women in the crowd, desperate to find someone unique and new, he might not have noticed the two men who'd slipped in through another door and commandeered a booth across the room. Why would he, if it wasn't for the fact that every woman in the place either looks over in that direction or makes her way to their table? Their presence has altered the very flow of traffic in the bar, something he can't help but notice as he watches how the woman with Shepherd's curls halts her progression towards him and abruptly turns to glide past that booth.
He doesn't have a good vantage point from his barstool, and he knows it's none of his damn business, that he ought not care what sort of supernatural power that the men in the booth apparently have over the women in the bar, he can't help but wonder. He tells himself that it's because he's trying to decide if he needs to leave for another bar, but he knows it's not the truth. It's the allure of the mystery, the same need to investigate oddities that he shared with Remi and apparently now shares with Jane. It's the call of the unknown that he'd known that she'd be helpless to resist, one of the reasons she'd turned her back on her family and gone over to the FBI's team.
For once, it doesn't hurt to think of Jane, even for a second. It's easier to think of her that way, unable to turn down a puzzle, rather than think she'd abandoned him for Weller. He still gulps down the rest of that beer, though.
Another beer, another thirty minutes of watching the crowd and the booth, trying to come up with explanations. The altered movements of the women in the bar continue; some of the men have started altering their movements as well, craning their heads as they look towards the booth. There's another strange current at play, as he notices that most of the women only stay for a few moments at the booth; there's near constant turnover. He'd thought maybe that the men were looking for easy pick-ups, but at this point, it doesn't seem likely.
Finally, he can't wait any longer, to explore the mystery or to hit the can. Luckily enough for him, the men's room is just steps past that booth. By the time he fights his way through the crowd, he needs to go badly enough that he doesn't even care about the booth until after he's done.
It's when he steps out of the men's room that he gets a good view at the booth, and his stomach drops and the six-pack worth of beer he'd consumed begins churning ominously. Fuuuuuuuck. How on earth had Weller known to look for him in Vegas, in that hotel, hell, in that very bar? Why hadn't he arrested him already? What was the game here?
He looks around the room, looking for the rest of the team. There's no way Weller was there to get him without backup, without Jane and at least Tash. Jane and Tash clearly aren't there at the table, and the other man with Weller is someone he's never seen before. If he's honest with himself, he's not entirely sure he's capable of taking on Weller's hired muscle. Most of their sparring matches at the NYO gym had ended in a draw, and this man's even larger than Weller. He looks around the room, and still can't spot any of the NYO team. He wonders if this means that Weller's going to eliminate him, not wanting Jane to know.
In a flash, he's looking towards the escape paths he'd traced earlier when he'd first gotten to the bar. The fastest way out is through the emergency exit three feet behind him, next to the bathrooms, but there's no way Weller wouldn't have put someone there. His best bet is to try to blend back into the crowd without making eye contact with his judge, jury, and executioner, and try to find someone to sneak out for a little 'alone time' with. Maybe the backup wouldn't be able to get a clear look at him, maybe they'd be less likely to go after him if he had a civilian with him. It's a horrible way to use a woman, but he tells himself he's not going to hurt her no matter what, so it's not that bad.
All of the wrongness of the situation comes crashing down over him when he realizes that all of the women have been stopping by Weller's table – in fact, there are three of them there right now, one sitting next to the hired muscle and two of them sitting in Weller's lap. What the hell?
He spins around, staring in disbelief as he watches Weller kiss the blonde sitting on his left thigh.
"What the fuck?" He can't stop the words from escaping his mouth, but the bar is loud and there's no way anyone can hear him.
Where's Jane? He never would have left her alone in New York if he'd thought Weller wouldn't be there for her. He's under the impression that they were together, even living together now. He's been told that everyone expects Weller to propose within the next month, that there was a ring already purchased. What the fuck is that jackass doing here, no Jane in sight, and kissing other women? No one treats his sister that way!
He marches over to the booth, infuriated to the point that he no longer cares about his own safety. Jane comes first; she always has.
"What the fuck is going on here?" He bellows. "Who the hell are these skanks, and what are you doing with them?"
Weller and his goon exchange confused glances; clearly they hadn't expected their quarry to present himself to them in quite this fashion.
"What's it to you?" Weller asks, cocky in a way he's never been before.
Roman can't stop himself. He grabs up the pitcher of beer on the table, dumps it over Weller's head, and yells at him. "You're tacky and I hate you!" While the men are still sitting there confused by that particular strategic move, he runs, pushing people out of his way. While she's not his favorite person, his sister deserves better. Of course, she's always had horrid taste in men, why would this time be any different?