I'm back (sort of, kind of, maybe)... did you miss me? Thanks to a little prompting from a good friend, I couldn't get this idea out of my head. Anyway, you know the disclaimer... Not mine, no profit, yada yada...

If you've read Undercover Cupcake, we're back at THE bar. If you haven't read it, This takes place after chapter 8, when Joe Morelli has his shot at doing a distraction for Rangeman. Reading at least that chapter might give you a little better idea of how we got here.

I was sitting at the bar when he came in. I've only been back here a few times since we picked up our skip, but from what some of the regulars tell me, he has been here every night since the incident. Dressed in jeans and a t shirt, he looks sorely out of place among the men dressed to impress.

He sits at a table against the wall, probably the same table he sat at on that very night. A slick looking waiter slides a beer and a frosted mug on the table before him. As always, he picks up the bottle and ignores the glass. He looks at the bottle for a long time before taking a drink. He sets the bottle down and gazes at the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor.

Mooch Morelli is a very handsome man. The stubble on his strong, masculine jaw looks like it passed 5 o'clock quite a few hours ago. He has dark, wavy hair, and chocolate brown eyes that you could get lost in. His olive toned skin makes him look as if he just stepped off of a gondola in Venice, instead of a late model Toyota in Point Pleasant, New Jersey. He looks good enough despite the working man clothes, that he's certainly getting his share of looks from more than a few patrons.

One of the crowd peels himself from the dance floor and makes his way to the table. I'm not close enough to hear the words that are exchanged, but it is obvious that he has had his advance rejected. Mooch takes another pull from his bottle and closes his eyes.

The bartender, Lorenzo, slid a glass in front of me. I've known Lorenzo since we were young boys growing up on the gang-infested streets of Newark. "You should talk to him," he said as I sipped my tonic water, "He's just your type."

I cracked a small smile. "Doesn't look like he's interested in a hook up."

"I was worried about him when he first started coming in," Lorenzo told me. "Comes in day after day and watches. Doesn't talk to anyone. I thought at first he might be looking to fight, but he just sits there for an hour, pays for his beer, and leaves." He winked at me. "I figure he's waiting for just the right person to help him take the first step."

I almost laughed in my old friend's face. "And you think I'm going to hold his hand and kiss his boo-boos when he falls?"

Lorenzo does laugh at that. "No, Amigo. I expect you to grab him by his hair and show him exactly what he needs."

I empty my glass and set it on the bar. What the hell, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I make my way over to his table and wait until he closes his eyes again, then slide into the seat next to him. He doesn't even open his eyes before he says, "Sorry, not interested."

I pluck the beer bottle from his hand and pour a little into the forgotten mug. As soon as the bottle left his grip, his eyes flew open. He started to argue, but the words died on his lips as he took in the small teardrops tattooed in prison so that they appear to be leaking from my eye. His own eyes widen slightly, and he wisely chooses to keep his mouth closed.

I drink the small sip of beer I poured myself. I don't drink alcohol, but I needed the prop as an opener. Putting the glass down, I look into his eyes. "I think you are interested," I told him, "and I don't think you're going to find the answers you need by watching the crowd."

His eyes scan the dance floor as he swallows the words I've spoken. His Adams apple slides up and down his throat in a delicious manner. Damn Lorenzo for talking me into this. That simple movement has all sorts of scenarios running through my head, and it's a fight to bring my attention back to where it should be. "There's a Diner a few blocks over." I say, my tone of voice telling him that this was not a request. "You can drive yourself over there and we'll discuss the questions you really need to be asking."

Mooch drops a twenty on the table, but doesn't stand to leave. "I don't even know your name. I've seen you here before, but I feel like I know you from somewhere else."

I stand, and he stands as well. "My name is Hector. I live in Trenton, and I work at Rangeman, with your cousin Joe."

Mooch dropped back into his chair with a thud. He looked like he had been slapped, but shock turned very quickly to anger. "What the hell is this all about? Are you playing some kind of sick game?"

I did my best to reassure him. "No, I don't play games like that. I wanted you to know the truth up front, so you wouldn't think I was lying to you later on." He seemed to accept that, so I kept talking, "Joe and I work together, but we aren't partners. We're not even friends, really, but I wouldn't talk to him regardless. I keep my personal life personal."

Mooch thought about it for a moment, and seemed to come to a decision. "Is this personal?"

I sat back down and leaned towards him, invading his personal space and staring into his eyes. From this close, I can see small flecks of gold in their chocolate depths. Touching his hand, I told him, "I think this is very personal."

I stood up and walked to the door without a backward glance. If I'm right, he will follow me. I made it outside and took a deep breath. From behind me he asked, "Which car is yours?"

I closed my eyes for a second and promised myself I would thank Lorenzo tomorrow. "It's a nice night, and the diner is not far. I think I'll walk."

I started in that direction when he caught up to me. We continued in silence through the darkened streets until we got to the glow of the diner. As I reached for the door handle, he stopped me. I raised an eyebrow in question and he blew out a breath. "I'm out of my league, and really nervous," he admitted. "Do you do this often?"

"No," I answered him honestly. "I took a chance. There is no way to see what is on the other side of the door until you open it."

He gave a slight chuckle. The fact that we're standing in front of a solid glass door is not lost on me, so I smile too. Mooch opened the door and gestured me ahead of him. As I passed through he said softly, "I guess we'll find out."