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The jazz club was subterranean, smoky, and vibrated with a bass line that felt like a second heartbeat. It was the kind of place Rafael Barba, EADA of New York County, would never have frequented. It was too loud, too chaotic, and too far removed from the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors of the courthouse.
But Rafael Barba, unemployed citizen, fit right in.
He sat in a curved velvet booth, a tumbler of whiskey resting near his hand, watching Olivia. She was sitting across from him, bathed in the shifting stage lights—deep indigos, bruised purples, and sudden flashes of crimson.
"You've been staring at me for twenty minutes," Olivia said, her voice pitched low to cut through the saxophone solo. She didn't look uncomfortable. She looked amused.
"I'm admiring the view," Barba replied, swirling his drink. "And the lighting. You look good in purple. It suits you better than the fluorescent gray of the precinct."
"You're drunk," she observed, though she took a sip of her wine with a smile.
"I am... liberated," he corrected. He loosened his tie, pulling it completely free from his collar and draping it over the back of the booth. "For six years, Liv, I wore a uniform. Suspenders. Belt. The armor of the righteous."
"And now?"
"Now I'm naked," he murmured, his eyes darkening as they locked onto hers. "Metaphorically speaking. I have no title. No office. No moral high ground."
"You still have a conscience," she argued, the eternal optimist. "You resigned because of it."
"I resigned because I realized the world isn't an old movie," he said, quoting his own farewell speech back to her. "It's not High Noon. I'm not Gary Cooper. I don't have to be the good guy anymore."
He reached across the small table, his fingers trailing over her knuckles. His touch was heavy, possessive.
"What if I want to be the bad guy tonight?" he asked.
Olivia’s breath hitched. She stared at him, searching his face. The grief and shock of the last week were still there, etched in the lines around his eyes, but there was something else now. A hunger. A desire to burn the rulebook he’d clung to for so long.
"We should go," she whispered.
"My place or yours?"
"Yours," she decided. "It has better scotch."
The cab ride was silent and charged with static electricity. Barba didn't hold her hand; he kept his hand on her thigh, his thumb rubbing slow, distracting circles against the denim of her jeans. He wasn't comforting her. He was claiming her.
When they entered his apartment, he didn't turn on the lights. The city glow filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows was enough—casting long, gray shadows across the furniture.
"Rafa," she started, turning to face him as the door clicked shut.
He didn't let her finish. He backed her against the door, his hands pinning her wrists to the wood above her head. It wasn't gentle.
"You opened my heart," he rasped, pressing his body flush against hers. "You introduced me to the blues and the greens and the reds. You wanted me to see the world in color? Fine."
He kissed her, hard. He bit her lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood and the lingering sweetness of the wine.
"Show me," he demanded against her mouth.
"Rafa, you're scaring me," she breathed, though she didn't fight his grip. Her body arched into his, betraying her words.
"Good," he growled. "Fear is a color, too. It’s a very bright red."
He moved his hands down, gripping her waist, his fingers digging in. He spun her around, pressing her face against the cool wood of the door. He stepped in close behind her, his chest to her back.
"You always wanted to save me," he whispered into her ear, his hot breath sending shivers down her spine. "Saint Olivia. Always trying to fix everything. But you can't fix this. I'm not broken. I'm just... untethered."
He reached around, his hand finding the button of her jeans. He popped it open, the sound loud in the quiet entry.
"Rafa," she gasped, "we haven't..."
"I don't care about the rules tonight, Liv. I don't care about pacing. I don't care about being a gentleman." He shoved her jeans down over her hips, his hands rough and impatient. "I want to take what I want. I want to be selfish. Like I was with my father."
The mention of his father made her stiffen, but he didn't retreat. He pressed closer, his erection hard against her buttocks through his trousers.
"Is that okay?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Can I be selfish with you?"
"Yes," she choked out. "Yes."
He didn't wait. He pulled her panties down, his fingers skimming over her heat. She was wet. Ready for him despite the aggression—or perhaps because of it.
He freed himself, not bothering to undress fully. He wanted the friction of the clothes. He wanted the contrast of the rough wool of his trousers against the soft skin of her thighs.
He entered her from behind, one swift, smooth thrust that made her cry out. He covered her mouth with his hand, stifling the sound.
"Quiet," he ordered. "Listen to me."
He began to move, setting a punishing rhythm. He wasn't making love to her. He was fucking her. He was exorcising the demons of the last week—the trial, the baby, Peter Stone's smug face, McCoy's disappointment—with every thrust.
"You changed my world," he gritted out, his hips slapping against hers. "You made everything gray. This is the gray, Olivia. It’s messy. It’s dirty. It’s not noble."
"It's... real," she managed to say against his palm, her tongue darting out to taste his skin.
He removed his hand from her mouth to grip her hip, holding her in place as he drove deeper. She pushed back against him, meeting his aggression with her own. She wasn't a passive victim here; she was a willing participant in his unraveling.
He reached around with his free hand, finding her breast through her silk blouse. He didn't unbutton it; he just squeezed, his thumb finding her nipple through the fabric, pinching hard.
"Does Gary Cooper do this?" he mocked, breathless. "Does the hero take you against the door like a common criminal?"
"Shut up," she panted. "Just... fuck me."
"As you wish."
He increased the pace, losing himself in the sensation. The colors were exploding behind his eyelids now—not the black and white of the law, but the violent reds of lust, the deep blues of need.
He felt her tighten around him, her body preparing to shatter. He leaned forward, biting the sensitive skin where her neck met her shoulder, marking her.
"Mine," he growled. "You did this. You made me this way."
"I'm glad," she cried out, her head falling back against his shoulder.
She came then, violent and loud, her body trembling in his arms. The force of her release shattered his last shred of control. He groaned, a raw, animalistic sound, and emptied himself into her.
He stayed there for a long moment, leaning his weight against her, his forehead resting on the back of her head. His breathing was ragged, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Slowly, the world came back into focus. The hum of the refrigerator. The distant traffic. The smell of sex and sweat.
He pulled out of her and stepped back, adjusting his clothes with shaking hands. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of shame—the old Barba, the Catholic schoolboy, rearing his head.
"I..." he started, his voice rough. "I shouldn't have..."
Olivia turned around. Her hair was a mess, her blouse was rumpled, and her lips were swollen. She looked magnificent.
She didn't look traumatized. She looked grounded.
She pulled her jeans up and buttoned them, her eyes never leaving his face. She walked over to him, reaching out to straighten his collar, her fingers brushing the spot on his neck where his pulse was still jumping.
"You're not a bad guy, Rafa," she said softly.
"I felt like one," he admitted, looking at his hands. "I wanted to hurt something. Or feel something other than guilt."
"Did it work?"
He looked at her. "Yes."
"Good." She leaned up and kissed him gently, a stark contrast to the violence of a moment ago. "Because I'm tired of the white hat, too. It gets dirty too easily."
Barba let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. A laugh bubbled up in his chest—a strange, jagged thing.
"You realize," he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her close, "that Jack McCoy would be appalled."
"Jack McCoy isn't here," she reminded him. "Just us."
"Just us," he agreed. "And the blues and the greens and the reds."
"And the gray," she added. "Don't forget the gray."
"Never," he promised, burying his face in her hair. "It's my favorite color now."