CARLTON P. LASSITER (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} withmyowncuffs) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} utr_logs,@ 2009-04-09 13:58:00 |
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| Entry tags: | carlton lassiter, juliet o'hara |
WAIT, EXPLAIN THIS TO ME AGAIN ...
WHAT || explaining everything
WHEN || very early morning
WHERE || New York, downtown loft
WARNINGS || Lassiter will use some colorful language, PG13 just to be safe
Carlton Lassiter was a man of few vices. Even if he didn’t consider himself a drinker, he did have a good shot of whiskey every now and again. And alright, perhaps he got himself stone-faced drunk whenever things got too complicated and depressing for him to handle (Hell would freeze over before the head detective ever admitted to that). But he never got so drunk that he couldn’t find his car keys or somehow find himself in someone else’s bed.
Because he was definitely not in his bed right now. The sheets were all scratchy and cheap underneath him, not at all like the soft and silky ones he had bought. It was the stupid flat pillow that woke him up in the first place. Lassiter valued sleep, even though he didn’t get much of it. What sleep he did get, he wanted it to be in a nice and comfortable bed. That was why he spent those top dollars on his mattress. This thing that he was sleeping on couldn’t have cost more than a hundred bucks. It was cheap, hard, uncomfortable and most importantly, not his. The head detective knew that much. Sitting up, the first thing he tried to reach for was his phone. All of his clothes were still on … oh wait, these weren’t his clothes. What the hell was he wearing? Sweet Lady Justice, were these pajamas? He groaned and scooted to the edge of the bed, cringing at the squeak that came from the mattress. It took a couple blinks to get his surroundings. When he could see clearly, he wished he couldn’t see at all.
The place was a dump. Whoever lived here was one step up above living in a dumpster. The walls were peeling and he was sure that the yellow stain on the ceiling was not from a mustard spill. God, where had he ended up? He ran both hands through his hair. Phone. Where the hell was his phone? Ah, next to the night stand. Lassiter stood up and rushed over to the little table, not realizing the phone wasn’t even the right brand before flipping it open and speed dialing Juliet. He put the phone up to his ears and waited for two rings before he heard someone pick up. ”O’Hara, listen. I’m-“ His groggy voice was interrupted by a woman shrieking something in Spanish into his ear. He immediately cringed and pulled the phone away to stare in confusion at the lit-up screen. Who had he called? Juliet was number two. Hadn’t he pressed number two? He hung up the phone, not wanting to hear the woman any longer, and checked the number he had dialed. Well, he had pressed number two but he didn’t recognize the name that came up. Was this some sort of prank? Had Spencer messed with his phone again? He was going to kill him but first –
Lassiter manually dialed in Juliet’s cell number, hoping that his memory served him right and that it would be his English-speaking partner that picked up and not anyone else. He sat down on the bed again, scrutinizing the room he was in once more as he waited for her to pick up on the other line. When she did, he held his breath. ”O’Hara?”