Zac

Dave groaned. "Zac . . ."

"Catch me if you can," I sang, breaking out into a run and heading into the dim, shining with dampness parking garage. The humid air shone in the inches above the black pavement, and the red lights of the exit signs and the faded turquoise lighting of the DoubleTree sign directly outside the garage gave an eerie glow to the shimmering heat. My sneakers slapped against the pavement cheerfully as I sliced through the heated air.

I heard Dave laugh nervously, and I tossed him a glance over my shoulder.

"This is the part where you chase me."

"I'm just giving you a head-start," Dave said good-naturedly. "You're gonna need it."

I laughed, liking Dave's good sense of humor, and darted behind a row of cars. I heard his footsteps as he jogged in my direction, and in a true Jackie Chan movie-inspired movement, I ran, keeping low, along the row of cars and ducked back behind the second row, hiding behind a yellow Mustang, which only touching made me want it.

"Zaccie, Zaccie, come out, come out, wherever you aaareee," Dave cooed. I slowly crept along the Mustang, peeking over it only every few seconds, until I saw him looking in the other direction, then I darted across the aisle and behind another car.

"You're full of flashy moves tonight," he remarked, and I whispered,

"Damn!"

He'd seen me, and now he broke into a run towards me. My eyebrows perked, and I gave up trying to hide. I turned for the next available aisle and sprinted farther into the good-sized garage. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I sensed him gaining on me.

"Eek!" I laughed as I tossed a glare back and saw him closing in on me considerably. He wore a grin of exertion on his face.

"Run, Forrest, run!" he teased.

I made a face at him and looked ahead, swinging sharply around the side of one car, turning back the other way. Oops, big mistake. Dave anticipated me and met me around on the other side of the car. He was a nanosecond from grabbing me, but I ducked a little and ran under his outstretched hand. The chase ensued back across the garage.

"Missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me!" I cried out, only afterwards realizing that it had probably not been the best thing to say. We both felt the tension between us, and neither of us were dealing with it very well.

"I'm right behind you, Zac," Dave breathed, and I realized that he was. I picked up a little, and the chase became heavier, like I was really trying to get away from him. The pounding of our feet echoed in the garage, as did our breathing as we both suddenly poured out the tension we felt, converting it into energy and using it to try and gain the upper hand. There were seconds where he was only inches behind me, other seconds where I would pull ahead a lot, weave him around a car or two, and lead him back in a circle across the lot.

Finally, after several minutes of heated chase, I began to tire, and simply ran straight into the trunk of a red Cadillac, pressing my hands against the trunk.

"ACK!"

Dave collided with me from behind, not being able to stop in time, and knocking heads with me.

"Ow!!"

"Oof . . . augh . . . you have a hard head," Dave moaned, woozily leaning against my back and holding his head. I lifted one hand up to touch the tender back of my head, and experienced a throb of pain.

"Look who's talking," I winced. After the pain lessened and the throb died down to a light pulse, I became aware of his body behind me, his hand stretched forward touching the trunk so he could balance himself, and felt a different kind of throb throughout my body.

God, what is with me, I wondered, trying to make myself shake it off. For some reason, I liked it . . . and I wanted him to lean against me more - or put his arm around me - or - no . . . stop it, Dave . . . no . . . please.

Still breathing deeply, I leaned my head back and found his shoulder. Likewise, he leaned forward, his head no doubt pounding from the crack it had received, and placed his chin on my shoulder. I sighed, not knowing whether it was just breathing hard or because I was happy.

Dave

It was crazy how Zac and I always ended up on top of each other or mushed together somehow - like Fate wanted us to be more nervous than we already were. I breathed into Zac's neck, my chest heaving into his back; I pressed him against the truck of the Cadillac, feeling his body heat through his clothes.

"Are you okay?" Zac wondered softly.

I closed my eyes. "Yeah. Just dizzy."

"Me, too."

I giggled slightly. "I think I hear music."

Zac laughed, too. "That isn't good, Dave." Then, he paused. "No, no wait . . . do you hear that?" he whispered intently. I paused, too, and strained my ears. Faint echoes of music were coming from somewhere.

"I do hear music," I realized. Zac tilted his head to our right until we both realized he was staring at an office door. The door was painted gray to blend in with the walls of the parking garage, and it was illuminated only slightly with the red light of the exit sign. It was open a crack, leaking a shard of yellow-white light onto the black cement floor of the garage.

"That's more than music," murmured Zac. He took a step towards the office. "That's 'Ever Lonely.' That's Hanson."

Puzzled, I followed him in his footsteps. Silently, we both slowly moved towards the cracked-open office door, eyeing the sliver of light. As we neared it and I heard a more definite song from the blur of music, I noted that there were signs on the door. Employees Only. Not An Entrance.

Zac tossed me a look and shrugged. "Employees only my Oklahoman ass," he said through determined lips. He went ahead and leaned forward, peeking in through the small crack. Upon finding it safe, he pushed the door the rest of the way open. The music blared up a little louder, Zac and his brothers singing in the empty office, and the light flooded our dark-adjusted eyes. But the office was indeed empty, besides the interesting row of tiny television sets mounted on the back wall; a desk planted in the middle of the office boasted only a telephone, a few manila folders placed neatly in a stack right in the exact center of the desk, a coffee maker on the corner which was huffing out coffee, and . . . a camera.

Oh, God. My thoughts leaped in paranoia. Okay - no. Nothing to jump about. Most people do have cameras.

But as I wiped my suddenly-sweaty palms on my jeans, I realized that it was the make of the camera that made my heart pound. The lens on it was huge. It didn't have a visible flash, but it was heavy, black, the extended lens were the type that professional photographers used. (Believe me, I knew that kind of thing.)

Zac's eyes were at the TV screens as we fully entered the office. Four monitors, all in a row, little black and white ones - wired to security cameras, no doubt. Only one was keeping tabs on the lobby; the lobby doors were still and everything seemed fairly quiet. The next revealed the parking garage, with row after row of cars, a few awkward gaps left. Where Zac and I had just been running. A nervous tingle filled my stomach, just thinking about someone sitting at the desk watching me and Zac run around, watching us in the heated moment broken by "Ever Lonely." But just as quickly, my logical half played its hand. We didn't see anybody come out of the door - it was almost impossible that someone had been in here for the few minutes we'd been down here.

"Where is the person who's supposed to be in here?" I questioned.

Zac pointed to the last screen on the row.

"Why anybody would waste time and money pointing a camera to the back alley so you could watch people urinate into the corner and dig through trash and sleep on the little staircase landing is beyond my little grasp," he murmured cynically.

I shrugged. "I guess they want to know if someone climbs up the staircase in attempt to get into the building."

"Why would anybody want to break into a hotel?"

"I've run out of answers. Whatever officer is supposed to be manning this office watching out isn't doing a very good job," I observed, surprised we hadn't been caught yet. Zac stepped up to the desk and peeked into the beige manila folders. "I can't tell what this junk means . . . . it's paperwork . . ." he noted.

"Don't snoop," I couldn't help scolding him.

"Fine." He dropped the folder closed, but his hand wandered innocently over to the camera. I sighed and looked around a little more at the surrounding file cabinets. Damn, did a security office really need all these cabinets? What did they keep in there, old video tapes? More paperwork junk? Extra coffee filters? I found my hand on the handle of the nearest cabinet.

Oh, I just told Zac not to snoop and here I am, doing it, my conscience tried to say before I muffled it and pulled the handle. Thunk. Locked. Oh well, I tried to tell myself. Shouldn't be prying around in here anyway.

Zac was still fidgeting with the camera, but his foot was absentmindedly thumping to his own drumbeat in a funky-sounding song.

"Could you turn it to number nine? I like number nine," he suddenly said.

"Sure," I replied demurely, finding the stereo playing my friend's band sitting on the file cabinet opposite from me. "I wonder who would be playing Hanson - what kind of security guard plays Hanson?" I chuckled, pressing the forward button on the small black stereo to Zac's request.

"That's what I am wondering . . ." Zac said slowly, sounding like his thoughts were definitely elsewhere.

Then, for some reason, my eyes ventured onto a small set of tiny keys on an equally tiny key ring, just sitting, sprawled out on the dusty top of the file cabinet. Temptation was biting me in the stomach.

Can't be. Impulsively, I grabbed them and tried one in the small, silly lock. "Dammit," I whispered as it jammed, and tried the next one. This key was inserted snugly into the ridiculous lock - Bingo. I twisted the cool little gold key and pulled the drawer open with the same hand.

Nothing but rows and rows of manila folders, marked with all of the same letter. T. It was a sea of handwritten T's written in marker on all the labels of the folders.

"Uhh, DAVE," Zac's voice suddenly warned, the tone in it kicking up a few notches from thoughtful to almost - alarmed.

"I know, I know . . ."

I shut the drawer again, feeling guilty for rummaging through the office.

"Dave . . ." There was that alarm in his voice again. "Dave, look at this . . ."

Zac turned around, holding a strip of metal in his hands. As soon as I realized what it was (a little nameplate tag type thing that some important people have on their desks, you know, that say things like "President" or "William Q. Jones" on them), I was able to focus on reading the name on this nameplate.

"No," I breathed.

T. Hanson.

"T. Hanson," Zac repeated out loud, his voice wavering on the last syllable.

"As in - Taylor? . . ." I trailed.

He set it back down.

"Okay . . . okay, no, I don't want to know . . . let's go."

"Playing Hanson . . . T. Hanson," I thought out loud.

"Let's go now," Zac urged again. He strode ahead in front of me. I checked back over my shoulder to make sure things were in the same place as they were upon our arrival, and followed him out the door and back into the darkness.

"Leave it a crack open like it was," I murmured, and Zac pulled it mostly closed, just like it had been. We turned away from the disturbing office, hearing the quiet lyrics of "Money" dying off behind the door. "What did you - " I began.

"Hey, you kids there," boomed a voice, making both me and Zac jump out of our skin. He grabbed my wrist in surprise and we both whirled around to see a tall man in a light blue, tight Rent-A-Cop uniform staring at us and clutching at his left holster where his walkie talkie was. I heard Zac's loud gulp even through my heart pounding in my ears in full vibrato.

Scared from speech, neither of us could say anything to the man, who just stared at us from behind a pair of prescription sunglasses. He sized us up, coolly.

"What were you doin' in that office?" he asked, his voice sharp.

I couldn't answer yet, but Zac piped, "We - thought it was an entrance!!"

Good one! I thought, but I didn't know whether I meant it sarcastically or not.

Rent-A-Cop tilted his head down a little. "You boys mean to tell me you didn't see the sign?"

Zac

"We really didn't notice a sign - is there a sign?" Dave spoke up in an innocent voice. I was impressed with the small, stupid words. An unamused expression formed on the man's face.

"Yes, there's a sign," the security guard wanna-be said slowly, stepping towards us as if forgetting about any such sign. Oh, God, I found myself thinking, realizing that my pocket felt awfully heavy all of a sudden.

My hand, still clutching Dave's wrist, slid down and grabbed his hand in fear as Officer Badass advanced at me heavily, and grabbed my other arm at the bicep with a strong grip. What in the hell?! - Why don't I run?? I wondered of myself as he grabbed onto me. But I was glued to the spot, and Dave was clutching me back in the same way I was clutching onto him. We knew we'd just been in Badass's office.

"You staying in this hotel, kids?" he barked at us.

"Yes," we both almost whimpered.

"You . . ."

I realized he was staring directly at me, even though I couldn't make out his eyes behind his streamlined shades. His skin was tanned, with almost no wrinkles - he must not have been but in his late twenties, his grip was strong and healthy, and it was almost smarting to have him hanging onto my arm so tightly, but I was paying more attention to the sixteen-ton anvil in my pocket.

I could barely look back at him.

" . . . seem familiar . . ."

Something changed in his manner then. He let me go almost gently.

"All right, get," he said, still staring at me.

Dave's fingers trembled against mine as he pulled me gently towards the elevator we'd come from.

"Come on," he whispered, and my rubber legs somehow found movement. Officer Badass stepped back a little. We turned around slowly and nonchalantly, our hearts beating in loud, symphonic, crashing unison as we walked away from the man behind us. My hand still squeezed at his in more of a manner of fear than friendly affection - I don't know why I was still clinging - or why my heart was beating so loud. There was just something . . .

Dave and I exchanged small looks as we heard his confident, retreating footsteps echo and the office door being opened and closed.

"Hurry, Dave," I spat, yanking his hand and pulling him faster all the way to the elevator doors. As I smacked the button, Dave couldn't help questioning,

"Why'd he look at you like that?"

"I -" I shook my head. "I guess he might have recognized me . . ."

Dave let out a shaky sigh as we stepped into the elevator, and our hands finally parted. I smashed my fingers into the "Close Doors" button immediately, trying to mentally spur the antique doors shut. When they finally clonked shut and we were on our slow ascent up, I exhaled hotly and grabbed his hand again. A flicker of surprise showed up in his eyes, but grew into a spark which practically set me on fire as he raised his other hand to show him what was in his palm.

A tiny set of gold keys on an equally-proportioned tiny key ring.

"I didn't know I still had them - I didn't mean to take them," he said, the shock at himself obvious in his voice.

"What are they for?" I questioned.

"The file cabinets - the ones by the wall in there. I looked in one, but there wasn't much except . . . files." We both looked at the keys.

"Keep them," I said decidedly. "We might need them."

"For what?" he demanded, even more shocked at my statement. I shrugged defensively.

"Dave . . ."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out what I had taken, only on purpose.

"ZACOHMYGOD," Dave exclaimed, ripping his hand from mine. "You didn't!"

"I did . . . obviously."

He snatched up the film from my hand. "Oh my God, you don't think . . ."

"I don't know. It's instinct . . . think about it."

Slowly, he nodded. "But - yes - but we don't know for sure. What are we doing to do with it? . . ."

We said in unison, his question and my answer in one: "Develop it."