Mick could hardly believe his luck. Two tickets to the hottest show in the city. Reservations at the trendiest restaurant. It was incredible the way his luck had changed in the past few days. Now if he could only find the right girl to share it with him…

There she was! The hot leggy blonde. She was something else since she split with Michael. Mick used to call her Popsicle because she was cool under pressure and well, because she was like a frozen lollipop, all icy cold on the outside, all gooey sweet on the inside.

But now…she was clearly his Pop Tart. A toasty warm little babette. All crunchy on the outside, but still sweet as pie on the inside. He studied her when she wasn't looking, knowing that he was drawing curious stares. "What?" he snarled at a passerby, "you never saw a man going bald before?"

The passerby, an older woman with genteel good looks, looked aghast and hurried on, as if sensing that Mick could be a very dangerous man, if he chose to be. "That's right, Sugar Lump, you don't want the likes of me after you."

When the blonde turned in his direction, Mick took a deep breath and dove into the fray. "Hallo, Pop Tart."

She smiled warmly, and his insides baked a little crisper for the attention. "Hi, Mick. What's up?"

"You, love bug. You're taller than a skyscraper today, you are. Tell me you got a secret yen for short men. Puh-leeze, bay-bee."

She giggled merrily, and her laughter was like the tinkling of tiny silver bells. "Well," she replied huskily, in that smoke-and-whiskey voice that drove him wild, "I always like to think of you as my personal Pillsbury Doh-boy…" As if to prove her point, she stuck a long, slender finger into his middle and pushed gently.

"See? So soft in all the right places."

Hard in the all the right ones, too. Ouch, bay-bee. Mick smiled faintly and removed her hand from his ample abdomen. She let him play with her fingers for several moments before snatching her hand back.

"Was there something you wanted, Mick?" She gave him a bright smile that somehow enhanced her bright hair and even brighter personality. That was Nikita. So wonderfully bright in every way but one. She couldn't see Mick for dirt.

Mick was sure the answer would be 'no', but he figured he had nothing to lose by asking. He gritted his teeth and said, "Would you like to go out with me, my precious? Say yes like a bad girl." He grinned cheekily at her and pretended his heart wouldn't break if she rejected him.

Nikita pondered. Biting her lip, which made Mick absolutely crazy, cause he wanted to be the lip she bit, Nikita said, "Define going out."

"Hot show, just off the Great White Way. Dinner at La Chic."

"Really?" Nikita sounded intrigued despite her usual reservations about seeing someone from Section.

"Dinner and a show only? No bedtime stories? No tucking little Mick in for the night with his Teddy?"

"Ooh, sweetness, if you were the Teddy in question…that'd be a hard call."

Nikita didn't really have any plans for the evening. "Okay, Mick."

He was so stunned, he almost fell over. Blinking furiously, Mick stammered, "Y-you're sure you won't stand me up?"

Nikita smiled. "I wouldn't do that to a friend, Mick." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. He clapped a hand to the spot.

He gave a low whistle. "I won't wash for a week."

She frowned. "If you don't wash, Mick, I'm not walking across the street with you, much less going out with you."

He chortled with glee. "You've just made me a very happy man, my sweet little Pop Tart. I'll pick you up at six."

She retrieved her sunglasses from her oversized bag and placed them on her nose. "Laters, Mick."

"Ciao, bay-bee," he purred, deep within his throat.

Mick showered and shaved, singing in a genuinely carefree manner for the first time in months. His life in Section was monochromatic. Not necessarily dull. Being shot at wasn't dull. Running errands for people willing to kill the messenger wasn't dull. Life was risky. But nevertheless, he couldn't call his life colorful.

Enter the sunshine in his life. His crunchy little toastette. She brought him what little color he had. He lived for a kind word from her lips. He sighed at the sound of her laughter, even if it was at his expense. He was more than halfway in love with her, more's the pity, cause he knew he didn't have a chance in Hell of taking their relationship to the next freaking level, whatever that was.

Hell, he figured if she could reject Michael, what hope did he have? A short, balding, stocky quasi-European of dubious provenance and even more dubious charm. He stared into the mirror, his dark eyes growing serious for a long moment. Bloody Hell. He ripped his tie off. This was a joke. It had to be. Why would she want to go out with someone like him?

When Mick didn't show up at six, Nikita left her apartment and wandered down the hallway to Mick's place. She knocked on the door and heard muffled cursing. A few seconds later, the door opened suddenly. Mick blinked. The heavenly vision was on his doorstep!

He ran away from the door, flying back into the bedroom to retrieve the rest of his evening clothes. Then, fretting that Nikita would vanish, like some ill-fated puff of smoke that drifted by, Mick ran back to where she stood, pulling her inside the apartment. "Sit down, sit down, won't be half a mo', love. Just running a bit late, that's all."

He ripped open a box of Cheez-its and sprinkled them amply on a plate. He abruptly realized that the plate was not clean, and he rubbed it with his shirt-covered elbow. He caught Nikita staring at him with a bemused look and he winced. "Oops! Sorry about that." He grabbed a fresh plate, making sure it was clean first, and threw the remainder of the crackers onto its surface. "Here, eat something, Pop Tart. You're much too thin."

He raced into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror again. Damn! what were those affirmations again? A veteran of virtually every twelve-step group there was, or ever would be, Mick was a great believer in affirmations. One step at a time. No, no, it was one day at a time. That's right.

Splashing cologne on his face, he belatedly realized he had cut himself in several places. The alcohol in the cologne stung like mad, and Mick clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. Tears ran down his cheeks as his face flamed bright red in reaction to the inflammation.

Now how did that thing go? I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me. Yeah, that was it. Mick was by no means a stupid man, but his abstract thinking, while unhampered by his intellect, was limited by his lack of imagination. In truth, he had precious little self-esteem, a product of a rough upbringing and an even rougher lifestyle, chosen carefully to mask his lack of self-confidence.

What am I? A cheap con artist. A hustler. A womanizer. But damn, if I ain't good at all those things! Always been an overachiever. That's me! He grinned at his reflection and winked. Maybe tonight would be the night. Nikita might discover how much she secretly wanted him.

Now there was a thought to keep a man warm on a winter's night. He stared at Nikita, sitting at his very own kitchen table, nibbling Cheez-its with her perfect white teeth, while dressed elegantly as always. He walked into the kitchen, offered his arm to the graceful wenchette, and off they went.

Dinner was splendid. Or it would have been if he hadn't attempted to speak French. Nikita was too polite to laugh, but she was definitely stifling a chuckle or two behind her well-manicured hand.

He didn't mean to order two finger bowls. Crikey, he was beginning to wonder how Michael stood her for the past few years. Was she always this unforgiving? Hmm…maybe she was. Maybe that was what split those two apart. Finally. God knows, it wasn't the mind-blowing sex they must have had. He sighed. He'd get down on his knees and thank God…if she'd only get down on her knees for him.

And the flirting! Nikita was his date. But she kept responding to the amorous glances of admiring men nearby. Admiring TALL men. With full heads of hair. Hairy, actually. Quite hairy. Prolly had hair right up the proverbial…um…that wasn't exactly a fruitful line of thought to pursue.

The show was, of course, excellent. As befit the wonderful notices it received. But it didn't leave them much chance to talk…Yikes, the woman wouldn't even let him hold her hand.

Still he hoped and prayed that there was more than a goodnight kiss at the end of this particular rainbow. What were the odds? He could be charming. Quite charming, actually. Now some men might think she was too tall to be truly attractive, but he wouldn't kick her out of bed. Oy, just the thought of those long, muscular thighs wrapped around his…ah, he needed a drink. The sooner, the better.

A few drinks later, Mick was delightfully tipsy. It was a good thing it was intermission. At these prices, he didn't want to miss any of the show. He swaggered back to his seat, leaning over Nikita until someone behind them pleaded with him to sit down.

He ran his hand down her back, and she smiled even as she slapped at his hand. He tried to feel her thigh, but when he touched the hem of her evening dress, she grabbed his wrist in a hold that made his entire arm go numb. What a prude! He was just trying to have a little fun.

But things got much better after they left the theatre. Mick decided that Nikita was actually a shy girl. Away from the prying eyes of everyone, she beckoned him to come hither with those electric blue eyes of hers. He was ready to strip off and discover what it was like to be arrested for indecent exposure these days.

Slowly they walked together up the staircase to their floor in the old apartment building. He invited her in for coffee, but she declined, waving a finger to indicate he should follow her into her apartment instead. Oho, so that was the way it was, eh? She didn't mind a bit of slap and tickle, but it had to be on her home turf. Well, never let it be said that Mick Schtoppel was not flexible. Hell, he'd bend over backwards if that was her position of choice.

Once they were inside her apartment, Nikita said, "Let me change into something more…comfortable." Mick's heart beat a mile a minute. This was like a dream come true. No, better than a dream. It was a bloody fantasy!

He stood there, in the kitchen, waiting in breathless anticipation. He didn't have long to wait. He saw her. She was like an apparition. Cloaked in a gauzy white confection that highlighted every place he wanted to visit. She undid her carefully bound hair, and the pale blonde strands fell gently down her back.

She disappeared from view for a moment, but he heard her. Sighing. Moaning. Groaning. God, she sounded delicious enough to eat! He pulled off his tie and wrenched open his shirt, wondering what he had ever done to deserve a treat like this. God bless Mama Schtoppel's baby boy! He was finally going to come into his own! In a big way!

He walked slowly up the steps to her bedroom, savoring every last moment of when he would see her. Up close and personal.

She was still making those sounds. Those erotic noises that were making hair stand up in places he didn't even want to think about. There was a filmy lace curtain acting as a privacy screen for the bedroom area. Mick anxiously pulled it aside and then…he saw her.

Up close and personal, all right.

But she wasn't alone.

She was sitting on her knees in the middle of her bed. But wait…she wasn't exactly sitting on her knees. More like someone's lap. She looked over her shoulder at him, coyly biting her lip.

Mick's dark eyes widened in fright. HE was here. The freaking dark angel. The one with the murderous green eyes that were even now glancing his way. Oh, heavenly biscuit! He needed to get the hell out of here. Now!

He didn't know how it happened. Or why. And the truth was, he didn't want to know. He just wanted out.

"OUT! OUT!" Mick shouted, thinking maybe the floor would simply open up a hole he could conveniently fall into.

But the dark angel and the heavenly biscuit laughed…and were gone.

Mick woke up with a start. It was a freaking dream.

He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes, muttering to himself. "What's that saying? Be careful what you wish for? You bloody well might get it!"

He was making no more wishes on lucky stars. Not tonight. Or any other night. His colorless life was just fine as it was. Let someone else take all the risks and get all the glory. He would settle for an occasional disease-free woman who liked to party and didn't mind that he was going bald.

Sheesh. The parts that were supposed to be hard were now soft, and the parts that were supposed to be soft had grown hard. Time didn't heal all wounds. It just made you bloody well forget 'em.