What are you waiting for?
I didn't even think about it. I never think about it, that's the thing. Until something…
"What are you waitin' for?" Frank asked me.
Knee-jerk, I spat back, "No, not that kind of partner."
But while I was talking to him, I looked back. I saw her in the car, bundled up and waiting for me. She didn't have to do that… wait for me.
And what am I waiting for?
I never think about it… on the job. Not when I'm with her. Never when I'm with her.
But at night, when I'm all alone…
What am I waiting for?
But she would never think of me that way. She wouldn't. I'm not her type. She's always after those health nuts with the washboard abs and happy, always laughing. Those guys.
I'm not always laughing. And even when I do, it's a quiet thing. I'm definitely not her type.
Damn Frank! Did you have to say that?
What are you waiting for?
Now I can't not think about it. I'm sitting in the squad room, and she's walking over and all I can think about is how soft and round her breasts are under that sweater.
God, not here. Not now.
"Morning, Bobby."
"Mornin'," I mumble, my tongue thick in my mouth.
Ma would grab me by the ear for this. "Show some respect," she would say. "She's a woman, not a piece of meat."
I look down at the paperwork in my binder and try very hard not to think about the tightness in my pants.
What are you waiting for?
It feels like my throat is closing. I cough and I can't seem to clear it. Before long, Eames is at my side asking if I'm okay.
I jump to my feet nodding, still coughing, and I hurry off to the bathroom. Gotta get away from her, get some kind of control over this. I head into the john and smack my hand against the stall door, too hard. It slams the wall and bounces back and I barely catch it before it hits me in the jaw. I lock myself in and press my hands against the tiny walls, trying to get a grip on myself, my emotions.
Ma is right. I'm a fucking caveman.
And I won't be that around Eames. She's a woman, a fine, brilliant, amazing woman. And I respect her.
I come out a few minutes later, when I can finally breathe.
"Okay?" Alex asks me. She really seems concerned.
"Yeah, just, uh, wrong pipe," I mutter some kind of incoherent excuse. Never mind that I didn't have any food or water on my desk that could have prompted a choking fit.
Eames doesn't say anything, but she knows. She's a hell of a detective. She can always see through my lies.