Catherine Willows is used to men who leave.
A man's love is an elusive thing—this is a life lesson she's learned well. As fleeting as morning fog, as tangible as the desert wind, it blows where it will, settling nowhere, creating chaos, overturning the carefully placed and constructed confines of her life, leaving disorder in its wake even as her lungs continue to crave the air. Why she always craves what hurts is a mystery to her.
Some women are meant to be wives. Some women are meant to be worshipped. She is a woman meant to be left.
There's something about wanting what you can't have. Christ, she'd practically majored in that sort of wanting. She'd come to believe that a man who sticks around is nothing more than a pipe dream, at least for women like her, women who'd lived in the fast lane a few years too long, women whose minds were overshadowed by perky breasts and a small waistline time and time again. Beauty has it advantages, she can't deny that, but it also has its drawbacks, something she hadn't realized until it bit her in the ass one too many times.
It's funny how men are drawn to beauty but tend to settle down with substance.
Had she been a showgirl so long that her substance was forever covered in sequence, masked by flash and a persistent thrumming bass that drowns out what her mind has to say? Perhaps that's why she's always quick with a comeback, so her mind will not be overlooked under good hair, fitted slacks and smart blazers. She knows her intellect is valued at the lab—it's her safe and sterile zone, a haven of sorts, the domain of CSI Willows, the woman she'd fought hard to become. Yet she is still Catherine, at times even Cath, a woman who secretly craves adoration and longing, a woman who wants what Grissom has with Sarah, even though she'd never admit it out loud. Why is it so damned difficult to find someone who both desires and respects you, who doesn't wilt under a sharp tongue or run away from the responsibilities of a single mother but who can still light things up in the bedroom?
She'd convinced herself no such man existed, or if he did, he was simply way out of her league. Men like that stayed with the Sarahs of this world, not the Catherines.
So she's worked damned hard to make certain that her daughter has learned to use her voice and guard her body rather than the other way around. As God as her witness, Lindsey Willows will stay worlds away from the dark alleys and fast talk which nearly destroyed Catherine. Some battles should only have to be fought once per family, and she's done enough fighting for both of them.
Would things be different if she'd grown up with a father? If Sam had been a part of her childhood, if he'd claimed her, helped raise her, if he'd given her his last name or simply announced to the world that she was his? Would she have made better choices rather than allowing herself to be lured by shiney words and smooth hands? Would her deep craving for permanence have continually led her down paths of quicksand into a mire she'd finally crawled out of inch at a time?
Would she have fallen for Eddie if Sam had been a present dad rather than an absentee father?
She can't know this, and speculation is its own form of torture. The fact is that Eddie had been an intoxicant, as flashy as the Vegas Strip, as lethal as the cocaine he'd ushered into her life. White teeth and hot sex at first fit her like a leather glove, numbing her insides through intense pleasure and post-coital promises, balancing her mind on the precipice of false hope. As time passed, however, what had started as well-meaning had frayed like cheap fabric until it hung around her in threads that left her far more exposed than covered.
She'd nothing left to cover her when the abuse began.
Every strike bruised her spirit far deeper than it marked her skin, each threat and degradation left scars she could never unsee. When she finally got away, she did so behind an impenetrable outer shell, one that hid the fact that she'd been left hollow inside by the very man who'd pledged to watch over and protect her until the day he died.
Hollowness is its own form of hell. This is something she knows well.
Death can be a jealous mistress, you can only skirt its edge for so long, and it finally claimed Eddie with a bang that nearly ended their daughter's life, as well. She'd vowed then that Lindsey would be untouchable, that no man's reach could extend beyond Catherine to her child. It's a promise that's been hell on wheels to try and keep, but she'd managed to do just that for longer than she'd ever imagined.
Her own desire to be loved should have ended with Eddie's death if not before, but it didn't. No, damn it, it lingered, this desire to belong to someone, this need to be needed, this scarred belief in fairy tales. It coated her skin like sweat during a punishing Vegas summer, appearing when she least desired it. It irritated, suffocated, clung to her stubbornly even as she tried to wash it off and ban it from her mind.
But it never truly left, this craving, like wallpaper that's been painted over rather than torn down.
There have been men since Eddie, some who mattered, some who didn't. Paul had been a diversion. Chris had been an ass who'd made her feel every one of her years and then some, an ass who'd clarified her vision so she now saw time's writing upon her face. Adam Novack had been a creep who'd thrust her under a professional microscope for simply seeking companionship and human touch, leaving her exposed once again under the watchful gaze of too many men.
And then there was Warrick. Warrick had gone deep.
He'd been the man she'd never had, part friend, part colleague, a living, breathing fantasy and beautiful would-be lover, a sore spot in her heart, the source of her deepest regret. She tells herself she never made a move because of their jobs, because getting involved would have crossed too many lines and could have damaged their friendship irreparably. But the lie is as thin as cheap tissue, and Catherine can see through cheap.
She'd been a coward. She'd held back. And she lost her chance with Warrick forever. That was a mistake she'd refused to make again.
Warrick was buried, she'd grieved and berated herself for weeks on end, yet life continued on as it always did. Her daughter grew, her career moved forward, and hurt tried to bury itself under piles of work and sarcasm, Yet it slid out through cracks in flawed armor, leaving her exposed, allowing loneliness to settle in for a season, regardless of how determinedly she tried to ignore its presence. She attempted to put it away in the lab, to cram it into her purse along with her lip gloss, to shove it into her locker, to stash it under her desk, yet still it followed her home every night, a stalker of the most sinister variety.
Loneliness was as stubborn as she was, and that was saying something.
She thought that nobody noticed, that her facade was full-proof, that tucked in shirts and power suits hid her younger self who still believed in white knights and happy endings and craved belonging as badly as a career. She couldn't have been more wrong.
Someone she'd taken for granted had been watching. Someone with soft brown eyes and an even softer heart. Someone who understood her grief and loneliness on a personal level. Someone who'd been biding his time for longer than she'd ever realized. Someone who'd taken her out for drinks after a particularly rough case, who'd listened when she unloaded her insecurities on his broad shoulders, who'd held her hand when something he'd said had reminded her of Warrick, who'd driven her home and walked her to her front door as if she were a priceless treasure he refused to let out of his sight.
His hand had rested on the small of her back, just low enough to get her attention, just long enough to make her wonder. His goodnight was husky around the edges, his eyes darker than usual, his stance nearer, his mouth so damn close that she felt dizzy on her feet. He'd smelled like arousal and looked good enough to eat, so she'd brazenly invited him inside, half-certain he'd turn her down and leave her standing on her own porch feeling like a fool. To her surprise, he'd accepted.
And more to her surprise, he'd actually stayed.
Not just the night, but the entire week, then two, then three. They privately celebrated one month together, then four, then six, yet still she held parts of herself back, waiting for him to tire of her, certain he would find someone younger, someone prettier, someone who didn't come with a teenage daughter and a more baggage than all of the Kardashians combined. But he didn't leave, nor did he show even the slightest intention of doing so.
Instead, he told her he loved her. The kicker was that she actually believed him.
Words are cheap, and Catherine can see through cheap, but Nick is a man of action and sincerity rather than hot air and glitz. He'd clung to her after his father's passing and had stood up to his own mother on her behalf when she'd questioned his judgment in proposing to a woman nearly eight years his senior. He'd somehow convinced Catherine to give marriage another go when she'd sworn it off more times than she could count and had charmed the socks off of her mother in the process. He'd celebrated her promotion to director and had bragged about his wife to anyone and everyone who would listen and even to those who wouldn't.
He'd stayed by her side through an unplanned and high-risk pregnancy, had refused to leave her during an emergency C-section that left her with scars he still kisses with a tenderness that shatters her. He'd stayed through their daughter's two heart surgeries, had driven a screaming infant around Vegas at all hours to get her to sleep, had attended dance recitals, homecoming weekends and both Kindergarten and college graduations. He proudly displays Piper's crayon art alongside Lindsey's graduation photos and brags about Lindsey's accomplishments as if she were a Stokes rather than a Willows. He'd not faltered through Catherine's lumpectomy, holds her hand before every precautionary mammogram and takes her out to celebrate after every good report. He cradles Piper in his lap before every x-ray and cardiac check-up and texts Lindsey daily to make sure she's doing alright. The crazy thing is that her independent, oldest daughter actually adores rather than resents him for it.
Catherine's decided that Lindsey must come by it naturally. All of Nick's girls adore him. It must be in their DNA.
Strong arms now cradle her in the darkness, their warmth all-encompassing, their strength proven and sure. He's warm—he's always warm—and she smiles at the steady rise and fall of his chest, treasuring the time life has given them as the most precious of gifts. Her gaze drifts to his face, noting the streaks of gray now peeking out around his ears. He hasn't mentioned them, neither has she, for that matter, but she adores them in a way that surprises her. She's always considered time to be her enemy. Who knew it would become her greatest ally?
"Whatcha thinkin'?" he mutters, his eyes still deceptively closed. She stretches out against him, revelling in the feel of cool sheets against bare skin.
"How do you know I was thinking anything?"
He cocks one eye open and tosses her that boyish grin that never fails to charm her. The man will still have that grin when he's ninety, she's sure of it.
"You're always thinkin' about something."
Before she can say anything, he's on top of her, pinning her to the mattress as his mouth thoroughly claims hers. God, she loves kissing him. It's more addictive than cocaine ever was, and she goes boneless as his lips take their time trailing across her jaw to her ear, teasing her just the way he knows that she likes, stoking her inner fire one touch at a time. His attention to detail shouldn't surprise her, he's always been one hell of a CSI, but the way he cherishes her is still overwhelming for a woman who'd let herself settle for feeling sexy rather than loved, certain she could never do any better. But Nicky, God, how he looks at her, strokes her, pleasures her repeatedly with utmost gentleness, how he takes her with white hot power yet cradles her into himself as if she might break, how he whispers that he loves her as she comes apart around him. Other men have had sex with her body, but Nick makes love to her. All of her.
She'd never appreciated the difference until she'd experienced it for herself.
She moans as his mouth moves lower, down her neck, across her clavicle, skimming the top of her chest until she's every bit as warm as he is.
"And this is your way of getting me to stop thinking?" she asks, feeling his chuckle reverberate across her ribs.
"Something like that," he admits before wiggling his eyebrows and disappearing beneath the sheets. God, she loves it when he wakes up horny. "Will it work?"
It's her turn to grin as his head pops up from the covers momentarily.
"It might," she practically purrs. That's all the encouragement he needs. Marrying a man of action definitely has its advantages. "But you'll probably need to hurry. Piper will wake up soon."
She feels his smile just below her navel.
"I left the Cheerios and a bowl out for her on the counter so she can reach whatever she needs," he murmurs, pausing to dot a kiss just above where Catherine wants him. "If she has food and The Disney Channel, she'll be fine for at least forty-five minutes."
Her mouth opens, but a moan replaces the words as his mouth goes to work in the most intimate way possible. He'd planned this last night, her cheeky cowboy, probably after listening to her go on about how out of place she sometimes feels as the oldest mother by far at Piper's ballet class. God, he can be a sneaky bastard when he wants to be.
She wouldn't have him any other way.
He's too much and just enough, the surprise of a lifetime, the man who shook up yet completed parts of her she'd believed rusted beyond repair. Husband, father, step-father, lover, best friend, confidant, colleague, he's everything she thought she'd never have and exactly what she needs. Sometimes she still thinks he's too good for her, too young for her, too pure for her, but that Texas drawl of his puts all her worries to rest as do big, gentle hands and a heart three sizes too large to be living in Vegas.
God, she loves this man.
She loves him for all of these reasons and more, but most of all she loves him because he's still here, with her, in their bed, in her life. He's proven time and time again that he hasn't and won't leave her, regardless of what life throws at them, baggage and verbal barbs be damned.
Nick Stokes is the man who stayed. And Catherine Willows couldn't be happier about it.