X~X~X~X~X~X~X
COME BE MY LOVE
Jack strummed the guitar strings idly, letting his fingers find their own way, testing... The D string was a little flat. He adjusted the peg. That was better. Reaching down beside his chair, he picked up the glass of amber liquid, sipped deeply and felt the potent alcohol burn its way into his stomach. He laid his head back against the Adirondack chair's high cushion and closed his eyes, feeling the buzzy hum that the whiskey set off in his body. For a while he simply enjoyed the sensation. Eventually, he opened his eyes and looked up at the stars. Oddly, they seemed to be moving toward him, and it felt as if her were falling upward into the night sky. He smiled, pleased with the idea.
His fingers plucked the guitar strings lightly. His left hand moved on the frets. With no conscious intent on his part, a tune began to take shape. He hummed along, knowing the tune, but not recognizing it as yet. He hummed through an entire chorus, but the words did not come.
Raising his hand from the strings, he snagged the glass again. This time he drained it, swallowing slowly, allowing the whiskey to remain on his tongue until the burn became too much, then letting it slide down his throat.
Setting the glass down on the deck, he let his body melt back into the cushion again. He felt totally relaxed—the way a good whiskey should make you feel. Perfect.
Perfectly drunk. He chuckled at the thought. Not stupid drunk yet—but in that place where the alcohol let him ignore all the things he didn't want to recall or acknowledge, where his body was still under his control but felt light, unburdened by years or pain, where his mind was free to imagine and pretend. He called it the place that made him want to sing.
{There was a time when he could reach this place merely by standing in the sunshine, by breathing fresh air, or by touching his child's cheek. A time long past... before black ops missions, and guilt-ridden nightmares, and secrets. Before a shot fired by accident on a sunny summer afternoon.}
His hands played with the strings once more, conjuring that same tune. This time, without thought, the words came and he began to sing...
"Come live with me and be my love
Share my bread and wine,
Be part of me, the heart of me,
Be mine..."
x~x~x
Sam parked her car in the driveway beside his truck. For several minutes she sat and stared at the house, thinking she probably should not have come. The team had been given a week's leave, and she'd gone to California to see Mark and his family for the long weekend. Of course, she didn't plan to take the whole week off—there was just too much to do! So tomorrow she'd be headed back to her lab.
But she hadn't seen him for three days—an unusually long time! And she really wanted to—just to check in, she told herself.
Getting out, she walked up to the front door and knocked. There was no response, so she knocked again, then looked in through the sidelight. The living room was dark. That was odd, usually there would be the flicker of the TV screen. Light was spilling across the hall from the kitchen. Nothing moved.
It was early yet—only a little past nine. He should still be up, and if he'd gone to bed the kitchen light would be off. She tried the door and found it unlocked. Stepping into the foyer, she called his name—not too loudly, in case he'd fallen asleep on the couch. She moved farther into the house.
There was no one in the living room or kitchen. She frowned—could he have gone to bed and forgotten the door and the light? It was not likely. She walked through the kitchen and looked out the back door. In that direction she could see a large expanse of sky. And then she knew where he had to be—the roof, of course. It was a clear, moonless night, perfect for stargazing! She headed for the stairs.
On the second floor she turned toward the small room he laughingly called his 'study.' The room that opened out onto the roof deck. A long time ago he'd told her that it was the roof deck that made him decide to buy the house; as soon as he saw it he was sold! The study door was shut; she turned the knob quietly, pushed it open and stepped inside. She stopped when she heard the music.
She knew he had the guitar, but she'd never heard him play it. He once said that he and some of his friends had a band when they were teens, but that he hadn't played for years. However, that was definitely a guitar that she heard out on the deck. For a moment she wondered if maybe he had company, and someone else was playing... But then he began to hum, at first, and then to sing in a smooth baritone. And it was his voice, although she'd never known he could sing so nicely.
"Come live with me and be my love Let our dreams combine. Be mate to me, be fate to me
Be mine."
The words and melody of the sweet old love song made her smile, while at the same time brought tears to her eyes. She moved a little closer to the outside door, so she could see him, lounging in the deck chair, holding the instrument at an impossible angle in his lap...
"I'll always do my best for you
I promise you,
I'll laugh with you, and cry with you
My whole life through..."
His voice deepened briefly as he ad libbed 'his' word;
"Always...
"Come live with me and be my love
Share my bread and wine.
Be life to me, be wife t...to..."
His voice broke into a stutter—he drew a rough breath and fell silent. His hands stilled on the strings. The silence was painful. One hand came up to scrub at his forehead between his brows.
"Oh, yeah," he muttered bitterly. "Like tha's gonna happen!" There was a definite slur in his voice that had not been noticeable when he was singing. He dropped his head back against the cushion. "You're an idiot, O'Neill. Why are you even thinking about..." His voice trailed off.
After a minute he reached down for his glass, only to realize it was empty. "Crap," he growled. Carefully, he set the guitar on the floor, off to the side. He rose to his feet, grabbing the back of the chair to steady himself, and headed inside.
She stepped away quickly and hid in the shadow behind the door; he passed by without seeing her and went out into the hall. She didn't know what to do; he would be embarrassed if he knew she was there—if he knew she was listening to him. She heard him going down the stairs, so she listened at the door until he reached the first floor, then she crossed the hall and entered the spare room, closing the door silently behind her. She would wait there until he went back out, and then sneak out the way she had come—coming here had definitely been a bad idea!
He found the bottle on the kitchen counter where he'd left it, and realized he'd left his glass on the deck. Well, that was not a problem, he had lots of glasses. As he took out another, he thought he heard a sound—a tiny snick, like a latch snapping in place. Standing perfectly still, he listened for a full minute. It did not come again. "You're imagining things..." he muttered. He poured whiskey into the glass and raised it toward his mouth...
Above his head a board creaked faintly.
He froze. That was not imaginary. Someone was in his house.
Instinct and adrenalin kicked in, temporarily banishing the effects of the alcohol. Abandoning the drink, he moved silently across the kitchen and took his Beretta from the cabinet above the fridge, then went into the hall, walking equally silently toward the stairs.
Sam raised her head, suddenly alert. Damn! It had gotten very quiet downstairs all of a sudden! She listened at the spare room door. He'd made plenty of noise going through the hallway and down the stairs; in the kitchen he'd bumped into a chair, slammed a cupboard door, and kept up a muttered series of mild curses.
And then suddenly—nothing, no sound at all!
He heard me. He knows someone's up here, and he's coming after the intruder. She cringed.There was no way out of this that wouldn't be embarrassing!Deciding she'd better announce herself before he caught her, she took a deep breath.
"Sir! It's just me!" she called, as she pulled open the spare room door.
He was right there! She was shocked at how close he'd gotten so quickly. He was at the top of the stairs, barely three feet away. His Beretta was in his hand.
Immediately, he lowered the weapon and flicked on the safety. His eyes locked onto hers as he shoved the pistol into his waistband at the small of his back.
"Hello, sir," she said weakly.
"Carter," he replied, his voice gruff.
"I knocked," she hurried to explain. "Your front door was unlocked, so I came in and called. Then I looked around for you. I thought maybe you were sleeping on the couch or something." She knew she was babbling, but couldn't stop. "And then it dawned on me where you'd be on a night like this, so I came upstairs and...uh, well, I was in the dark and you walked right past me when you came inside. And by then I was embarrassed because I'm trespassing in your house, so I didn't say anything." Her hand was clenched on the doorknob. "I'm really embarrassed, Colonel... And you're just going to let me keep talking and digging this hole deeper and deeper until I can't possibly get out of it... aren't you, sir?"
"Yep," he said laconically. He took a step closer to her.
"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I should have let you know I was here."
He said nothing, just continued to look at her silently. The adrenalin was dissipating now, leaving his body slightly off kilter, his thoughts a little unfocused, as the alcohol's influence reached his senses again.
"Well, I guess I should go..." She tried to step around him, but he shifted his body just enough to block her. She could smell the whiskey.
"What did you come for, Carter?" He took another small step closer.
"I...uh..." She stuttered. "I was...you know... knew I wouldn't be able to... I just thought maybe..."
An eyebrow rose in disbelief. "Carter," he admonished gently, shifting even more into her personal space, bracing a palm flat on the wall and leaning slightly toward her.
She was backed up against the door jamb by this time. Though he was not quite touching her, she could feel the heat of his body from her face down to her thighs.
"Sir..." It was little more than a strangled sound. "Please..."
He straightened, stopped looming, but did not withdraw. His gaze fell to her lips. "Why are you really here, Carter?" he purred roughly.
The sound of his voice cut right to her center, sending a rush all through her body. Her ears pounded and her vision blurred; all on their own, her lips parted. He was a magnet, and she felt herself being drawn irresistibly toward him. A tiny voice in her mind was trying to tell her to break away, do something to avoid this, stop what was happening...
His lips crashed into hers, and the tiny voice drowned in the storm surge that swept over her senses.
X~X~X~X
So this is the result when I drink wine and listen to country music oldies. The song is 'Come Live with Me,' written by Felice and Boudleaux Bryant, and was a #1 hit sung by Roy Clark in 1973.
Nope, sorry – got nothing more. Inspiration stopped there. Your imagination will have to do...