Author's Note: Hey guys! Just a couple quick things. Yes, there are 2 Carl's. Rick's dad and our fav pudding eating Carl. :)
Also…there are multiple POV's (5 so far, 6 by the end of this chapter). I'm enjoying writing them, but I hope it's not too confusing! And, yep, some narrators are contradicting each other. Things will be revealed more and more as the story goes on. Thanks for reading!
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3 – Ocean Eyes
A guard nudged Tomas Garcia into the specially emptied visitor room and slammed the door shut behind him. He stood bewildered until his eyes landed on the plexiglass and he spotted the man sitting on the other side. His lids lowered halfway and his gaze darkened.
The prisoner dropped into the chair and picked up the telephone screwed into the wall. "What're you doing here? You put me here, remember?"
"First things first, let's get one thing straight: your shitty life choices put you here," he replied cavalierly. He held the telephone gingerly in his sizable hands, careful so not to press it against his face. Who knows what kind of vermin had touched it before him?
Tomas snorted. "Shit never changes with you people. You think you can crush everybody like roaches—like we don't matter."
"That's because you don't," he sneered.
"Then why the fuck are you here?"
The prisoner's temper amused him. He rose inches off his chair and barred his teeth like some damn uncivilized animal about to pounce. If this had been a year ago, he'd have laughed in his face and left him there to suffer for the next fifteen years. But in recent months, his guilt had finally started to catch up to him. He could only lay so many white lilies on the boy's grave before it was no longer enough…
"To make amends," he said.
"What the fuck does that mean?" Tomas growled, face twisted. "Why should I care if you've got a conscience? You grow balls now? After all this time?"
"Your parole hearing is in two weeks, yes?" he asked, ignoring the prisoner's rant.
That shut him up. He sunk onto the chair and gawked like the slow-witted fool he was.
"If things go according to plan, I may be able to swing things in your favor. You've had good behavior while in here. I have friends on the parole board. How's early release for making amends?"
"You're…you're for real?"
"Yes, I'm 'for real'," he mocked, grinning. He hung up the phone and stood. At the door marked exit, he nodded knowingly with the guard and left Tomas Garcia staring gob-smacked in his wake.
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"What are you doing here?"
Rosita strolled into the house with appraising eyes. She assessed the place wall-to-wall from the wobbly table and chairs to the scarce belongings scattered throughout. Her gaze lingered on anything of potential value—the boombox, the 24K diamond-cut bangles on the mantle, and even the boots she'd worn earlier. She stopped with hands on her hips and said, "I had to get away. You inspired me."
"Inspired you? Don't tell me you—"
"Fuck no! I'm not crazy," Rosita said, laughing. "Abe's still in his Lazy Boy passed out to SportsCenter. But I had to get away. Then I heard about the shit that went down with you and I knew I had to find you."
Michonne shut the door and rubbed a hand over her face. She hadn't expected a skeleton from her closet so soon. To think, mere minutes ago, she'd been imagining laying her head to rest at night…
"What lil' birdy? Who told you?"
The devilish shine in Rosita's eyes brightened. "Kinda a fluke. Remember Drea from the Black Onyx? I left Jersey without a clue where the fuck to go. Ended up in Atlanta and ran into Drea. She told me she'd seen you. I figured the rest out from there…"
The frustration on Michonne's face spoke for her. Rosita hastily continued.
"Don't worry. You been following shit? It's not like anybody's onto you. I'm not here to blow your cover. I'm here 'cuz maybe things can be like old times. We can stick together. Start over."
Rosita thought she was placating her fears, but they only intensified. Her old friend changed like the weather. From a similar scammer background, it was hard to tell where she truly stood. Now aware of her whereabouts, that gave her automatic ammunition. They both knew it.
"Right," said Michonne slowly. "I'm glad to see you. But it's late so I'm about to call it—"
"Mind if I stay here? No money," Rosita interrupted innocently. "'Til I find somewhere decent. You know, like how you used to crash on my couch."
Michonne tried not to grit her teeth. "Sure. Yeah, of course."
"Holy fuck, how much did Mike drop on these? 10 G's?" Rosita asked. She'd plucked the 24K bangles off the mantle for expert appraisal. "Bet you had red bottoms stacked in your closet."
Michonne eyed the gold bangles wearily. They were one of the few possessions she'd kept from him in case she needed to pawn for emergency cash. If they'd pay off Rosita, she'd happily give them away…
"I'll grab you a pillow and blanket. I'm going to bed."
"But it's 10 P.M.?" Rosita snorted.
Michonne ignored her, heading for the bedroom. Rosita was crafty, but she'd dealt with people trying to swindle her her entire life. She wasn't about to be outsmarted. But, first, she needed time to think. To plan a course of action for getting rid of the woman who was both friend and foe.
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"You've sure been going next door a lot."
Rick stood at the kitchen counter pouring coffee when Carl rasped his version of good morning. His father's sour mood spoiled the air in the room. It followed him wherever he went, but he didn't care what others thought. He wore his badge of frosty disposition as proudly as he'd worn the gold sheriff's star for so many years. Rick aloofly glanced over his shoulder before his attention returned to his coffee and creamer.
"So what?"
"So I'm wondering if you realize what you're getting yourself into."
"I've been helping her fix the floors in her house."
"For hours. For weeks now."
"Again, so what?"
"You've got bigger fish to fry that's what."
Rick scoffed, stirring the creamer into his coffee. The black liquid browned to medium. "Appreciate the concern, but I'm doing fine, thanks."
"It wasn't so long ago Lori and I had to take care of Judy full-time," Carl grunted, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. He walked up beside his only son and poured coffee as if their conversation didn't err on hostile. "I'm saying, you've got other things to worry 'bout than some…some—"
"Some what?"
"Con woman."
"Who says she's a con woman? That's a rumor in town. There's another one going 'round that she's an amnesiac lost from home. You believe that too?"
Carl ignored his snark. "I know a con artist when I see one—and she's got it written all over her. She ain't come to Alamo for shits and giggles. Mark my words. She's trouble."
"You think everybody is. Ever think it's you?"
"If you wanna risk probation—wanna risk the decent life you've rebuilt for some tail, go right 'head. But don't expect me to pick up the pieces after the fact. I'm not gonna bail you out. You're on your own." Carl eyed him with the same steely glare perfected from nearly two decades as sheriff. It was enough to intimidate the hooligans in town, but not Rick. Over the years, he'd become immune to his father's cold blue eyes.
"Good," he growled, meeting his gaze. "And stop leaving those damn lilies on his grave."
He was striding for the exit, coffee mug in hand, when he heard Carl's low grumble reply.
"What the hell're you talking 'bout? What lilies?"
It was Rick's turn to ignore him. He sought refuge in the garage. The room was his safe space in the house. He'd remodeled the space into a workshop for repair projects. The giant workbench waited for him at the back of the room. Powertools hung off its pegboard, arranged by size and purpose. Storage bins flanked either side with drawers full of more tools fit to star in any handyman's dream.
He snatched his goggles and slipped them on. Yesterday he'd started work on sanding wooden panels for cabinets. Deanna Monroe's husband Reg had passed away last year and she'd been struggling since. Alamo wasn't a booming town for real estate agents and she floundered financially. He liked to think upgrading her home uplifted her spirits if slightly.
Besides, like with his time fixing Michonne's floors, it distracted him in moments like this.
Moments where his temper ran hot and he needed the space to cool off.
Carl's bad mood didn't surprise him. He was a grump by default. Come winter, he hit his peak. His father dealt with grief by lashing out at the world—except for Lil' Bit. She was his sunshine and it showed when she was around. As soon as she wasn't, he darkened again. He had too much pride to utter the words, but he blamed himself for what happened. In a way, for different reasons, they all did.
A day didn't go by without Rick thinking about what ifs. These alternate scenarios didn't help any. They served as reminders to his failure as a father. His number one job was to protect his children and he'd failed them in the absolute worst, most unforgivable way.
Behind the goggles, his eyes itched and he blinked the tears back. They were out of a deep, inconsolable sadness, but also out of a rage that sometimes burned through him hot enough to melt metal. He used every ounce of self-control to resist giving into the red feeling threatening to take over. The last time it had, he'd shown up crazed at Tomas Garcia's apartment and blacked out.
The next thing he remembered, someone wrenched him off with his hands bloodied and knuckles bruised. Another minute and he'd finished the job…
Rick pulled off his goggles and used the sleeve of his t-shirt wipe his eyes.
That bloodthirsty part of him was in the past.
He worked each day to channel the welled up dark emotion into positive energy. Lil' Bit helped keep him grounded. So did his store and working in his garage. And Michonne?
Fixing those floorboards.
The project brought him peace. He got to utilize his handyman skills and talk with the most intriguing person in Alamo. Bonus points that she was a knockout. She also happened to be the most armored person, but every so often, in a rare moment of weakness, her stony veneer slipped. She gave him a sneak peek at another side of her—a woman whose bright smile shone like a star and whose infectious laughter made you desperate to be in on the joke.
It's what made spending time with her the perfect distraction.
Regardless of Carl's premonition, he didn't plan on giving that up anytime soon…
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Michonne caught little sleep. Her brain wouldn't turn off long enough to drift off. She'd combed her conversation with Rosita a dozen times, lying in bed. The threat hadn't been uttered aloud, but the treachery lay in the undercurrent. It waited to rear its ugly head when she defied whatever con being pulled.
She sighed and sat up.
The best course of action this soon was no course of action.
She needed to play along and observe potential loopholes. Only then could she get rid of Rosita as uncomplicatedly as possible.
Still, being around Rosita Espinosa unnerved her. The buxom brunette reminded her of a past she'd forced herself to forget. At least in the last four months since her escape from Mike.
Mike.
Thinking the name alone assailed her with cold tremors. She wanted to reach for her .44 and look over her shoulder.
Her side of the story would never see the light of day. It would never be catalogued as the truth in the eyes of others. Because of who she was and where she came from. Because of the things she'd done to survive…
Michonne slid off the bed and went to her suitcase. Buried beneath her clothes and hidden in a compartment, she kept an envelope stacked with I.D.'s, more cash and a couple of photos. She pulled out the top polaroid. It was a picture from the early days of their marriage. A dinner set to celebrate Terry's homecoming from Menninger. Everyone in the photo with the exception of Ms. Gray smiled at the camera. In contrast to their mother, Mike and his younger brother ate up much of the photo with their tall, broad frames, both with near identical smiles.
At the time of the picture, she'd already noticed the cracks forming. Her own smile, her bright eyes staring into the camera, it was a lie. At least Ms. Gray had the gall to be honest about their union, and she'd been right in a twisted way. Being together was the biggest mistake of their lives. If she could go back and change things, she would in a heartbeat.
Michonne showered, dressed and left home before Rosita could wake. Her old friend slept as a tangled mess on the sofa. Outside, she saw Rick loading two large toolboxes into his Range Rover. He flagged her down. She went to him with slight reluctance.
"Everything alright?" he asked, dusting his hands off. He looked troubled himself.
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"Heard someone knocking on your place last night. Old friend of yours?"
Michonne nibbled the slick inside of her cheek and nodded. "Yes, she is. She's visiting for a few days."
"That's great. She looked real, uh…interesting."
"She's definitely one of a kind. Headed off to the store?"
"Yep. Running a little late. Gotta open in an hour." He checked his watch.
She almost asked what bothered him then chastised herself for caring. "I should get going. See you."
"We still on for Wednesday?"
"Seven o' clock."
The outline of a grin crept into view, framed by his thick beard. "That's right. Don't forget it."
How could she? It'd been the silver lining in the cloudy sky of Rosita showing up and heavy thoughts about the past…
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Mary flagged Michonne down as she entered Merle's. Her boss sat at a table drinking with…her landlady?
People in Alamo knew each other by name, but she hadn't known Deanna Monroe and Mary Dixon were friends. She joined the fifty-somethings.
"You're here early," simpered Mary. "Tells me you're here for a drink of your own."
Michonne's lips curled slightly. "No…came in early because I needed to get out of my house."
"I'm not liable for any maintenance on the home," Deanna said, going pale.
"I understand, Deanna. I meant I needed a change of scenery." Michonne neglected to finish her sentence, in which she'd mention the troublesome blast from her past. She quickly searched for a subject change. "You two know each other?"
"Know each other? We're sisters!"
"Stepsisters," corrected Deanna. "And our folks divorced before they passed."
"Potato potahto, Dee." Mary waved a dismissive hand. Her eyes gleamed spotting Maggie pass them by. She called her over with an order to grab two beers and then join them.
The waitress blew hair out of her eyes and did as asked, handing one to Michonne.
"Go on…sit. Breaktime. The new gal can figure things out," said Mary.
"New girl?" Michonne asked. She searched the bar and spotted a frantic blonde struggling with a tray of drinks.
"We've hired a second waitress. Name's Jessie Anderson."
"And she's a disaster," Maggie added.
"It's her first day—sink or swim I always say. Anyway, never mind her. I'm more interested in when you're gonna finally go on a date."
Maggie blushed bright pink and twisted the top off her beer. "I've got my eyes on my college classes."
"I was married to Reg by your age," said Deanna, sipping her drink. "But these days? No reason to tie yourself down early. Focus on you, Mags."
"Ain't nobody said anything 'bout marriage," Mary bickered and Michonne picked up on the sisterly vibe. "I'm talking 'bout having some fun!"
Deanna rolled her eyes then redirected the attention to Michonne. "What 'bout you, dear? You a single gal? No husband? No kids?"
"No."
Heat rushed to Michonne's skin, but she gave nothing away in her facial expression. Out of protection, her tongue tied itself up. The conversation had unexpectedly veered a sharp left into her personal life. It was done intentionally. The longer she stayed in town, the more desperate Alamo became to learn about her. So far, she'd offered little to nothing.
"We'll have to find somebody for Mags," Mary was saying when she tuned into the conversation again. "Anybody know any eligible bachelors?"
Deanna held up her hand, five digits spread. She began to tick them off one-by-one. "Aside from the older gents like Mayor Blake and Sheriff Negan. There's Shane Walsh. Eugene Porter. Andrew Singleton. Rick Grimes. Oh, and Daryl."
"A big, fat N-O from me," said Maggie, unimpressed.
"Alright, so Eugene's not too easy on the eyes," conceded Deanna.
"Singleton's a hooligan." Mary gulped down the rest of her drink.
"And Daryl's…Daryl." Maggie cringed.
"Rick Grimes is what I like to call a fixer-upper," said Deanna.
"Are you kidding me? Why would I want that baggage when I ain't gone none? Makes no sense!"
"He's a heartbreaker, but guess Shane Walsh it is. Alamo's most eligible bachelor."
Michonne brought her beer bottle to her lips, curious as to what Rick's 'baggage' could be. Not that she cared. She didn't, she quickly chided herself. It made no difference to her what baggage he carried, because he was like everyone else in her life—temporary. They'd go on their date and he'd fix a couple more things in her house, and in a couple weeks, she'd be gone. She'd be starting over again in yet another bumfuck town somewhere across America…
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The last time Michonne went on a real first date, she'd been nineteen. She'd been uncertain about the idea. It went against Gregory's rules to go out with a customer, but when he'd asked, he'd done so outside of the club. By chance, he ran into her in the light of day, and recognized her with that large, disarming smile of his, and she'd been powerless to say no.
At the time, she'd been surviving on the goodwill of friends who allowed her to crash on their couches. She didn't own much outside of her skimpy club attire and the few mementos she'd held onto from adolescence. Certainly nothing worthy of a date with an NFL player.
She'd shown up in a borrowed dress from a coworker-turned-friend, Sasha. It wasn't an expensive dress—she suspected it was bought from the sales rack at Rainbow—but it was nicer than anything she owned. He took one look at her and that damn dimpled smile appeared again. He'd beckoned her to his sports car and driven them to Garden Avenue, the luxury shopping neighborhood.
It felt like some chick flick Pretty Woman bullshit, but against her initial protests, he dropped more cash on her than she could fathom. She'd stood by in a state of shock, and she'd devolved into a mannequin unable to process what was happening. Dressed in her fancy, overpriced outfit, complete with sparkling jewelry, he'd taken her for dinner in a three-star Michelin restaurant.
Things snowballed out of her hands from there. Before she could pause to think about what she was signing up for. Three weeks later, they eloped. He moved her into his home and she now had a new, unexpected role in life—the wife and pet project of handsome, charismatic Jets Quarterback, Mike Gray…
"Look at you." Rosita whistled from the doorway. She leaned against the frame with her hip cocked leftward and smirked. "Who's the lucky guy? Bag yourself another baller?"
Michonne turned away from the oval-shaped mirror and slipped on her boots. Rosita's teases bore a double-meaning. On one hand, she craved the girl chat of yesteryear. But she also wanted to express a long-held envy she'd never been so 'lucky' to find a catch who was loaded.
"It's that hunk from across the lake, right?"
"Are you going anywhere tonight?" Michonne redirected.
"Think I'll stay in. Read a book." Rosita batted her lashes innocently. "So, does he have a brother? Cousin? Anything? This town has shit for options. I don't know how you're not climbing up the walls…"
There was a firm knock on the door and Michonne's gaze shot to the clock.
6:52 P.M.
He was a couple minutes early…
She rushed to the nightstand, quickly pinning her only pair of earrings.
"Hopefully he's not a Mike 2.0," Rosita sighed breezily.
Michonne froze and then glared. Rosita burst into a laugh.
"Kidding! I'm kidding, Mich. Geez, what happened to your sense of humor? You've gone all goody-goody on me. I know before it was for Mr. Perfect, but…he's out of the picture. Why are you so freaking worried?"
"I've gotta go," she said, grabbing her purse. She brushed past Rosita without another look. Her earlier trepidation returned in spades. Was it too late to cancel?
Michonne opened the door and found herself face-to-face with Rick. He grinned, and for a second, she couldn't help thinking about that first date with Mike. That initial smile of his as he first set eyes on her and she naively smiled back. Rick's grin was warm and inviting, and it reached his deep, ocean blue eyes.
"Hey," he drawled. "Glad to see you're not standing me up. Was worried there for a second."
She feigned a smile in answer to his light tease. Jittery nerves bottomed out in her stomach and in the back of her mind, she wondered if this was her next big mistake…
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First, Rick drove them to Prime cut. The steakhouse wasn't a five-star restaurant, but it was easily the nicest Alamo had to offer. Michonne took one glance at the upscale restaurant and blocked out the déjà vu forcing itself upon her. Breathing deep for control over human emotion, she calmly requested they go elsewhere.
"Nothing fancy."
Rick frowned, thrown by the strange request. "I booked reservations—had a whole proper date set up for us. But sounds like that's a hard no from you?"
"I don't need proper. I want simple." She shut up there, fearful she'd cough up more unnecessary details. Saying what she had already bordered on too much.
Thankfully, Rick didn't pressure her for specifics. "Alright. I got another idea—think you'll like this."
They hit the road outside Prime Cut, stretching onward into the less populated side of town. Michonne loosened up, thankful for a Plan B. Rick caught on and grinned.
"Guess this is more us. You'll see."
"What is it? Home repair?"
He rasped a low laugh. "Yanno me. That actually sounds like a good time."
"So long as it's my house being repaired." She granted herself permission to share in his grin.
"We've made some strides. The floors are good."
"Thanks for that. I'm not worried about falling through the floor anymore."
"That's always a good thing." He chuckled again, steering the Range Rover along an upcoming bend, headlights piercing the dark. "Bonus for me was getting to be 'round a beautiful woman."
Her skin flushed regardless of the February cold. "I thought that's why you kept coming around."
"And interesting," he added in earnest. "I've been trying to figure you out."
"Good luck, but you should probably give up now."
"I dunno. I like a challenge. Think I'll take my chances," he bantered.
Michonne rolled her eyes despite the tumble of nerves in her stomach. They were a harmless first date trademark, so she didn't fault herself for them. She couldn't deny Rick Grimes distracted her. He took her mind off bad things and made her feel like a normal woman out for a fun night. Her earlier hesitancy long gone, she decided to enjoy the night to the fullest.
"We're here," said Rick, shifting into park.
Michonne read the blue sign lighting up the parking lot. "Alamo Firing Range. I should've known."
"C'mon, this'll be good."
If she hadn't decided to indulge before, she had now.
Rick held the door and she entered the indoor firing range to the stench of lead and gunpowder.
The salesfloor boasted endless firearm accessories and self-defense items. Cans of pepper spray and mace lined the walls along with keychain alarms and whistles. Holsters of every kind and size hung off racks with a giant 'ON SALE' sign. The glass case displayed various firearms, behind the counter its accompanied ammunition stockpiled. Rick stopped at the register and ordered their rentals and range time.
Michonne eyed the 'LADIES NIGHT' poster on the wall. Every Thursday, women shot for free. There was also a hands-on instructor to teach basic defensive maneuvers. It'd been a while since she'd practiced firing. Even longer since she'd taken a self-defense class. She made a mental note to return next Thursday...
"Ready?" Rick asked, oblivious to her observations.
She thanked Rick as he handed her earmuffs and protective goggles.
The salesfloor led to range itself, divided by thick, spongy walls specially designed to absorb sound. The lanes were empty except for the technician on duty. He held his hand out for quick shakes.
"Hey guys, how you doing? I'm Jerry," he said cheerily. The man stood large in size with a gun holstered on his hip, but he seemed as cuddly as a teddy bear. "What's your names?"
"I'm Michonne. He's Rick."
"Nice. You guys on a date?"
"Not just any date. First date," Rick answered with smile aimed at Michonne.
"So basically, I better help you out, not screw things up," Jerry chuckled. He thumped Rick on the back. "I got you. Believe it or not, gun ranges are romantic."
"You heard him," said Rick.
"I did. Can't say I'm convinced," Michonne said cheekily.
"Ouch! Okay, well…it's my mission to help my man Rick win you over, Michonne." Jerry rubbed his hands together and then cocked his head to the lanes behind him. "You guys ever fire before?"
"I have. And she's Annie Oakley."
Jerry nodded along impressively. "Sounds like this is about to be good. Okay, my man Rick and Annie Oakley, let's get your targets hung up and your weapons loaded."
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Jerry supervised as they loaded their weapons. He initially attempted to help and then stopped when Michonne handled her pistol with expert ease. Rick couldn't help the proud grin that snuck onto his face watching her. He'd seen her with her .44 several times, but he didn't know the extent of her experience. Standing at the table with her, handling his own, it wouldn't be a surprise if she outfired him.
His attraction to her only grew, fascinated by how strong and resilient she was.
They took to their stations and Jerry got on the speaker to announce general safety protocol while operating a loaded firearm. As Rick assumed his position and waited for the go ahead, he sensed Michonne's gaze on him. He checked his left and discovered her eying him with a mischievous smirk. He understood the look at once. She wanted competition.
He'd never met anyone like her. Who was this woman?
"Shooters, in position. Begin fire at the buzzard," said Jerry from the control panel. He pressed the button to rotate their targets into view. The buzzard sounded and the cushioned room filled with the insistent cracks of gunfire.
Rick aimed carefully and opened fire at his targets. Bullets punctured the sheet one after another. Some hit the designated points while others missed and nicked an ear or forearm on the paperman. Metal tinkled beneath his feet as his cases bounced and his gun clicked on empty.
"Good job!" Jerry praised. "Please set your firearms down and reload. The 15-foot round is next."
The metal rack zoomed, pulling their sheets farther away from them. Rick concentrated as Jerry counted them down a second time. The targets were harder to land with the distance, but adrenaline spiked and he kept his competitive edge. After that round, the 25-foot sheets followed and more bullets cut through the air and casings struck the floor. By the time they were done with their third round, ammunition gone and sheets sprayed with countless holes, Jerry asked them to put their weapons on safety and leave their stations.
"Wow." He whistled holding up the sheets for their viewing. "My man Rick was not messing around—look at these hits!"
Rick slid off his goggles, eying the fruit of his labor.
"But," Jerry continued, "Annie Oakley was right. Michonne, you killed this—literally!"
Rick grinned as Michonne accepted the target sheet from Jerry. He had a natural competitive instinct, but thinking about it, there was no better person to lose to than Michonne. Clearly, she'd practiced extensively to become a great markswoman. She deserved the win.
"You had fun?" Rick asked on their walk out.
"Yeah, actually. That was my first time shooting in a while. I forgot how much I like it."
"We can come again sometime," he said. The night's cold whipped across their skin and increased their pace toward the SUV. "Are you hungry? Don't worry, haven't forgotten. Nothing fancy."
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
They wound up at Spinner's, a family chain known to most Georgia residents. The American-themed restaurant was empty that time of night. The servers cleaned up and chitchatted while they sat in a booth left to their own devices. They'd ordered wings, French fries and beers, staying away from anything needing a knife and fork.
"I think this is the sloppiest first date I've ever been on," Rick joked, grabbing another napkin.
"You weren't complaining when you ordered those habanero wings."
"That's true. But then again wings are my favorite so 'course I can't help myself." He swallowed another mouthful of beer, curious to steer the conversation onto her. "Mind if I ask why you didn't wanna go anywhere 'fancy'?"
Michonne sipped her beer, in no rush to answer. "It reminds me of someone."
Though he'd asked the question, he hadn't expected candor out of her. For a split second, he struggled on how to respond, hesitant to ruin the small progress. He said, "Sorry. I didn't know. But I get it. I do it too sometimes—avoid stuff that reminds me of certain things."
"Like what?"
She was a pro at redirecting. He obliged in hopes opening up would get her to, but he wouldn't talk about Carl. Not now. Not here. He couldn't go there.
"Like my marriage. Looking back, we never shoulda married. It was a typical shotgun wedding where our families decided for us—southern tradition when a girl is knocked up by her boyfriend."
"I remember you mentioned that before. You said you were still in high school."
He sighed "Sixteen. Anyway, things were always rocky. Neither of us were prepared for a baby and a marriage."
"Your daughter Judith—she's from the same marriage?"
"Yep. What 'bout you? Marriage? Kids?"
Again, to his surprise, she answered. "Married once. No kids."
"And what happened…if you don't mind me asking?"
Michonne swallowed, eyes on the window. "It was never something I should've done. It wasn't a good marriage."
There was something about the hollow quality to her voice that panged his heart. He'd reached his limit, he could tell. He wasn't going to get more out of her without pushing too far and driving her away. She wasn't ready to say anything more and that was okay.
Rick reached across the table and grabbed her hand. "Hey, you don't have to tell me. Sorry I asked. How 'bout dessert? Maybe that'll take our mind off our shitty marriages."
A small smile tugged onto Michonne's plush shaped lips and she asked, "where's the dessert menu?"
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Rick parked the Range Rover and they sat in the dark. The reprieve that was their first date was over. The deal was done. Now came goodnight and goodbye.
Michonne unclicked her seatbelt, fighting an urge to dabble in baser desire. "I had a good time. Thanks for taking me out."
"Thanks for letting me," he answered. He snuck a glance at her. "Yanno we can do this again—another date."
"The deal was one date, remember?" she asked. Even in the shadows, she caught his gaze slip to her mouth. Her stomach fluttered and her full lips parted with a slight curve. "But who says it's over?"
Rick cracked a bemused grin. "What's that smirk for?"
"Do you want to come inside?" she asked, the intention behind her invitation clear.
Scampering across the lawn, up the porch steps and across the landing, Michonne hoped Rosita hadn't been serious when she said she'd stay in for the night. If she had been, she was prepared to creep to the bedroom, Rick in hand. She unlocked the door and let it fall open to an empty house. Rick understood her survey of the living room.
"Your friend out?" he asked.
"Mhm."
She'd turned to him, moving unmistakably closer that his arms naturally circled her waist. Unabashed heat simmered in her brown eyes as she looked up into his blue ones. Again, he picked up on the cue, inching forward to capture her lips with enough time for her to pull away if she wanted. His lips were soft and warm and she dabbled in the kisses that would also be their last. Her fingers dug into his earthy brown curls, reflexes in overdrive as her body molded into his and he swept his tongue across her lower lip. She parted for him, welcoming him in with a tiny moan.
She couldn't be sure, but her mew sound spurred him on. His grip on her waist tightened and he kissed her harder. Step-by-step they started for the bedroom until they crossed the threshold and kicked the door shut. They didn't bother with light as they undressed between kisses. Michonne unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders to reveal the leanly muscled chest she'd been longing to drag her nails across for weeks.
She snagged this chance as Rick nibbled on her neck and her palms glided over his chest, down the light scruff speckled there and past his abdomen. The happy trail then dipped out of view, cruelly hidden by his jeans, but she'd rectify that within seconds. Her hands fell to his belt buckle, another moan in her throat as Rick's warm kisses persisted. While she unbuckled his belt, he stopped his affections long enough to draw back and lift her blouse over her head. Left in her bra and skirt, the weight of his gaze as it raked over her slender body heated her up.
In reverence, he reached out for her and his fingertips grazed the curves of her. Starting at her breasts, his palm slipped along the sides of her ribs and stomach, and stopped at rest on the flare of her hips. He stepped closer and surprised her with a kiss much softer and slower than earlier. Somehow, the leisure pace was more sensual than their heavy kisses. Her mouth widened to grant him access and his tongue brushed hers in lazy flicks.
The teasing was too much. His fingers on her bare skin, held her in place against him. The erection bulged in his jeans pressed insistently into her as a reminder of what she'd soon feel in her hands. What she craved to feel between her legs.
"I didn't think tonight would end like this," Rick murmured. "I'm still surprised you didn't stand me up."
Michonne leaned back in his arms to smirk up at him. "I don't see you complaining."
Rick's brows rose as his eyes lowered for another once over. "Uh, no. Honestly, I'm feeling pretty lucky right 'bout now."
She laughed and then yelped as he scooped her up and carried her the rest of the way to the bed. He lay her down gingerly and untied the laces to her boots. The random thoughtfulness amused her and she tipped her head back in another giggle. It'd been years since she'd let herself be carefree enough to giggle, but Rick brought it out of her. She felt playful and sexy and girly all at once. He finished easing off her boots and socks thanks to her shapely legs curled in the air. Then he gripped one, holding her by the calf and kissing her silky-smooth skin.
Michonne lifted her hips and wiggled out of her skirt as he yanked off his jeans and joined her on the bed. His larger frame immediately covered the length of hers, coming to kiss her again. The heat of his mouth set her aflame. He'd settled on the curve of her throat and she bucked against him, a sticky mess in her panties, desperate for more. He rasped out a low chuckle, burying his face into the crook of her neck when she tugged his boxers down and her curious hand sought his cock.
"Hang on, you got any condoms?"
"I'm on the pill, but no. Do you?"
"In my wallet. Gimme a sec."
She propped herself up on her elbows and watched him, fire blazing through her entire body. Another unique feat for him—she hadn't wanted a man this much since…ever? She shut out any thoughts about the past as it threatened to creep in and ruin things. Instead she used the seconds to unclasp her bra. Rick returned with packet in hand, stunned at the unexpected sight of her topless and in wait for him on the bed.
"You're unbelievable," he drawled in a hushed, throaty tone.
A shiver coursed her spine as she gauged the sincerity behind his words to be true. He meant what he said.
Michonne lost herself after that. Her body attuned itself to his worshipful touch. His hands roamed across the valley of her supple skin. He stopped at the irresistibly soft swell of her breasts, cupping the weight of them. The contrast between her soft mounds and his calloused palm stiffened her nipples. Whimpers became a frequent visitor in her throat as his mouth latched on and he teased her peaks. He sucked and licked and his tongue ran the circumference of her areola. Her nipple caught between his teeth, he tugged. Lightly at first, harder when she writhed, fingers twisted in his hair, and pressed his face into her chest.
Rick drew back onto his knees and she saw it in his eyes—how much he desired her. Her gaze lowered as he pulled off his boxers and his hardness twitched, crowned by precum. She licked her lips at his delicious-looking cock, imagination run amuck as she envisioned what was going to feel like to fit its girth and length inside of her.
She raised her hips for him and he smiled, understanding her request. He peeled off her black lace panties and she shuddered at the most basic touch of his, his knuckles grazing her hipbone. Condom rolled on, she opened herself wider for him so he could settle between her parted legs. He leaned over her and positioned himself at her slit, kissing her on the mouth. His tongue distracted her until he pushed only the tip in. She moaned lustily and banded a leg about his waist to urge him further. He held himself there, torturing himself to tease her, and then sunk deep into her delicate pink inside at once.
Immediately, her muscles gripped him in an unbearable clench. She must've felt as amazing to him as he felt to her, because he lost his breath and choked out a groan buried within her pussy. He held himself up by the strength of his forearms, palms flat on the mattress, but looking up into his face, his expression slackened to pure ecstasy.
Rick began slow, building momentum with each stroke. The deeper he plunged, brushing against her spasming walls, the further coherence slipped away. The earlier blaze he'd ignited in her burned to a wildfire, and she wantonly welcomed its hot intensity. She ran her fingers along the veins in his forearm, rocking with him for every stroke that nudged her closer to a feverish finish.
Finally, when she could take it no longer, Rick drawing a mewl out of her with his deepest stroke yet, she reached between them. Her fingers circled her clit, rubbing herself shamelessly and greedily for Rick's viewing pleasure. He drank in the sight, going harder. The sensory overload thrust her beyond the edge, forcing her to let go. Michonne cried out as her orgasm seared through her body and pointed her toes.
Pleasure zinged everywhere, so much so that she couldn't be sure what happened next. Her head rolled to the side and she lay caught up in a blissful haze. She opened her eyes to Rick's kisses on her neck. Back to reality, she tuned into his touch. His cock still sheathed deep inside she contracted and squeezed him without even knowing it. Sweat dripped off him, sliding down the hard lines of his body, and her nails followed. She raked them along the sculpted span of his chest and abs, kissing him with tongue.
Rick grunted at her playful teases but then drew away, slipping out of her. He picked her up, flipping her over with an easy strength that made her pussy throb. His touch was different now, firmer and rougher, and she moaned as she hiked her ass up and spread her legs wide. He curled them backwards around his waist and he positioned himself at her entrance. He pushed in completely on stroke one, bottoming out to shudders from them both.
"Fuck!" she screamed, knotting the sheets in a fist. She began to tremble, so full she could already feel her next climax simmering to a boil.
Rick leaned over her and kissed her damp spine. His hands palmed her ass, massaging the ample cheeks.
"You alright?" he asked in teasing. "Tell me if you want me to stop."
"No!" she choked. "Keep going. Please."
"You've gotta tell me exactly what you want."
Asshole. He was enjoying this. Michonne bit on her bottom lip and ground herself against him.
"Ahh, just…just fuck me," she demanded.
Rick kissed her one last time and then straightened up. He held onto her ass and pulled out enough to leave only his tip in. She clenched her eyes shut and pressed her cheek into the mattress, prepping for the delicious deep thrust sure to follow. He delivered, driving into her without mercy. He was relentless, pumping in and out of her as she keened uncontrollably beneath. When she thought he'd used up his bag of tricks, he'd surprise her again, and switch things up, rolling his hips or changing his angle and the depth of his thrusts. He'd hit her sweetest spot and she'd tighten her hold on the sheets. She'd burn up, shattering when she reached her hottest temperature.
If her first orgasm was a wildfire, her second one was a sheer fire storm. Her fever broke and she surrendered to the flames of pleasure. She released a strangled scream for any eavesdropping ears to overhear miles away and lay in a breathless rapture she never wanted to end. Her body pliant but numb, she barely recognized Rick's final deep thrust.
Rick arched over her, the weight of him strangely securing. His fingers entwined hers and he kissed her cheek. Buried as deep as he could go, he grunted as he came hard. The primal, husky sound echoed in her ear. Michonne shuddered, feeling powerful and sexy for bringing about his undoing…
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Rick and Michonne collapsed onto the bed, breathless and spent. His grin spread automatically, staring into the dark ceiling as months of pent-up stress vanished. A breezy relief replaced the tense strain throughout his body and loosened his muscles. He'd been on a dopey high after sex plenty of times, but lying there beside Michonne, as they caught their breaths and wits again, this was inexplicably different.
He turned his head for a glance at her. In a blink-and-miss-it moment, a small, satisfied smile flitted across her face before disappearing forever. He wanted it back. Her momentary slip mirrored exactly how he felt in the wake of their romp. Devoted to coaxing another out of her, he reached for her. She didn't protest his arm pulling her close. The graceful arc of her back fit snugly against him, and his hand glided along the swell of her hip.
She smelled heavenly—some sort of blend of coconut and vanilla mixed with her natural scent and sweat. The pheromones must've done him in as inhaling her unexpectedly intoxicated him. He craved more of her in more ways than one.
Unable to resist, he placed a soft trail of kisses on her nape. "Best night I've had in a while."
For the first few kisses, she seemed to melt deeper into him. She relished in the affection as he certainly heard the light hum in her throat and felt her naked skin press closer into his, wordlessly asking for more. But as his lips rested against her dark, dewy skin, muttering a truth cloaked in a teasing tone, she stilled under his arms.
Just like that, his drunken lens lifted and he picked up on the walls crashing down between them. His instincts were right. In the next second, she pulled away and sat up, swinging her legs over the bed's edge. Though light was scarce in the room, only filtered in from the half-moon by way of the window, her silhouette was distinct. It was both mesmerizing and confusing, svelte lines and soft curves, as he stared at her feminine form. At no point did she look at him, back to him as yet another barrier.
"It's late," she said, standing. "You should get home. You have work tomorrow."
She disappeared inside the bathroom, presumably to freshen up with the expectation he'd be gone by the time she finished. His brow creased, and what he categorized as disappointment anchored in his stomach. He had gone into tonight fully recognizing the short-term entertainment of their time together, but he hadn't envisioned it ending so…abruptly.
Since divorcing Lori, he'd had the occasional fling in Alamo, dating sparingly to no real success. His most lasting tryst had been with Jessie Anderson, a divorced mother of two. They'd dated on-and-off for a year, but their interactions devolved into nothing more than sporadically lonely, late-night visits. He didn't particularly connect with Jessie and she likely felt like the same as she never pressured him for more. Still, he'd always had the decency to hang around after. He'd feel like a dirt bag otherwise, dipping out immediately after he got off. Besides, a secret part of him liked the aftermath—the sleepy cuddling and pillow talk.
Dare he say it, in the hope she'd open up, he'd actually looked forward to that with Michonne?
Rick got out of bed and found his boxers and jeans. He stood shirtless, belt unbuckled, searching for his button-down when the toilet flushed and the light under the door flicked off. It opened and Michonne emerged in a flimsy cotton robe, loosely knotted at her waist. Her eyes widened and she hesitated, surprised to see him there.
"Can't find my shirt," he said.
She walked over to the bed and stooped to reach under. "That's because it's fallen under the bed. Here you go."
"Thanks."
The silence was awkward. He slipped on his shirt, fastening most of the buttons. She hovered across the room, using the distance to her advantage. He cleared his throat, hands now on his undone belt buckle.
"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"You didn't."
"Seems like I did."
"We had a good time. But it's late…and it was one date," she reminded. "That was the agreement."
Rick finished with his belt, pausing to observe her. What little headway they'd made had faded out of sight like a ghost. She had completely closed herself off to him. Everything about her told him this. Her crossed arms and pursed lips as she stood feet away. Her brisk and clipped tone as she gave him impersonal answers. She expected him to disappear out of sight, out of mind.
He sighed, deciding not to fight her on it.
They walked to the front door and onto the porch, shuddering at the cold in the dead of the night.
"If you need any more help with your house, lemme know," he offered. "The floors were just the beginning. There's still a lotta other things that need to be—"
"Thanks," she interrupted stiffly. "I'll think about it."
In the face of her rude dismal, the only thing he could think to do was laugh. So, he did, chuckling hoarsely.
"Alright. Good night, Michonne."
And there it was. He couldn't have imagined it, looking into her deep brown eyes. The unmistakable trace of regret dulled them if even for a split second. His gut told him she didn't want things to end this way, but she pressed on, dismissing him from her doorstep.
"Good night," she said tautly. "See you around."
That was the end to their date. He left her standing on the porch and crossed the dark landscape, walking the instable bridge to the other side. When he reached his steps, he allowed himself a peek over his shoulder at her little timber-style home. He expected for the porch light to be off, but to feel her bewitching gaze on him even in the dark, as he always had.
For once, he didn't because it wasn't there. She'd already gone inside.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Rosita turned up at Merle's early into her evening shift. Friday nights, the special on the menu was bottomless chicken fingers, which meant a few stragglers lingered from dinner. Michonne was helping Daryl behind the bar counter when she noticed the door open and her provocative friend strolled inside. Her giant hoop earrings swung with every sway of her hips and the men in the room stared.
Michonne grit her teeth, but kept her face neutral.
"Hey, Mich," said Rosita, leaning onto the counter. "Thought I'd stop by and see your nine-to-five. Cute little bar."
Daryl grunted a dark laugh, shaking his head and scraggly hair. "More like only bar."
"What's your name?" she flirted.
"There's not much to see here," Michonne cut in. "The crowds are about to come in, so you should probably go. I won't have time to chitchat."
"You trying to get rid of me?" Rosita giggled. Her gaze settled on Daryl. "I can hang around and hope your cute coworker is nice enough to make me a drink."
"Uh, yeah…alright." Daryl hesitated with a glance to Michonne.
Michonne left Rosita and Daryl to their own devices. If Rosita wanted to be a pest that night, so be it. She wouldn't entertain her antics, though. Luckily, Friday nights saw the most business. There'd be plenty to do in place of dealing with Rosita. She went to help Maggie and Jessie in the kitchen. She entered to find the blonde telling the brunette about Rick. Her heartbeat doubled.
"Think it's Shane Walsh's birthday. They should be by," she was saying.
"You gonna invite him over?" Maggie asked, half-interested, half-attentive to sorting cutlery.
"I dunno. Maybe. It's been a while. Things are complicated."
Michonne's tongue poked her cheek and her full lips pressed tightly together as if glued. Maggie eyed her, curious for a second before she asked, "you alright? You look like you've got something to say?"
"No," answered Michonne evenly. "I was wondering if you need help."
"Do I? Yes! Mind clearing the dishwasher? 'Course Noah called in sick."
Michonne offered her helping hand, popping open the dishwasher. She worked silently but reflectively, stamping down whatever strange gut-reaction she'd had to hearing Jessie talk about Rick. They'd had a great night together. Truthfully, it'd been one of the best in memory. The date had been such a breath of fresh air in her otherwise cloudy life that she'd almost let her mask slip off. Almost. Their time at the shooting range coupled with the easy conversation and explosive chemistry in bed, had her ruing circumstance. In a different world, another lifetime or under better conditions, maybe what they had that night could be something.
But she couldn't afford to give in to fantasy. She'd been selfish enough already, indulging in one interlude from dark reality…
After assisting Maggie and Jessie in the kitchen, she ventured into the main barroom again. In her fifteen to twenty-minute absence, Merle's patronage had doubled. Rosita was inconspicuously gone. She hurried behind the counter to take her place fixing drinks with Daryl. Pouring two gin and sodas for Dwight Crowe and his pal Gavin Smith, she picked up on the door opening and a bow-legged someone walking inside. She glanced and confirmed Rick's arrival beside who she presumed to be Shane Walsh.
The men shot straight toward open stools at the bar counter. Michonne told Daryl she'd handle them.
"Evening, darling," Shane said loudly. "You must be new."
"You must not come here often. I've been here a while now," she said snidely.
Shane barked a chuckle out and then looked at Rick. "I like her."
"Good. Hope you tip well." Michonne smirked, bartender hat on now as she slipped into her usual cheeky, crowd-working role. Tips became priority number one as her funds for survival trumped any worry about Rick and what he thought.
But he didn't like it. She gathered that much as she tended to the customers with flirtation. He didn't care for what little attention she gave him. The knowledge she could assert herself in this way, demonstrate to him her indifference for their night together only encouraged her to keep going. It felt good to do this, deep down more about herself than about him as a man.
Unfortunately, that was the price—he was the casualty to the bad in her past. He'd taken the risk when he'd entered her life. Tonight, when he'd entered the bar and given her déjà vu, watching with eagle eyes as she engaged with other men. If this was a do-over, she got to control things this time.
Half an hour passed where Michonne and Daryl served the Alamo general public, several of whom returned for seconds alarmingly soon. She was laughing with Richard Sager, his generous tip in hand when Rick interrupted under the pretenses of another drink. Her laughter cut off and she cleared her throat, no longer infectiously playful.
"Did I do something?" he asked in a low drawl for their ears only.
Drowned by the clinks of glass mugs and buzz of chatter, no one overheard. She poured him his whiskey.
"What are you doing here tonight?" she asked back.
"It's Shane's birthday. He asked me to come out with him—"
"Sounds like fun. You enjoy yourself."
Rick's head tipped into a slant. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means…do what you want. You're with your friend celebrating his birthday."
"What makes you think I'm not? I already am."
"Good, me too. And I'm going to. Whether or not you're here," she said coldly.
Rick pinched the bridge of his nose and said, "can we talk? Like really talk for a second? Feels like a lotta things are being left unsaid."
"Fine. Daryl, I'm taking a break," she called. She didn't wait for anyone to acknowledge her remark, storming from behind the bar as her temper flared up.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Rick followed her outside, a single pace behind. At a reasonable distance from potential eavesdroppers in the bar, Michonne rounded on him. The usual low-key mystique she cultivated was nowhere to be found, drowned out by pure temper and aggravation. She couldn't've liked him seeing her like this—emotional and out of control—but she unleashed a rant that felt practiced and long-harbored.
"Let's get one thing straight," she snapped, waving a warning finger. "It was one date. What happened Wednesday was nothing. You can't come around my job and act like some alpha dog trying to sniff and piss his way into marking his territory—you're not the alpha and I'm not your territory. You don't get a say in anything about me. You got it?"
Her words would've puzzled him had he not already pieced together her past. From weeks of observations, she clearly escaped the clutches of a bad man. The exact one she hid from in Alamo. She hadn't offered specifics other than mentioning a marriage, but he didn't need her to. The marriage couldn't've been remotely happy if it'd left her like this…
Not that he was one to judge—his marriage to Lori had been a disaster from its hormonal teenage inception.
"I wasn't tryna control anything," he said levelly toned. "I don't want to…"
His unantagonizing answer frustrated her as she rolled her eyes and growled, "then don't come by Merle's and start trouble! If I want to talk with other men, I will. If…If I want to flirt with them, I will. You don't get to have an opinion on it."
"Alright. I won't."
"Good! Because I'm here to earn money. I don't need you watching me—judging me for what I'm doing. Maybe you need to move on. Find some other woman's house to fix. I don't need anything else from you."
Her last remark stung, but her rant amused, too. He barked out a laugh despite himself. One that probably would offend, and then he said, "You sound like you're tryna convince yourself. Yanno that, right?"
"I don't need any convincing. Because it's the truth. You helped me with my floors and we had a good night together. I'm grateful. But it's time to move on. I don't expect anything from you. Don't expect anything from me."
"I don't."
Their argument petered off into Alamo's standard nightly sound effects. On the road outside the bar, a clunky old car backfired with a bang, and in the air, the wind whistled as its gusts gained speed. They didn't take their eyes off each other, locked in a battle of silent will. Michonne spoke first.
"I have to get back to work."
"Alright…"
"I'd appreciate it if you don't tell anyone what's happened between us," she said quietly. She swallowed, averting her eyes to the far end of the alleyway, where the junkyard's fence cordoned into view. "Or anything we've talked about. I know people are gossiping about me. Everybody knows everybody's business here. But they can't know mine."
Rick read between the lines, gleaning her underlining worry. He hadn't planned on uttering a word about her, nor would he ever. For as much as he'd told himself she was a distraction and a pastime, he couldn't deny that he cared about her. In what capacity, he didn't know, but he didn't want to see her in distress. He kind of wanted to…lessen whatever troubled her.
"I'm not gonna say anything to anyone," he told her, holding her gaze with sincerity. "Anything you tell me is between us. I promise you that."
She believed him. He could tell.
She nodded. "I'm going inside."
"Yeah…alright."
Rick sighed, frustrated by her dismal but also by his inability to pinpoint what he wanted. Or even hoped for as far as Michonne was concerned. In need of distraction, he left Merle's behind and headed home.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Michonne got out of Maggie's car and waved her goodnight. Thankfully, the waitress had agreed to give her rides to and from Merle's on days they shared shifts. While the distance between her house and Merle's wasn't unreasonable, the walk wasn't pleasant on cold nights in February. She cursed ever downplaying Alamo's winter as she pulled her secondhand jacket tighter about her frame and battled the wind on the trail leading to her porch.
The lights in the house were off. Rosita must've been asleep or out for the night. The latter was far less surprising.
She stopped once she reached the landing. Across Pine Lake, Rick's home was mostly dark except for the light in the open garage. It poured onto the lawn and up to the bridge, igniting a path his way. Inside, he worked away on whatever current project he'd taken up. From where she stood, it looked to involve wooden boards, sandpaper and lacquer. Were those the new cabinets Deanna had gushed about?
He'd said himself he liked helping people in town. She wasn't special. She understood that, preferring it that way. He'd helped her as he'd helped many others. He was using her as much as she was using him. That didn't have to be a bad thing given how much she'd admittedly enjoyed his touch. Soon enough she'd be gone and he'd forget about her, and the world would keep turning.
What was the harm in mutually benefitting off one another?
Michonne answered her question by descending the porch steps and marching for the bridge. She shut out the suspicious passenger in the back of her mind calling for her to turn back and leave him alone. This couldn't be good for her. It couldn't be smart to indulgent in baser pleasures when she had to worry about her life imploding. She had to figure out a way to get rid of Rosita and ensure no one else was on her trail…
Not fuck Rick Grimes on a whim. Again.
But, for once, she tuned out caution and dived deeper into reckless abandon.
Rick didn't see her until she was already closing in on the garage. He looked up and tore off his goggles, visibly startled with furrowed brows. She hardly allowed a second for explanation. His arms opened in the nick of time to catch her for a feverish kiss. As soon as her lips touched his, her mind emptied, and her body gleefully took the lead.
They backed up against the garage wall, entangled in each other after a long evening spent fighting magnetism. Chills coursed through her body, but rather than from the cold, they were of delight. The tiny electric jolts pricked her skin for each kiss and touch, for every moan elicited, and traveled toward the throbbing bundle of nerves between her legs. She could feel him rise like a mast in his jeans, so she canted her hips and ground against his growing erection.
He groaned openly, obscenely, and dug his fingers into her hips, clutching her tighter and kissing her harder. She started on his belt buckle, no longer interested in wasting time. There was no need for formalities when all she wanted was a quick fuck. That seemed to snap him out of his lusty stupor if even for a second. He stopped kissing her, drawing back to look her in the eye.
"What is this?" he asked hoarsely.
"It doesn't have to be anything. It's just sex—something we can meet up for in our spare time," she murmured, unfastening his belt. She finished with quiet cheek, smirking up at him. "Call it another deal."
She didn't know what to make of the cryptic look on his face. "Is that what you want?"
"Mhm. Don't you?"
She kissed him before he answered. He wasn't satisfied with her simplification. At first, he stood woodenly in place as if piecing together what he wanted to say, but then changed his mind and gave in to her affection. His palms stretched to the wall on either side of her and caged her in as they both watched her free and stroke him.
Within seconds, her legs were hooked around his waist, skirt pooled and panties pushed to the side as he entered her in a swift stroke. She bounced along with him, looping her hands around his neck, and together they created a frantic rhythm. Those tiny electric shocks grew exponentially, leaving her entire body buzzing as he his cock slipped deeper into her spasming pussy. She reached between them and rubbed furious, unintelligible patterns on the little nub throbbing for human touch.
Just like that, a few short minutes into their impromptu tryst, she let out a short, sharp cry and her orgasm tingled through her like sparks. He wasn't too far behind, unable to hold on any longer against her tightly contracting muscles. Before he could promptly disengage, he spilled, exploding inside her as he tried to pull out last second. She dropped her legs from his waist, thankful for the wall to hold her up as she came down from her high. The warm evidence of his release stuck to her as she lowered her skirt.
"Sorry," he apologized straightaway. "I have a bathroom right inside—we can go—"
"No, it's okay," she said. "I'll clean up at my place."
"Guess I got carried away. I shouldn't've—"
"There's no need to worry. I told you I'm on the pill." She stood up straight when certain her legs were no longer limp spaghetti noodles. Now that that was over, she was back to business. She chanced a glance at him and saw confusion swirling in his eyes. "We don't need to pretend this is anything more."
"I think we need to talk 'bout this. I feel like things are getting mixed up."
"There's nothing to get mixed up. It could just be this when we're available."
A hitched breath escaped him, running his fingers through his wavy brown curls. He'd clenched his jaw, unsatisfied with the turn of events, but unable to articulate why.
"Can I at least walk you?" he rasped finally.
"It's right across the lake. I'll be fine. Thanks for the good time."
Michonne's pace leaving Rick's garage was faster than her arrival. That's how her life seemed to work out, fleeing and disappearing within the blink of an eye…
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Rosita stood at the living room window, engulfed by the pitch-black shadows. She peeked through the blinds as her gal pal rushed across the bridge and to the lake.
So, there was something between her and Rick Grimes. Serious enough Michonne's first stop after work was his place.
This was better than the juicy gossip at the Black Onyx.
Michonne Gray—or Bishop as she'd been before Mike—was no wilted flower. She wasn't crying her eyes out about what happened and what she'd done. No, she was in Alamo fucking Georgia, pretending to be above cons, lowkey still the smarmy girl she'd known her to be. Honestly, it was clever reinventing herself in this image. Leave it to Mich to change like a chameleon just as she'd done when bagging a pro athlete.
As she and Mr. Carpenter banged in his garage, Rosita fished the Nokia phone out of her pocket. Her call was to the first name on her contact list. He answered after two rings.
"Hey. It's me. Yeah, I found her. In her house now. But I need you to look up someone and tell me what you find on him. Name's Rick Grimes."
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Author's Note: Chapter 4 will be soonish. Michonne thinks she can keep things casual with Rick, but is that going to last for long? :P
We will also be checking back in with you-know-who, finding out what he's up to in his search for Michonne.
Reviews make me happy. I'd love if you left one. See you next week! :)