A/N: Wow. Wow. Wow. Seriously, you guys. THANK YOU. So many follows, it's overwhelming. I think your comments, reviews and encouragements have really made me try to make this story something special. So thank you for that. I think it's officially taken over my life! (lol)
I know there are a lot of questions that I'm raising with each chapter, but I promise that we'll eventually see Sam's perspective and those questions will be answered. Promise.
-4-
KitKats are Andy's new best friend. For a while they'd seemed to ease the sting, now they are just a habit; something to pass the time, to chew on to relieve stress. She groans inwardly at how they are quickly making her uniform pants feel that much tighter.
It had been an especially KitKat-worthy day. Chris, in his infinitesimal wisdom, had let her know that he'd run into Sam and Marlo at Baton Rouge.
"It looked like they were celebrating something," he'd said.
Well, fuck him, she thought to herself and then promptly made a mental note to hit up the Becker's on Parliament after shift in search of her next chocolate fix.
The buzzer above the door sounds as she enters the convenience store, alerting the cashier. She gives a shallow smile and heads to the candy bar aisle. While deciding between the giant or regular size the buzzer sounds a second time.
"A pack of Winston Lights," a familiar voice asks the cashier. Her heart feels as though its flipped in her chest.
Shit. It had been a little over six months ago that that same voice had easily seduced her into nakedness during her UC op with a muted whisper in her ear. Now, all it seems they are doing is everything in their respective powers to avoid each other.
She toes the linoleum floor. Giant sized it is.
"Hey Sam," she says, attempting to be cordial as she places her KitKat on the counter. Surprised to see her, he reddens and quickly tucks the cigarettes into his pocket.
"Hey," he mutters. "How's it going?"
She shrugs and throws a $5 bill onto the counter. "Great." Her voice sounds a little too high pitched for her liking. "You smoke now?" She asks attempting to change the subject.
He shakes his head. "Not really. I mean…you know." He fans out his hands and gives the cashier an odd look.
"How's that case you're working on?"
His eyes shift from her to his feet and he says, "it's moving slower than I'd hoped."
"Oh," she replies. "That's too bad."
"I'm hoping that'll change soon though," he adds quickly.
Andy nods absently and pockets her change. She moves for the door, tucking the KitKat into her jacket pocket. "I'll see you, I guess," she says in an attempt to sound disinterested and detached.
As the buzzer above the door sounds, his voice calls out: "Andy, wait—" He waves for her to stop. "I was wondering if we could—" Before he can finish his sentence, the glass door behind her shatters into a million pieces. Her hands instinctively fly up to cover her ears. A sharp pop-pop-pop causes the windows to burst like a fireworks display on Canada Day around her; she can feel shards of glass hitting her hair and shoulders. She throws herself to the ground, recognizing the deafening sound of gunfire.
A protective weight falls on top of her as screeching tires are heard in the distance. The convenience store is suddenly eerily quiet. Only the sound of broken pop bottles sizzling with carbonation, fill the air. Sam's rough hand grabs at her arm and flips her over. "Are you okay?" He's panicked, his eyes run the length of her body in search of injury.
She sits up easily. "Yes, yes. I'm fine." Andy pushes herself to her feet, glass falling off of her. "What the hell was that?"
"Call 9-1-1," Sam barks at the cashier who's head pokes up from behind the counter where he'd hid. Sam jumps through the remains of the front door with Andy charging after him.
"Andy, go back inside!" He yells at her, the bottoms of his boots crunching against the shards of glass on the sidewalk.
"Look!" She calls, pointing. A dark heap of a person lays curled at the edge of the parking lot. They both run toward the body. Sam reaches it first and turns the person on his back. It's a man, probably around 20 or 25, she guesses. His face is purple and swollen from bruises, blood drips from his lips. Sam grabs at the man's jacket searching for bullet wounds and comes up empty.
"Is he shot?" Andy asks breathless, dropping to the ground on her knees, ready to assist if needed.
"No, I think he's just unconscious. His pulse seems steady."
"What the hell was that?" She asks as though he knows the answer. Sam gently tilts the man's head upwards to open his airway and uses his hands to support his neck.
"Did Jeinks call 9-1-1?" Sam asks, his voice rushed and demanding.
"Who?" Andy asks. "The guy at the counter? Yeah, I think so. He was on the phone when I took off after you."
Sam looks down at the man in front of him. She knows him well enough to know that he's assessing the situation, trying to figure out the next course of action. She stares, waiting for direction.
"You should get behind my truck," He says at last. "They might come back."
She shakes her head, stubborn. Sam's jaw clenches and he exhales a steady breath. "Fine," he says through gritted teeth. "Check his I.D."
Together they gently tilts the body and Andy pulls a wallet from the back pocket. "Martino Rubino," she says holding up the driver's licence.
Sam's eyes widen. The name is familiar to him.
"One of the names?" She asks. Sam nods. He was on the list. She can hear the ambulance approaching, its sirens filling the otherwise quieted night.
"Andy, listen to me," Sam says with urgency. "Do not tell anyone about the connection. Do you understand? Tell no one!"
She nods, her eyes questioning him, looking for more answers.
"It's important. You can't. Do you understand?"
"Yes. Yes. Of course," she says quickly. She's about to ask him why, but an ambulance pulls in behind her and she's silenced as the EMTs push them to the side.
…
After she finishes picking the glass from her hair, she heads to the detective alcove to wait for Oliver to take her statement. As she grabs a seat at one of the desks, she notices what a mess the area is.
"I found this on top of the mail cart. Figured I'd bring it over to you," Traci says, dropping a package on the desk in front of her.
The manila envelope has her name scrawled across it in block letters. There's no address for her or for the sender. Curious, she rips the packaging and turns it upside down so that its contents fall on to the desk. A pack of Winston Lights tumbles out.
Traci raises her eyebrows. "Since when do you smoke?"
"I don't," she says, recognizing the brand. "They're Sam's."
"Sam's? Sam doesn't smoke."
Andy is only half listening as she turns the pack of cigarettes over her in her hand. The package is different from the one that Sam purchased earlier; this one is opened. She flips the top up and scrawled in the same handwriting as what is on the envelope are numbers.
"1147. 23:25"
"What's that's all about?" Traci asks, curious.
Andy looks up at the clock on the wall. 11:20.
"Trace, can you tell Oliver that I'll be back in a few minutes?" She stands up and starts toward the elevator. "I've just got to check something out upstairs."
Before Traci can answer, Andy is down the hall, pressing the buttons that call the elevator. Her heart is racing and she mentally tells herself to get it together. She hopes that she's right about what the message says. She thinks she knows who awaits her on the 11th floor, the handwriting familiar to her. She recognizes it from all the reports she had to write as a rookie.
The doors open and she bounds into the car, pressing the button for the 11th floor where the detectives keep their cold cases. She taps her foot impatiently as each floor slips by. Officers eye her curiously as they get on and get off at the various floors. When the doors open at the 11th, she quickly exits and follows the signs to 1147.
When she gets to the right room, she opens the heavy, fire-retardant door. The light is on inside and she cautiously walks into the room where she sees the person she'd been expecting, leaning against a stack of boxes.
"Sam. What's going on? What's with the subterfuge?" She holds up the package of cigarettes and raises her eyebrows. "You could've just told me to meet you here."
At first he says nothing. He's watching her. His eyes study her and the examination makes Andy nervous. Then, he pushes off from the boxes and walks toward her and says, "I don't smoke. Never have."
She cocks her head, confused. "Then why—?"
"Do you know what's in this room?" He asks, ignoring her question.
"Cold cases?"
"Yeah. Drug cold cases."
She shakes her head, unsure of where she fits in all this.
"Did you know that Jerry had a very specific filing system?"
"No. I didn't."
Absently, he continues, turning away from Andy. "No one except Jerry could really figure it out. He would only have the patience to train a few people."
"Did he train you?"
"Yah," he says, nodding his head. "And Traci. Not too many others. Actually hardly anyone. It's been a pain in the ass whenever someone needs paperwork."
Andy stays silent, watching him as he paces the room.
"We just haven't had the time to change it yet." He puffs out his cheeks and releases a mouthful of air and turns toward her. "I'm in the middle of something, Andy."
"Martino Rubino?"
He shakes his head. "He's part of it. But it's bigger. Bigger than those names that you gave me."
"I don't understand." She moves toward him, curiosity pulling at her.
"Andy." Sam puts his hands on her arms, keeping her at a distance. "I'm— we're— we're all standing on a house of cards." His breathing is shallow, she can see the frustration written across his face. "And it's all going to come crashing down around us. Both of us, if I'm not careful."
"What are you talking about? Is this about the connections that I found?"
His mouth opens and closes as he though he's trying to decide what to say. "I think she's going to find out," he whispers at last.
"What? Who?" Andy is stunned. It's as though Sam is speaking riddles. "Who are you—?" Before she can finish, his hands pull her closer. Before she can ask him to clarify, his mouth robs her of her words.
His lips are warm and soft, just as she'd remembered. Something in her head screams at her to stop, to push him away. After everything she should push him away.
But she doesn't, she can't.
Instead she relents, encouraging the kisses to morph into something white-hot that takes her breath away. His hands move quickly into her hair, each kiss becoming indistinguishable from its predecessor; her own hand finds its way under his t-shirt and against his cool skin. The other clutches at the cigarette pack as though it's an anchor, keeping her in reality.
"Sam!" She gasps as his lips move toward her ear lobe. The rational part of her brain is taking over again. "Sam," she tries again, his lips promptly silencing her.
"Enough," he whispers between kisses. His lips press against the corner of her mouth. "Enough." His mouth comes full on her own.
Enough. It's such a simple word, she thinks; one that is loaded with subtext. Subtext that she isn't in the mood to think about. She just wants to feel him again, to have him near. To forget. To forgive.
Her hands begin to inch up his back, she's losing herself in the moment when he suddenly pulls away.
"Not here," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "We can't."
She's confused and breathless, her fingers cling to his t-shirt. "Why?"
He runs the tips of his fingers along her cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair away. "A week, Andy. Just give me a week. I promise. I'll explain everything. "
She nods, slowly. He pulls her against him, his chin rests atop her head which is tucked against his chest. She's not entirely sure why she's agreeing to his request, she hates not having all the answers. But the pounding of his heart, calm and steady against her ear, reassures her. Like it used to.
"I'd better go," he says at last.
"Okay."
He gives one last small smile and leaves, closing the door behind him. Andy counts to twenty before leaving herself and takes the stairs back down as she doesn't want to run the risk of sharing an elevator with Sam and raising suspicion. About what, she's not entirely sure.
When she opens the door to the stairwell, she runs right into Marlo Cruz. The pack of cigarettes she'd been clutching falls to the floor.
"Oh! Sorry!" Andy exclaims, quickly picking up the pack. She tries to control the sudden guilty, nervous thump in her chest.
Marlo's voice is steady, unfazed; she wrings her hands at her stomach. "McNally! What brings you to the 11th floor?"
"Oh… just," she pauses, gathering her thoughts. "Traci wanted me to check something out. For a case she's working on."
Marlo nods. "Didn't realize you smoked," she says pointing to the now crumpled pack of cigarettes clutched tightly in Andy's hand.
She looks down at the pack. "Oh. Right." Andy shrugs. "Stress," she lies. Marlo's eyes narrow, disbelieving. "Anyway, gotta go," she adds, quickly. "Traci's probably wondering where I've been." With a quick wave, Andy darts down the stairs, leaving Marlo behind on the landing.
...To be continued...
Please leave a review if you can!
