Deliberate Intent

AN: In the second half of this chapter, I am taking artistic license with just how far Trout might be able to knock Carlton down, technically speaking. Also, I am once again borrowing Loafer's designation of Patricia as Sergeant Allen's first name.

Steaming fresh mug of coffee in hand, Carlton eased himself down into his Adirondack chair and stretched his legs out with a contented sigh.

He honestly had no business being quite this relaxed and contented. Okay, yes, it was a beautiful Sunday morning and he had good coffee and all things considered, his life was a hell of a lot better than he might have ever expected. Especially if one had asked a month ago.

Hell, a month ago, if anyone had asked how his life was, he'd have probably snapped, "What life?"

And meant it.

Because breathing just enough to get through the day didn't really count as a life, did it?

But things had changed—boy, howdy had they changed—in ways he not only might never have expected, but again, if it had been so much as suggested to him this was what his life would be in a month's time, he would've been speed-dialing for the men in white coats and advising them to bring the good meds.

But this was his life: beautiful Sunday morning, good coffee, comfortable chair, and a woman he would never have expected to recognize he even had a heart, let alone, want the thing, holding it in her very capable, graceful, if still-slightly-blue-stained hands.

Yep. Life was pretty damned good.

Even so, he really had no business being this relaxed and contented.

Because he hadn't been able to see said woman since Friday, and worse—or better, depending on opinion and tolerance for slow torture—his primary form of contact with her had been a series of texts, increasing in longing with each hour spent apart. Even though it did have to qualify as some crazy kind of torture, he pulled his phone out—again—and read their latest exchange—again.

Hey, handsome.

Hello, beautiful, yet clearly in need of a vision check. Is Iris down?

My vision is just fine, thank you and out like a light. The beach wore her out. I'd call you, but I'm afraid if start talking, she'll wake up.

Texting's fine. How are you doing?

Exhausted. She wore *me* out.

Children are known to do that.

Yeah—they are.

...

What is it?

What?

What's bothering you, Karen?

How do you do that?

Do what?

Just… know?

Because even though I'm a mile away and it feels like a hundred, I still feel as if I'm right there with you. And I can feel that something's upsetting you. Whose ass do I have to kick?

Stand down, honey. No ass kicking necessary.

Then what?

It's just… I know it's only been two weeks since I last saw her and it's only been a month of this arrangement, but I feel as if I'm missing out on so much with her. I miss *her* so much.

I know you do. I only wish I could help.

You do. More than you can ever know.

I'm not sure how, but I'm glad.

I told you—don't do that. Don't disparage yourself. Don't dismiss everything you've done. Through all of this you've been my rock, Carlton. I'm not sure I could have gotten through this last month without you.

Yes, you could have, because you're the strongest woman I know.

Okay, I could have—but it would've been a hell of a lot more difficult. And now, I can't imagine going through any of this without you.

…

Carlton? Are you still there?

I am. Would you think I'm an idiot if I said I miss you?

Not at all. I feel the same way. And I wish you were here.

I wish I was there, too.

Carlton?

Yeah?

You know…

What?

I… I bought this bed new.

I know. I was with you.

Which means I've never shared this bed with anyone.

Karen, you're making this mile we're separated by feel like a thousand.

I know… I know… I'm sorry. But I'm lying here, alone, in this bed that I've never shared with anyone else, talking to the only person I *want* to share it with, and desperately wishing he was here. With me. In this bed.

*thunk*

Thunk?

That was the sound of my head, hitting the headboard of *my* bed. My cold, lonely-ass bed.

Oh, baby… I'm sorry.

I like that.

Hitting your head?

Smartass.

:-) What is it that you like?

What you call me. The endearments. They make me feel…

What?

Special. Yours.

You are, you know. If I'm not being too presumptuous in saying so.

You're not.

I'm glad. Carlton?

Yeah?

You know I'm… yours, too, right?

No you're not, Karen. Not yet. The day you're mine is the day we're together. Always. And if it's all right with you, that day will be coming sooner rather than later.

Oh God, yes— yes.

…

My turn. You still there?

Yes.

You're thinking.

Yes.

About?

I thought when you said "a matter of time" it meant you weren't quite ready yet for… us. At least, not the "always" us. Which trust me, I understand. I don't want to push, and I know it's scary, for both of us and complicated…

You're not pushing and yes, it's kind of scary but at the same time, it's not and maybe it should feel more complicated, but it doesn't. The honest truth is, Karen, "a matter of time" seems to have grown much shorter in a hurry.

…

Okay, now the silence is making *me* nervous.

No worries. I'm just thinking again.

About?

Ways to keep the bed warm for you.

*THUNK*

*THUNKTHUNKTHUNK*

LOL Carlton, I—

Yeah?

I… matter of time.

Me, too, Karen.

Sleep well.

As if.

Soon, baby.

Very soon.

His head landed against the back of the Adirondack with the same hollow thunk as it had against his headboard. Like the night before, it didn't even come close to dulling the ache of being apart from Karen. Or the ache of feeling like maybe he'd gone too far. Said too much. Given too much away.

And that was taking into account all that had transpired since that first innocent yet monumentally scorching kiss prior to Thursday night's dinner. Which had been followed by more kisses after dinner. Quite a lot of kisses, as a matter of fact, sitting in her car in his driveway like a pair of lovelorn teenagers, hands ghosting over body parts that wanted to be touched more completely and investigated more thoroughly, without the bothersome impediment of clothes, but knowing if even so much as one finger wandered into dangerous territory, there would be no stopping. That had been followed in turn by a reluctant parting, only for his phone to ring as soon as she arrived home—letting him know she'd traversed that scant mile between their houses safely, as he'd requested—followed by hours of conversation, not dissimilar to the conversations they'd been having for the past month, but more hushed, more intimate, more… everything. Nothing of the changes in their relationship spelled out in any great detail, yet so much nevertheless shared and revealed.

The next day, in between putting the second coat of paint on her living room walls as planned, they'd kissed even more. Wanted more. And knowing, even with more within easy reach and so desperately wanted, they nevertheless needed the breathing room her weekend with Iris would provide.

He'd sworn to himself he would go slow. He hadn't been joking when he told her he didn't want to jeopardize their friendship. Plus, both of them so recently out of relationships and Karen dealing with the trauma of losing custody of Iris and adjusting to the new reality of her life. The last thing they needed was to rush into anything new—even if the term "rushing" seemed sort of ridiculous, given how many years they'd known each other.

But they'd only really know each other for a month.

Except she knew him so damned well.

And he knew her. Better than he would have ever imagined.

But they had to go slow. For both their sakes. He knew neither of them could deal with another broken relationship. Another loss.

So yes—slow. It was the wise choice. The right choice.

Then she'd texted him Friday night after Iris was down.

Then again on Saturday night.

And here it was Sunday morning and… and… well… yeah.

Part of him could scarcely believe the words on the screen even with as many times as he'd read them. Could hardly accept he'd said all that to Karen. To Karen, for God's sake. Quite possibly the last woman he would have ever imagined feeling as if he could lay such definitive claim to. Not only because for all the years of their acquaintance she'd been married and therefore, off-limits—although he could confess he'd thought her quite lovely because hello he wasn't dead—but more because she was Karen Vick. Chief of Police. Quite possibly one of the most independent, self-contained, capable, confident women he'd ever met in his entire life.

If ever there was a woman who he would expect to rebel against any man—let alone a blustering, alpha male asshat such as himself—laying claim on her…

And yet, she seemed to welcome it. As much as she seemed to equally relish being able to stake her claim on him, turning him into absolute putty in her lovely, graceful, slightly blue-paint-stained hands when he would have thought himself dead inside and past feeling—past wanting to feel—all the different emotions she inspired.

He couldn't help but wonder just how toxic those paint fumes might be.

At that moment, his phone buzzed in his hand.

Stop overthinking.

He grinned and set his mug aside so he could more effectively type.

It's what I do.

Stop it. I meant every damned word I said.

I was just mulling over the possibility of toxic paint fumes.

An instant after he hit Send, the phone rang—he'd barely touched the screen to answer before he heard her familiar voice.

"Don't even joke about it, Carlton." Her voice was low, yet nevertheless intense and provoked an answering shiver down his spine.

"Where's Iris?"

"Getting dressed so we can go out to breakfast and don't try to derail the conversation."

"I'm sorry, baby. It's just—"

"It's just the light of day and you're worried it's too much, too fast. You're worried about me. If I've lost my mind or something."

Despite the cool morning air, he felt a flush creeping up from the collar of his t-shirt. "Well… yeah," he confessed.

"Maybe I have," she said softly. "But if I'm losing my mind, I'm wondering why in the hell I didn't let it happen sooner. Outside of missing my little girl more than I can adequately express, I feel better than I have in years, Carlton. I haven't been this firm in my convictions since the day I decided to become a cop. My destination may still be a mystery, but my path—it's clearly marked. And my companion, revealed." Her voice dropped a notch, becoming dark and intimate in the way it had during their epic Thursday night conversation. "Believe me, I'm good."

After regaining the ability to breathe, he finally managed to reply, "Dear God, are you ever."

"Oh honey, you have no idea." Her laugh vibrated in his ear, a soft, sensuous sound that left him feeling as if she was there beside him. He could practically feel her breath, warm on his skin, her lips teasing the rim of his ear.

"Christ, cold showers suck." And even though he was alone, he shifted in his chair, angling himself in such a way that his sudden condition wasn't readily obvious.

"Oh?"

"I've become intimately reacquainted with them since Thursday."

"Oh." The long, drawn-out sigh that followed the single, expressive syllable made the tiny hairs on the back of his neck rise. "I wish I could see you tonight."

"It's probably better that you can't." Since she had Iris until the next morning when she would drop her off at school.

"I know." She sighed again, this time, an air of definite frustration coloring the sound. "Were you ever irresponsible, Carlton? Just did whatever you wanted for the hell of it with no thoughts as to the consequences?"

He paused, then answered simply, "Yes." The flush of arousal settled down into the constant simmer with which he was also growing increasingly familiar. "Which is why it's better that we wait. I'm bound to make mistakes Karen, but I don't ever want to give you reason or cause to regret anything about our relationship."

"Our relationship," she repeated, her tone wondering. "We have a relationship, Carlton."

He released a long, slow breath and stretched his legs out, the sun's warmth not even close to touching what Karen made him feel.

"Yeah. We do. We really do."

Monday morning, Carlton strode into the SBPD feeling, if not the same sense of purpose and excitement as he once had, then at least, a far greater measure of acceptance of his current situation. Patrol wasn't bad at all—especially not out in the sticks. Much more time to think about Karen. Think about his future. Plan for their future.

Right now, he was just marking time. Waiting to see what options Karen would consider and what she would choose to do so he could plan his next move accordingly. Knowing that was the case allowed him to face the day with a much brighter—at least for now—outlook. His day wouldn't truly brighten or even feel as if it started until the moment he could see Karen.

"Officer Lassiter."

What a prick. Trout may have had him busted down to patrol, but due to his years of service, had only been able to demote him from Captain to Sergeant. Referring to him as "Officer" was not only incorrect, it was clearly designed to get under his skin.

Good luck with that, buddy.

Carlton finished signing in and accepted the keys to his assigned cruiser from Sergeant Allen with a smile that left her at first wide-eyed, before her gaze narrowed into a stare that could only be called speculative. She'd bust him eventually and honestly? Carlton was okay with that. Patricia Allen was one of the very few people who knew not only of the dissolution of his relationship with Marlowe, but the details, as she'd been in the position to field phone calls directed to him at the station, his desk with its private line having been a casualty of his demotion. Initially he'd considered warning her off blabbing his business with one of his patented Lassiter growls but he'd been just so goddamned tired, it hadn't seemed worth the effort.

To his surprise, not only had she not blabbed, she hadn't even pumped him for further information or provided any crystal-and-incense waving New Age platitudes. She'd simply smiled at him, every morning as she handed him his keys, often along with a coffee in a lidded travel mug, prepared just the way he liked it.

In other words, she'd been… nice.

Initially, he hadn't given a rat's ass. But as she continued smiling and nodding and providing him with coffee, prepared just the way he liked it, he'd softened. At least enough so that he didn't snarl. Enough so that he nodded in return. Enough so that he eventually said thanks as she handed over the keys. On occasion smiled. Maybe just a little.

And when one of those patently fake Hallmark Holidays had rolled around—some media-created nonsense called Hug Your Badger or Administrative Personnel Day or some such—he'd arranged to have lunch delivered to her. Anonymously, of course.

But the next week, a small cinnamon roll—obviously homemade—had started accompanying his coffee, the contraband mysteriously appearing in whatever cruiser he was assigned that day so as to evade Trout's No Pastry Policy.

"Officer—"

Carlton rolled his eyes, earning a smile that Allen hid behind a sneeze and ducking her head into her paperwork, before turning to face his superior. For the moment.

"Sir," he said, parroting Trout's slightly mocking cadence back at him. The red that immediately mottled the other man's pasty complexion served as ample evidence his shot had hit the mark, dead on. Never again would he kowtow to this cocky little bastard—he could hardly believe he ever had. There went the Spencer Effect again—rendering him so desperate to distance himself from the idiot's shenanigans he'd all but sniveled and sucked up to the toadying little weasel.

Perpetually constipated expression souring further, Trout puffed himself up, thinking the extra two inches he had on Carlton made him seem intimidating. Carlton suppressed a yawn and resisted the temptation to look down at his watch.

"I'm assuming, since you've been taking an inordinate amount of leave of late, you haven't yet become aware of the most recent departmental developments."

Well, that didn't take long. Carlton was surprised Trout was making a point to tell him himself, but considering the nature of the "development" the arrogant ass probably relished what he would likely consider an opportunity to dig the knife in further and twist.

"Sir?" he queried, watching with distant amusement as Trout flushed further. He could almost hear Karen's voice in his head cautioning him to tone it down—that pimply-faced hormonal Future Spencers in a smelly, chalk-dusted classroom were but one smartass "Sir" away.

"Ms. Vick—"

Carlton tensed at both the title and the name but fought to keep his expression neutral, given how Trout's beady little eyes were fixed on him.

"Won't be rejoining us any time soon. She put in for and has been granted a leave extending past her suspension."

"I see." Carlton stood very still, not even fidgeting with the keys in his palm.

"Apparently, she needed some personal time after losing custody of her kid." Said in a tone that suggested Karen was all manner of weak for needing time to recover from a devastating, life-changing event. "Can't say I'm surprised."

With a conscious effort, Carlton kept his voice mild as he asked, "Sir?" even as the hair on the back of his neck prickled with uneasy awareness.

"I was called as a character witness in the custody hearing. " Trout puffed up further, this time with a clear sense of self-importance and the distinct air of having performed his due diligence.

Heat and tension began creeping up his spine. "You barely know her—why would you have been called?"

Trout smirked. "Because I'm a professional consultant who'd conducted a performance review of her behavior in the workplace. My assessment was deemed relevant because the overall nature of her job was an issue with respect to custody plus it was going to factor into determining her fitness as a parent."

"What the hell did you tell them?" In a tiny, divorced corner of his mind, Carlton was aware he'd dropped all pretense of calm disinterest. Frankly, he didn't give a good goddamn. He would get answers from the little shitweasel if he had to shake them out of him.

Trout's smirk devolved into an outright sneer. "I told them she exercised little to no discipline or control over the department. That she allowed Spencer to run amok, flouting protocol and procedure with absolutely no fear of retribution and no consequences administered. That it was my professional and considered opinion the department's record was achieved in spite of her as opposed to because of her leadership, of which I suspected she had precious little."

The sneer shifted into a look of supreme satisfaction as he added, "In other words, I told the truth. That woman shouldn't be trusted with custody of a gerbil, let alone a child."

From the tiny, divorced, distant corner of his mind, Carlton observed Trout standing there, in all his Brylcreamed, starched-collar, ramrod-straight, smug, self-satisfaction, absolutely certain he'd done not only the right thing, but the only thing.

That could have been him, he realized.

Would have been him if not for the woman who now waited for him. The beautiful brown-eyed blonde who'd blown into his life, taking the job he'd coveted, and proceeded to turn his life upside down with her unorthodox—and yes, damned successful—approach to police work and leadership.

It was that tiny, divorced distant corner of his mind that took control, nodding and saying, "I see," and even registering a faint sense of pleasure at the shadow of disappointment that crossed Trout's face at his non-reaction. That very calmly added, "If there's nothing else, sir, I need to be getting to my patrol," and waited for Trout's frowning nod.

That same distant corner of his mind propelled him back to the desk where Allen waited with his coffee and a furious expression, clearly having heard the entire exchange. That expression shifted to concern when he very calmly,from that same distant place said, "I need a copy of Form Seven VR."

"Oh, Detective," she started, reverting to form, but paused, her expression shifting further from concern to a dawning understanding. Brisk, now, she tapped on her keyboard. "I just emailed it to you," she said, mouth set in a grim line. "If you get it back to me by lunchtime, I can fast-track it. Should be approved by tomorrow." Her mouth thinned further. "I'll get with my connections—make sure it is."

Dark eyes skewered him with a shrewd stare. "If you're certain, that is."

"Dead certain."

"Consider it done." She nodded and handed him his coffee. "All I ask is one favor."

Carlton paused and looked back over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Just make certain I'm here?"

They exchanged grim smiles. "Consider it done."

The pieces set in motion provided him with an almost preternatural sense of calm. Enough so Karen clearly sensed nothing amiss when he arrived at his duplex to find her waiting . It worked in his favor, too, she was more than a bit distracted by the still-new and very painful experience of having to say goodbye to Iris for another two weeks. She was putting up a brave front, but the faintly wounded look in her eyes gave her away—and strengthened his resolve as he held her close on his sofa, stroking her hair, content to sit with her nestled against him, murmuring soothing words until she drifted off to sleep, a few tears clinging to her lashes.

They remained like that all night, slowly waking in the weak pre-dawn light, gazing at each other before she sighed again and dropped her head to his shoulder, her trust in him so complete, he felt himself nearly overwhelmed by the sheer force of it.

He may have been holding her, offering her comfort and support, but she was the source of his strength. He could only pray she understood that.

When he finally rose to get ready for work, he carried her to his bed, pulling back the covers and tucking her in with a kiss before taking a quick shower and dressing. Clad in his uniform, immaculate and sharply-creased, as protocol dictated, he paused once more by his bed, where a drowsy, yet awake Karen watched his every move.

"Try to get some rest," he said quietly, brushing her hair back from her face, his thumb stroking the strong, proud line of her jaw. "Coffee's made and waiting for you whenever you get up."

"My hero," she said, her voice holding a husky, early morning note. Soon—very soon—he'd be hearing that note every morning.

He hoped.

"You don't need a hero," he responded, echoing the words he'd said to her—was it only five days ago? A lifetime.

"But I hope you'll let me be here for you in all the ways that matter—big and small."

Her hand rose to his face. "That's a hero in my book."

He covered her hand with his. "I want to be more, Karen." He turned his head to ghost a kiss across her palm.

"You already are." Her eyes were huge, dark beacons in the dim light of the bedroom. "And Carlton?"

"Yes?"

She held his gaze, hers unblinking and intense. "Time's up, okay?" she said, imbuing the phrase with unmistakable meaning.

He nodded and leaned forward to brush his mouth against hers, a light caress that was all he could permit himself. For now.

"Tonight," he whispered against her mouth. "And always."

A promise to her—a prayer for himself.

With another light kiss he left, promising to call her at his lunch break. Upon his arrival at the SBPD, he went through his usual morning routine of signing in, accepting the keys to that day's cruiser along with his coffee from Sergeant Allen, who met his gaze with a nod and a small smile.

All systems go.

As a familiar, lumbering stride echoed down the tiled hallway, Carlton took a long, restorative sip of coffee. With great care and deliberation, he then placed the cup on the counter alongside his keys, his badge, his sidearm, and the signed and approved paperwork Allen had handed him along with the keys and coffee.

And as the heavy steps drew closer, Carlton turned… smiled…

And decked the ever-loving crap out of Harris Trout.