Chapter 28

Floodgates and all that.

It's just before midnight when I wake up and realize whose long, hairy arm is draped over my side. The lights are still on, and Rufus is sound asleep and snoring in his bed by the TV.

I hold my breath and turn carefully onto my back, but the movement wakes him.

He smiles, still half asleep then nestles is face in my neck and runs a hand up my body.

"Hey," he says, all deep and growly.

"Hey."

"How did we end up like this?"

He yawns, and it makes me yawn.

"Well," I say, running my fingers through his hair, "about three years ago, I applied for a job you posted." I kiss his forehead.

He pulls me closer to him and pushes against my thigh.

"We should give it another shot, don't you think?"

"Definitely," I say. "I can set aside fifteen seconds."

He lifts his head and somehow slides me under him, all in one movement, and he pins my wrists to the couch. Looking down at me, hair in his eyes, upper body between my legs, he smiles.

"I've been in a constant state of arousal for a week, Vic," he says. "I think it went pretty well, considering."

"That's what your hand is for."

He actually seems surprised, like all the other inappropriate and vulgar comments I've made in the time we've known each other didn't prepare him for this one. But he's got this sort of mischievous expression on his face, too.

"Why do you think it lasted as long as it did?" he says.

"Oh my God," I whisper. "I'm so turned on."

He pushes the coffee table out of the way and lowers me to the rug, then lowers himself on top of me, in cobra pose.

"I can help you with that," he says, pushing one of my knees to the side with his knee, then the other.

"Please do."

This time it's raucous and cardiovascular and sweaty, and when we're done and tidied up, we sit on either end of the couch, legs intertwined, and eat what I was able to find: a couple of apples, some baked Cheetos, celery, a few slices of cheese, and Greek yogurt, which he obviously thinks is gross but doesn't want to tell me.

Rufus gets up, I feed him, and he goes back to bed.

The next time we wake up, it's dark. I reach over to the coffee table, and check the time on my phone. It's 5:12.

"We've got a big day ahead," he says into my back.

"I know."

I sit up. The sight of him here in the fading blue glow from my phone, lying on my couch, naked under my blanket, makes me feel lucky, like I'm somehow getting more than any one person deserves.

There have been so many moments in my life up to this point for which I should have felt blessed but didn't. This right here, this situation that I had believed, not so long ago, was never going to happen, makes me want to appreciate what I have while I have it.

I get up and put his T-shirt on since that's all that's available, and I start making the coffee. Rufus clicks into the kitchen with me and watches.

"I need to take a shower," I say as I'm pouring the water in. "You want to go first?"

He's sitting up now, scratching his head and looking around.

"Yeah," he says. "I probably should. It'll wake me up."

He puts his boxers on and we go upstairs. So far he's been using the half bathroom off the living room, but the only shower is in the master bath.

Taking him into the bedroom feels strange somehow, like I'm disrespecting Sean or even maybe like I'm disrespecting Walt. Rationally, I know I'm not doing either—I mean, I've been sleeping alone for three months—but emotionally it's a block of some sort.

When I turn on the light in the bathroom, I see that he might be feeling a little weird about it, too. I don't think either of us has any problem with doing what we did where we did it, but bedrooms, especially when they used to belong to someone else, seem more sacred, maybe even more intimate. Issues surrounding boundaries and habitat are complicated.

I hand him a towel and he takes it. He looks like he's about to say something.

"What?"

"You're planning on joining me, right?" he says.

Actually, I hadn't been.

I've always thought showering with another person was totally impractical, but I have to remind myself he's here now. We're not late, he's sexy as hell, and practicality is overrated anyway.

"Of course," I say.

Somehow, with the major distraction and excessive stimulation, I do manage to take a fairly decent shower, but we waste a lot of water, and I feel kind of guilty about that.

Afterwards, he lifts me onto the counter, and we have a steamy and vocal round three before he gathers his things and a cup of coffee to go, and heads home to change clothes.

I get dressed for work, and as usual, I leave my shoes, my holster, and my jacket off while I go through my morning routine. That's why it's not until ten minutes to seven that I realize I don't have my boots.

Immediately I call his house, but the machine picks up. On the off chance that he hasn't left for work yet and is just screening his calls, I leave a message: "Hey, Walt. Umm, my boots are still in the back of your car. I kind of need them. Could you call me back?"

I hang up and call the office. Ruby answers.

"Hey, Ruby, is Walt in yet?"

"He was here," she says, "but he stepped out about ten minutes ago."

"Okay," I say. "If he comes back in the next few minutes, could you ask him to call me?"

"Sure thing, Vic. Everything all right?"

"Oh, yeah. I just wanted to tell him something about the warrant."

"I could tell him for you, if you'd like," she offers.

"Thanks, Ruby, but it's a little complicated. I'll just talk to him when I see him."

Shit.

Since I can't envision a scenario that would render me still bootless by the time I need to enter the office, I leave for work wearing my running shoes, which are fluorescent orange with blue stripes.

When I arrive at the station, though, I can't find a parking spot closer than two blocks away. All curb space surrounding the square and up and down Main Street is occupied by black Suburbans with tinted windows, state trooper vehicles, a Humane Society fifth wheel attached to a dually, and various other vehicles that I assume are involved in the madness in some capacity. There are people standing around on the sidewalks and in the park, drinking coffee, eating pastries, and chatting, but there's no sign of Walt.

The Bronco is double parked right in front of the office.

Avoiding eye contact with the loiterers, I walk right up to the Bronco like I'm doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. I check the tailgate, and it's locked. Then I check both the driver and the passenger door. I feel like I'm entering the Twilight Zone.

As soon as I open the door to the office, there's a camera with a bright bulb attached above it in my face. I instinctively hold up my hand to obstruct the camera's view, and I say, maybe a bit too frantically, "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Who the hell are you? Get that thing out of my face."

Ruby walks across the office and looks up at the young cameraman.

"Mr. Smith," she says. "Did I not just tell you that the Sheriff said no to all filming?"

"She isn't the Sheriff," he says, playing dumb.

"Sir, I'm only going to say this one more time, and then I'm going to have you deal with one of the deputies or the Sheriff himself. There will be no filming of any department employees. You have two other law enforcement groups out there. Pester them."

Just then, Ferg walks through the door, and I swear, before he looks at anything else, his eyes go directly to my feet.

He snickers a little. "What's up with the shoes, Vic?" he asks, like I'm the dorky kid and he's the bully.

"What's up with being an asshole?" I say, way too defensive.

He gives me that disgusted look he'd packed away for a while. "Maybe you need to get more sleep," he says, and I bite.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He looks at me like he's trying to figure out what's going on, and he seems to come to the conclusion that something is wrong with me.

He tempers his tone when he says, "It means maybe you need to get more sleep. It was a response to your irritability."

He shakes his head, and I am certain he rolls his eyes when he looks at Ruby, but I can only see the back of his head, so it wouldn't be right to kick his ass for it.

"My boots got wet," I say even though I'm fairly certain he's done talking to me, "so I left them in the car. I'll put them on when we leave."

"Okay," he says, "whatever."

I'm waiting for him to ask me how they got wet, but he doesn't, and I don't volunteer an explanation, mostly because I don't have one.

It's maybe fifteen minutes later when Walt comes in, and it's at the precise moment that Ferg is returning to his desk from the bathroom.

The whole thing happens in slow motion.

I stand up, determined to get the shoe situation dealt with quickly and discreetly, and I notice he has the boots in his hand.

Ferg says, "Morning, Sheriff," and he looks down at the boots.

"Didn't see your car, Ferg," Walt says.

"Have you seen the parking situation?" Ferg says.

"Yeah," he says, scratching his head. "Pretty bad."

I'm sort of glaring at Walt, like I want him to do something fast, but honestly, I have no idea what I want him to do.

So I say with delayed astonishment, "Hey, where did you find those?" I don't give him time to answer before adding, "I must have left those on the curb. How weird."

I take them from him and walk back to my desk.

"Your truck's on 2nd Street," Ferg says.

"So?"

"Walt was down at the other end of the park."

"So? Maybe he found them earlier."

"Yeah," Walt says, "but luckily I found them." He sounds like he's reciting lines for a really bad play.

Ferg looks at me, then at Walt, then at me again.

Ruby saves us by coming out with her Post-its, and starting to give Walt the rundown: "I told Jason Smith four times to stop filming, Lucian called and says he will be ready at 8:00 for you to pick him up . . . ."

"For what?" Walt asks, looking at the note.

"He says you asked him to help with the raid today."

"How did he even know about the raid?"

Ruby shrugs.

"Call him back, please, and tell him he's not invited and I'll see him tomorrow."

"Oh, and this one from Vic, but I'll let her explain that."

I'm staring at the screen of my laptop, trying to pull off both busy and invisible.

"What's up with the warrant?" he asks.

"Huh?"

"The warrant?"

"Oh," I say. "Misunderstanding. Never mind."

"Okay," he says with a sigh and a hand on his hip. "So we've got about an hour. Vic, you and Bud will go in ahead of us to serve the warrant, and the circus will follow. Ferg, I need you to go down to the basement and bring up the vests."

"Vests?" I ask. "Why?"

"Because the last eighteen times we got shot at, we weren't wearing them, and at some point our luck will run out."

"Sure, Walt," Ferg says.

"Okay then," Walt says, and before he turns to go, our eyes lock, just for a second.

Images of the shower and the living room floor and the bathroom counter flash in my mind in HD. I look away quickly, ears burning.

I take a deep breath, listening to the sound of his boots on the wood floor.

This is going to be harder than I thought.