Title: Black Betty's Prize
Author: Alison Nixon (VIgirl)
Chapter 3/?
Disclaimers: See previous chapters
Archival: Here at fanfiction.net and also at my website, Playing with Fire -
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Feedback: Feedback definitely welcomed--please do let me know what you think.
Author's Note: Sometimes a delay runs so long, it can't even be properly apologized for. Sigh. What can I say? It's been a tough couple of months. Hope you can all get back into the story. One thing I should note is that while I usually put flashbacks in italics, the flashback in this chapters is so long that I thought that italics might be distracting, so I've just bracketed that section with some funky hashmarks: ~*~*~* Finally, a big thank you the Playing with Fire Chat Room crew for their steady support and occasional whip-cracking as I worked on this… ;-)
**********
Blindly, she sank, dropping until her knees struck the floor. The contact, hard and sharp, should have forced a gasp, but she made no sound--her lungs were too full of the breath she held.
She waited patiently as the seconds passed. The ache in her chest crept upward into her back and shoulders and downward to her legs, but still, she waited. Finally, at the last possible moment, the exact instant when she had no choice but to breathe, she let her hands take flight. With a Fury's passion, they dove, pursuing without thought, punishing without exception. She had made herself a promise: spare no favorites, protect no treasures--the time for holding on and holding out had long since passed.
On another day, in another life, she might have fought this, insisting on reasons for hope.
But all she had was this day, in this life, no matter how unwanted.
"Forget it. I already have."
"I haven't left yet."
"But you will."
She'd always heard people say life is about taking chances.
People say a lot of things, most of them lies.
She had been a big brave girl and taken a chance. And what had been her reward? Confusion. Silence. Retreat.
Looking back, it had been foolish to stay after he said no months ago. But even then, after that bitter moment, her fantasies of a happy ending refused to leave her. Now it finally had…When he turned his back this morning and walked away, she had felt its last remnants fade like mist.
Loving him has turned out so well for you, hasn't it?
It was comical, really, a page lifted from some Sara in Wonderland. Like Alice, she had no idea where she was or how she got there. But still, there she was, lost in the land that love forgot. The land he forgot anyway. She might have found a way to bear it if he had only lost sight of her, or lost his way to her, but even she did not believe that. The truth, which she beat into her head again and again, was much simpler. He had chosen to forget. And worse, when she tried to remind him, in ways quiet and loud, small and large, his response had been…
Maybe that explained the anger today, the insistence that she had committed some unpardonable offense. Hadn't he always said that was why he preferred his insects? Like all animals, they only do what they must, what their instincts demand. People only do what they choose, which is to hurt and disappoint. Corner an animal and instinct will propel it to attack, to flee, even to change its skin, the better to hide in plain sight. He, of course, brilliant to the end, had managed all three. Even at the moment when he should have been thrown on the defensive, he had thrown her. That took skill. That took nerve. Hard as stone, never give an inch, never say 'don't go,' never ever say you're sorry nerve…
Before the bile that rose in her throat could overtake her, she jerked, startled. Something burned. She looked down at her hands. The white of her palms flared red, the soft flesh brutally twisted and compressed. At some point since she had sunk to the floor, a length of rough white cotton had found its way into her fists. She had wound the cloth so tightly that its coils looked like rope.
As she dropped the mangled cloth back to the floor, massaging one hand in the other, she wondered at her thoroughness. Closet, dresser, hamper….it was all out in the open now, every piece of clothing she owned. Just like she wanted, right? Just like her feelings. Just like his. How strange, really. All these years, she had assumed that would solve everything. Openness. His. Hers. Only she had forgotten they lived in some looking-glass world, the kind of world where the best intentions led to worst consequences.
Such was the irony: with a little less openness, she could have stayed. With a little less honesty, she wouldn't be forced to leave. Rationally, her mind had yet to fathom it—how the solution had created the problem. What key experimental variable had she neglected? What control had she missed that would have ensured the right result?
How had she lost him?
How? You spoke up. You went with your heart and not your head. You screwed up.
You screwed up.
And for that mistake, he had thrown her away. Like some item he had once wanted, but no longer had any use for. This had been the thought hammering at her during the drive home, demanding a reckoning. When she made it back to her room and found her eyes drawn to the closet door she had left ajar the night before, it finally came.
She had done this to herself. She had been the fool for letting herself care, about things, about people, about…
Well, that's the trouble with the world, isn't it? She looked down, eyeing the mess she had made and working to see it for what it really was.
Follow the teacher. You've always been good at that.
So, take inventory. Decide what you need and what you don't. None of it matters anyway.
They're just things.
Yes, they were. Bright and alluring, to be sure, especially at the moment you dared to barter for them by leaving your trace on some mere slip of paper. Surrendering such traces carried risks, as everyone knows, but there could be no other way if you really something. Soon enough, though, all things fall out of favor, no matter how much beauty you once attributed to them. Soon enough, shape and contours distorted beyond recognition, they become just another reminder of useless clutter you neither want nor need.
"Forget it. I already have."
Yes, there could be little doubt of that.
Her restless hands began to stir again; his words seemed to hurt more when her mind idled. She set herself a task: find something in this chaos, anything, worth keeping. Shutting her mind to everything but that mission, she ran her fingertips over one texture after another, cotton, denim, jersey. None of these made her linger, though, so she kept searching, touching here and there until something very, very soft made her stop. Threaded loosely between her fingers, a bright piece of velvet swung gently, its silk backing sheer enough that the mid-morning light shone through it. As her dark eyes took in the brilliant color, tracing the deliberate voids left by the pattern cut into the rich fabric, she let the memories come a little closer.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"So, what do you think?"
Keyed up, she didn't wait for his reply.
"You know, you can find just about anything here…books, clothes, CDs."
"Well, almost anything." Her lips twitched. "Eight-tracks are still hard to come by."
The hint of smoky laughter, always a temptation, proved utterly distracting; he returned her smile without even realizing he had. Cursing himself for his lack of resolve, he hurried to wipe it from his face. She had already seen it, of course. Such was his luck.
He did realize the ridiculous position he had placed himself in—devising defenses and strategies to blunt her moves, both real and imagined. It's ridiculous. I'm ridiculous. But what choice do I have? No matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise, he was out of his league. They had been playing at something for weeks now; she pressed her advantage; he tried to hold the line. Though she claimed not be a sports fan, sometimes he had to wonder. How else could she know what most never grasp?
No score is too small. Play each point as if it could be the last. Seek the momentum. Then keep it.
He had worked it all out it in his head--every smile or laugh he let slip strengthened her hand, fueled her momentum. That was why, in this game, the best defense was not a good offense. The best defense was refusing to play.
A brilliant strategy, if he did say so himself. If it weren't for her troublesome habit of carrying the ball right up to the line no matter what he did, it just might have worked.
No wonder I've always been a baseball fan. X's and O's and defensive schemas don't exactly play to my strengths.
He shook his head, willing his mind back to the sound of her voice.
"…like I was saying, Haight Street is home to what's pretty much the mother of all street fairs in this city. If you want cool and eclectic, and you don't mind a little horse-trading, this is the place."
He said nothing, but nodded, already noticing several examples of the eclectic, if not the cool, arrayed on either side of the narrow path they were now taking through the center of the fair.
His eyes roved over the scene, which crackled with the cacophony of vendors' calls to passerby and the wild notes of live music and gradually settled on one of the smaller stalls to his left. Apparently the vendor knew his audience; peace symbol themes dominated. There were hundreds of peace signs crafted into pendants of different sizes, although they varied less in themselves than in the type of necklace from which they dangled—sterling silver chains, thin braids of leather, Guatemalan friendship bands, dog collars, and most jarring, a tangle of rosary beads. He stifled a laugh; his mother, devotee of Sunday Mass and Friday confession, would have been appalled.
Strolling beside him, she continued.
"…keeping in mind, of course, that it's not all that hard to haggle with hippies… Most of these guys never left the counterculture, so they only take the horse-trading thing so far. Sometimes I think they'd let people pay whatever if they would just listen to some of their memories of the sixties." She smiled. "You know, like the day they built a draft card bonfire in Golden Gate Park, or the summer they planted alfalfa and made clothes out of hemp on some commune in Oregon."
"I, I used to go up to the attic when I was a kid and kind of…play dress up in some of my mom's old clothes. I looked like such a little freak in those hemp caftans. My dad probably still has the pictures to prove it, too."
Laughing a little, she turned, hoping to catch his eye. She did one better, and caught one of his rare smiles instead.
As he ducked his head and avoided her eyes, as if to deny her the pleasure of looking at them, she made the best of she indulged in another.
I bet he didn't give a second's thought to what he pulled on this morning. That was probably what made the effect so devastating. Leather jacket over his shoulder, casual shirt, short sleeved and tucked into his slacks, and best of all, his face, liberated from the black disks that too often hid his eyes from view…
Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?
She started to ask, if only for the pleasure of startling him into a full-on blush, but her state of distraction led her wayward feet directly into his path. He stumbled, crashing his weight into her. Before she could apologize for causing the collision, the hand he put out to restore his balance had taken hold of her arm, midway between wrist and elbow.
Like a jolt of static, the shock of it surged like something electric. The shock didn't emanate from the mere fact of contact; they had touched briefly, accidentally, several times before. It was the bareness, really…the wholly new, unexpected sensation of his skin on hers with no barriers in between, no protective cover.
Her face soon lit up with a secret smile; this had to be a good omen. The heat of the day had persuaded her to slip out of her sweater only moments before.
He watched her, noting the way her eyes dropped to the ground just as a hint of color began brightening her skin. She looks pleased. Pleased with him, pleased with the day, pleased with life—who could say? Variations on this look warmed her face often enough that he recognized it, yes, but then as now, he could not begin to unravel its meaning. He wanted to know: did she reduce every man she knew to such a state of confusion, or just him? How did a mere slip of a girl tip the scales with a man so much older? Surely, after all, he should be the one who knew what to do. Surely he should be the one who knew what he felt—lust, or--
I've never been in love, I have no evidence by which to judge, I know nothing for a fact.
I only know what I like…looking… talking…listening. I only know that I like knowing she is somewhere close by. Somewhere she can be found.
But even knowing that did not tell him the meaning of what he saw in her face. Sometimes, he thought she knew perfectly well--knew just how to best confound him and draw him in by hiding her intentions from his eyes. More often, however, he did the only thing he could do: he set to work. Scientist's work, which naturally involved surveying, cataloging, observing and describing, in minute detail, precisely that which confused him. The past few weeks with her had felt like a course immersion, requiring full absorption in both his subject and its study. Other men would have thought it strange, but he found the rationality of this approach comforting. He knew quite well that once he returned to the confines of his life back in Vegas, this perfect, precise survey would be all he would have left.
He stopped short.
You don't know what you feel.
You don't even know what she feels.
No good can come of pretending that you do.
Releasing her arm as if the contact burned, he spoke with false lightness.
"Didn't you say you were looking for something red?"
Surprised that he remembered the babble she had uttered along with her invitation, she followed his lead as he stepped closer to a stall off to their right. The constellation of spindle-like displays, each laden with more scarves than the next, had been organized by color. Truth be told, she didn't need a new scarf, but it had been the first thing that came to mind when Grissom began to demur back at the lab, mumbling evasively about the need to pack for his flight. Unfortunately for him, she had coached herself far too well to be easily deterred.
"Oh come on, Grissom. How long can it take you to pack? Besides, I'm just looking for a scarf—we won't even be there that long. Come on. Walk with me."
Eventually, after she had rebutted each of his protests, protests which grew feebler as her rebuttals grew bolder, he had accepted. And now…she snuck a look at his face. And now, before long, she would have to find a way to phrase her second invitation…
She took a deep breath and sent one hand behind her back. Instinctively, she crossed the first two fingers of that hand, just like she used to do when she was little.
"You're very brave."
He had said it even before he knew her name. She had stared back, weighing his sincerity. Just when she was beginning to regret coming forward, he gave her a small smile and put out his hand. In her eagerness, she didn't even think to offer him her name before she imposed further question upon him. Gracious, even then, he answered the first two queries, waiting until the third to hold up his hand. He set one condition: introductions first, questions second.
It's just one more question. That's all. Just…one more question.
She could feel his eyes on her face, their familiar blue flecked with curiosity. After swallowing around the tightness in her throat, she managed to find her tongue.
"Hey, you hit the mother lode, Grissom. Scarf heaven." She smiled, hoping to distract him from his inspection of her. "Or hell, since I now have way too many to choose from."
Grissom surveyed the terrain. "What's the first rule of forensic investigation?"
"Start from first principles." A small frown wrinkled her brow. "In this case, that means what exactly?"
"Well, what's the main root of your decision tree?"
His eyes brightened when she frowned once more. "What kind of material are you looking for?"
Scarf shopping as an exercise in inductive logic. God, I could so kiss him right now.
Afraid the wild impulse would show in her face, she bit down on her lip.
"I, um, haven't decided. Yet."
"Well," he quipped, grateful to slip back into the role he found safest, "first principles in this case would relate to the intended use of the item in question. Will you be wearing it primarily for warmth, or for…" He hesitated.
"Female decoration?"
Her smile broadened as she reached for one of the warmer scarves on display, a thick wool affair woven from red and cream-colored yarn. Before he could step back, she skimmed it swiftly across his cheek. He met her burst of laughter with an unkind look.
"Warm, but not something you want wrapped around your neck unless you're in the middle of a Boston winter. Too itchy."
"Apparently," he said tartly, scratching at his face. "So, wool is out. How about this crinkled cotton…thing?"
Sara took it from him, doubtful. "Well, I like tie-dyes and everything, but this is just…" After a moment, she shook her head. "No."
He replaced the offender back on the rack. "I thought you'd never seen a tie-dye you didn't like."
"You mean, like the way you've never seen a black outfit you didn't like?" She clucked her tongue. "Gil Grissom, Johnny Cash. Men in black."
When he stared her down with mock hauteur, she coughed to cover her smile, determined not to ruin her deadpan with laughter. He kept his eyes focused on hers; she stepped in a little closer. She was the one with the plan, but when he looked at her like that, she often wondered…
When the moment finally came, who would really seduce whom?
They lingered there, each finding ways to prolong the moment. He knew that he should take his leave and say the goodbye he had rehearsed in his head for days now. He knew this, but her eyes kept posing questions that he wanted to answer. It was a conspiracy, for sure, the way they fell into the usual easy rhythms--teacher-student, lecture-listen, ask-answer. Maybe that was why she listened so well as he spoke of what he knew, never looking away. She never did, even when he delved into the science of textiles, and the importance of industry tests…tests of thread strength and wrinkle resistance, color integrity and fade propensity, and most important, tests of the feel of fabric against human skin…
She never looked away.
Under such sweet inducement, he continued to talk, peppering what he knew with brainy little jokes and wry asides, hoping to make her laugh, marveling when she did. Most women looked blank and unamused when he tried to be funny. She looked…alive. Eyes alight, laughing, she wove her own brainy jokes into his seamlessly, making it easy for him to flirt without really flirting, and charm without really…
It was a rare thing, to feel like himself, only smoother and better, and--
Closing his eyes, he tried to rationalize, and get back to safer ground.
Leaving is good, a blessing in disguise.
It is. It had to be.
No matter how she made him feel. Or rather, because of it.
"Well, I'm not going to pick just any random scarf, okay?"
He refocused, again.
"I keep clothes for a long time and I don't like to waste my meager resources. That means I have to really love this scarf, Grissom."
She sounded determined, and even a little prim. Actually, he sighed, she sounded cute.
"They're both nice, Sara. You can't go wrong either way."
When she continued to look at him askance, he deployed his most patient, persuasive tone--the one he knew would irritate her just enough to move the selection process along. "Would you like me to choose for you?"
She rolled her eyes, but didn't say no.
Tilting his head judiciously, he inspected the candidates. After a few minutes he pulled one from the display, a long piece of dark red cut-velvet overlaid onto a backing of very sheer red silk. The pattern, a pretty paisley full of swirls and curlicues, had caught his attention, as did the jaunty tasseled fringes at either end.
He draped his choice around her neck before she could protest.
"Did you know," he said slowly, fingering the luxurious material, "the production techniques used in making velvet have been traced back to Ancient Egypt? 2000 B.C., in fact."
"I did not know that."
The dutiful tone made him look up. Was she was being sarcastic? He squinted. The glint of curiosity in her eyes seemed genuine, albeit teasing. Apparently he could be grateful once again for her enquiring mind, which always made him seem much more fascinating than he knew himself to be.
"Velvet-making is a fairly labor-intensive process, but cut velvet is even more so. In order to create a pattern like this, textile workers use what's known as a 'burn-out' or devoré technique. They either cut--" He scissored his first two fingers near one of the paisley cut-outs. "--the pattern out around the uncut loops of velvet piles with an actual blade, or they apply a chemical compound that, when brushed onto the pattern, 'burns' it out of the rest of the cloth."
"Or a chemical, huh? Well, if it can eat away at velvet—"
"Not just any kind of velvet. Only one made of rayon fiber and backed by silk and/or acetate, like what you have here."
"So," she thought aloud, "these chemicals burn away the cellulose in the fabric, the rayon, in whatever pattern you want. Leaving the silk unharmed."
He nodded. "Although the burn can easily spread outside of the lines, if the weaver isn't careful to apply just the right amount."
"It can also burn away the foundation," she said slowly, turning the velvet over to expose the silk.
He considered her for a moment, his voice a question mark.
"One presupposes the other."
"Yin." She raised one hand and then the other, as if balancing a scale. "And yang."
Her smile floated in the air between them. After some time, he managed to remind himself of the matter at hand, and tugged one end of the scarf. She blinked.
"This is your recommendation then?"
"It is," he replied, his eyes warm. "It suits you."
The scarf still graced her neck when she asked if he would mind some company on his walk back to his hotel.
*********
"How in the world did you score a room here, anyway?"
He seemed puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Grissom, this is a deluxe hotel--a boutique hotel, actually, in industry terms. Or in layman's terms, ka-ching!"
Defenses weakened, he couldn't help but laugh out loud.
She grinned.
"Hey, I know hotels, okay? I wrote a business plan for my folks' B&B when I was in high school, and I had to research all the different categories of lodging in order to show why a bed and breakfast was the right type of hotel concept for Tamales Bay."
He was staring again. She loved it when he looked at her that way, like she was the key to some lock he had been trying to pick, capable of giving him access to something he really wanted. Even if the something he really wants are just some stats from a paper, or some other piece of randomness.
"According to the American Hotel & Lodging Association, a boutique hotel is defined by architectural style, number of rooms, intimacy of service, target market – early 20s to mid 50s, mid to upper income bracket, educated, technologically skilled…"
He smiled. "I guess that sounds about right. I did get the recommendation for this place from my Geektools newsletter."
She gave him a look.
"That's the name, I swear. It's written by a bunch of engineers who got frustrated by the way they would lose track of the most useful 'tools' they'd found on the internet as people moved around, sites closed, and so on. So a few of them decided to create their own resource list for geeks—including a list of the most wired hotels--those with the best high-speed connections, data ports, that kind of thing."
"Geektools, huh?"
"Yep."
He could see her struggling to keep a straight face, but decided not to help her out. "Yeah, this is the only Geektel in San Francisco, which means it comes highly recommended."
Absurdly pleased by the burst of laughter that followed, he touched his fingers to her arm. Without really quite intending to, he found himself steering her through the understated Modernism of the teak-lined lobby and past the front desk.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Grissom."
He turned. Gracious touches like these were one reason to stay at a hotel like The Lambourne, whose twenty rooms took the phrase 'boutique' to heart. Although he would have been loath to admit it, he rather appreciated the way its well-trained staff greeted all guests by name.
"Good afternoon, John."
The concierge looked at the woman next to his guest and nodded courteously. The man's training pressed him, but something about the way the two people in front of him stood so close, and the way his guest's hand cupped the woman's elbow made him decide against asking her the usual 'meet and greet' questions. He did, however, bow to his profession on another point.
"Would you or your guest like anything sent up to your room?"
The concierge watched in some amusement as the older man seemed to jump slightly, as if the thought had not occurred to him.
"Uh…"
"Oh no, no room service," the brunette laughed. "I want to see what kind of mini-bar the city of San Francisco is paying for."
"You would," he responded dryly, grateful to have sidestepped the issue. Of course we don't need anything sent up. He was just going to offer her water or a soda and then say goodbye. It had been a long walk from Haight Street and the day was unseasonably warm. Besides, she should probably rehydrate and have a snack before heading back outside anyway, thin as she was.
"Then, the mini-bar it is. Come on, I'm thirsty."
Her elbow slipped out of his grasp as she moved toward the elevator. He could feel the concierge looking at him, but hurried after her without meeting the man's eyes.
She tapped the up arrow and wheeled around, flashing one of those smiles.
"What floor?"
"…Three."
After a little pas de deux with a couple exiting, they stepped in. She pressed three and settled herself next to him, her shoulder just touching his. Neither spoke as the car glided upward. Her stomach had begun to twist in on itself again; her mouth felt dry. When the doors opened and they began walking towards his room, she racked her brain for something that would keep things light and amusing. Maybe that would make it easier for him to say yes when the time came.
"So, is this what I have to look forward to when I get to be a field supervisor like you? Being put up in posh hotels when I consult on cases?"
He cocked his head. "Maybe."
"Come on, how did you pull it off?"
Eyes mysterious, he said nothing.
Soon, they were at his door. As he searched his pocket for his key card, she nudged his shoulder. "Griss? Come on, tell me."
"So, tell me, what do you think the fall out will be from the cops having to arrest one of their own?
She sighed, knowing that this change of subject signaled he had no intention of answering her question.
"Fallout for the SFPD, the lab, or for me personally?"
"All three."
"Well, the PD will get crucified in the press, with good reason. I won't be talking to any reporters myself, but I'm sure some other people will, people who will know a lot of less about what actually happened, but who'll pretend to know a lot more."
The sensor lock beeped. He stepped aside to allow her to enter the room first and closed the door behind them.
She turned to face him. "The lab will get a little singed by the bad publicity, but at least Havers will be able to say 'Yeah, maybe we blew it at first, but eventually we got it right and caught the bad guy, even if he turned out to be a cop.' He's slick enough to turn anything to his advantage, so I'm not too worried the lab's reputation will be seriously damaged."
"That's two out of three. What about you?"
The shift in her body language would have been imperceptible to most, but he noticed, just like he noticed everything else about her. He took a step forward.
"Me? Who the hell knows?" Her mouth made a crooked smile. "My options aren't so hot. I mean, half the lab thinks I'm some kind of traitor for working with you and telling the truth about that missing evidence, and the rest may give me credit for doing my job, but figure that my judgment may have been clouded by the torrid love affair we were supposedly having." She laughed, but her heart wasn't in it. "Not exactly how I expected to start my CSI career."
As she spoke, he had advanced until he now stood directly in front of her.
"I'm sorry about that, Sara…I never meant to make things difficult for you here." She nodded. "As for the rumors about—" He looked away, not wanting to even say the accusation aloud. "Just try to ignore them. Gossip is like fire. Cut off its oxygen and it dies."
She gave him a small smile.
"My leaving should help in that regard. Without me here, what will there be to say about--" He nearly said 'us,' but caught himself in time. "There'll be no grist for the rumor mill."
Her smile widened, wavering uncertainly as she bent her head. She studied the plush cream-colored carpet, afraid to continue, but more afraid to stop. When would be the right time? There is no right time. You have an opening. Take it. With her eyes still fixed on the floor, she took the leap.
"You know, with all the rumors, it's like we might as well go ahead and…have the affair."
As the last word left her mouth, the whole room collapsed until she was the only thing he could see.
"I mean, there'd be no fear of being found out, right? The idea's already out there. Plus, now there's no longer a case that could be…compromised, or anything."
She knew she should stop talking and look to see the effect of her words, but now that she had finally begun to say what had been on her mind for so long now, it seemed impossible to look him in the eyes.
"Sara, I…" He exhaled slowly. "I don't think that's a good idea."
He would have preferred that she not look up, but finally, she did.
"What's not good about it, Grissom? It would just be you and me. We could just…be together."
"Except…it's never that simple."
"We can make it simple." Her voice, soft and sweet, wrapped itself around him. "I won't—I won't expect anything more. We can just… I mean, I don't even know when I'll see you again."
The hand she raised to his face shook, but only until it made contact. "It can just be this one time, you know."
He stood still, letting his skin be warmed by her touch as his mind chased thoughts of what it would be like. If she had asked, he might have told her: this is how he had imagined it. In the daylight, with the sun streaming through every window and every part of her illuminated with perfect clarity… No shadows, no hidden places, just her, lying next to him and never looking away.
It hurt, this thing that first gripped his throat and now spread down his chest. It hurt, more than he ever thought it could.
His hand covered hers and very slowly, lowered it from his face.
"I don't…I don't really know what to say."
"Say yes."
She felt him grip her hand harder, pressing his palm into her flesh.
"I can't."
"But…why not? I promise won't make a big deal out of it. I promise."
The words were heavy on his tongue, but somehow, he spoke them. "That's just it, Sara. Neither one of us can make a promise like that. And once we open…that door, it can't be closed again."
The one time it would have been better to not anticipate his thoughts, and of course, she still did.
"Because--" She tried again. "Because…it wouldn't be just one time."
He let go of her hand and brushed his fingers along the border the red velvet made against her pale skin. "I don't think it would."
"Is that so bad, though?'
He offered no answer, knowing there was none that she would understand.
The silence lengthened, eventually giving her, she thought bitterly as her eyes began to sting, answer enough.
"Right. Okay." She took a step backward. "Well, I, you know, I should go. You have to pack and everything, and I…I'm sure there's something I should be doing at the lab."
"Sara."
"You have a safe flight, and I'll…" She smiled stiffly. "…I guess I'll see you around." Swallowing, she prayed that she sounded better than she felt. "It's been great working with you…" She swallowed again. "I've learned a lot."
His eyes almost seemed sad. "So have I."
Unsure of what he meant, she didn't dare ask. Probably break my heart all over again anyway.
"Okay, then." She stepped past him and walked swiftly to the door. Only after she had it open and stood over the threshold did she turn back. "Bye."
Whirling around before he could see the first tear fall, she rushed down the hall, the carpet absorbing her footfalls so well she barely made a sound.
He stood in the doorway, his back against the frame and watched her go. She had finally looked away. He had made the break, hadn't he?
She was almost out of earshot when he called.
"Hey, Sara?"
She turned.
"I race roaches with one of the FBI's lab guys. His wife's brother owns this hotel."
He saw an echo of her smile emerge, just for a moment.
"The bug connection. I should have known."
The quiet ring of the elevator announced its arrival. Before she moved inside, their eyes met. Then she turned away, stepped inside and let the doors close behind her.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
She sat back, taking the pressure off her knees. Reaching up to her neck, she slid her fingers between the velvet and her skin. It fell in a heap, with one tasseled fringe splayed on top. She lowered her hand to it and ever so gently, pushed it along the floor, farther and farther away until it lay somewhere behind her, where it could no longer be seen.
TBC….
