The Choice, Chapter 8
Sara woke up to the gentle tapping of rain on the windowpane of the bedroom. Her muscles were warm and weak with disuse, and she imagined that she could lay there and never open her eyes, never venture from the bed, and she would be perfectly happy. She rolled onto her back, taking just a corner of the sheet with her.
She yawned hugely, slowly waking, slowly opening her eyes. She stared at the ceiling for several moments before looking over to see Nick awake, propped up on his elbow, watching her adoringly.
"That is a very good way to make me uncomfortable," she joked, her voice gravelly with sleep.
"I just can't believe this has happened," he said softly.
"Well, technically, nothing has happened yet," Sara teased, a smile lighting up her features.
"But it will," he murmured, leaning forward to put a well-placed suck on her earlobe, and just as quickly pull back.
Sara groaned longingly at the contact. "We can't. We have to get dressed. We have," she turned her head backward to look at the clock, "forty minutes."
At that moment, the alarm rang, causing Nick to release a long groan of frustration.
"C'mon," Sara rose slowly, and Nick laid back on the mattress, staring at her lovely backside as she reached her arms above her head for a s-t-r-e-t-c-h. Her tank top had ridden up, exposing the olive skin of her waist, and her boy shorts hugged her hips in a manner that was much too feminine. Nick leapt out of bed and sprinted towards the bathroom, ignoring Sara's protests.
"Sorry," he called, sounding not a single bit apologetic. "The guy who needs the cold shower gets the first shower!"
Thirty minutes later, he looked very solemn indeed. Sara had insisted they both bring at least one respectable "nice" outfit, 'if only for our own funerals,' had been her bad joke. Nick's dark suit and black silk tie made him look very debonair, and Sara couldn't recall a single instance of ever seeing Nick in a suit before that moment. It perfectly matched Sara's sleeveless black dress.
He waited at the door for her to finish applying her makeup, and escorted her out with a possessive hand at the small of her back. They rode to the funeral home in thoughtful, comfortable silence. Nick had to remind her again to put in her hearing aid—Sara wasn't sure what she'd do without him watching out for her, watching her back.
Max's family has obviously requested a simple service, but plenty of officers were there, in their full regalia, giving it a little more ceremony. The rain continued to fall, and Nick held the umbrella over Sara's head, ignoring the small droplets that were pelting the back of his suit coat and his neck. Personnel at the funeral home were handing out small towels, and Sara used one to gently pat the cloth dry.
Against the bright white color of the terrycloth, Sara's wedding ring gleamed in contrast, and she suddenly had to make sure Nick was wearing his. When she saw he wasn't, her stomach lurched. Bile rose in her throat, and she could barely lean in to ask him where it was. He saw her troubled expression, and gave her a sheepish smile as he dug it out of his pocket. He handed it to her, and silently, she stared up at him, her head cocked. He held his hand out, and Sara's lips parted slightly to take in a hitched breath. She had to look down to steady her trembling hands before she gently slipped the ring onto his finger. She looked back up at him, stricken, unable to speak. Nick was almost left breathless by the look of incredible sadness in her eyes. It was as if she only just realized why they were both there.
Stepping into the viewing room, she saw Edna in a chair, closest to the door, blubbering. Another woman sat next to her with a small child in her arms that had welts on his legs. A mischievous-looking lad sat next to her, eyeing his brother speculatively. Sara figured that this was the poor kid who'd been chased around by a weedeater, and immediately felt very sorry for him. She passed Davis and Hancock, who were both trying very hard not to shed tears also. Junior Caldwell was sitting alone, a hankie up to his eyes, sniffling bravely.
Sara looked to the back of the room, where Bryce Caldwell was scanning the surroundings with indifferent eyes. His only indication that he saw them was a slight nod, not even accompanied with eye contact. She slowly slid past several other mourners and into a seat, and Nick followed, mumbling apologies undoubtedly for shoes he was stepping on in the process.
Two men stood at the front of the room, looking sad but grateful as a line of people proceeded to shake hands. The younger of the two, Max's son, was probably about eighteen, and looked to have been burdened a lot by life. Sara knew from reading the report that he was the one who had found his mother, dead, by only a few hours. The report also stated he had been kept over several nights in the St. John's Psychiatric Ward, suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Sara's heart grew heavy at the thought of that young man being forever haunted by the images of his mother's murder. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, rock him, explain that one day, she wouldn't be the first thing he thought of every day when he woke, and the only thing he could dream about at night.
Officer Reinhardt was on the other end of the room, in a position similar to Bryce Caldwell's, and Sara was sure he wasn't the only one watching. She was supposed to be watching to, cataloguing people's reactions, but she found she couldn't. They were all here in a moment of grief, even the killer, perhaps. Sara couldn't make accusations with the cacophony of pain rising up in the room around her. She looked forward, seeing Lacy McReynolds, Kelly Leads, Mackey Charles and Danielle Steel, all standing over the casket, and looking very grieved indeed. Sara wondered how much guilt each of them felt for not coming forward, for not reporting their own attacks. She knew each of them wondered what had made Max different, and would she be next? She knew they all feared that, and at the same time, were infinitely relieved about their own survival. She wondered if the funeral would be a catalyst for one of them to step up to the plate.
Ted Pemberly sat by himself, crying as if his heart would break. Sara immediately felt very guilty for ever suspecting him. He shot frequent longing looks over to Buck Yates, whose cool expression faltered several times, especially as the priest stepped forward to begin the service. Everyone quietly took their seats, and there was a requisite amount of rustling for more tissues, gum, candy and other distractions. Nick was holding a small pocket-pack of Kleenex, and Sara's heart leapt as she wondered what she had done to deserve this man.
Pemberly was in good company, for a few seats down, Dennis Behr ducked down his head, and Sara could see his back shaking with silent sobs. With surprise, she noticed her own tears were stinging her eyes, and slowly making the slide down her cheeks. She had a sudden, irrational memory of putting on waterproof mascara, and was grateful. Nick handed her a tissue, and she immediately wiped her tears away.
The priest began a rambling homily about the senseless tragedy of Maxwell's death and the loving warmth of God's arms. Sara couldn't look up, couldn't look anywhere but her lap, where she realized, with some surprise, that Nick had taken her hand and had interlocked their fingers. She pressed their palms closer together, just to see if she could, and Nick squeezed back.
A hand on Nick's shoulder caused them both to turn around to see Captain Yessen without a handkerchief, and Sara handed him one wordlessly. He dabbed at his eyes, and beyond him, Sara could see Captain Barclay also looking red-rimmed, and she couldn't even find the energy to be angry with him for using before the service.
The service was short, and Sara watched with interest as Nick crossed himself at regular intervals, obviously out of respect for tradition. Most everyone but Sara took communion, and the benediction was short and gently whispered by those around her. She almost lost Nick in the crush of people around her as the service ended, she felt lost, and she felt as if she were being taken away by the tide, farther and farther away from him. She lost sight of him completely, and she had almost begun to panic when she felt his presence behind her and his gentle hand on her shoulder.
The emotion was overwhelming her, and her empathetic heart was breaking as she watched Max's son quickly skirt out the side door in tears. The rest of the attendees filed out the front door towards the cemetery that was located across the street from the funeral home. The sparse rain had stopped, and steam rose from the pavement as the noon sun baked the concrete dry.
The hearse pulled out onto the street and in through the gate and as they approached the graveside, Sara almost stumbled on her own clumsy feet. Junior Caldwell was behind her, and caught her under the arms, hoisting her back up without a second thought. His look was sad, but Sara mumbled a thanks and a grateful smile. Nick pulled a possessive arm around her shoulder, and Sara snuggled into it. Standing at the rear of the group, she watched as the final blessings were given.
Bob Maxwell moved forward to place a rose on the casket, followed by his son, who deposited the rose and then buried his face into his father's side. Father and child slowly moved off, where arms were tangled as both sought to relieve each other from the agony they felt.
Maxwell's sergeants and the chief of police said a few words of eulogy in her honor, and then vacated the front of the tent where other mourners were gathered.
A woman stepped forward with long, dark hair and eyes that were obscured by sunglasses. She propped them up onto her head and Sara felt tumultuous energy shoot through her body as the woman knelt by the casket and placed her rose and a handful of dirt on top of the other flowers that laid there. She wasn't shy; a long, slow sob erupted from her throat, which quickly turned into a wail. Sara watched with horrified fascination as the woman broke down into violent tears and then muttered at the sky a handful of words in Yiddish, which Sara assumed could only be curses flung at God.
Officer Hancock broke free from the crowd and quickly went to her side, pulling her to her feet, and leading her away. Sara had seen the beautiful and devastated Isabel Shepard for the first time, and knew she would always remember the image. She could not remember ever seeing anything so forlorn, and devoid of hope.
Nick held her closer as the service concluded without further disruption. The mass of people broke, some going to commiserate with the inconsolable family, others already moving towards their cars in a hurry, ready to be rid of the grief that plagued them. Yet others formed small groups to talk about how lovely the service was, or where they were going to meet for lunch, or if everyone was meeting up later to watch the game and have a beer in the memory of a good friend.
Sara left Nick's side to go to the casket, where she dropped one of the small flowers and brushed away the tears that she couldn't help but release. She stood, unable to stem the flow, and she felt the absurd need to promise Max that she would not let her death go without justice.
A cold hand on her arm brought her attention straight into the ethereal face of Isabel Shepard.
"Mary Sark?" her teary voice was high and delicate.
"Isabel Shepard." Sara's response was more of a statement than a question.
"Yes. I was Max's..."
"I know who you are," Sara responded, not unkindly.
"Sark, I never intended this to happen," Isabel broke down into fresh tears, and hurriedly wiped them away.
Sara didn't know what to say, so she allowed Isabel to continue without encouragement.
"Max told me who you were and why you were here. I have to help you. I can't let her death be in vain," Isabel's voice had dropped to nearly a whisper, and Sara felt the need to glance over her shoulder for eavesdroppers. Only Hancock and Reinhardt were still standing around, unquestionably to escort Isabel home. Junior Caldwell and Dennis Behr were still talking to Bob Maxwell, and Nick was shooting her curious looks from under the tent.
"I can only help you if you're willing to testify," Sara murmured, turning back to Isabel Shepard.
"I have nothing else left to lose. My own life is nothing without hers," she said, sorrowful. Sara wondered what Gray Hancock would think of that, or Mr. Shepard, for that matter.
"Well, why don't you come to my home, tomorrow night, around seven? My husband and I would love to have you over for dinner, and then we can talk," Sara's voice broke when Isabel tearfully nodded and pressed a rose petal into her hand.
She didn't wait to find out where Sara lived, and Sara knew immediately that she didn't need to ask. She walked away, and took Hancock's hand as they headed toward the pebbly path out to the street. Nick joined her and took her own hand as they left the cemetery.
Sara and Nick arrived back at the apartment and Sara immediately sat on the couch, needing just a few minutes to sort out her thoughts and the roller coaster of emotions she'd been on the last few hours. She was surprised a few minutes later when Nick called her over to eat the sandwiches that he'd made. She was grateful for his attention, and devoured her meal hungrily, almost disappointed when she was finished. Nick offered to make her another, but she shook her head in dismissal. He gathered their paper plates, and Sara stood to wander into the bedroom.
She changed from her funeral attire back into her tank top and shorts, and stood in front of the mirror, removing the makeup from her tear-stained face. She went to the bed, and like a sleepy cat, crawled under the covers. A few minutes later, Nick came in and Sara heard him undressing in the closet, rummaging around as he hung up his suit and tie.
He approached the bed wearing an old Rice t-shirt and his boxer shorts and Sara lifted up the blanket to allow him to join her in bed.
"I feel like someone has uncorked me and poured me down the drain," Sara admitted.
Nick sighed through his nose and gave her a hug before pulling away. She drifted back to her side of the bed and was asleep within minutes.
When Nick awoke, it was to the sound of knocking. Looking at the clock showed it was just a little after three in the afternoon, meaning they'd been asleep for several hours. Rubbing the back of his head, he sat up and went to the door, shutting it quietly behind him. He came back a few minutes later, and got back into bed.
"Solicitor?" Sara mumbled sleepily.
"Caldwell," Nick muttered, rolling over onto his side to face her.
Sara immediately stiffened. "What now?" Her tone was almost petulant.
"Nothing," Nick replied, leaning forward to lay a soft kiss on her forehead.
"Nothing, nothing? Caldwell doesn't come over here for nothing."
"He wanted to see you. I told him no."
"No?" Sara eyebrows rose. "You can't just tell him 'no.'"
Nick scooted closer, nuzzling her ear softly. "I'm here to protect you."
Sara pulled back, only momentarily, to stare at him, astonished, before bringing her lips to his. A delightful shiver of anticipation ran through her body as Nick deepened the kiss. This was it. The door was locked, the blinds closed, and there would be no more interruptions.
If she'd been told at the beginning of this ordeal that she'd be in Nick's arms, sex imminent, and her wanting it, wanting him—she wouldn't have believed it. But she did, she wanted him so much. He had fire to match hers. She wanted to feel his skin pressed against hers, his sweat mingling with hers, kissing her, kissing everywhere.
Nick moaned into her mouth and Sara loved the little whimpers he made as he reached out to hesitantly feel her body. Gathering more courage, he began to insistently tug at straps of her tank top, and Sara assisted him in getting them off of her shoulders. Nick pushed the top down to expose her breasts, sighing deeply as he buried his face into her curves, wrapping a hot tongue around a swollen nipple and sucking. Hard.
Sara grabbed a fistful of blankets and arched against his mouth, moaning deliriously. Nick's wet mouth against her skin was like touching her tongue to a battery. The electricity hummed through her, singing through her veins in pure pleasure.
She impatiently tugged his shirt over his head, and he could hardly break the kiss long enough to allow her to complete this task. His fingers played at the waistband of her bottoms, teasing her unintentionally. Sara met his mouth, pulling him closer to her by cupping her hands around his face.
Nick thought surely this was the most mind-drugging contact he had ever experienced, she was intoxicating him via her sizzling skin and kiss-hungry mouth. He was sliding, skidding towards the precipice of control, and letting go to hurtle over the edge was not an option.
He took control by yanking her panties down her legs, and she rolled her hips to assist him in this endeavor. His hands tumbled back up her legs and torso until he reached her elbows. He ran his hands up her forearms tantalizingly, capturing her wrists. Meeting her mouth again, he thrust his tongue inside, and was filled with lust when Sara responded ardently underneath him. He gently pinned her arms to the bed, pressing his bare chest against hers, savoring the soft skin of her breasts against his hairless skin. His nipple made contact with one of hers, and she bucked against him in almost unbearable feeling. He found he could hardly stop to pull her tank top back up over her breasts and over her head. He tossed it on the floor, and found only one last cloth barrier.
He wasted little time shedding his boxers, and found Sara's hands were at his hips, urging him closer to her, and when he made contact with her thigh, she became most insistent.
Their bodies coming together was like fire meeting fire. Nick was sure unconsciousness was near when Sara began writhing beneath him, meeting each of his thrusts with one of her own. He sucked at her collarbone, eliciting shakes and moans of pleasure. It was all she could do to wind her fingers through his hair and hang on for the ride.
Her pants told him she was getting closer and closer to climax, and her sweet, usually uncommunicative mouth was suddenly telling him everything he needed to know.
"Don't stop...right there...oh, God, don't stop, please don't stop...I can't take it...oh, Nick, right there..." and with a delayed cry of ecstasy, Sara's body took flight. "I'm free," she whispered.
Nick wasn't far behind her, and a few more strokes sent him over the same cliff of fulfillment that Sara had just dived off of. Not wanting to hurt her, he lifted himself from her body, and then, unable to break the connection, he pulled her under his arm and held her as she came reeling back to Earth, back to her corporeal form, and back to his embrace.
It was only minutes before she was fast asleep once more and Nick found he didn't have any trouble joining her.
TO BE CONTINUED, expediently.
Notes: Sorry this chappie was so short, kiddos, but it had to be since it was so "action-packed" giggles helplessly. Ahh, so anyway, the next chapter's going to be a monstrosity of verbiage, so just prepare yourselves...