Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and we do not have permission to borrow them. All others belong to us, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask us first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit.
By Cincoflex and VR Trakowski--Cincoflex at aol dot com and VRTrakowski at gmail dot com
Spoilers: through Season 3 at the moment.
Chapter 5
HEATHER
It's been a rough night.
The glamour and mystery of being Lady Heather waxes and wanes in the course of each month. I have nights where I find a great deal of satisfaction in knowing my customers are pleased with our services and atmosphere; nights where I've had to turn thrill seekers away because we were full. I've had nights when I walk the halls with pride, knowing my club is legitimate, fulfilling, and profitable.
And then I have nights like tonight. A customer neglected to tell us of his allergy to latex and we had to call an ambulance to take his swollen hive-covered person to the hospital. A pipe broke in the Whipping Parlor, damaging the flooring in two rooms and flooding part of a hallway. One of my best bondage girls was caught stealing a customer's credit card from his wallet . . . it seemed to go on and on all night. One or two crises I can deal with, but once the first domino of disaster falls, it tends to start a chain reaction until you either laugh or cry. Normally I laugh.
Not tonight.
I stayed until the day housekeeping crew had ushered in the plumbers, then climbed into my car in the dark, locked the doors and gave myself over to a few quick tears. One or two for frustration. One or two more for despair. The last ones for today's date, made all the more personally depressing by the simple fact that I miss Jim.
We've skipped two Fridays in a row, and while the reasons were legitimate, the emptiness left in those hours weighed more than they should have, at least for me. When did I become so fond of the company of a quiet, sly, charming Homicide detective? It's ridiculous. I'm strong and proud, and more than capable of dealing with the life I've chosen to lead. Every night men bow before me, beg for the chance to please me, and yet all I truly want is to sit at my kitchen table across from someone who enjoys my beer-basted pot roast.
Someone who doesn't need costumes or practiced taunts or commands from me, just a little food and company.
Someone who could have called, and didn't.
I drive home, carefully, trying not to think about anything. Certainly not the date. I know there will be a message from Zoe, and probably a package from her as well in the next few days. My mother will have sent a card, and she might call as well to scold me in the most loving way possible, as is her prerogative.
Maybe hot water would help. I start thinking about a nice long scrub under the nozzles, mentally adding ten minutes more to my usual shower time, and as I pull up, I have a plan on how to deal with the day. Shower, climb into my oldest pajamas and fall into bed, stopping only long enough to set the alarm for my sugar test and injection. Screw today, that's my motto.
As I climb out of the car, something catches my eye in the front porch light. Warily, I park the car, set the alarm and go through the house to open the door. I'm unprepared for the bamboo basket of pink and yellow roses hanging from the hummingbird feeder hook. Blinking, I stare until a flutter of white snags my attention, and I reach for the tiny florist's card there.
Happy Birthday! Delayed for an hour, but would like to stop by and see you---JB
I clutch the card tightly; breathe in the heady rose fragrance in the predawn stillness, wondering if I'm going to be able to catch my breath.
Then panic sets in. Do I have time to shower? I gently unhook the flowers, set the feeder back up, carry the bamboo basket in to the living room and hustle off to the bathroom, mentally rearranging my timeline and wondering if I've got anything I can whip up quickly. By the time I'm pulling on my green sundress I know what would be perfect to make: omelets.
I'm not fond of eggs, but they're quick protein, and after years of learning the ins and outs of my disease I have a good working knowledge of nutrition, so I include eggs when I know I need them. Those, along with the cream, pepper, Tillamook cheddar and fresh chives in my kitchen will make a perfectly respectable dinner. I reach for my pink hibiscus earrings and catch myself humming as I put them on.
I stop. I stare at my reflection in the somewhat steamy mirror, willing the woman on the other side to get a GRIP, for God's sake. While it's a delightful surprise that he figured out my birthday and sent flowers, it's probably a reflex on his part. I'm sure Jim used to send his mother flowers, probably still sends his daughter flowers on her birthday because it's a traditional thing to do, and Jim Brass is definitely a traditionalist.
Then the doorbell rings and I jump a little, biting my lips to keep from grinning like an idiot.
BRASS
I'm good with numbers. Early on I should have probably been an accountant I guess, but it didn't work out that way. I solve crimes and apprehend the bad guys, but somehow through it all I still manage to keep a good head for numbers. All kinds—license plates, phone numbers, addresses, statistics, calibers, schedules, and most importantly, dates.
I'm good at remembering those. I remember the date I first slept with Karen, and the date I married her. I remember the date when I made captain. The date I first testified for Internal Affairs, which coincided with the one of Karen's that resulted in Ellie. I remember the date, hour and minute when Ellie was born.
And I remember the date when I first walked up to the Dominion's big mahogany doors.
So every time I looked at the calendar, I knew there was something about the date that nagged at me. I'd seen it before. It was important somehow. It bothered me so much that I ended up running a driver's license check just to ease my mind, and sure enough, today's date was listed on Heather Marazek's license.
Her picture is nice. Most drivers' license photos look like they've been clipped out of a line-up book, but not hers. She had that little hint of smile that makes you wonder what secret she's thinking about. And having seen it in person, I know how enticing it truly is, how lucky a guy feels to have it directed at him.
So I called up Husky Belden over at Desert Blooms and put in an order. Husky is anything but, a tall skinny guy with a great love of Judy Garland movies if you know what I mean. I helped him out during a stabbing that happened outside his florist shop a few years ago and he's been my contact for flowers ever since.
"Sooooooo? What does this friend like, Jim?" he demands to know as I call him up.
"She's a woman," I counter, hoping the shrug will come through over the phone line. In return I get a deep laugh, Husky's trademark enthusiasm.
"Honey, I GOT that. I'm just trying to figure out what I can offer you at a decent price. I have some great Sophia Loren yellow roses in off the truck today, but if we GO with yellow then we're sending the lady a message you know."
"Happy birthday?" I ask hopefully.
"Mmmmm, more like a 'Happy birthday Sweetheart, daddy got you a pony' message."
I wince. "Got anything else?"
"A lovely bunch of Marquessa Pink roses—they have that nice little blush of fuchsia in the center . . . oh Jim I HAVE it! We can blend the bouquet and I'll make sure the arrangement is stunning. Pink and yellow in one of the new split bamboo baskets."
I lean back, amused at Husky's enthusiasm. Hey, the guy knows his blooms, who am I to argue?
"So what would that bunch be saying?"
"Happy birthday, I'm grateful and happy to know you," he responds promptly, "The basket says I think you're exotic and wonderful. Good enough?"
"Sounds good," I offer, and Husky chuckles on the other end of the line.
"Oho! That was lacking zest. Looking to say a little more, Jim?"
"No," I snap back, adding in an undertone, "Not yet."
"Fair enough. Hey, once I get done with this order you may not have to say anything more!" Husky tells me. "So what's the address?"
"I'll deliver it myself. Can you have it done in say, two hours?"
"Will do." He quotes me a price and I don't even flinch, which tells me either I'm distracted, or that Heather is now within the inner ranks of people special to Jim Brass. In a rare show of personal honesty I'm pretty sure I know which it is.
Ever try birthday shopping while on the job? I don't recommend it, especially if you work the night shift. Swinging from the scene of a gory gang shoot out into a pristine Sonoma-Williams culinary shop is like being in a David Lynch movie. Most stores on the fringes of downtown are only open until ten or maybe midnight so I have to hustle, but fortunately I have a pretty good idea of what to get, so by four in the morning I not only have several presents, I've also had a chance to wrap them, sort of.
Thank God for the gift bag—I can't remember how men like me managed holidays before them.
The flowers are in the back of the car, and I drop them off at Heather's before heading back to the office to finish up a few things. Grissom and his gang are scattered through the lab, working on not only the gang shooting but also a suspicious explosion at one of the self-storage places near the highway. I finish the last gang member interrogation with enough time to get over to Heather's just as the faint line of dawn is a pink line on the horizon. I ring the bell, pleased to see the basket is gone and the hummingbird feeder's back up—that tells me she got them all right.
The door opens, I smile, and woooof!
Heather launches herself at me, arms sliding around my ribs; I catch a bit of sweet warm breath as her face tilts up and she kisses me.
I was NOT expecting this, but living in the moment has never tasted so damn good and I go with the flow completely here, feeling the amazing softness of those full lips on mine. Quick hard tingles shoot through my spine, adrenaline spiked with arousal. Her mouth is soft and hot--just as I move to pull her to me and give this kiss some gas she draws away and laughs up into my face.
"I missed you."
"No you didn't. Got me dead on there, lady—" comes my lame retort while I try desperately to regain my equilibrium after that amazing kiss. I have no idea what the hell my expression must look like at this moment. Stunned probably.
God she looks great. She's got on a sort of tropical green dress thing like Dorothy Lamour, with pink flowers on her ears. She smells great, all fresh and clean. She tastes great—and I have to break away from that thought because it's a little too much to contend with at six o'clock in the morning, libido flambé as it were.
Heather laughs with embarrassment and looks down.
"I shouldn't have done that, I know," comes her murmur, "But you have no idea how much it meant to me that someone remembered."
I clear my throat a little, feeling a pang deep inside at her words. I haven't gotten much more than an annual card from a maiden aunt myself for the last decade. I let my own birthday go, along with so much else I left behind in New Jersey.
"I don't mind, believe me," I tell her honestly. She lifts her gaze to mine and for a moment, behind the affection in those eyes I see it: a little spark of heat in there and then it's gone, lost behind the blue as she cocks her head.
"Come in—" She tells me, still smiling.
HEATHER
For the first time in half a decade I truly have been bad. I gave in to my needy side and kissed Jim, and no amount of easy excuses on my part can hide the fact that I did it and it was good.
Perfect mouth, lovely mouth. Warm lips, firm yet yielding and the answering pressure of them sweetly sensual. The warm masculine scent of his skin, the solidity of his ribs in that enveloping hug . . . I sound like one of the silly heroines in one of Zoe's romance novels, but in truth the sheer sensory overload of being in his body space, of feeling his magnetism drawing me closer is enough to make me blush.
And when I blush, it's very, very apparent.
I lead the way into the house, trying desperately to regain a calm I don't actually feel at the moment. Jim follows me in, his expression patient and amused, his hands full of gift bags. When we make it into the kitchen, I ask him if he's eaten.
"Well actually no, but—" he begins, and I have my cue right there.
"Good. We'll have some cheese omelets then. I was in the mood for them, along with some sausage."
I take the gift bags from him, setting them aside, then hand him the cheese grater and the block of Tillamook. He shoots me a look that tells me he knows perfectly well what I'm doing and why, then gives in with his usual good grace. Slowly, he takes his jacket off and methodically rolls up his sleeves. I pretend not to watch that as I reach into the fridge for eggs, sausage and cream.
Indulging in cooking seems to settle me down, and after a few minutes I glance over to see Jim carefully whittling the cheese block down in strong strokes, on the verge of humming. He looks up at me, eyes bright, and I blush all over again.
I'm going to have to say something.
"Jim—"
"Heather, how much cheese do you want? One cup? Two?" he cuts me off in a mild voice that still manages to convey a smooth control over the conversation. Surprised, I stammer.
"O-one and a half?"
"That's a good compromise," he responds softly and in the little moment I understand. He's talking about a hell of a lot more than cheddar, making it clear that it's going to be all right. Jim gets it. He knows I like him, and that because the very nature of a good relationship between a man and a woman tends to express itself in affectionate gestures he knows my kiss was a part of what we have going.
I'm so grateful for his insight that for a moment I cling to the back of the kitchen chair as a rush of relief hits me. He chuckles.
"Bringing your work home with you this time?"
I shoot him a quizzical glance; he gets that sly look on his face as he murmurs, "You know, beating the eggs, whipping the cream—"
That deserves a mild punch to his upper arm, he grins at me and suddenly things are back in a comfortable mode for us. I pour the cream into the blender bowl, and crack the eggs on the rim, tossing the shells into the sink. A flick of the switch and the magic hum of my Mixmaster purrs out. Jim brings the bowl of shaved cheddar to me and I motion to the spice rack. He pulls salt, pepper, then after a moment's thought, the dried onion flakes. I shoot him an approving look.
"I have part of a loaf of sourdough French in the breadbox if you'd like to slice and toast it—" I suggest.
We cook. I'm pretty good at omelets, and manage to slip the fluffy steaming half moon onto a Jim's plate without a hitch. He hesitates out of good manners, but I urge him to dig in while I pour the rest of the mix into the pan and cook it up. By the time I'm sitting down, we have sausage, toast and fresh glasses of orange juice all neatly clustered between our plates. I shoot him a grateful smile and he lifts his glass.
"A toast to the birthday girl—" he offers lightly. I clink my juice with his, smiling. We eat, and suddenly the appetite I didn't have a few minutes ago has come rushing back. It all tastes good, from the melted cheese to the slightly burnt sausage to the buttered toast.
Jim is finished before me, eating in a way that tells me he probably missed the meal before this one, and I hope it wasn't because he used the time to shop for me. I quickly cut a big chunk of my omelet and slide it onto his plate; he shoots me a sideways look that's pricelessly sweet. Jim Brass would never in a million years ask me, 'are you going to eat that?' so I have to make the first move.
"Please, you're doing me a favor here—" I encourage him. He hesitates a second more, then shrugs and starts in on it with gusto. I lean back, trying to keep my smile small, even though on the inside it's pretty wide. My gaze wanders over to the gift bags and for the first time in years a little thrill of anticipation runs through me as I try to figure out what those three bags might possibly hold.
Jim finishes, wiping his mouth and sighing happily as he sets the napkin down. I glance his way; he grins.
"Your breakfasts are as terrific as your dinners," he rumbles. His empty plate supports the compliment, and I start to clear the table, but he shakes his head.
"Nah let me get that. You can open the cards if you want."
So while he rinses and stacks things in the dishwasher, I slowly study a pair of envelopes on the counter. One's in a lilac envelope, the other white, but both of them have my name across their fronts in Jim's familiar tall strong handwriting.
I opt for the white one first, and it's flowery, with a quote on the front: 'Age before Beauty . . .' as I open it, the line finishes, ' . . . But your case is the exception!' under it, a quick scrawled Happy Birthday and Jim's initials.
I laugh and he shrugs.
"Corny, but what the hell—" comes his mutter.
"Perfect."
The second card, the lilac one is larger. I pull it out, and it's rich vellum, a lovely one with an embossed design around the edges that I suddenly recognize as my namesake. In elegant calligraphy on the inside is a section of a Shakespearean sonnet:
To me fair friend you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed Such seems your beauty still.
Tears threaten; I head them off by biting my lip, moved by so much in this moment. Jim's added note on the bottom stands out:
With much affection and warm wishes on your special day—
James
I look up and into Jim's face across the counter as he cocks his head and smiles.
The first bag is small, and I laugh, as I pull out a stainless steel garlic press, state of the art, no less. Next to me on the sofa, stretched out a bit and relaxing, Jim chuckles at my delight.
"I seem to remember someone grumbling about how her old one broke—" he muses out loud as I examine my new toy, well aware this is not a cheap item, not at all.
"It's just what I need to make Twelve Clove chicken for you sometime. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
The next bag is a bit bigger, and I reach in, wondering why it's so . . . soft. Curiously, I pull out a long, long length of black and lavender silk with fringes on the ends. It's nearly four feet if it's an inch, and heavy, lined in a way that all good shawls are, and already I know it will go with at least three of my worknight outfits, adding a little touch of Victorian style to my look. Surprised, I glance at Jim.
Jim looks a little embarrassed, but he speaks up in the low quick voice I've come to recognize as his most serious tone.
"Heather, I may not be completely crazy about the way you make your living, but I want you to know that's not out of any moral objections, just the safety issues. However, you're smart and cautious and more than capable of dealing with things I've never even considered. That being said, I figured you might like something to ward off a drafty night."
The quick sultry image of lying in his arms flashes through my mind, but quickly push that away and instead study the shawl, awed by the craftsmanship of such a beautiful accessory.
"It's stunning, Jim. Truly. I'll wear it with pride."
He's smiling, and his ears are pink as I wrap the shawl around my shoulders, luxuriating in the kiss of the lavender silk lining against my skin. I reach out and let part of the fringe brush against his nose; Jim swats at it playfully.
"You still have two more presents," he reminds me. I look at the last bag, but he shakes his head and fishes in his breast pocket, holding out two small rectangles of cardboard.
"Especially for you—I don't take just anybody here you know—" he rumbles. I take the tickets from him and burst into giggles.
"The Liberace museum?" I manage between splutters. Jim nods gravely.
"Promoting that Hungarian heritage of yours. It's educational. Ever been?"
I shake my head, still not quite able to stop laughing, and Jim starts grinning himself. I break the news to him gently.
"Jim, Liberace was Polish."
"All the more reason to be glad you're Hungarian, huh?"
The last bag has a square pink bakery box in it, and my heart is thudding as I recognize the little sticker on the top: Casey's Sweetery. One of the few bakeries in Las Vegas that specializes in sugar-free candy and baked goods. Oh yes---I open the box to a little chocolate cake with pink rosettes and pink icing spelling out 'Happy Birthday Heather' on the top.
I sniffle, surprised I haven't cried before this in all honesty. I'd suspected Jim was sentimental but I hadn't counted on being a recipient of that quality in such lovely ways. He's holding out a clean hankie, and at the sight of it I do burst out crying. Awkwardly he reaches over and rubs my back while I try to pull myself together, wiping my face with soft cotton that hold his scent.
"Oh come on now, birthdays aren't so bad," he assures me, and I start laughing at his comment, knowing he has no clue as to the real basis of my tears.
BRASS
Not too bad if I do say so myself—I worried a bit about how the cards would go over, but thank God Heather's sense of humor caught the gist of the first one. She looks great in the shawl, just as I knew she would, regal and truth to tell, damned sexy. There's something about a woman toying with fringe that still gets to me, that mix of flirtation and formality.
We had the cake out in the living room, and since there weren't any candles to stick on it, I told Heather we'd probably have to pass on the spanking too. She winced and told me there was too damned much of it at the Dominion anyway, so no big loss.
A little decaf, some easy talk, and I knew I'd have to leave soon, but it was hard to do. Hard because the minute I was out the door I'd be reliving that kiss again, that velvety moment of her in my arms, thrilled to see me, mouth on mine in a slow sweet press of honest delight.
A moment to cherish. Not that I expect it to happen again in the near future; I can tell Heather's as cautious as I am, not quite ready to move beyond this easy give and take for the moment. But I'd be stupid to think the potential isn't there now, a little more obvious than it was a few months ago.
The sun's coming up into another hot Las Vegas day, and I'm off to bed, to curl up with the satisfying thought that I made someone happy today, and in that gesture, did the same for myself.
And there's always the Liberace Museum to consider too.
See Chapter 6