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 7
HEATHER
I am not a coward. I'm not easily intimidated, cowed or unsettled; the line of work I'm in doesn't allow for that to any degree because it spoils the illusion of power. I wear the mask of supreme indifference while facing my clients, and sometimes it takes a little effort at downtime at home before I'm relaxed enough to let it go.
I repeat, I am not a coward.
But the carcass on the back seat of my car is a bit more than I can handle, and my fingers tremble as I punch the speed dial of my phone. It's Saturday afternoon, I'm standing here in my blue yoga leotard in my driveway, hoping Jim's not still asleep. My eyes keep flickering back to the blood pooling on the vinyl seat as the phone rings.
"Heather?" Jim's voice, deep, cautious but pleased. I open my mouth and my own tone sounds strained and high, even to my own ears.
"Jim, I have something you need to see right away, can you come?" I flinch at my unintended double entendre. "Over that is?"
"Okay hon, slow down. What's wrong?" His voice is soothing now, steadying me like a hand to the shoulder. I turn away from the mangled mess in my car and take in a deep breath in grateful response.
"There's something dead in my car. Recently dead because the blood's dripping—"
"--Jesus. On my way, don't touch a THING," comes the hard order. I flinch at the tone now, but relief floods through me as well. Feeling a little wobbly I go and lean against the porch, clicking the phone off and waiting.
It's getting worse.
Jim knows about the notes and the small vandalisms; I'm not stupid enough to think it's not a matter for the cops, but this—if my tormentor thinks he can creep me out, he's starting to succeed. Hate mail I'm used to, the occasional obscene phone call or nasty package coming to the Dominion are all part of a day's work, but this is my home, a place I've worked hard to keep in anonymity. Here, the stakes are much more personal.
It started with a single note slipped under my windshield. I kept it for Jim, who frowned at it and told me to let him know if anything else showed up. The note wasn't enough to spoil our Chicken Parmesan, but it wasn't the last of its kind. Since that first one two weeks ago, things have gotten steadily worse in increments.
Fifteen hang up calls interrupted my sleep in one afternoon.
My hummingbird feeder was smashed.
Dog excrement was left on my porch.
It's disheartening to say the least, and the only two bright spots in the whole situation are that Ms. Willows of the Crime Lab has dedicated herself to the case, resolved to pull anything she can from the evidence. The other is Jim's determination to find the perpetrator from that evidence, come the proverbial hell or high water.
Jim—It's both flattering and frightening to see him in full professional mode when he comes to my door, eyes scanning the neighborhood, his frame tense and alert. Only when we're inside does he pull me into a hug, which has become my personal haven in this past fortnight. I cling to him, not ashamed at needing the reassurance now that we're in private. Strong I may be, but it's an amazing comfort to have someone else here, someone who knows what's going on.
He smells so good. He always does, and I know my own body chemistry reacts to him in ways beyond my conscious control. Jim slides a hand up the back of my neck, cradling my head while his other arm slips around my waist, bracing me against him. It's his hug, his way of holding me, and I relax into it, feeling cherished when he sighs.
"Muuuuuch better—okay, Catherine's going to be here in a few minutes. Tell me what happened," he murmurs. I hide my relieved smile against his shoulder; this isn't the usual sort of police interview, but I'm not about to let go. I turn my head a little, my breath heating the open collar of his shirt.
"I got back from my Yoga class about twenty minutes ago. I took my purse in, and left the car in the driveway because I've still got the can for the yard clippings blocking the garage. I had some juice and came back out and found whatever it was on the back seat."
"It's a cat. Was a cat," he corrects himself mildly, "and a big one at that. You know the pets around here?"
"Mrs. Nagatori has a Golden retriever named Henry. I don't know the people on the other side of me, but they don't have a pet." I know I'm babbling now, that none of this is terribly important. What matters is how warm and lovely it is to hold this man, to feel him holding me. I'm suddenly aware of how thin my leotard is, and I think Jim realizes it at the same time; reluctantly he starts to let go.
"Catherine might need to check you for any stray evidence so you can't change just yet, but when she's done you should." He pulls back enough for me to look up into his face and read his expression. Part of it is flinty; the anger and frustration he's feeling about this malicious creep. The other part, though, is making my bones dissolve like Alka Seltzer, a long slow patient glance of tender desire.
I wonder if I look like that back at him? Carefully I pull away and go to the door to stand on the porch. He waits for a moment and joins me, his expression much milder now. I feel the warmth of his shoulder pressing against mine.
"I'm staying."
I look up at him, pleased and alarmed at the same time. Jim sets his jaw and speaks again, softly, urgently.
"Guys like this have a pattern, Heather. The first incidents are always to get your attention and annoy you. Then they begin to accelerate that persecution with more destructive and violent actions until either they get caught or you get hurt. I'm staying here to make sure it's the former over the latter."
I shoot a sidelong look at him as a black Denali shows up at the curb, followed by a police car. I recognize the red hair of Ms. Willows right away.
"Define staying, Jim."
"Here. Overnight. With you." He adds as an afterthought, "Platonically."
I shoot him a look through my lashes.
"And this has nothing to do with tonight's NHL semi-final, which would look ever so much better on my wide screen THX enhanced entertainment system?"
He tries for wide-eyed innocence, but it doesn't quite work. "Was that tonight?"
I roll my eyes; Jim wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes.
"Heather, I'm serious. This guy sees that black and white, he's going to know you're seriously rattled and chances are good he'll try again tonight. He's getting off on the thrill of keeping you on edge, and I want to nail the bastard ASAP."
BRASS
I can feel the anger boiling up inside and it's taking everything I've got to keep it channeled into the right sort of action. Part of me's absolutely ready to kick ass over this damned stalking. Bad enough when it happens to citizens I don't know personally, good people caught in ugly situations stemming from twisted emotions.
But this is personal. I know Heather. Not as well as I'd like to on a whole bunch of levels, but that's neither here nor there. The fact remains that this ugly string of incidents is pissing me off to the Nth degree now. I have to keep a lid on it though because I don't want to upset Heather anymore than she already is, and because right now isn't the time to vent. First we catch the weasel, THEN I can have a skank barbeque.
Speaking of barbeque, I'm feeling a different kind of heat too, one that's not the sort I can even begin to pretend isn't there. I'm talking about holding Heather; simply having permission to pull her to me to reassure her. The feel of those curves against me burns right through whatever layers of clothing are between us. It's been so damned long since I've had anyone take comfort from me in this way.
God I've missed having a woman in my arms.
Actually I've missed having a woman in a lot of other places, but that's not the primary issue here. Heather is counting on me to help her, and I'm not about to let her down. So I go back out and greet Catherine over by the Miata. She's already got gloves on and has bagged the body; it's on the sidewalk. The patrolman is keeping the few nosy neighbors busy by talking to them, giving me a chance to do the same with Catherine. She jumps right into it, all business.
"Can't tell you for sure but it looks as if kitty here had her throat slit. There are a few drops along the sidewalk but not many. I think our stalker killed kitty up the street and carried it in a paper bag or shopping bag before dumping it here. How's Heather?"
Something in her tone makes me turn up my blandest expression. Catherine's good at intuition, frighteningly so at times, and I suspect she probably smells my blend of testosterone and anxiety. Sort of an Eau de Infatuation. She's seen me talking to Heather and obviously put a few pieces together without comment, so I give a sigh.
"A little upset, but it takes a lot to rattle her cage."
"Know that for a fact?" Catherine teases, then gives me a little shake of her head, "Not my business, I know. Sorry."
"It's okay. So what else have you got?"
"Valesco out in QD says the notes are extremely weird. Something about a personality disorder, big surprise, but also some inconsistencies not only from note to note, practically line to line. They have male and female characteristics, as if the writer is having some identity issues."
I ponder that for a moment and realize it fits the profile of a few of Heather's associates. She's got three recently fired employees, two of whom we've talked to. The third is supposedly out of town until next week, but we've been trying to track him down. One out for stealing, one for personal reasons, and the other for chronic absenteeism—all legitimate grounds for letting them go, but three suspects isn't making my job any easier. My frustration must show on my face because Catherine is shooting me a look of determination.
"Jim, I've got some hairs that don't come from kitty, and a possible partial bloody print here on the back of the seat, so the evidence is looking hot at the moment. Let me get this back to the lab and we may be able to put a name to our perp."
"Beautiful. I'm camping out here for a while, so you know where to reach me. Taking the cat with you?"
Catherine sighs. "Oh yeah, puss in bag. I hope it wasn't hers."
I shake my head. It's a small comfort, but I'm glad the pet wasn't Heather's.
By the time the black and white and Catherine are gone it's getting near twilight. Heather is still on the porch, arms crossed, rubbing her shoulders, looking tense. I motion for her to go inside and she does with me right behind her. Heather moves to the kitchen to pull a pair of bottled waters out and hands one to me.
It tastes good going down, and helps ease some of the awkwardness between us. I appreciate the gesture, knowing that she's making the effort to relax. She tips her head at me and shakes her bangs a bit.
"So. It's Saturday evening for a pair of night owls. What do you do on your nights off, Jim? " she asks me softly before sipping her bottle. I shrug.
"Hockey. A good book. Maybe some household chores I didn't get to during the week."
She smiles at me, and I see again how deep her dimples are when she does, little sweet commas framing her mouth. She sets her water down, and moves past me, brushing lightly, looking back over her shoulder.
"How are you at folding laundry?" Heather demands, looking like her old self for the first time all evening. I grin.
"My towels haven't complained yet."
I'm parked in front of a television screen wider than Schwartzenegger's chest, with the third quarter of a grudge match between the Red Wings and the Ducks playing and the amazing thing is that my attention is not on the screen. One very big distraction is keeping me from enjoying my hockey fix here.
Heather is off in the back of the house, showering. I can hear the water, the muted hiss of those dual showerheads coming through under the timbre of the announcer's voice. That subtle sound is driving me nuts along with the knowledge that she's less than twenty feet away from me.
Naked.
Wet.
And without a doubt, gorgeous.
Oy! Torture like this I do not need, particularly since I'm supposed to be listening for anyone creeping around outside. My attention should be focused on the job, not the perks. Part of me is totally annoyed that it's come to this. Heather is my friend, and more importantly my responsibility tonight. This isn't a social visit, it's a duty, and even though there's hockey on, that alone should be the extent of my personal indulgences, right?
Yeah, tell that to my . . . never mind. We've already got an uneasy understanding about Heather because what a single, slightly desperate grown man indulges in once in a while in the privacy of his own bedroom isn't really the issue right now. Every person has his make your own entertainment moments and yours truly here is no exception. So while I might treat myself to thoughts that are taboo, there's a time and place for it and it ain't here.
Then I hear the shower stop, and that doesn't help at ALL.
Because now I know she's all sleek and wet, stepping out and reaching for a towel. Cutting off that thought I get up and stalk over to the kitchen window, twitching back a tiny edge of curtain to look out. Pretty peaceful neighborhood. A few people out, walking dogs in a group. I sigh.
Dinner was good. Heather made something called twelve Clove Chicken, using the garlic press I got her for her birthday. Baking made the garlic lose its sharpness, so the mellow flavor was terrific on the chicken and over a bed of rice. The whole time we ate Heather was making jokes about how the two of us wouldn't need any stakes or crosses to ward off vampires now. That led to a discussion of horror films and who was the best Dracula, and we ended up agreeing that Christopher Lee single-handedly put the ham in Hammer Films.
I watched her clear the table, and it dawned on me that life was really good at that point. Except for the threat outside, I could be perfectly content with having Heather bustling around in a kitchen, chatting to me like this for the next twenty, thirty years of my life. We have rapport; we click in meaningful ways. And just as this little insight is bowling me over, she leans down, kisses the top of my head, then asks me to take out the garbage.
I know better than to fight the domestication of Jim Brass.
A sound behind me makes me turn from the window and I see Heather coming towards me, damp and clean, her hair still turbaned in a towel. She's got on fuzzy button-down flannel pajamas in her namesake shade, showing off her curves in an almost innocent way. Almost. Her expression asks the question and I shake my head.
"Ah. And how is your hockey team doing then?"
I glance guiltily at the screen, realizing I have no clue what the score is.
HEATHER
In this strange good news/bad news situation, Jim is definitely the good part of the equation tonight. I can't really explain it, but just having him around is calming, even though I feel my pulse speed up every time he leans close to me, or hugs me. If I had to put it in easier terms I suppose it would be safe to say he's very grounding for me.
Comforting.
I definitely LIKE being comforted by Jim. Feeling his arms around me shifts tension from my shoulders to my lower stomach and thighs. Places where I haven't felt tension in a long, long time. I'm human enough to know part of this is sheer animal attraction and I refuse to fight it anymore.
Jim still is.
So I'm very careful not to tease, not to push him beyond the limits he's set for himself, even if that frustrates me a little. He's worth waiting for, and right now I content myself in appreciating every moment together. I've been able to get through six years of non-involvement; surely I can manage a few months more?
And they believe only men take cold showers. Still, I needed to wash away the memory of the cat and concentrate on who might be doing this. I know the police have talked to Sammie and Diana, but where Javier has gone I have no idea. He always did have a restless persona, which made him so good on the interactive website. And that reminds me that I've got to set up interviews for next week, if Pauline has any replacement candidates ready.
Jim is looking perplexed; I look around, pulling the towel from my hair and drying my ears a bit.
"Missed the end of it?"
"Ah, yeah. Thought I'd check the view from the window and see if anything suspicious is happening. You have a lot of pet owning neighbors."
"It's suburbia," I remind him as I finger-comb my hair. "People here have mortgages, pets, children . . ."
" . . . Lives," he finishes with a small unreadable smile, which confuses me. I shrug at that, and Jim's eyes crinkle up a bit. He points with his chin back to the living room, then settles in on one end of the sofa, back in a comfort zone. I curl up on the other end facing him and check my fingernails, deciding I don't need to redo the polish until tomorrow, but the toes could probably use a new shade. He looks at my toes with me.
"Why do you do that? You hardly ever wear sandals, and none of your standard work stilettos are open, so no one's going to see them--why do you polish your toenails, Heather?" he asks in a warm, curious tone, and I feel a tingle at the hint of flirtation in his words. Gently, I extend a foot out in front of us both, flexing it a bit.
"Because when I was an Avon lady, I was obliged to wear their makeup as part of my employment and got into the habit. I like the sense of pampering that polishing my toenails gives me."
He rolls his eyes good-naturedly at that, and I find myself laughing at his reaction, simply enjoying his masculine amusement. Lightly I bat his shoulder with my toes; he turns to face me.
"Oh come on, even I earn the right pamper myself once in a while you know. I work hard for the money."
Jim nods quickly; then he catches my feet in his hands and I quiver at the warm press of them against my heels, the balls of my feet.
"Considering what you put these tootsies into every night, I'd have to agree. You know, way too many professions in this town are cruel to women's feet."
As he speaks he's rubbing, oh dear Lord the sweet strength of his fingers along my insoles has me clutching at the sofa arm in sheer bliss. Powerful careful strokes of his thumbs along the bottoms of my feet, subtle pressure against my toes, flexing them in a slow easy way that has me close to gasping out loud. Jim looks up, gauges my expression.
"Is this okay?"
"Lovely," I choke, on the verge of purring. Through my pleasure I realize how big his palms are, and how he's being careful to hold back his grip as he continues his thoughtful, sensual massage. When he starts slowly lacing his fingers between my toes though, the tickle is too much and I squeal.
"Jim, Jim--!"
He stops, shoots me a soft little glance and gently sets my feet down on the sofa cushion between us. The loss of his touch makes me sigh with disappointment. I shoot him a slightly pleading look, hoping he'll know what I want. Lightly he runs a finger over the top of my left foot.
"You don't have to stop—"
"Yes, I do," he tells me abruptly. His slightly woebegone expression hits me at that moment, his look of yearning, and I can't stand it one minute more. Very carefully I shift forward towards him, passing through that delicate border of personal space. Jim watches me, never blinking, and I can see how utterly soulful his eyes really are.
Intense. This lovely moment is so full of promise and tension.
"Why?" I breathe on him, drinking in the details of his face, so familiar to me now: the small laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, the snub end of his nose, his long eyelashes.
"Because I still can," he admits, swallowing hard. And that's what does it, that little innocent sign that Jim Brass is definitely as attracted to me as I am to him. Very slowly, I lean closer and kiss him.
Oh yessss. Firm lips, very warm, tempting me on. Heat's flaring now, from his skin, from mine, merging as I my eyes flutter closed, all the better to focus on the taste of him. Before I can even think about it, my tongue slips out to lightly brush his lower lip, tickling it, teasing it. Jim moves, one big hand cupping the back of my neck gently and deepens the kiss with such a degree of controlled passion that I begin to melt against him.
Oh God, who could have known he could KISS like this? I can't think, I can't stop, all I can do it hang on and let my tongue follow the lead of his, stroking and sliding ever so sweetly deeper into my mouth. For once in my life I actually resent having to breathe since it forces me to pull away and gasp a little.
"Ohhhh!" I can feel my blush, flaring across my face. I must look like a Beefsteak tomato right now, but it doesn't matter because Jim's indigo eyes are half-closed, his smile secret and sweet.
"You are a helluva temptation, Heather," he tells me huskily, his words slow and serious. It's a compliment and a plea all in one, warming the rest of me right down to my toes because he means it so much. I can't think of an answer, so I slowly kiss him again, letting my hands come up to cup his face and keep him right with me as I do so.
Yielding, he lets me kiss him this time, smiling against my lips, letting my tongue explore the hot flavor of his mouth. It's divine. Jim tastes wonderful, faintly of dinner, mostly of himself and I feast on him, breaking away to kiss his nose, his cheeks, his chin. By now I'm practically sprawled on him, like some sort of possessive Siamese, but he's got his arms around me in that hug I know is mine alone.
And this is very good.
BRASS
I owe Oscar Wilde one hell of a thank you. Yielding to temptation is absolutely the way to go when it's in a nicely packaged one hundred and fifteen pounds of Heather Marazek draped on my chest kissing the living daylights out of me. And brother, can this woman kiss—lush hot little mouth, mine for the plundering at the moment so I'm not wasting any time in getting to know that teasing tongue of hers. Against mine, it's sweeter than honey, sinuous and silky.
A few more kisses, slower now, easy give and take as we learn what we like, what we need. I'm not sure about her, but I'm getting a lot of needs met at the moment. Not just the physical stuff, although that's incredible, but more like an infusion of faith in me. Unbelievable. Heather kisses with her whole heart behind it and it's almost too much to take in, this blending of animal and spiritual passion.
But I'm giving as good as I get—trying anyway. I haven't kissed anyone like this in longer than I care to admit, which explains part of the hunger. Her taste, her scent, her warm weight, oh man—it's good I'm not as impulsive as I used to be, or things would be getting WAY out of hand. Much as I want Heather, I'm not going to screw this up.
By the time we've slackened up to a quiet cuddle, I can feel the soft vibration of her laugh through her chest against mine. She tips her face up to me, those eyes amazingly bright.
"Oh Jim, you have NO idea how much I've needed to do that . . ." she informs me in that shyly formal tone of hers. I used to think it was a bit standoffish, but now I know it's just her way. I keep stroking her long back, the width of my palms almost spanning her small waist. Heather wants to use me for a mattress; hey, I'm good with it here.
Even if I am a bit--lumpy--in areas.
"Not half as much as I have, sweetheart," I counter honestly. Sure it's an old-fashioned term of endearment, but her smile widens a bit, and she rubs her nose on mine. Before either of us can say a word through, I hear the sound of footsteps outside, scurrying beyond the window. And that kicks it right there.
Libido off, Cop mode on.
I gently shift Heather off of me and move to the kitchen, grabbing my gun from my holster in one quiet move. I'm glad I still have my shoes on. She looks to me, alert and tense but quiet; letting me do my job, thank God. I motion for her to stay put, then move out through the sliding glass door into the backyard, taking a moment to listen.
More footfalls, muffled by grass, but still too heavy for a loose dog. I quietly unlatch the fence gate and slip through, holding the gun low, trying to stay in the shadow of the side of the house and peer around the corner.
Short figure in black sweats and hooded shirt, fumbling with an olive drab canister I recognize: Tear gas, military issue. Definitely a nasty no-no, and more than enough to rack up a few charges. I push away from the wall and brace myself, bringing my Glock up. There's enough light from the streetlight and the porch so that I'm pretty visible.
"Drop it and put your hands up!" I call to the punk. He swings towards me, his body language almost comical. The canister rolls from his hands and lands with a soft 'thump' in the grass as I advance, keeping my sights on him.
"Wanna tell me what you're doing on private property with an illegal weapon, pal?"
"It's not a weapon," comes his whiny protest. I get closer and realize something's off about this kid.
The rounded hips, the contralto voice--as I motion for him pull back the hood, I see a face I recognize.
Sammie Torado, former employee of the Dominion, and thief, according to Heather's report. The light-fingered lady who managed to pilfer funds that weren't hers.
And was fired for it.
The strobing lights of a black and white flicker over the yard as it rolls up and the officers launch themselves out, flanking me. Sammie shoots hateful looks at all of us, but I'm not worried about my feelings getting hurt by that glare. I motion for the officers to disarm and cuff her, then walk over to Heather, who's at the front door, phone in hand. She blinks for a moment, then slides an arm around me and hugs tightly. Very tightly.
"That was frightening," she murmurs in a voice she's barely got under control and I nod a little.
"A little," I agree, feeling the adrenaline start to fade. I've got a long night ahead of me now—questioning, booking and filing. So much for a quiet night on the sofa with Heather. I sigh, and she rests her head on my shoulder, lips against my neck in an amazingly sensual press as she speaks.
"I guess this means you have to go . . ."
"Yeah." What I wouldn't give to get out of it, but it's my case and Heather's safety, so it's gotta be done. I wave to the black and white; it rolls off with Sammie in the back. Heather reluctantly pulls away from me, going into the house and I follow her.
She helps me into my jacket, smoothing the collar, touching in all those ways a woman does when she's trying to be strong. Once we reach her door I kiss her again, soft and deep, tasting her sweetness; for a moment we cling together in a warm tight bond that goes beyond words. Finally Heather smiles up at me.
"When this is all over and done, I think we ought to celebrate, don't you?"
I smile at her.
"I know just the place to go--"
See Chapter 8