Dedication: I had to do it. Straight up, this goes out to ScullyasTrinity, whose writing kicks ass! If you have not read Stalemate in a Sandbox, you need to drop everything and read it this instant. It is…HOT. I so had to take a cold shower after chapters four, five, AND six. Damn. So Scully, here's to you! This is actually a really crappy chapter, though, so I'll write a better one later and send that one out to you, too. Does that work for you?
By the time their flight landed in Ft. Walton Beach, Grissom and Sara were exhausted. Standing at the luggage carousel waiting for their bags, Grissom glanced down at his watch and was shocked that it was only 1 am local time. That meant it was only ten pm back in Vegas. His body felt like it was about 4 in the morning. He always had that reaction to air travel, though. 'Yeah,' he thought wryly, 'and I'm sure the three orgasms in less than fifteen hours didn't have anything to do with it…' Sara could comfort him all she wanted about their age difference, but there was no mistaking the fact that three orgasms within the course of one day was nothing short of exhausting for a 48 year-old man.
Shaking himself back to reality, he glanced over at his new lover. Sara looked like she was about to drop. The realization made Grissom feel somewhat better. 'Ok, so maybe it's not just me,' he mused.
He nearly groaned with relief when their baggage came into view. They grabbed their stuff and staggered through the airport to the Hertz rental counter. He glanced up at the woman at the counter and mumbled, "I have a car reserved. Grissom."
Grissom could only thank God that this woman was polite and extremely efficient. In no time, the proper papers were signed and they were declared ready to go. As a final courtesy, she asked if they needed a map. Grissom considered, then said, "Um, well, we're heading to Destin. My directions say to turn on to Gulf Shore Drive from Highway 98, and it's pretty straightforward after that, but I've never been here before and I don't have the faintest idea of how to find Highway 98." He clamped his mouth shut as he realized he was babbling in his exhaustion. The woman gave him a sympathetic smile.
"Well," she began, "you're in luck. It's pretty much a straight shot out to 98 from here. Once you get there, turn left and just keep going. You'll cross the Destin Bridge and Gulf Shore Drive is only a mile or so past that. It'll be a right-hand turn from this direction. Oh, and I don't know if you know this, but Britney Spears has a house on Holiday Isle." She shrugged. Grissom had absolutely no clue what she was talking about. Holiday Isle? Deciding it wasn't worth the mental energy it would take to figure it out, Grissom made a mental note of her directions, thanked her for her time, and headed with Sara out to the curb to get their car.
When they made it to the curb, Sara was more than a little surprised to see a gold-colored Chrysler Sebring convertible waiting on them. She raised a tired eyebrow at Grissom, who shrugged in response. "Didn't seem right to do Florida in anything other than a ragtop," he said. "What's the point of riding around in the sunshine if you can't enjoy it?"
He popped the trunk of the Sebring and hoisted their luggage in. He walked to the passenger door and opened it for Sara, then shuffled to the driver's side. Settling into the seat, he began to feel slightly more energized. He decided maybe the salty air would do them some good; reaching down between the seats, he found the button that would retract the convertible top.
"Mmm," Sara sounded as sky came into view. "I could get used to this."
----------
Half an hour later, they were making a right-hand turn onto Gulf Shore Drive. Sara was now holding the directions that Charlie had emailed him. "It says here that you'll go for about a quarter of a mile, and the road will make a sharp, 90-degree curve," she began. As Grissom approached the curve, he saw a large sign reading "Welcome to Holiday Isle."
"Oh," he muttered. "Now it makes sense."
"Now what makes sense?"
"When I told the lady at the rental counter that we were going to be turning onto Gulf Shore Drive, she told me that Britney Spears has a house on Holiday Isle, and I had no clue what she was talking about—"
"Which part?" Sara interrupted. "Who Britney Spears was, or the Holiday Isle part?" she teased.
"Shut up," he grumbled, pretending to look hurt. "I'm old, not dead. I know exactly who Britney Spears is," he said, teasing her right back. "I didn't know what she was talking about when she said Holiday Isle. I guess that sign explains it."
Sara cut in to read more instructions. "It's the second road to the right. Norriego Road." He followed her directions. "Now left on Vera Cruz. The house is on the left, it says." Finding the house, he pulled into the driveway. It was not spectacular, like some of the luxurious homes they had passed on the way in, but he knew that in this area of prime real estate, a friggin' outhouse would run you several hundred thousand dollars.
"Uh, Griss?" Sara's voice interrupted his deep contemplation of outhouse real estate values. "Does your friend Charlie leave a key under the mat, or what? He lives in Tennessee, right?"
Grissom gave her a withering stare. "Sara. Get real. The next-door neighbor has a spare key, and he was supposed to leave it in the lamppost by the door earlier this evening." He couldn't believe that Sara actually believed he would go to all of this trouble and not even think about how to get in the house. Sheesh.
She gave him a tired grin, properly chastised.
Five minutes later, they and their luggage were safe inside the house, exploring their home for the next week. The ground floor, although above ground, essentially functioned as a basement. A double garage took up half of the ground floor, and the other half consisted of two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a foyer with stairs leading up to the main floor. The main floor had four bedrooms, two on each side of the house. The two sets of bedrooms each shared a conjoined bath. The central living area consisted of a large kitchen/dining/living room. A sliding door in the living area led out onto a huge deck, jutting out over the man-made canal that the house was situated on. Directly underneath the deck was a double boat slip, which housed a pontoon boat and a WaveRunner. Stairs led from the upper deck down to a lower deck, where a pool and hot tub could be seen.
"Wow," Sara breathed as she took in the sight. "I can't wait to see this in the daylight," she murmured. Grissom bent and kissed the top of her head in reply. Turning back toward the living area, she took in the décor. She chuckled as she realized why it felt so homey here. It was obvious that the house was owned by an entomologist. On one wall was your typical, run-of-the-mill beach house décor—a hanging fishing net, a large framed display of just about every nautical knot known to man, and a dazzling framed picture labeled "Choctawhatchee Bay at Sunset." The other wall, however, was entomological paradise. There was the requisite collection of mounted butterflies, but it was dwarfed compared to the collection of mounted insects that Sara didn't recognize. She was looking at them quizzically when Grissom stepped up behind her.
"Stoneflies," he said. "Charlie's area of expertise is Order Plecoptera."
Sara rolled her eyes. "You guys…" she began, "are so damn weird."
In a sudden burst of playful energy, Grissom grabbed Sara around the waist from behind, picked her up off the floor and carried her squirming and shrieking into what he guessed was the master bedroom. He tossed her in a heap onto the bed and dove after her. He flipped her on her back and pulled her hands over her head. He pinned both of her wrists in one large hand and used the other one to tickle her belly. When she was laughing so hard that tiny tears were squeezing from beneath her eyelids, he finally released her, breathless and gasping. As he collapsed on the bed next to her, he said, "That was for calling me weird." This only made her laugh harder.
A few moments passed in silence, and they could both feel their fatigue weighing them down. Finally Grissom sat up and said, "How 'bout I bring the luggage in here and we get some sleep? We can finish exploring tomorrow after we're more rested." Sara murmured her agreement.
A few minutes later, Sara and Grissom were comfortably ensconced in each other's arms, drifting off to sleep. The last thing Sara was aware of hearing before sleep overtook her was the voice of the man she loved saying, "God, I love you, Sara Sidle."
A/N: Yes, in case you're wondering, the "Charlie" who owns the house is an actual person—not that I have or ever will call him by his first name. He is the head of the biology department at my alma mater (he was also my adviser and mentor), and a damn fine entomologist who taught me everything I know. He does indeed specialize in Plecopterans, and I just figured if I'm going to write a story that has anything to do with an entomologist, he ought to get some props. So there. :)
And yes, Britney Spears really does own a house on Holiday Isle. The house I described is actually the house that my family rents every summer—even the street names are real. Go ahead, look it up on Mapquest! I dare ya.
Is anybody still reading this fluff? Have I completely lost my mind? Is it just me, or is there an echo in here? Hello? Helloooo?