A/N: Oww, I'm back! Be cool, my babies! ...Sorry, that was my Conan O'Brien moment. Well, here I am again, and thank you so much for all your reviews! I'm glad you like DeMarco, or at least what little you've read about him as yet. If anyone is having trouble imagining what he looks like, I've just been picturing James Franco, because he's got dark hair and eyes, a tan complexion, and a cute smile. So yeah. But that was just the prologue, baby! Back to Rhodes and Bridges!
Disclaimer: 'The Collection' is mine, but I owe my inspiration to Conan Doyle. May he be praised for his genius.
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The Collection
a modern Sherlock Holmes fanfiction
by Wakizashi
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Chapter One: The Date
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"We that are true lovers run into strange capers."
-Touchstone, As You Like It, act 2
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The girl in the white dress holds her hands behind her back, smiling mischievously. There can be no arguing that she is her father's daughter; she has his blonde hair and deep blue eyes. In spite of the dimness of the long, opulent hallway, her dress and her silky yellow hair seem to give off an ethereal glow. Even as her older brother glares at her, her smile grows wider, showing the small gap between her front teeth.
"Whatever you've got, Alice, give it back right now," her brother growls, his dark eyebrows knitting in irritation.
The girl only giggles. "Not yet," she replies in her lilting Southern belle voice. "First you have to guess which hand it's in."
Not bothering to suppress a groan, her brother leans against the ornately carved wall moldings. "I don't care which hand it's in," he says impatiently. "And I don't have time for your nonsense. Now give me back whatever it is you stole, and stop going in my room without my permission."
"You are so incredibly boring," the girl complains, rolling her eyes. "All you ever do is study, and play backgammon with your weird friends, and read those creepy true crime stories. If you want to be a private eye so bad, then guess which hand it's in!"
The boy shoots her a venomous look. "Criminal investigator, not private eye," he says with condescending slowness. "And if I'm so boring, why is it that you insist on filching my stuff?"
"Oh, get a life," the girl replies calmly, to her brother's righteous indignation. "Did it ever occur to you that I might just want to spend time with my boring brother?"
"No, never," he says instantly. "Now hand it over."
"Fine," the girl says, sighing theatrically as she pulls a small red pocketknife from behind her back. "I don't know why you care. You never use it anyway."
At this the boy's pale green eyes grow as round as saucers. "Alice, give me that right now!" he demands. "You know Mother gave that to me!"
"All right, I'm sorry. I'll give it back." Suddenly she grins. "After you catch me!" And she is off like a shot down the dark hallway.
The boy raises his eyes to the ceiling, muttering wordlessly to himself. Then he sprints off after her. The corridor is filled with tapestries and oil paintings, and as he runs, he passes scores of grim, frowning ancestors. He sees a flash of white fabric darting through a doorway, and he smiles to himself. She's cornered.
Edging forward silently toward the open door, he suddenly bursts into the room. "Alice, when I get my hands on you, I'll--"
But his threat is left unvocalized. For though this should be what was once his mother's sewing room, he instead finds himself in another long corridor. No; the same corridor. He frowns in confusion and turns toward the door he came through. A blank wall.
The boy swallows his unease and begins to walk down the hallway, passing the same doors, the same stern faces. He clears his throat. "Alice?" The name comes out in a weak croak. There is no answer. The portraits seem to glare down at him in disapproval.
And then he hears the scream.
His stomach gives a hideous lurch. "Alice?" he calls out, a little louder this time.
"Ethan! Ethan, help me!"
His long, lanky legs suddenly seem to act independently of his body, carrying him faster than he ever thought possible. But all too soon, he finds himself at a dead-end. He passes through the nearest door, and staggers yet again into the same hallway.
"Ethan, help! Please!" Another heart-freezing scream.
"I'm coming, Alice!" he shouts. He tries another door at random, but it is the same as before: the same dim corridor with the accusing faces. He keeps running.
Soon he arrives at yet another dead-end, only now there are no doors, no other choices. He skids to a stop, breathing hard, searching frantically, desperately, for another way out. In his blind panic he fails to notice the object on the floor until he stumbles over it. Quickly regaining his balance, he reaches down and picks it up.
A brown stuffed teddy bear.
"Alice!"
----
With a choked gasp, Ethan Rhodes sits bolt upright in his massive oak bed, drenched in a freezing sweat. For a long time he remains motionless, his eyes staring out into the darkness of his room without actually seeing anything. And then he takes a slow, shuddering breath and leans forward, putting his ashen face into his hands.
He already knows he will not be sleeping any more tonight.
He sits like this for a while, his knees drawn to his chest and his head in his hands. The only sounds are the occasional passing car out in the street below his window, and his own shallow breathing. Finally he mutters a very uncharacteristic curse, throws off his covers, and climbs out of bed.
Cringing instantly the moment his feet touch the cold floor, Rhodes snatches a t-shirt off a nearby chair and jerks it down over his pale, naked torso. His every movement is stiff and agitated, and his eyes studiously avoid landing on the stuffed bear on his bedside table.
After shrugging into his robe - a dark gray dressing-gown given to him on his last birthday and treasured most devotedly - Rhodes shuffles out of his room and down the stairs. As he flicks on the kitchen light, the hanging copper pots cast strange shadows on the raw-sienna colored walls. He stands there for a moment, shivering slightly and wondering absently what he is doing. He contemplates making a pot of tea, and even gets as far as laying a hand on the kettle, but instead retrieves from the refrigerator one of the Jones sodas he keeps stocked for visitors - or at least, one visitor in particular.
He pulls a bar stool up to the white-and-blue tiled counter and sits down, taking a long drink from the bottle. Inevitably, his thoughts drift back to his dream - or, more accurately, his nightmare. Rhodes has never been the most sound sleeper, but these recent Kafkaesque night terrors have not plagued him for years... not since he lost her. In truth, he has not had slept nightmare-free since Bridges was good enough to keep him company on Christmas night - under the strictest propriety, of course.
Bridges. It always seems to come down to Bridges. As he stares at the bottle of freakishly green liquid, Rhodes reflects on how much his best friend resembles her favorite beverage - sweet, colorful, bubbly. And unlike him in almost every way. Yet somehow, she is so utterly perfect for him. He only wishes he was as perfect for her.
Nadia Lynn Bridges walked into his life the morning he decided to get his last cup of coffee. She walked in with her freckled nose, her cheeky grin, and her waitress's apron, and he knew instantly that she was there for a reason: to give him something to live for. There was one stupid, agonizing moment when he almost lost her, but never again will he let that happen. His world moves for Bridges.
Suddenly he misses her terribly.
It has been almost a week since the last time he saw her, which was that very eventful New Year's Day. She returned to her massage clinic to find herself swamped with appointments; holiday-related stress seemed to be the most common culprit. Rhodes knows she must be worn out, and secretly - very secretly - he wishes she would quit her job and join him more fully in their detective work, but he knows better than to voice his opinion. When Bridges devotes herself to something, she clings to it like a barnacle.
Still, a week without her is an unpleasant sensation. Rhodes always feels her absence acutely whenever she travels up to Washington to visit her father and her high school friends. But knowing she is close and being unable to see her is simply intolerable. He knows he has become almost dependent on her, but there are worse addictions.
Involuntarily, his eyes drift to the telephone. If he could just hear her voice, that might be enough... But then he sees the time on the microwave: 3:41. Even Rhodes is not that completely selfish and inconsiderate.
Instead, after tossing the empty bottle into the recycle bin, he picks up his leather pocketbook, which somehow, in its travels, ended up on the kitchen table. Falling into a chair, he opens the pocketbook and takes out a much-handled photograph. It was taken by Bridges's friend, Alma Dominguez, during one of the times he accompanied Bridges to Olympia, and sent to him without his partner's knowledge.
It shows them both at a restaurant, in formal-wear. Bridges is wearing a form-fitting, cream-colored dress, and has her hands wrapped tightly around Rhodes's arm. Rhodes, in contrast, has his eyes locked on her, a slight but noticeable blush on his pale face. The reverse side of the photograph, if he cared to look, bears a short note in Alma's handwriting: "You know you want her." Along with a doodle of a face with hearts for eyes. Rhodes later repaid her kind gift by thoughtfully putting a rubber snake in her purse.
Even now, he is as mesmerized by the sight of Bridges as he was the night the photograph was taken. Though the picture is a poor substitute for flesh and blood, it still manages to capture her fun-loving, effervescent spirit. He stares at it fixedly, as if willing her to materialize in front of him. Then he puts it down with a groan, resting his shaggy head in his arms.
There are only so many nights a man can successfully go without sleep, until he has no option but to succumb to a nervous breakdown.
----
A storm was raging down on San Francisco, California. The rain saturated everything, driving people inside buildings and into cars. The howling wind whipped through the lashing trees, tearing the leaves from their branches. A thick, impenetrable fog covered the city, and the headlights of the cars were barely able to pierce it.
And yet I walked through the wind-ravaged city, singing merrily to myself as I struggled to keep my bright yellow umbrella from being pulled out of my hands and into some unfortunate person's windshield. "Here comes the sun, doot-n' doo doo," I sang, oblivious to the bewildered and occasionally affronted glances of the few people that shared the street with me. "Here comes the sun, and I say, it's all right!"
Ah, how good it was to be in love.
It was January sixth, six days from New Year's Day. Six days since that blissful moment when Ethan Nicholas Rhodes, my partner, best friend, and the man I loved with all my heart and soul, had taken me into his arms and kissed me with such passion that I thought I would pass out from lack of air. I still hadn't caught my breath.
Unfortunately, I had not seen much of Rhodes since then. I had to work all week, and not to sound like some pining teenager, I ached every moment I wasn't in his long, wiry arms. But he had called me every day, sometimes at work. He asked me how I was doing, and told me he missed me. I blushed just thinking about the intimacy of our conversations, intimacy we never had before, when we were friends and nothing more.
Today was Friday. Once my work day was over, I would have the rest of the weekend to spend with Rhodes. The thought gave me a delicious shiver.
I continued down the hill and turned onto Market Street, dodging a newspaper that almost flew into my face. I stopped at the big glass windows with the words Bay Area Massage Clinic etched in large white letters, and I pushed the door open.
"I have arrived!" I announced to anyone who had sought refuge from the storm inside the massage clinic this morning. In this case, the only other person in the waiting area was the clinic's receptionist, Stephanie Boggs; a tall young woman with blonde hair and cute cat-eye glasses.
"Little darling," I continued singing as I hung my coat up and shook the rain from my umbrella, "it's been a long, cold, looonely winter..."
Stephanie looked up from the computer on her desk with a wry smile. "Morning, Nadia," she said, raising a knowing eyebrow. "I can see this weather's had no affect on you. Still have dear Rhodes on the brain, do we?"
"Dear Rhodes," I repeated wistfully, and Stephanie laughed. "Any appointments today?" I asked her.
"Just a few," she replied, consulting the monitor. "A lot of people called in and cancelled before you got here. I guess they thought a good massage wasn't worth going out in the storm for."
"Ah, well, their loss." I cracked my knuckles lazily. Massage therapy was tiring work. One needed, not only a strong pair of hands, but the endurance not to get burned out during an hour-long session. And it wasn't always pleasant work, either; unless a client had a body like, well, Rhodes's, for example, it was sometimes difficult not to recoil from the occasional rolls of fat or liver-spotted wrinkles that I had to force myself to touch.
Today, however, I felt good; danged good. I felt especially strong, and by the time our lunch break rolled around, I was only experiencing a slight stiffness in my shoulders. Still, I had to remind myself to schedule a massage of my own some time in the future.
As I bit into the chicken pita I had brought for lunch, the phone rang. Stephanie had gone out to the Subway down the street, so I quickly swallowed what I had been chewing and picked up the handset. "Bay Area Massage Clinic, how may I help you?" I asked politely.
"Nadia, is that you?"
I blinked. "Ed?" I said, somewhat surprised that my sort-of friend, FBI Special Agent Edward Solomon, would be calling me at my workplace. "What's up?"
"You wouldn't know where Rhodes is by any chance, would you?" he asked in his gruff voice. "I tried his condo, but there was no answer. And his cell phone's turned off."
"I haven't talked to him since last night," I replied. Then I frowned in concern. "Why, is something wrong?"
Solomon cleared his throat. "Nah, it's... it's nothing, I'll tell you later. But if you see Rhodes, or talk to him, would you tell him to give me a call?"
"Yeah, of course," I said, perplexed. "Are you sure nothing's wrong?"
There was a click, and the dial tone hummed monotonously in my ear. Frowning again, I shrugged and hung up the phone. "Weirdo," I muttered to myself.
Suddenly there was a light knock on the door, and I looked up. Beyond the broad windows, a black 2002 Ford Thunderbird was parked next to the sidewalk, its convertible top closed against the fury of the storm. The door opened, and Ethan Rhodes stepped inside the waiting room, shaking the rain out of his shaggy black hair.
Without a word, I tossed the remains of my lunch onto the receptionist's desk and came forward into his arms, my heart leaping into my throat as he bent down and kissed me lightly on the mouth. "Enjoying the weather?" he asked in his dry Southern accent.
"Immensely," I replied, grinning. He laughed softly to himself. "God, I haven't seen you in eons. What are you doing here?"
Rhodes raised his dark eyebrows in mock surprise. "Why, my dear Bridges, why else would I be here?" he exclaimed. "I came to make an appointment for a massage. Are there any therapists here that you might recommend?"
"You little schmuck," I said, shoving him playfully.
He chuckled again as he shrugged out of his overcoat and sat, or rather fell, into one of the chairs in the small waiting room. "I shouldn't think I'd need an excuse to see you, Bridges," he said quietly, leaning back and closing his eyes.
I smiled. "I know." As I plopped down beside Rhodes, I took the opportunity to look at him more closely. He was, of course, sharp and well-dressed in his usual monochromatic way, but there was something vaguely disheveled about him, something undefinable. Then my gaze lifted to his face, and I knew what it was. His pale cheeks had a hollow quality to them, and there were dark smudges under his long black eyelashes. He looked exhausted.
I opened my mouth to inquire about his health, but his voice cut me off before I could say anything. "So how has your morning gone so far?" he asked politely.
I blinked for a moment before realizing what he had asked. "Mm, pretty busy," I replied with a sigh. "What with the post-holiday stress and all. A few cancellations, but that's probably because of the storm."
Rhodes nodded slightly, his eyes still closed. "Right."
"Apparently some people would rather suffer than go out in the rain, even for a minute. But honestly, if you can't take the rain, what in the heck are you doing in San Francisco?"
"Mm-hmm."
I narrowed my eyes at Rhodes, beginning to suspect he wasn't really listening. I paused in thought. "Actually," I began casually, "I decided earlier this morning that I'm going to quit. Start my own clothing line."
Rhodes nodded again, his mind clearly somewhere else. "Really."
"Yeah, I'm going to call it 'The Emperor's New Clothes', and I'll be working with nothing but transparent materials - cellophane, bubble wrap, those kinds of things."
At last Rhodes's eyes opened, and he turned toward me very slowly. "What?"
It took all I had to keep a straight face. "Rhodes, I just told you I'm going to quit my job and become the designer of an obscene clothing line. Have you been listening to a word I've said?"
It was obvious he hadn't. "I'm sorry, Bridges," he said with a smile that would have been sheepish had he not looked so worn and haggard. "I can't seem to concentrate on anything today."
"Is that why you left your cell phone off?" I asked. "You know, Solomon has been trying to call you all day."
At this his light green eyes finally seemed to focus. "Whatever for?"
I shrugged. "I don't know, he wouldn't tell me. He just said he needed to talk to you about something."
Rhodes sighed and slid forward in his chair, staring down at his polished wingtips. "Probably something trivial, as usual," he said wearily. "If he bothered to develop a brain, he wouldn't need to consult me every twelve minutes."
"Hey," I said, putting my hand on his thin shoulder, "what's the matter? You look like you haven't slept for a week."
He chuckled under his breath, but it sounded cheerless. "As usual, you've managed to hit the nail right on the head," he replied, still staring listlessly at the floor. "Though it's been a bit longer than that. I haven't had a proper night's sleep since Christmas."
I frowned. "But that was when I - oh, right," I said, feeling my cheeks grow warm. "Poor thing." I rubbed his back soothingly for a moment, then began to massage his stiff neck and shoulders. He made a soft, contented sound, and I was abruptly reminded again of that Christmas night. I tried to push the thought out of my mind.
"So," I said after a short silence, still rubbing his shoulders, "do you want to do something after I get off work? Maybe go to a movie, or out to dinner or something?"
Rhodes sat up so suddenly that I let out an involuntary yelp of surprise. "Bridges!" he exclaimed, sounding almost affronted.
"What? What'd I do?" I asked, my heart still racing.
He stared at me in disbelief, his mouth half-open. Then apparently he realized I had no idea what had gotten into him, because he shook his head with a wry smile. "I'm... I'm sorry, it's just..." He shrugged slightly. "I was hoping I would be the one to ask you out on our first date."
I gasped as I became abruptly aware of my idiotic blunder. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! I had no idea that--" I smacked myself in the forehead with the heel of my palm. "I'm such a retard. Just... go ahead anyway. Forget I said anything."
I felt his chair shaking, and I realized Rhodes was laughing silently to himself. "Give me one moment," he said between his laughter. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "Bridges," he said very seriously, "would you like to go out with me tonight?"
I smiled. "Of course I would."
A grin lit up his tired face. "Good," he said. "I'll pick you up at your apartment at seven." I nodded, already giddy with anticipation, and stood up with Rhodes. "Well, I suppose I should let you get back to work."
"Yay," I said unenthusiastically. "I'll see you tonight. Try and get some rest, okay?"
Rhodes nodded vaguely, and pulled me into a long embrace. Then he kissed me again, longer this time, his arms tightening around my waist, and when he broke away, his lips lingered near mine. "Until tonight, Bridges," he murmured.
I nodded weakly. Giving my face one last caress, Rhodes threw on his coat and breezed out the door, passing Stephanie on the sidewalk and nodding cordially to her as he climbed into his Thunderbird and roared off into the storm.
Stephanie pushed open the door, carrying a Subway sandwich in one hand, eyebrows raised. "What's with you?" she asked. "Your face is as red as a stop sign."
"I..." I gave my head a shake to clear my thoughts and grinned stupidly. "I have a date."
----
I stepped back from the mirror, first to spray my perfume on my wrists and throat, then to critique my reflection. I wore turquoise halter dress with a matching shawl, and my honey brown hair was twisted back into a loose knot, a few stray pieces framing my face. With a last scrutinizing look at myself, I turned away and began strapping on a pair of high, beaded heels. I hope Rhodes doesn't hate bright colors on other people, I thought, wincing inwardly.
To be honest, I was nervous; insanely nervous. Which really didn't make sense, I thought to myself as I looked at the clock for the billionth time. Rhodes and I had been best friends for years. What should I have to be nervous about?
Almost immediately I realized, that was exactly it. Rhodes and I had been friends. Whatever we did together, wherever we went, we had been bound by the rules every man and woman had to abide by when they were just friends. And now, suddenly, we were more than friends. When we were near each other, there was no law that forbade us from closing the inches between us. There were no laws period.
Anything was possible.
At exactly seven o'clock, my doorbell buzzed. I took a deep breath, went to the door, and pulled it open.
Rhodes stood in the hallway, looking simply delectable, if still a little worn. He was dressed in one of his typical charcoal-gray suits, but for once he had chosen a silver tie in favor of his usually unbuttoned collar; the tie, I was pleased to note, that I had gotten him for Christmas. His shoes were shined to perfection, and his longish black hair was glossy and impeccable. In his hand was a bouquet of red roses.
"Bridges," he said, his eyes taking in every detail of me. "You... you look breathtaking."
I smiled, trying not to blush - and failing, I might add. "Thank you, Rhodes," I said bashfully, stepping back to let him inside. "The flowers are beautiful."
"The what? Oh," he blurted, looking briefly down at the bouquet before returning his attention to me. "Right. The flowers. They're for you," he added, handing them to me.
"I figured," I replied, laughing at his flustered behavior. I went into the kitchen, found a vase, and filled it with water. I put the roses in it, then set the vase on the coffee table in the living room, aware that Rhodes' eyes were following my every move. Finally I returned to him. "So. Where are we going?"
"Ah, yes," he said, coming back to earth. "Well, I thought we might each decide one thing for us to do, and the other has to go along with it, no matter what it is."
"Interesting idea," I answered, smiling. "I take it you've already made your decision."
"Perhaps."
"And I assume you already know what mine will be."
Rhodes smiled wanly. "Unfortunately, I do."
As it happened, he did, but that didn't faze me. So I graciously submitted to his event of choice, which turned out to be a concert at the Davies Symphony Hall. The concert was Bach, Rhodes's favorite composer, and I could easily understand why; the San Francisco Symphony orchestra performed an exquisite rendition of his "Overture No. 5 in E major". I was whistling the songs we had heard all the way back to the car.
However, the night had only just begun. I then took Rhodes, as he had suspected, to the bowling alley for two orders of nachos and ten frames of cosmic bowling. Rhodes looked as if he might vomit when I handed him a pair of multi-colored bowling shoes in his size, and we received a few looks as we bowled in our formal-wear, ridiculously incongruous in the casual setting, but it was all worth it. I am convinced that Rhodes had fun.
Finally we returned to his condominium, at his suggestion, for blackberry mochas. Rhodes frequently insisted that I made the best coffee he had ever tasted, and he took advantage of the fact every chance he got. As he held the door open for me, I felt that familiar pleasant sensation I always felt when I walked inside his condo. I felt comfortable here, safe.
I handed Rhodes my shawl as I took off my heels. The rain had never let up the entire night, and I was very grateful for his umbrella. As Rhodes hung up his coat, I padded into the kitchen, noticing for the first time how untidy everything looked. My partner was usually very fastidious with his place, and it was strange to see clothes hanging over chairs and dishes piled high in the sink. In the end I attributed it to his lack of sleep.
"You know, Rhodes," I told him, flipping on the coffee maker as he sat down at the bar, "you're so obscenely wealthy, I often wonder why you don't hire a housekeeper."
Rhodes smiled innocently. "Now why would I do that, when I have you to clean up after me?" he teased.
"Neanderthal," I said, smacking him lightly on the head. "What would you do without me?"
He grunted. "Kill myself, no doubt." I looked up at him sharply, and he immediately realized his mistake. "I'm sorry, Bridges," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have said that."
"No, you shouldn't have." I turned my back to him, trying not to show how shaken I was. There were some things Rhodes and I just didn't talk about.
I heard him push back from the bar and stand up, and then he was behind me, his arms clasped loosely about my waist. "Bridges," he said softly, his mouth near my ear, "I didn't mean to upset you. But I can't help being grateful for everything you've done for me. I owe my existence to you."
I sighed, reaching up and placing my hand on the side of his face. "I know, it's okay," I told him, and he leaned his cheek into my hand. He turned me gently around to face him, his arms still encircling my waist, and I smiled. "I had a great time tonight, Rhodes. Thank you."
He bent down and put his forehead to mine. "You don't have to thank me, Bridges. Just seeing you tonight, and knowing I no longer have to be content to admire your beauty at a distance, is more than enough thanks for me."
I blushed. "How long... have you been in love with me?" I had to ask.
"I suppose I've always had romantic feelings for you," Rhodes answered after a short silence. I looked up at him in surprise. "From the moment I saw you in that coffee house, I thought you were beautiful. And I always felt something toward you, though I didn't know precisely what it was. It wasn't until the last year or so I realized that I was in love with you, that I couldn't stop thinking about you."
"A year," I repeated under my breath, shaking my head in amazement. "How come you never told me?"
He gave a little shrug. "By then, our friendship had grown so strong, I was afraid that telling you would ruin everything. I couldn't risk losing what we had."
I sat in silence for a moment. And then I started laughing to myself.
Rhodes looked sharply at me, offended. "Bridges, I hardly think it's necessary to laugh at me," he said indignantly, releasing his grip on my waist. "I already feel mortified enough at keeping it from you for so long."
"No, no, honey, that's not it at all," I assured him once I had recovered. "It's just, that's exactly why I never told you. I was afraid it would ruin our friendship. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh, it was just so ironic, I--"
Thankfully I stopped babbling when I noticed the look of predatory desire on Rhodes's face. "What?" I asked. It came out as a squeak.
Snaking his arms around me again, he pulled me close, his green eyes dark as he stared into me. "That is the first time you've called me that," he said, his voice strangely calm. And then he kissed me.
My lips went slack for a second or two, surprised by his boldness. Then I edged closer to him, my fingers raking through his hair, kneading the muscles of his arms and shoulders. He yanked off his suit jacket and tie and threw them aside, then pulled me against his chest, kissing me with renewed urgency. Pulling my hair out of its knot, he ran his fingers hungrily through it.
"Ethan," I heard myself breathe. Then I grinned against his lips. "I feel weird calling you Ethan."
"Then don't," he murmured, running his hands down my sides. "I'm your Rhodes, and you're my Bridges."
I let out a gasp as Rhodes moved his lips to the side of my neck and down to the hollow of my throat. His cool fingertips brushed feather-light along my spine, making my knees tremble slightly. Dizzy with bliss, I found his shirt collar, undid a few buttons. And then I stopped dead.
On his bare chest, alarmingly close to his heart, there was a small patch of shiny scar tissue from a bullet hole. He had taken that bullet within the first month we had known each other. A bullet intended for my chest.
"Oh, Rhodes," I whispered.
I dipped my head down and gently kissed the scar. He moaned softly, a shiver coursing through his body like an electrical current. I continued kissing his chest, emboldened by his heavy breathing. Then I experienced a shiver of my own as I felt him reach for the knot of my halter dress at the back of my neck and gently start to untie it.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. We both jumped, startled half to death. "Rhodes?" came a familiar gruff voice. "You in there? Open up, you little redneck!"
"Solomon," I growled under my breath, winding my hair back into its knot. "Can't that man leave us alone for two freaking seconds?"
Rhodes groaned and shook his head in irritation. "I knew I had forgotten something today," he muttered, still breathing hard. "I never called him back." Buttoning his shirt, he made a futile attempt to smooth his hair. "Shall we see what he wants?"
Trying to force myself to breathe normally, I followed him to the front door. Rhodes pulled it open, and Edward Solomon stared at them, his faded blue eyes wide with surprise. I looked back at him, wondering what had had such a extreme effect on the pudgy FBI agent. Then I turned to Rhodes and felt my own eyes go wide. For the first time I noticed that his lips were smeared with pink lip gloss. I fought the overwhelming urge to burst out laughing.
"Whoa, I, uh," Solomon stammered, holding up his hands, "didn't mean to, uh, interrupt anything, I just, uh--"
"What is it, Solomon?" Rhodes asked in a supremely dignified voice as I discreetly wiped the lip gloss from his face with the back of my hand.
With an effort, the agent collected his thoughts. "Well, I've been trying to reach you all day, but you haven't been home," he said, annoyed. "We got a call from the New York office with some pretty strange news. Maybe you guys should sit down for this."
I frowned in concern, but Rhodes shook his head. "We've had our share of shocking news, Solomon," he replied. "Whatever it is, I think we can take it."
"Okay, if you say so." Solomon transferred his bulky weight from one foot to the other and cleared his throat. "I don't know how else to put this, Rhodes. You have a brother."
The young detective stiffened. His green eyes seemed to stare right through the FBI agent. I had never seen him so stunned. I was shocked as well, but never in the two years we had known each other had I known him to react in such a dazed, shaken manner.
"A... a brother?" he repeated weakly.
I reached out and took his hand. It was as cold as a block of ice, and even less responsive.
"Yeah, an older brother," Solomon continued in a low voice, as unsettled as I was at the alarming change in Rhodes's demeanor. "But I'm afraid that's not the big news." In a sympathetic gesture which was uncharacteristic of him, he placed a hand on Rhodes' rigid shoulder. "The big news is that he's gone missing."
Talk about a mood killer, I thought.
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A/N: I HAVE TO TELL YOU GUYS SOMETHING. Okay, so there's this boy I've known for years - what am I saying, boy, he's my age - who I've secretly adored for some time, and he just told me he has feelings for me. I didn't know this, but before he moved to where I live, he was so miserable that he was on the verge of killing himself. And then he met me. HE'S MY RHODES. And it's not like I based my characters on myself and this guy. I JUST found this out. Is that freaky or what? So I felt like I had to tell you, my readers, because that is some freaking big coincidence.
Anyway, snap, that was a long chapter. But somehow I don't think you'll mind. Well, now they know. Rhodes has a brother. But what happened to him? Sorry about the cliffhanger. But I'll have another chapter up soon, and in the meantime, tell me what you thought of chaptero uno! I always love to read your comments! Bye for now!
-Waki