Chapter 5 – Through and through

She served him steak, with rice and asparagus at the kitchen island. They didn't sit at the kitchen table. Flack figured she didn't want to look at her father's empty seat. Their conversation was light and friendly. He asked her nothing about the things he found odd about the day, the scene, or the house he was now sitting in.

After dinner she asked him "Are you exhausted or can I show you something neat?"

" 'Neat' huh?" he asked grinning. "I'm game."

She stood up and took her wine glass with her. She motioned for him to follow her outside. They went out to the porch and she took a seat in one of the wooden bench swings, setting her wine glass on the ground beside her. He sat next to her.

"Look up," She said. There were more stars than a NYC boy even knew existed.

"Wow, that is neat," he said. He was teasing her, but only a little. It truly was an awesome sight.

"That's one thing I miss about home." She said, her feet had gently started the swing swaying, as she continued to look skyward. She had a childlike smile on her face. Flack looked away from the stars and realized how back in NY she seemed to smile so easily, and here, with all this, it was good to see. She looked at him and caught his gaze. She raised her eyebrows slightly and smiled, this time, not for the stars, but for him.

"Flack," Her voice barely a whisper. "Thank you for everything. I know its not enough just to say it but, I'm so glad you are here." They held each others eyes.

"Don't mention it Monroe. I'm glad I'm here too." He said, his tone matching hers.

The stars, the wine, the emotion, the grief, the smell of him, the strength of him, she couldn't take it. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his. Her arms went slowly around him. Before he knew it his arms were holding her tightly against him. But he couldn't do this, not now, he couldn't and he knew it. He kissed her back, he did it tenderly, but not passionately. He had to get out if it, but didn't want to add the sting of a rejection to her pain. One of her hands was now in his hair and she opened her mouth, he didn't realize it but he opened his too, her tongue in his mouth, she began to kiss him more urgently. He felt something inside of him respond. She could get to him. "Now," he thought, "I have to stop this now, before I can't think anymore." He wound down their kiss sweetly, and pulled his lips from hers. He pulled her in, her face resting against his chest so he wouldn't have to meet her eyes.

"Monroe," he started softly. "I know you're tough, and you're holding it together amazingly well. I'm sure most of these people, you are fooling. But I know you're in a million pieces. I know you feel hollow and scared. I know there's a hole you can't describe, and you fear it will never heal. But I can't be this guy who takes advantage of that." He thought of Messer and how he wanted to protect her from that very thing. He held her head to his chest. Her eyes were closed, she listened, taking comfort in even the rise and fall of his breath. He went on, "know that I am here for you. I am not leaving until you leave, and when we go home, I will continue to be there for you. If you want to kiss me then, that's another story. But here, when you're in so much pain, I can't let you just because you feel so good to me." He thought he did a good job, she must know that he finds her incredibly attractive, that under other circumstances, well... But here, now, he couldn't go any further.

"I'm sorry I kissed you Flack." She said, her voice not defeated but quietly ashamed. She didn't mean to allow herself to be attracted to him, to grow attached to him, it just happened and she was sorry she couldn't be stronger.

"Lord, don't be sorry about it. I'm not. It was amazing. You are amazing. But lets just not let things get out of hand here tonight." He started the porch swing rocking again with his feet. "Let's sit here for a while, and when you're ready, we can say goodnight. But I will be in the room next door and I will be there for you first thing in the morning."

She shifted in his arms so they were both facing out to the stars again. It was a while before he sensed she was asleep. He tried to stay as long as he could, but he was so stiff, in pain. He shifted slightly and she stirred.

"Mmm. Sorry Flack. Lets go upstairs." She held one of his hands as she stood up.

They went upstairs and he kissed the top of her head when she went into her room. Alone in the guest room, Flack had to let his sore wounds breathe. He wore basketball shorts and no shirt as he rubbed the prescribed ointment on the healing burns on his chest. He had a small table lamp for light. He heard quiet shuffling in the hall and a weak knock on his door, and before he had time to pull a shirt on, Monroe, in her pajamas was in his room. She wore a cotton tank top with eyelet around the top and matching shorts. She took a few steps and stopped when she saw him.

"Flack, I'm so sorry. I've been selfish."

She walked up to him and knelt in front of where he sat on the bed. Her fingers lightly brushed the burn wounds on his right side. Flack was frozen, she wasn't meant to know he was broken.

"It looks to be healing well…but it must hurt still. I'm so sorry I haven't been asking about you." She spoke softly and looked into his eyes.

"Ah, Monroe. I didn't mean for you to see this. No woman wants to see disfigurement."

She rose slightly on her knees, a gave him a lingering kiss on the cheek. "I'm sorry. I know I'm not supposed to kiss you. But …." When she pulled away and faced him, she read the shame and resentment in his eyes.

She blinked slowly and responded, "its not out of pity. Its out of knowing." She rose to her feet and stood directly in front of where he sat on the bed. Her body positioned between his knees. She lifted the edge of her top and pushed down the rim of her shorts over her right hip exposing at his eye-level, a large scar.

"It's a through and through," she said. "The back's not as bad." She moved her hands so her clothes fell back where they were supposed to. He met her eyes.

"Flack, can I just sleep here, with you tonight? I won't even touch you, but I just don't think I can sleep in there…." It was more than she had planned, but she hadn't planned on seeing him so vulnerable either.

"Of course." He said. He motioned that she should sleep on the left side of the bed, he didn't say why, but the left side of him sustained less damage. She went around and slid under the covers. He straightened up a few things, set the alarm, turned out the light and went to bed too. Under the covers she reached for his hand. She held it with both of hers and fell asleep.

At three AM, Flack's eyes bolted open. His body was cool with sweat. It must have been a nightmare, but he couldn't remember it. He laid on his back, trying to steady his shallow breathing. He looked to his left, and Monroe was sleeping on her side facing him. She still held his hand with one of hers, her other hand was encircling his upper arm, holding it to her, so her body rested against the length of his arm. In the moonlight from the window he thought she looked peaceful, innocent. She was beautiful. He had known that before. But he had never allowed himself to think of Monroe as anything more than a coworker. He looked over her shoulder out the window. Perhaps part of him thought girls like Monroe deserved something more than a born-and-bred NYC cop. But now, in bed with him, bathed in moonlight he couldn't help but think Monroe was the kind of girl you build a life with. Some guy would be lucky enough to do that. Not him. He shouldn't have come at all. But now, how could he leave her? How could he not be there for her? He would be her friend. But he couldn't let himself be in love with her, not now.

He looked back to her. The sheets had drifted and were draped over her hip. He followed the shadow and light from her face down her neck, the curve of her breasts. Where her tank top fell away from her body he could see that she had put the wedding band the ME had given her on a long chain so it would hang by her heart. Where her hand held his to her body, her top had ridden up slightly and he felt her skin against the back of his hand. Her midriff was tight and trim, but he could feel the uneven flesh of the wound she had shown him. How old was that wound? It wasn't from her time in New York. It could have been from her time in Bozeman. It could have been a High School marksmanship accident. Monroe was the kind of girl to know about mashing avocados and mixing it to rub on wounds, or some such thing. Hell, that scar could have been a day old for all he knew. Messer would have been able to tell on sight. He would know how long ago she was shot, and with what type and caliber of weapon. It wasn't the first time that day he felt lesser to Danny. When Monroe was processing her own house he thought, Messer would know how to help her, so she doesn't have to do this by herself.

No, he thought. She was better off without Messer right now, better off with him. But, he couldn't be in love with her, not now.

When he woke in the morning she was already out of bed. She had shut off the alarm before it sounded so he could sleep. She had arranged the wake and funeral on the same day, today. Her family was all meeting there early. He figured he should check on her quickly, then get dressed in his suit and wait. He went downstairs in the same tee shirt and jeans he wore the night before. He found her in the kitchen in a tank top and shorts. He could tell she had done whatever it is Montana girls do for exercise with no gym at-hand. Maybe she had run, maybe she heaved hay bales, he had no idea. But he could see her face was slightly flushed and she glistened with perspiration. Every muscle seemed taught, as if on the verge of straining. He could also see that she had about 15 pots and pans going.

"Hi." She said glancing at the wall clock. 6:30. "Hungry?"

"Sure." He said walking into the kitchen and leaning against a the counter trying to stay out of her way. She seemed determined. "Can I help you?" He was rubbing his eyes.

"No thanks." She said walking up to him. She lightly ran her hand down the left side of his torso. "Sit. Coffee?"

"Mm-mm." He replied turning and walking to the stool where he had eaten dinner. She knew that was an affirmative, and she knew he took it black. She poured him a cup and set it in front of him.

"After the service, some people will be coming back here. So I thought I should have food ready."

He was puzzled and his face reflected it, but she was too busy to take notice. How was she thinking of all this. Accomplishing it? He couldn't see everything she was working on, but he could see a roast in the oven, and what looked like scallop potatoes. Don't those things take hours to prepare he thought? His mind was still cloudy with sleep. She put a plate with eggs, bacon, and cantaloupe in front of him. Again he thought, this must have been a cantaloupe her father bought to eat himself, but what was Flack going to do? Point that out? Refuse it? He ate. She didn't. She didn't sit. When he was done he went to the sink and washed his plate and whatever pots had already served their purpose and were piled up. He towel-dried them and not knowing where they all went, he put them at least out of the way. Then he turned to her.

"Monroe, there must be something I can do here." He really just wanted her to stop, and calm down at little. She was pretty obviously tense.

"No I'm almost done. Then things just need to be heated up later." She glanced at the clock again. 6:50. "I'm going to shower and get dressed soon."

"Ok. If you're sure there's nothing I can do. I'll do that myself." She just turned and nodded.

He heard the shower running when he left the guest room in his suit. He had made the bed and tidied the room so it was as when he found it. He went downstairs and found the kitchen immaculate except for numerous foiled covered dishes and casseroles. He looked at the clock. 7:20. No one was due until 8. But the front door opened. He had locked his gun in his luggage which he had placed in the very back of the closet upstairs. But he went into the front hallway and was taken aback at the woman who entered. She looked like Lindsay, but wore more make up, her chestnut hair had the same large waves but also ribbons of blonde and it fell to just below her breasts. Her clingy, sleeveless black dress draped in the front revealing ample cleavage. Her skirt hugged very curve until it ended just above her knee. It would have all been alluring if Flack didn't know it was funeral black. Lindsay had that girl-next-door beauty, this woman had that cover-of-the-magazine-you–hide-under-your-mattress beauty.

Her high heels clicked on the wooden floor as she approached him. "You must be the New York cop." She said looking in his eyes. His hands were on his hips, looking her over. He extended his right hand which she took.

"Yes. Don Flack. You must be Kit."