A/N: I appreciate those of you who took the time to comment on the first chapter. Thank you for letting me know I've still got some readers out there who are interested in this series. It's tough not knowing between fics if I'll have an audience to come back to, esp without the immediacy of Twitter, now that most of my readers aren't there anymore. Anyway . . . on to happier things and chapters. This one is short but sweet. And to the guest reviewer who asked what the title means: it'll spoil the joke if I explain it here, but don't worry, all will be revealed in the final chapter. ;)

2. You Can Look (But You'd Better Not Touch)

. . .

"I'm okay with some noise and crowds tonight. I promise. And if Bruce makes eyes at me, you have my full permission to tear him limb from limb, sweetheart. Just make sure you grab his guitar while you're at it, so Daph can get her rocks off later."

On that note, they pulled up outside the arena, paid the fare, and Amanda got one last good glare in at the cabbie before exiting the vehicle behind Olivia. She did everything short of spreading open a trench coat to shield her wife's backside, and she would have done that too, if she'd been wearing one. But no, she had to be cute and dress for the occasion. Faded blue jeans, white T-shirt, boots. She'd even tucked a red baseball cap in her back pocket and buckled on a belt with western-style studding.

That's what happened when you loved your wife and had once vowed to recreate Springsteen's Born in the U.S.A. cover for her. Honestly, it wasn't that much different from the clothes Amanda had worn back in Loganville, but it had inspired Olivia to wrap her up in long, toned arms, grab a handful of the denim at both cheeks, and give a sumptuous squeeze. At the same time she made the sound effects of someone sinking their teeth into a thick, juicy steak, and it was all Amanda could do not to drag her back to the bedroom and rip off their clothes, Bruce Springsteen be damned.

Maybe if she hadn't shelled out nearly six-hundred dollars for floor seats. That one had been her own doing, to be honest. Daphne could have gotten them handicap accessible seating, but Amanda insisted it wasn't a real concert if you weren't smack dab in the thick of things. If you could tell the difference between the bass and your heartbeat, you were doing it wrong. Granted, she was speaking as someone who hadn't been to a concert since her mid-thirties, and who had once lost her voice and partial hearing at a Pearl Jam concert. And a No Doubt concert (she'd scream-sung the lyrics to "Just a Girl" so loudly with her friends, Gwen Stefani low-fived them from the edge of the stage). And the Foo Fighters, come to think of it.

Oh, and Hootie & the Blowfish. Amanda loved her some Hootie. It was just an added bonus that Darius Rucker had gone country later in his career.

"Why don't you get you a new T-shirt, babe?" she asked as she and Olivia perused the merchandise table in the Garden's front lobby. Daphne opted out of wading into the crowd that milled there, not wanting to have to kneecap anyone with her cane, she claimed. Amanda got the feeling her friend was still a little self-conscious about needing the aid, no matter how much humor she brought to it.

Sometimes, the more Amanda thought about it, the guiltier she felt that Daphne had a permanent injury that might have been prevented if she and Olivia hadn't left Daph alone out there in the woods. So she tried hard not to think about it.

"What's wrong with this one?" Olivia glanced down at the rear of the pink Cadillac on her shirt, a blue license plate above it reading Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. Actually, to be more accurate, it read Bruce SPRintEEN E STRebAND, the letters dipping and swelling most appetizingly—but not very grammatically—with her cleavage.

According to the captain, she'd owned the top since college, though she "didn't fill it out quite as much back then." Noting that part in front of the mirror, she had followed up with a small sigh and turned side to side, a critical eye on her reflection. She tugged on the panels of her leather jacket, closing them over her full breasts, then letting go and sighing again as they fell away to reveal her curvy figure. She only jumped a little when Amanda appeared behind her in the mirror, slipping both arms around her waist, and kissing on her neck until she sighed for another reason altogether.

The sneaky move also gave Amanda the chance to check that her wife wasn't cutting too many calories. Her appetite seemed off lately, though not enough for Amanda to call her on it. She was probably just being paranoid, but it was something to keep an eye on. Or hands, in this case.

"There ain't a thing wrong with that one," Amanda said, gaze lingering on Olivia's tits, branded as they were in Eighties pastel. She peered flirtatiously up through her lashes, winked, poured on the extra honey. "Either of 'em. But I told you, I'm spoiling you rotten tonight. You should get another one to wear for the next thirty-plus years."

"Ah yes, I'll be the most bitchin' eighty-something in the nursing home in this." Olivia displayed a black T-shirt by the shoulders, a high contrast likeness of Springsteen's profile and his signature etched on the front in bright white. She crinkled her nose at the equally dubious expression she received—the design reminded Amanda of that creepy black and white skull face from the Misfits' famous logo—and placed the shirt back on the table, neatly folded. "Then again, you'll probably just steal it from me so you can prance around in it like a nightie and drive me wild."

"Oh, hush your mouth. I never prance." Amanda bumped a hip into Olivia's, suppressing the urge to swat her shapely backside. Not appropriate behavior in such a large crowd; it might give someone the wrong idea, or it might embarrass Olivia (getting frisky in front of Daphne was one thing; in front of strangers, quite another), and that was unacceptable. "I sashay. But I'll be in my seventies by then, so I don't reckon I'll be driving anyone wild."

"Those runner's legs of yours will always get me going." Olivia leaned in and confided the rest near Amanda's ear: "And that cute little ass. Even when it's old and wrinkly and starts sagging like one of Sammie's dirty diapers. You'll still be the hottest old lady on the block."

She kept her hands to herself, but her tone was the equivalent to a pinch on the rear. It warmed Amanda all the way down to her toes, even if the subject matter was a bit unromantic. Olivia Rollins-Benson could read from the phone book and make it sound sexy.

"I don't know whether to be turned on right now, or if I should take you someplace private and spank ya for calling me old," Amanda drawled, lifting onto her toes and delivering the ultimatum over Olivia's shoulder before slinking behind her and appearing on the other side, innocent as can be. She pretended to be absorbed in leafing through the tour book on the merchandise table, not once glancing sidelong to catch a reaction, no siree.

Olivia lingered on a pile of T-shirts, tidying them as if she were a front-end associate for Abercrombie & Fitch. It struck Amanda that, other than working in the campus library during college, she didn't know of any other jobs Olivia had before joining the force. She tucked the question away for later—that time of her life wasn't something the captain discussed freely—and continued perusing the glossy pictures on every page: sweaty Bruce in a bandana; sweaty Bruce playing the guitar; Bruce dancing (and sweating) with Courteney Cox in the music video for "Dancing in the Dark"; solo Bruce playing piano (and still sweating) on Broadway.

Finally, Olivia plucked up a shirt—a classy silhouette shot of Bruce, where you couldn't see the sweat—and skirted past Amanda with the stealth of a darting fox. In her wake, she left behind a challenge that made the tips of Amanda's ears glow red: "I'd just like to see you try, Detective." And if Amanda wasn't mistaken, there was a lot of extra swish in that skirt as Olivia sauntered toward the checkout.

Now Amanda had a decision to make. She could assume Olivia was merely flirting and had no intention of following through with the comment, or she could take it at face value, put on her big girl panties, and spank her wife. One of those options sounded a lot more fun than the other. And frankly, Olivia knew better than to throw down a challenge if she didn't expect Amanda to pick it up and run with it. That was like dropping a turkey leg on the floor and expecting Frannie Mae not to help herself. The pit bull didn't have that kind of self-control.

Neither did Amanda Jo.

She paid for their purchases, trying not to wince at the steep price tags, and they eventually rejoined Daphne at a bench inside the noisy foyer. It sounded a bit like the Grand Central terminal, thousands of voices chattering at once, and not exactly conducive to heartfelt gift presentations. Without ceremony, Amanda handed Daphne a tour book from inside the big bag, then flapped the tiny bag in front of her face until she got annoyed and swiped it up as if catching a pesky fly.

"Whatever you do with that is between you and your god, Miss Tyler," Amanda said when Daphne upended the bag, shaking the little guitar-shaped pin into her palm. A replica of Springsteen's Born to Run Fender, it bore the album title and the singer's name on the shiny enamel fretboard. It was kind of adorable and kind of perfect for Daphne, considering her only straight crush was on a guitar.

But this was Daphne they were talking about. "Oh sure, give the disabled chick something that says 'born to run' on it," she sniffed, even as she pinned the guitar to the lapel of her pink velvet blazer. "You are one twisted sister, Mandy Lou."

They laughed all the way to their seats, which were so close to the stage Olivia uttered something not unlike a girlish squeal and stamped an enthusiastic kiss to Amanda's lips. (Daphne imitated the display of gratitude, but held Amanda under the chin and smooshed the kiss onto her cheek with ridiculous smoochy noises.)

The best wife ever had struck again.

Before the night was through, she planned to secure the title with at least one or two more good deeds. She might even ask for it in writing.

. . .