Thank you for your continued support. I appreciate it.
I do not own Glee or the characters, neither do I own It Had To Be You.
Normally, Sam's favorite time of day, was the opposite of what his grandma's had been...dawn's first light.
But not on the days after he stayed up until two in the morning, to catch the two knuckleheads closing up their uncle's bowling alley and skimming from the top of the day's take.
He didn't have to knock their heads together.
As it turned out, they ratted on each other, and he was confident he scared the shit out of them and that their skimming days were over.
He finally fell gratefully into bed, but was woken only a few hours later at the ass crack of dawn, by the buzz on his phone, as an email came in from his commander.
Time's up, Evans. Be here by this weekend to prepare for Monday's review.
Well, hell! Today was Wednesday, and his gut clenched at the thought of leaving now.
He hadn't finished painting the house. Or repairing the beach stairs.
Okay, so he hadn't even started the stairs, but he'd planned on it.
And he wanted to see Mike. He had hoped he'd be back by now. And he didn't want to leave without seeing him.
Nor did he want to go before Mercedes' case was resolved.
Hell, he didn't want to leave.
Period.
Pushing out of bed, Sam slipped into swim trunks and got on the water before the sun came up.
He'd get to that painting, and also fix the cranky plumbing, so there'd be no problems after he left, but first this.
He paddle-boarded through the silent water, watching the sky burst into light.
The wind was at his back, and beneath him, the water was so clear and deep, that he could see schools of fish speed through the current, racing him.
It was the closest thing to a religion he'd ever had. The church of the wind and surf.
He paddled until his arms were quaking with exhaustion and then headed back.
At the dock, he pulled his board out of the water and came to a stop.
His grandfather was sitting on the dock, feet dangling, as he smoked a cigar, watching him through a ring of smoke.
Sam leaned the paddleboard against the dock, and glanced at the stairs up to the still-dark house.
"Early for you, isn't it?" he asked.
His grandfather shrugged.
Fine. Not up to bashing his head up against the blank wall of his grandfather's stubbornness...hell, he still had a concussion from the last time...Sam started to pick up his board and go.
But he stopped, blew out a breath, and turned back.
"Thanks for making me think about the surveillance tapes," he said.
"Guess you're not an island all unto yourself then, huh?"
Sam thought of the nice, hot shower he'd intended to take and the omelet he'd been hoping to talk his pretty tenant into fixing him. Instead he voiced what had been bothering him for ten years.
"You still blame me?" he asked.
His grandfather took a long drag on the cigar and contemplated the orange glow of ash on the tip.
"That was never the question," he replied.
"No?"
Sam thought of his grandma Francine's funeral and the family gathering afterwards, right here on the beach in fact.
She had been widely beloved.
Everyone had come, milling around, crying, telling stories, laughing…just wanting to be together, to commiserate about the loss of a woman they'd all cared about.
And Sam would never forget, how his grandfather had stood on this very dock, his back to the crowd, staring out at the water...completely silent.
He could remember the heaviness in his own gut, as he looked at his grandfather's proud, stiff shoulders. And then there was the tightening in his own chest, when he'd walked up to him, until they were standing side by side.
All of his life, his grandfather had been a rock.
A hard-ass, tough, rugged rock, with little to no softness.
Even so, Sam had never so much as seen the man lose his temper. Not once. And he'd certainly never seen him brought to his knees by grief.
But that's exactly what had happened.
And on that day, when he'd lifted his own head, there'd been tears streaming down his grandfather's face.
The sorrow had nearly choked Sam, sorrow and regret and guilt, but he'd somehow managed to speak.
It was my fault.
He could remember saying those four words clearly, and quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid.
Just as he could remember his grandfather's response.
Or lack there of.
Because, he had said nothing at all, not a single word. He'd simply given one sharp shake of his head and walked off.
Away from the house.
And away from Sam.
He'd vanished for a few days, which wasn't unusual for him, because, he went off on trips all the time.
Back then, he'd still been working as a fish and game warden, so his disappearance had been considered normal.
Everyone knew he and Francine had been separated for decades. Just as everyone knew, that it hadn't mattered. He'd still been head over heels in love with her, and clearly devastated by her death.
A week later, his grandfather had resurfaced, but by then, Sam had gone back to San Francisco.
Stacie had still been in jail, and when Sam had gone for his weekly visit with her, he'd told her everything.
Always the mediator, she had tried to soothe him, by telling him to stop with the guilt, because, in no way did anyone, especially their grandpa...a man who'd hurt their grandmother himself...blame him for her death.
Just like no one blamed him for her being in prison.
But Sam knew she was wrong. Because he blamed himself for both of those things.
Water continued to slap up against the pylons of the dock and the shore.
The air was scented with pine, wet sand, and cigar. It was also filled with the roar of the high tide hitting the rocky shore.
Mr. Winters took another long drag on his cigar.
"You know those things will kill you, right?" Sam said.
"They haven't yet."
Sam waited, but his grandfather didn't say anything else, he just sat there taking in the view.
Although, Sam knew damn well, he wasn't here for the view.
He waited some more and got nothing, so he stretched out on the dock, leaned back on his elbows, and let the morning rays warm and dry him.
"You're finally claiming the house," Sam's grand dad eventually said.
'Ah. There it is,' Sam thought.
He threw an arm over his eyes, to block out the bright sun.
"Are you still pissed off she left me this place?" he asked.
"I was never pissed off that she left you this place," Mr. Winters replied.
"No?"
"No. Christ!" Mr. Winters grumbled. "How can someone so smart be so stupid?"
Sam assumed that was a rhetorical question and kept his silence.
"I was pissed that you let her memory go to waste," his grandfather said. "That you left here without looking back. That you stayed away. That you don't give a shit about anything or anyone."
He paused.
"That you forgot about her."
"About us."
Sam sat back up, fury and grief fighting for space in his throat.
"No. Hell no! You don't get to say that to me."
"Just did, boy-o."
"I've forgotten exactly nothing," Sam said. "I live in San Francisco. My job is there."
"And what, that job kept you busy, twenty-four seven, for ten years? Is that what I'm supposed to believe?"
"Yeah, actually. The job is pretty demanding, which you damn-well know."
Mr. Winters nodded.
He'd worked in law enforcement. So he did know.
"So, you're here now, because why? The going got rough?"
Sam stared at his grandfather.
"You think that's what I do? I just walk away when the going gets rough?" he asked.
His grand dad shrugged.
"If the shoe fits…"
Sam pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, but nope, nothing was going to take care of the new headache, brutally kicking in behind his lids.
"Fuck it," he muttered, and pushed to his feet. "Fuck this."
He grabbed the T-shirt he'd left on the railing, shoved it over his head, and was striding away when he heard his grandfather mutter,
"Walking away again."
Sam whipped back, his emotions far too close to the surface now. But he'd started this, so he'd damn well finish it.
"I didn't walk away from her. She died."
His grand dad got to his feet, a slow painful movement, that had Sam feeling yet a new stab of guilt.
When had his grandfather gotten old?
"You walked away from me," Mr. Winters said. "And from the town that loved you. You closed yourself off and never looked back. That's walking away. That's what you do."
"I'm here now, aren't I?" Sam challenged.
"For how long? Until something bad happens?"
"No, until I have to go back to my life."
Mr. Winters just shrugged and turned away, dismissing him. And Sam did the same, striding up the stairs to the deck and shoving the back door open.
Mercedes was standing at the stove, when Sam entered. She gave a startled squeak and whirled around, wielding a wooden spoon like a weapon.
When she saw him, she sagged, a hand to her heart.
"Jesus, Sam."
He headed straight through the kitchen, intending to put a lot of space between the two of them, so that he didn't scare her into next week with his bad attitude.
"Made you an omelet," she said.
He shook his head.
"I'm good."
"I left out anything that was green."
'Well, shit!'
The scent of her cooking was making his mouth water, and right on cue, his stomach rumbled.
He turned back to face her and found her eating up the sight of him.
And his body, already revved up on adrenaline, reacted predictably, but he didn't move towards her. \
He refused to touch her when he felt so out of control.
"I can't do this right now, Mercedes."
"Do what?" she asked.
"Be civil."
"How about eating. Can you eat?" She pointed to a kitchen chair, and he had no idea why, but he sat.
With her face creased into an expression of adorable concentration, Mercedes flipped a big, fluffy omelet onto a plate and pushed it Sam's way.
Next, she poured him orange juice and then repeated the whole thing for herself.
As if realizing he needed some space, she hoisted herself up on the far side of the counter, with her legs folded beneath her, eating with him in companionable silence.
"Thanks," he said when he'd finished.
She nodded, hopped off the counter, and went to pass by him. And with no idea what he was doing, Sam snagged her wrist.
She turned to him, a question in her eyes.
Then, with a soft smile, she stepped between his legs and cupped his jaw.
"Maybe I can help make you feel a little better," she said quietly, and bent and gave a gentle kiss to one corner of his mouth.
Sam closed his eyes against the assault of emotions that battered him.
"Mercedes..."
She simply kissed the other corner of his mouth.
'So sweet,' he thought. 'And so warm.'
"Mercedes, I can't..."
"Be civil. I know." She straddled him. "So don't. Be you, Sam. And let me be whatever you need."
Sam was staggered.
"I won't use you," he said.
"I wouldn't let you," Mercedes simply said, and pulled off her tank top, leaving her in a pink bra and gauzy skirt.
Next, she unhooked her bra and let it fall away.
Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but it didn't matter. His body didn't need to see her, she was already imprinted on his brain.
"I'm leaving in a couple of days," he said. "I have to be back in San Francisco this weekend."
"Okay."
Beautiful, satiny, smooth skin, sweet curves…
His hands came up and cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over the tips.
She sighed in pleasure, and he figured it was a good thing he was sitting down, because she knocked the wind from him, every time he was with her.
"You need to be sure, Mercedes."
Pulling back, she smiled into his gaze, her eyes calm and direct.
There was no sign of the nerves that suddenly lived in his gut.
"Don't worry," she said. Her lips were close enough to brush over his with every word. "I know what this is."
'Thank God you know,' he thought.
Because, he sure as hell didn't.
Very gently, Mercedes allowed her hands to slide over Sam's chest, humming her approval, as she did so.
Her hips rocked simultaneously, her core pressing down on his erection.
He groaned and leaned in, pressing his face to breasts.
"I also know what this isn't," she murmured, her hands sliding into his hair to hold him at her breast.
When the words sank in, he started to pull back, but she tightened her grip.
"I'm going to rock your world, Detective Lieutenant Sam Evans, and you're going to rock mine."
Sam didn't know how she did it. But she took him outside himself and made him feel nothing but in the moment, with her.
Turning his head, he ran his tongue over her nipple, loving the way she sighed in pleasure, melting against him.
"And then," she said huskily, breathing heavy, "We're going to go back to being just friends."
They were friends, he realized with some surprise, though he had no real clue, as to how or when that had actually happened.
But it had, so her words disturbed him, because they weren't just friends.
Not even close.
And if they did this again, now that they'd become even more emotionally invested in each other, it'd be far more mind blowing, than just rocking each other's world.
He already knew that.
Did she?
Right at that moment, Mercedes looked into his eyes, her own warm and full of emotion, so much so, that his throat tightened.
Yeah, she knew.
And yet, she was once again putting him first, ahead of her own problems.
It was going to be hell to walk away from her, while wanting more and knowing he couldn't have it.
Wouldn't have it.
But he didn't have the strength to go yet.
He wanted this.
For right now, he wanted nothing else.
'We could have this,' he told himself, and they could keep it just what it was...light and easy.
But even he recognized the lie.
Mercedes kissed Sam's jaw.
"You're looking pretty serious, for a man who's got a sure thing in his lap...half naked," she murmured.
She was right.
He slid his hands up her back, urging her to lean into him, so that they were chest to chest.
Softly, he kissed her shoulder and then nipped the spot.
Teasing her.
She was already panting a little, rocking her hips, and stroking his ego...among other things.
So he nipped her again, a little harder this time, and then made a move for her nipple again, sucking her into his mouth.
The hungry sound she made egged him on, and so did the way she tightened her fingers in his hair, with every little tug of his mouth.
"Sam... Please, Sam."
Yep! He was definitely going to please, he thought.
Sam pushed the hem of Mercedes' skirt up to her waist.
"Hold this," he softly commanded.
She did as told and reached for it reflexively, freeing up his hands.
Running the pad of his finger over her skimpy, red cotton panties, he caught the material and scraped it aside, giving him a view that made him groan out her name.
She was wet and glistening.
For him.
She rocked against him again, and he tore open his board shorts, giving himself some desperately needed room.
"Oh," she whispered, all breathy, staring down at him with flattering raptness.
He reached for her, then suddenly stilled, letting out a long string of oaths.
"No condom," he managed.
"I'm on the pill..." she said.
Her trust meant more to him, than he could have possibly imagined. But how the hell was he supposed to keep this light, when everything about it felt more like…everything?
Mercedes was still holding her skirt up like he'd asked, and it was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.
Pulling her in, he wrapped his arms around her, kissing her deeply, wondering why he even bothered to keep his distance.
There was no distance with her.
None at all.
She returned his kisses with wild abandon.
"It's crazy…" she whispered against his mouth, "...what you do to me."
"Tell me," Sam said. "Tell me what I do to you."
"You look at me, like I'm the best thing you've seen all day. You make me feel…I don't know. Pretty. Sexy. And important to you. You make me feel, Sam."
She was all those things to him.
And she made him feel too.
She made him feel so fucking much, that his heart was going to burst through his ribs.
"Mercedes," Sam breathed, and then slanted his mouth across hers. He'd meant to just make a quick connection, but she moved with him, taking the kiss hotter and deeper, pressing her body to his.
It turned him inside out and upside down and sideways.
She was all he'd thought about, and dreamed about since he'd returned home, her hot, curvy body, warm, soft skin, and her wild hair flowing over his shoulders and arms.
She murmured his name, like he was the best thing that had happened to her all day, and he gave himself up to her, sucking on her lower lip, sliding his tongue to hers, ravishing her, until they were both trembling.
"Raise up," he said, his voice hoarse.
And she eagerly scrambled up, giving him the room he needed to slide into her.
The sensation of filling her rocked his world.
And hers too, if her wild breathing meant anything.
Holding still, and giving her a moment to adjust, was the hardest thing he'd ever done.
"I love that too," she whispered.
He kissed the frantically beating pulse at the base of her neck.
"What?" he asked.
"The feel of you." She arched against him wordlessly, demanding more. "Your mouth on me."
He made his way along her jaw to just beneath her ear.
"What else?" he asked.
With a shiver, Mercedes tightened her grip on his hair. And he didn't even care if she made him bald, as long as she didn't let go.
"That you know my sweet spots," she went on.
"You're one big, sweet spot."
She bit his lower lip, and when he sucked in a breath, she laughed at him softly.
He laughed too, while so close to her that he could feel her heart beating. And it was the most amazing thing he'd ever experienced.
Cupping her sweet ass in his palms, he thrust into her.
Immediately she stopped laughing and moaned his name again, as her own movements synced with his.
With his big hands still gripping her world-class ass, Sam drilled upwards into her willing body, hitting every one of her sweet spots.
Then, he tightened his grip, holding her in position, as he filled her again and again, bringing her closer and closer to the edge.
"God, Mercedes," he grated, his voice low and thick.
But he couldn't help it, watching her take her pleasure on him, was turning him on so much, he could hardly draw a breath.
"You're so beautiful. Every time I see you, I just want to drag you down and have my way with you," Sam said.
Her hips were moving again, driving him insane, and he tightened his grip...again, trying to slow her down, so he didn't lose it in a spectacularly embarrassing fashion.
But Mercedes obviously thought his control, was of the superhuman variety, because, she cupped his face and leaned in, letting her breasts lightly brush his chest again.
Then, she smiled at him, the hot little minx.
And he smiled back.
And then they were kissing, devouring each other, lost in the moment.
Sam knew she was close, actually straining for it.
Wanting to watch her, and wanting to push her over the edge, he stroked a thumb over the sweetest of all her sweet spots.
And she tore her mouth free to pant for air, gripping his wrist to hold him there.
Stroking her both inside and out, he watched as she began to tremble.
"Sam..."
"I know."
"Don't stop."
"I won't."
At that, she lost it, and came, flying over the edge with his name on her lips.
And poor Sam, he tried to hold on, he tried to hold back, but it was too late.
He was lost.
Lost, and yet somehow found.
And it was as simple and as terrifying as that.
Stay safe and enjoy your holidays!
