Chapter 11: Eric
You're pretty sure you've never felt this giddy to be holding a girl's hand, not even when you were a rather lanky twelve-year-old. It's a little embarrassing for you to feel so juvenile about hand-holding, but the feeling that accompanies it is well worth your time.
You're still reeling slightly from her accusation. In that moment, you had felt so inadequate and weak, but at least she doesn't look angry or tense anymore. You had been surprised that Valera knew, but then again, it is Valera; she knows everything about everyone. Still, you had been scared that the evening would start off on the wrong foot, but you quickly dismissed that idea. You had waited too long for this. Besides, the woman standing next to you is Calleigh. Nothing could ruin that.
You had forgotten how glamorous she could look when she dressed up. She's beautiful every day, but there's an air of sophistication about her whenever she wore dresses. Today, she's showing just enough leg to drive you crazy while leaving much to the imagination, and that makes it very hard not to look. You aren't even going to get started on how amazing dresses make her curves appear.
"How can you wear that in the middle of summer in Miami?" Calleigh asks suddenly, taking a quick look at your suit.
You smile. "It's important to make a good first impression," you reply. Despite the fact that the sun is hanging low in the sky and a light breeze is blowing through the streets, she is right: it's getting ridiculously hot under the suit.
"The jacket can go," she says, stealing another quick glance in your direction.
You breathe a sigh of relief and, letting go of her hand for a moment, you slip the jacket off your shoulders and sling it over your arm.
She smiles and raises an eyebrow. "It's a little too easy to undress you," she teases, as the two of you reach your car. She lowers her voice. "The shirt can go, too."
"Take it easy, alright?" You chuckle. "If dinner's goes smoothly, I'll let you have my tie."
"I'd rather have your shirt," she replies playfully.
You open the car door for her, and this time, she doesn't protest. She slides in, and you lean over, keeping the door open with your arm. "Only if you let me choose one article off your outfit," you say sheepishly, looking down at her black dress, catching just enough cleavage to make you feel like you had just added a jacket rather than removed one.
"That's not fair," she replies, her voice low. "And not very gentlemanly of you to suggest," she adds. "You're being judged, you know."
You smile. "How am I doing so far?" you ask playfully, trailing your finger along her neckline. The gentle dip along her collarbone quivers under your touch.
"Before the comment about undressing me, very good. Now, not so much," she replies, watching your hand carefully.
You lean in to capture her lips. She anticipates this and tilts her head just enough to give you access. Her hand trails down your cheek, then moves to the back of your neck to pull you closer. She's as demanding as ever, and you wonder briefly how you ever survived for so long without her. You allow her to do as she wishes with you, and you can tell she likes the control. When you break away, she looks breathy and satisfied.
"How about now?" you ask, trying very hard to sound serious.
"Much better," she breathes.
You smile, feeling pleased, and place a quick kiss on her forehead before backing out of the car and closing the door gently. You walk around the car to the driver's side, always keeping an eye on her through the windshield. She smiles and looks away shyly, and it's so rare for her to show timidity that you treasure the moment. Opening the door and slipping into your seat, you take a quick look at her, then toss your jacket into the backseat. You smile again, because her cheeks are flushed, and you like knowing that only you can make her like this.
You pull away from Valera's apartment, focusing on the road in front of you. You know that if you let your gaze wander to her, you'd probably cause a traffic accident or five.
"Are you going to tell me where you're taking me?" she asks.
You smile. "I told you, Calleigh, it's a surprise."
"For all I know, you could be planning to have me tied up somewhere so you can have your way with me," she says lightheartedly.
You raise an eyebrow, your mind wandering where it really shouldn't. Way too early to be going there. "Are you saying you wouldn't like that?" you ask, your voice a lot throatier than appropriate.
If she notices this, she doesn't show it. "I dare you to try it," she challenges.
You chuckle, clearing your throat in the process. "Calleigh, I'm pretty sure you can still kick my ass."
"Not in these heels," she replies with a laugh.
"I don't have rope," you say, taking a brief glance at her. She smiles in confusion, and you laugh nervously. "We are still talking about tying you up, right?"
"I don't even know." She giggles. "But you have handcuffs," she adds innocently.
While you're loving the way she's relaxed and teasing, it's affecting you a little more than it should, and you know that if she keeps this up for a few more minutes, she'll know just how much she really is affecting you. Still, you can't help yourself. "I don't have them on me," you reply, referring to your handcuffs.
"You don't need them right now, though. I doubt you're going to tie me up right here in the middle of the street," she replies coyly.
"You sure about that?" you ask with a laugh. "You know how much of an exhibitionist I am."
"Someone would rescue me," she replies, sounding sure of herself. "Damsel in distress."
"That's not you, Calleigh," you say, shaking your head.
"Maybe," she replies, chuckling slightly, "but who was the one who told me that blonde hair and blue eyes got all the attention around these parts?"
"You have—"
"I know," she interrupts, "but Prince Charming doesn't see that from thirty feet away."
A twinge of something… jealousy? It couldn't possibly be that, you think to yourself, because she's obviously only joking. But just the thought of another man coming to her rescue boils you up inside. She'd hate it, of course, probably kill the poor guy, but it's the notion that sticks out in your head like a sore thumb. If you were going to tie her up, you'd be the only one who should be allowed to rescue her, damn it.
"Eric?"
"Prince Charming needs to mind his own business," you say indignantly, not really noticing how much resentment had been dripping from that sentence.
"You're jealous," she observes teasingly.
Ignoring her remark, you continue, "You wouldn't like it, anyway. Being rescued?" You turn to look at her for a moment. She's smiling, which makes you frown. "It's not your thing."
"Oh, I don't know." She pauses tellingly. "Depends how cute Prince Charming is." She's experimenting with you, seeing how far she can push you before you push back. You remember how much of your time had been spent teasing each other, pushing buttons and pulling hairs until one of you (usually not her) finally gave in. As a side note, the sex had always been better on those nights, you remember, but you really needed to stop going there.
"I could kick Prince Charming's ass any day of the week and twice on weekends," you say, frowning. "He should know better than to approach you when you're clearly taken." You can't help but sound childish, and you're trying, but every words that slips out sounds a little whinier than it probably should.
"Eric, you're so cute when you're possessive," she says with a light chuckle.
And you must be the most pathetic man ever, because you feel a flush creep up your cheeks. Men, especially Cuban-Russian men, aren't supposed to want to be cute, and somehow Calleigh had made it appealing. If she notices this, she doesn't say anything, thankfully. She probably hadn't though, because she definitely wouldn't have let you live down blushing when called cute, especially since it hadn't been out of embarrassment but out of appreciation.
The conversation dies there, although she's still smiling and looks deep in thought. You want to know what's going through that pretty little head of hers, but it isn't like you can just ask. She's never been one to divulge secrets, and well, as long as she's smiling, you're happy too. You'd never pictured yourself as a dependent guy, but in reality, for the past probably seven or eight years, your happiness has loosely reflected hers.
A few turns later, you're pulling into the parking lot of Casa Tua.
"You should've just told me this is where we were going," she pipes up. "I love this place. Why have we never come here before?"
"I don't know." You pause thoughtfully. "Marisol loved it here, too," you add, maneuvering into a spot and turning off the ignition. And without really realizing it, at the mention of your sister, a hint of sorrow slips loosely through your words.
Ever observant, she moves a hand to your arm and squeezes gently.
You smile gratefully and step out of the car; she does the same and walks around to your side. You hand finds the small of her back, but before you can guide her toward the door, she stops you.
"Wait." She smiles, a little apologetically. "Before we go in." She sticks her hand into her purse and fumbles around for a second. "I got you something." She pulls out a black box and fiddles with it in her hands, almost as if trying to hide it from you.
"Oh," you murmur, "you didn't have to." You reach for the box, but her arms stay withdrawn, so you drop your hands to the sides of your body awkwardly and wait.
"I bought it at the airport," she says, as if needing to provide an excuse. "I wasn't going to give it to you since I—" She trails off, looking a little helpless, and she's fidgeting a little, probably the only telltale sign that she's nervous.
"Calleigh."
"Let me finish," she requests, her eyes on the box. She pauses, turning the box over in her hands. "I wasn't going to give it to you but then—" She swallows. "Then you showed up in Raleigh and I—" Your eyes meet. "I wish I had the words to tell you how much that means to me," she finishes quietly. She opens her mouth to say more, but seems to decide against it. She plays with the box a moment more, then holds it out tentatively. "I hope you like it."
Wordlessly, you take the box carefully from her hands and hold it gingerly in yours.
"It's not fragile," she says with a tiny smile. "You won't break it."
"What is it?" you ask, still holding the box as if expecting it to shatter at any moment.
"Open it," she urges. "Consider it an early birthday present."
"My birthday's in December," you reply with a nervous laugh.
She smiles. "So?"
"So, it's August," you explain, hinting obviousness.
"Eric, just open it," she says impatiently.
You take off the cover and remove the watch from the stand.
"Oh, Calleigh, this is perfect," you breathe.
She smiles, apparently pleased at your response. She takes the watch from you and plays around with it for a moment. "You can wear it when you're swimming laps at the pool or something." She looks up at you. "You still do that, right?"
You nod. Swimming had been one of the things that hadn't felt unfamiliar and awkward after she had left.
"It can track your heart rate and blood pressure." She turns the watch over in her hands. "And it's waterproof up to 300 feet."
You take the watch back and run your thumb over the screen. You frown. "This wasn't cheap."
She looks away. "Probably less than your plane ride," she says simply.
"Calleigh—"
"Don't say anything," she pleads, and you sense that she can't handle anything grandly sweet or romantic from you right now.
So you don't say anything at all, only pull her into your arms and kiss her, soft and sensual. She's always communicated best this way, and you know this. You know that she lets her guard down for a moment through intertwined lips.
You make up for lost time. Every kiss feels like the last, every caress still holds the fear of waking up alone. So the desperation continues, but she doesn't let you rush this time, forces your lips to keep pace with hers. Slow and steady. Torturous, but it reminds you that, for the first time in four years, there is time.
"I didn't get you anything," you murmur against her lips.
She pulls away and looks down at your feet. "You came," she corrects softly. "You stood there at my hotel room door despite the fact that I'm insane and this is crazy and that—" She swallows and looks up at you. "That almost makes my gift seem like a joke."
"It's not," you contradict immediately, shaking your head. You press another quick kiss to her lips. "Thank you."
You start to take off your old watch, but she stops you. "You don't have to wear it all the time. I just thought, you know, when you're swimming…"
You give her a look and finish taking off your watch. She smiles and watches as you strap on the new one. After fiddling with it for a moment, it springs to life, a small heartbeat monitor blinking your heart rate in the corner of the display screen.
She cranes her neck to check your watch. "100 beats per minute," she reads, raising her eyebrow, a knowing smirk on her lips. "A guy who's standing still and who has your physical condition should be at 70 to 80, tops."
"Well, I really like this gift," you reply sheepishly.
"This function might come in handy later," she says coyly, but before you can process what that is supposed to mean, she takes you by the hand and leads you toward the restaurant.
You still haven't shaken off what she's said by the time the two of you step through the door, though you've tried. It's always little suggestive things like that that really get you, and you start thinking about how much you just want to take her, right then and there. You're eying her again, and she notices, but you don't care. If you had your way, you'd stare at her all day. And all night, but that is thought for another day. Then again, with her comment, you can't even be sure.
Seats are found quickly (of course you had remembered to reserve), and you rush to pull out her chair for her. She glares at you, but she's smiling, too, and you know that deep down, she really does appreciate small romantic gestures sometimes.
After you've take a seat across from her and the waiter leaves, you pick up the menu and flip it open. She does the same, but she's smiling about something. The corners of her lips twitch, as she tries not to show it, but you feel a smile spread across your own lips.
"Calleigh, what have I told you about dirty thoughts at the dinner table?" you ask, as nonchalantly as possible.
She looks up, but she's not rolling her eyes like you had expected her to. She looks startled and a little flustered. Was she really—
"Eric, that big mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble one day," she reprimands, laughing a little, and her cheeks are rosy. She turns back to her menu and puts on a straight face. "What are you getting?"
And it takes you a moment to respond, because you realize that she had totally been having an inappropriate thought and damn, it's going to be a long night.
You close your menu, even though you had barely glanced at it, because you know what you want. "Lamb chops."
She raises an eyebrow at you. "Is there something your subconscious is trying to tell you?"
"What?" you ask, genuinely confused.
"Don't tell me you forgot what my father always calls me," she replies, smiling.
And at that, your mouth forms a little 'o' as the realization hits you. You hadn't meant anything by it, but for whatever reason, it's a little embarrassing. And really, it shouldn't be, but you're kind of stuttering and that's totally unattractive. "I didn't—"
Her smile widens, and she closes her menu as well. "I'm going to have tagliolini," she announces, steering the conversation away from that awkward little mishap.
You frown. "I wasn't—"
"I know." She smiles. "And hey, I'm all for subconscious messages," she suggests.
And there it was again, the flirty Calleigh that you hadn't seen in way too long. You can't say you don't appreciate it, but she's making it hard to ignore the tingling feeling you keep getting, especially since she's wearing that black dress that dipped just low enough…
"Are you ready to order?" Alas, saved by the waiter.
He takes your orders, and the whole time, you're thinking you probably should've gotten pasta as well. You compliment the order with a bottle of wine, not that you're planning on getting drunk or getting her drunk, but you imagine you'll need the alcohol to numb your overactive senses for a little while. Plus, it's just one of those things you're supposed to do.
When the waiter leaves, the little jumble of tenseness and maybe nervousness returns.
"I never got a chance to ask you what you've been up to," you say.
"You know," she replies, "catching the bad guys."
You chuckle. "Yeah." Clearing your throat, you fiddle absentmindedly with the button on the cuff of your sleeve. "I was surprised that you settled for Boston." And it's a pretty risky topic, but she seems to be responding well, so you push a little.
"Why's that?" she asks, and if she doesn't want to talk about this, she isn't showing it.
"Well, not much crime there compared to Miami," you point out. "Lower profile cases." You shake your head. "Doesn't sound like you."
"Crime is crime," she says with a quick shrug. "And Boston had an open spot." She looks down for a moment and picks at a piece of nonexistent lint on the tablecloth. "I could've waited for a place to free up in a more prominent city, but you know."
"Yeah." And that's when you know it's gone a little too far from her comfort zone.
The waiter has pretty good timing, because he returns then with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. He sets them down and pours a generous helping into each. He smiles and bows a little, then leaves, and you're not sure if it's customary for waiters here to be so silent, but at least he was nice.
You pick up the glass and move it toward your lips, needing it to calm your nerves a little, but Calleigh stops you. "Wait, a toast. You do it," she says, picking up her own glass.
You nod. "Okay, what should we toast to?"
"I'm sure you don't need my help thinking of something to toast to, Eric," she replies, sounding a little exasperated.
You contemplate it for a moment, trying not to take too long. "To second chances," you say finally, raising your glass.
She smiles. "Cheers," she says softly, holding up her glass and clinking it gently against yours.
You take a sip, keeping your eye on her as she does the same. Her sip ends up more like a huge gulp, and you wonder if maybe she's a lot more nervous than she's letting on.
When she finally drops her glass, she smiles. "What about you? Anything exciting happen while I was gone?"
"My sister had another boy," you inform her, because that's the first thing you manage to come up with.
"What's his name?" she asks cautiously, and only then do you remember what she had told you at the park two days ago. Still, there's never a time when you don't want to talk about your new nephew.
"Matthew," you reply, your lips tugging involuntarily into a smile. "He's about eighteen months old now. He's adorable. I'll introduce you to him sometime."
She smiles. "I'd like that," she replies sincerely.
You nod, relaxing a little. "It got my mom to stop bugging me about settling down for a couple of months," you say with a short chuckle.
Wrong thing to say, because she tenses noticeably. You're not even sure what had prompted you to say that, because there was no way that would've gone over well, and still, you had said it. You hadn't even had enough to drink to blame it on the alcohol. Maybe you really were just that stupid.
"Cal…" You sigh, moving to touch her hand. "She'll be okay with it."
She squirms a little and lets out a slow breath. "I don't want her to resent me," she says quietly.
"She won't," you reassure, giving her hand a quick squeeze. "I promise, Calleigh. She loves you."
She sighs and looks down. "I do like children. I just…" She trailed off, moving her hand to play with your fingers, and you know that now is the time to wait, not speak. Finally, she looks up and smiles sadly. "I remember growing up and thinking I was going to be a much better parent than my parents ever were, but there was always this fear that I'd, I don't know, mess them up somehow."
"Ultimately, I'm happy as long as I have you," you say, wishing it was easy to convey that to her, but it's not, and her hand tenses against yours. "Really, Cal, I am, and you never have to worry about my mom. She thinks the world of you."
"Even after I left?" she asks disbelievingly.
"Yes, even then," you reply seriously. "Calleigh, you have to take my word for it. You're not going to disappoint anyone." You smile, giving her hand another squeeze. "For what it's worth though, you'd make a great mom. Don't you dare question that."
She smiles sadly. "Maybe."
"Hey, aren't we starting fresh? This is supposed to be our first date, remember?" You chuckle. "Talking about children on a first date is generally frowned upon," you point out playfully.
She laughs softly. "Okay, so Mr. Delko, what do you do for a living?"
You raise an eyebrow. "Since when do you call me Mr. Delko?"
"How would you know? This is our first date, remember?" she asks mockingly.
You laugh, conceding to the fact that she had gotten you on that one. "I'm a cop."
"Oh, really?" she asks, trying to sound surprised and doing a very good job of it. "So you get to play with badges and handcuffs, huh?" she asks suggestively, and her flirty self was back. "I love guns," she adds.
"Well, coincidentally, an opening just came up at my workplace," you inform her. "You'd get to play with guns every day."
She sobers up a little at that comment and turns serious. "What about us?" she asks quietly. "Doesn't working together put a strain on relationships?"
You study her for a moment, trying to figure out how to approach this. "I worked with this woman once," you say, taking a quick drink of wine. "She was smart, funny, and sexy as hell, and one day, we got involved."
She swallows, and you know that she can tell where this is going. "Just like that?"
You shake your head. "No, danced around the issue for the better part of five years. She was a big fan of professionalism, and he respected her way too much to push the issue," you say, unsure where the line stood and unsure how to stay on the right side of it.
"So what happened?" she asks, her gaze piercing. "How'd you end up with her?"
"Her then-boyfriend was severely injured in a shootout. Went into what the doctors described as an irreversible coma." You try to read her reaction, but she's offering none, so you continue. "We were good friends, best friends. I was there for her, I guess."
She waits a whole minute before speaking. "That's a pretty cold and selfish thing for her to do," she says, never looking away. "I mean, her boyfriend wasn't even dead and what, she just fell into your arms?"
"I think I had her in my arms all along," you reply, smiling slightly. She smiles back, which gives you the courage to keep talking. "I had the most amazing ten months of my life with her, and I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world."
"Eric…" Her voice is low and finally carries a semblance of emotion.
You take a deep breath. "When it ended, she told me it was because of work. I don't really believe that, but it doesn't matter, because what do they say? 'Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all'? It's true." You smile a little, because you want to tell her that you're okay, that this is okay, that the two of you can discuss this. "Work never got in the way. If something's meant to happen, it will."
She closes her eyes then, briefly, and when she opens them again, they're a tint redder than before. She takes a shaky breath, covering up her uncertainly with a quick laugh. "Those were the most amazing ten months of my life, too," she agrees quietly. She looks down at your hands again, and tugs lightly at a finger. "Aren't you scared that the same thing will happen?"
"She was always worth the risk," you reply without missing a beat. "I know you will be, as well."
"I'm going to make sure we don't end up like you and her did," she says resolutely.
"Quite a hefty promise for a first date, don't you think?" you tease, smiling to let her know that anytime she wanted, this conversation could be put on hold.
She smiles faintly, apparently grateful for your attempt to lighten the mood.
The waiter returns with the food and places the lamb chops in front of you and the tagliolini in front of her. You hadn't been aware of just how hungry you really are, so you dig in, a little less elegantly than you would've liked to be, but it's not like she's never seen you wolf down food before. Besides, she appears equally hungry, but she's been taught etiquette, so she eats carefully, taking modest mouthfuls. Eating lamb chops in front of her really isn't as strange as you had previously thought it would be, or maybe you are just too hungry to notice or care, because they're delicious.
A few minutes of quiet eating later, the two of you fall into a light, teasing conversation about your lack of table manners, and all is well for the rest of dinner.
You try to pay for her meal, but she refuses, so the bill is split. You make sure to get the bottle of wine on your bill though.
The sun has already set by the time you lead her out of the restaurant, a half-filled wine bottle in hand, and she's a lot more at ease than she had previously been, which in turn makes you relax. She'd had a lot more to drink than you, but her alcohol tolerance levels have always been impressive, especially given her size. You had wanted a little more to drink, but you still had plans for the evening, and driving under the influence had always been a particularly touchy subject with her.
A comfortable silence sets in, as you open the car door for her (again) and she doesn't protest (again). And when you pull away from the restaurant, she doesn't ask you where you're taking her, doesn't need to because maybe she knows.
When you arrive at your destination, she smiles and exits the car, waits for you to get to her side, then searches out your hand with her own.
"I knew you'd take me here," she whispers, her eyes sparkling under the moonlight, and you don't think you've ever seen her this beautiful. Clothed, anyway, but it still wasn't time to go there.
You place a soft kiss on her temple and pull her closer to the edge of the pier.
"This place is exactly how I remember it," she says with a nostalgic smile.
"Yeah, it's still as gorgeous," you reply, loving the way she's lighting up.
You guide her toward a secluded area that you know she will recognize immediately. "Eric," she says softly, reaching out to stroke the railing against which your younger selves had spent so much time together. Not enough, though, never enough time.
She leans into it slowly, tentatively, as if testing the feel of the railing under her weight. You approach her from behind and wrap your arms around her torso, leaning into her gently. She tenses momentarily at the contact, but willingly eases herself into the familiarity of your embrace. You move one arm up to brush her hair off her left shoulder and lower your lips to her exposed skin. You place a soft kiss at the base of her neck, which elicits a throaty sound from her. This encourages you enough to repeat the gesture on the skin right under her ear, and she suppresses a gasp in response. You move your hand sneakily up the fabric of her dress, your fingertips finding a comfortable resting place along her ribs.
"Eric…"
"Do you remember the first time we came here?" you murmur.
"Yeah," she replies, so softly that it could've been mistaken for breathing.
You smile against her neck. "Remember that night?" you ask, already feeling the blood rushing to your head.
"The movie?" she asks innocently.
You pull away slightly. "You were actually watching the movie?" you ask in disbelief.
"Mm-hmm," she replies. She cocks her head to the side to look at you. "Why? Something else catch your attention that night?"
You chuckle and press a soft kiss to her lips. "What was the movie about?" you ask.
"Well, it was about—" She smiles and turns back to the ocean. "That was a long time ago," she points out.
"That's what I thought," you murmur, moving to kiss her shoulder.
She pushes you up a little with her back, and for a minute, you think that she is going to make you stop touching her, but she had only wanted to turn her whole body around to face you. She looks up at you, and even in the relative darkness of this section of the pier, the green in her eyes glitters.
"We should rent it again," she whispers, leaning in to bury her face into your neck. The subtle suggestiveness of her voice sends shivers down your spine.
Trying to ignore the warmth that flows up to your cheeks and down to your groin, you chuckle. "Do you even remember the title?" you ask.
You feel her smile against your neck. "That only matters if you plan on watching it," she murmurs.
You inhale slowly and close your eyes. "Calleigh, you're driving me crazy."
She pushes your chest away gently. "Valera told me this dress would do that," she says, smiling deviously. She moves her hands up to loosen your tie, then concentrates on unbuttoning the top few buttons of your dress shirt, her fingers occasionally brushing against the exposed skin.
When she reaches for the fourth button, you stop her. "Trust me, it's not the dress," you manage to say. You draw your fingers along her arm, liking the way she shivers at your touch.
And then, suddenly, so suddenly that you had learned to expect it from her, she tenses and pushes you to the side. She takes a step away and clears her throat. "It's late."
"Cal—"
"It's getting cold out here," she says, wrapping her arms around her body to prove her point.
"My apartment is warm," you reply immediately. You hate sounding desperate, but you don't want tonight to ever end.
"So's Valera's." Quickly, she looks up. "Eric," she says firmly, and you can tell that it's not a debate.
"We'll watch a movie," you reply, taking a step toward her. Something flashes across her eyes, and you don't realize what you've accidentally suggested until it's too late. "Really watch it," you add, but the damage is done.
Sighing, you jam your hands into your pockets and start toward the car, watching her as she follows close behind. You open the door for her again, and this time, she offers no reaction whatsoever, which frustrates you a little. You climb in beside her and give her a look, but she's staring straight ahead, so you sigh and start up the car.
Halfway to Valera's, she places a hand on your arm.
"Wait," she says suddenly, pointing at something. "Turn here."
You obey, nearly running over another car. "That's to my place," you remark, sounding a little idiotic.
She ignores you. "Rule number one: keep your extremities to yourself," she says, not revealing anything with her tone or her demeanor.
"Okay," you reply with a swift nod.
"Rule number two—"
"I have a semantics question," you interrupt, giving her a quick, cautious look. "Do lips count?"
She glares at you but seems to seriously consider this. "They do," she replies, nodding. "Everything counts." She pauses. "Rule number two is I have my gun, so failure to comply with the first rule will result in me putting a bullet through your gut."
You have to bite down on the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing, because she looks so serious that saying or doing anything out of line would probably put rule number two into effect immediately. And it's strange, because you aren't sure why exactly she had asked you to drive to your place. You're not complaining, of course, but it doesn't seem like something the careful, calculated Calleigh would do.
When you pull into your parking space, you still haven't figured out what the hell she's up to, and with her rules in place, it didn't look like you'd be allowed to do anything you wanted to do, but it's Calleigh, and you're prepared to be surprised.