CHAPTER EIGHT

. . . .

. . .

The bullet whizzed by Lassiter's head, smashing into the window behind him; the glass sparkled as it shattered. He fired back, keeping low under the far-too-short line of crates, and somewhere to his left, Miller was able to take out the hanging ceiling light fixture over the shooter's head, sending it crashing down.

The shooter, Marvin Mooy—that's Moy, he insisted, not Moo-ee—was determined not to be arrested, but his dream of escaping in his sleek black Porsche and somehow making it to the border wasn't coming true today.

First of all, the Porsche had four flat tires thanks to the shootout in the parking lot.

Second, there were fifteen cops here, which meant he was sort of outnumbered.

Third, Lassiter was not about to let this cross-dressing embezzling wine-tasting aluminum siding salesman's escape be the start to his week, not after two full days dealing with a triple homicide, almost no sleep, not nearly enough good coffee, and the frustration of having to stop kissing Juliet O'Hara to return to Santa Barbara to do it all.

"Screw this," he snarled, stood up and shot directly at Mooy's left shoulder, the only part of the man visible that very second. He'd have shot anything else he could spot of the grandiose idiot, but the shoulder would do nicely.

Mooy yelped in pain and stumbled backward, and at least six cops were on him a few seconds after that.

Lassiter walked out into the sunshine, breathing deep, running his hand through his hair, thinking of Juliet and that kiss.

That kiss.

He leaned against the nearest squad car, head aching. Sleep would be so nice. Being back with her would be nicer. Hell, it'd be everything.

McNab hurried up. "Boss, you okay?"

"Coffee," he said wearily.

McNab was flustered. "But sir—"

"I know. Warehouse district. No coffee." He yawned. "Mooy all right?"

"Yeah, the ambulance is on the way."

"I'm going back to the station. Tell Miller he can finish up here." Normally he wouldn't leave a scene so early but dammit, he'd already had enough, and there were at least four Starbucks between this place and the station. He could stop at each one if he had to.

And he might.

At the closest Starbucks, after he got back into the car with the first venti he intended to drink in the next hour, he got out his phone and texted Juliet. He needed a fix of her, too.

Another serial wine-taster goes to jail. I love my job.

Was he arrested for wine-tasting?

Embezzlement. First time we ever had to send fifteen cops in against one ascot-wearing dork. I think I have glass in my hair.

The phone rang. "There was gunfire?" she asked without preamble. "Are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right. Miller's shot to the light fixture gave me my opening."

"Carlton," she sighed. "There's no 'of course' about it."

"Relax, O'Hara. I've been running on adrenalin since I left your cabin. I'm bullet-proof."

"You are not." Her voice was low, almost pleading. "And I need you to stick around."

His heart twinged. "I plan to. But don't go soft on me now, O'Hara. This is the job we do. Can't let fear take over."

"It'd be different if I were there. I could smack you upside the head if I thought you took too many risks."

"Then come home," he said simply.

She made a sound, half-sigh, half-laugh, half-he didn't know what. "Soon. Sooner, now."

They had kissed out on the deck, arms tight around each other, for precious—and mere—seconds before his phone started screeching. It wasn't really a screech, but certainly felt that way in the moment. Juliet had pulled back enough for him to look at the display; Vick. Crap, he said at the time, and crap, he said again after ending the call. He was ninety minutes away from reaching the scene of the triple homicide and Vick said sorry, I know you went to see O'Hara but we need you here stat, tell her I said hello, now drive.

He'd looked at her, lovely in the sunlight, and wanted to say so much to her that it was just too damned soon to say. Juliet touched his face and kissed him softly one more time, and sent him away with a quiet reminder that she would talk to him every day and maybe, if he wanted, he could come up on the weekend.

Needless to say, he'd be heading there on Saturday. Early. Maybe he would go Friday night after work and sleep in the car in the resort parking lot to be able to have breakfast with her first thing in the morning.

"How are you?" he asked.

"I'm probably better than you, but I'm tired. I've been having some crazy dreams about confrontations with Shawn."

"All the things you want to say," he suggested.

"All the things he might say back."

"There's nothing he can say to you which should hurt, Juliet. You were the best girlfriend ever." He was sure it was true, and not just because he thought she was damned near perfect.

"Thanks, but… I don't know. In one dream, he yelled at me for not seeing the signs sooner. For being stupid. He even yelled at me for eavesdropping. At one point he turned into my Aunt Osla," she said wryly, "who once caught me with a glass at her door when she was being visited by her gentleman friend."

"I think you can shake off those fears, O'Hara," he told her quite firmly. "If he resorts to yelling, at you of all people, then he's already lost the argument."

"I know. I think he only yells at Henry anyway." She paused. "Have you seen him?"

Lassiter had been dreading this question, because he wasn't sure how it would feel to hear it. Was she asking because of regrets, or hope, or missing him? "No. They didn't come around all last week. I…" Should he confess?

Juliet didn't miss it. "Yes? You what?"

"I, uh… may have rattled his cage a little."

"Carlton, what did you do?"

"It was only a phone call. Last week. It was a little experiment, I guess to see how much nerve he really had."

"Carlton," she repeated warily, "what did you do?"

"I called the Psych office and said we needed them on a case."

Silence from her end. "And?"

"Gus said nervously that they both had the flu."

Another bit of silence, and then she laughed. "Okay. Both of them?"

"It's contagious, isn't it?" he asked innocently, and she laughed again. "There was a lot of noise in the background suggesting panic. Henry was off all week too and I didn't see him this morning before we went out after the wine idiot."

"So that means Shawn told them about my email."

"Looks like. They're running scared now, or at least Spencer and Guster are. Henry's probably just hoping he can escape unscathed."

Juliet sighed. "That's a theme of one of my waking nightmares. This is going to affect more than just Shawn. It could cost Henry, too. And Gus."

"Worst case scenario—and you know I'm pretty good at imagining worst-case scenarios—Gus starts paying more attention to his real job, Henry gets a reprimand, and Spencer…" What? Gets a real job of his own? Yeah, sure. "He can go on working as a private detective, minus the lies. They'll all be okay."

In truth, he wasn't at all sure what would happen to Henry. Granted, he could take the easy way out and return to retirement, but if he elected to stay—if Vick allowed him to stay—there would have to be repercussions for his cover-up of his son's lie.

Juliet had obviously figured this out herself, because her agreement was hesitant at best.

"Juliet," he said with the firmness of someone who wasn't going through what she was going through. "You went up there to work out your own issues, not theirs. It's still one day at a time."

"I know." Faint. "I know. I just can't help wondering. God, I wish you were here."

He felt immediate warmth, as well as the overwhelming urge to start the car and drive up there at eighty miles per hour. Instead, he asked, "Would I really help you?"

"Yes, of course. You're helping me now. You've helped me tremendously, Carlton, you know that—"

"It's not my ego asking. It's… are you…" Dammit, be a man. Be a friend, not a selfish lovestruck teenager. "Are you sure I wouldn't be just a way to avoid, or at least delay, reality?" Henry's question last week had been haunting him: was his interest in protecting Juliet, or protecting his interest in her?

She was quiet a little too long.

He spoke again, as evenly as he could. "It's okay, you know. The stress you've been feeling is bound to cloud a lot of issues." It's not okay. It's not okay. I am—we are—not an 'issue.' Dammit, he hated reality.

"Carlton," Juliet said gently. "You're right, but you're also wrong. You and I, we're so different, but that's the whole reason we work together so well. You have the ability to get to the heart of a problem quickly, to push aside all those… clouds, and I need that. I need you." She sighed. "I need us."

There went his out-of-control heart again. "Maybe I'm just supposed to help identify the problem, not be part of it."

"You are so not a part of the problem. God, I really do wish you were here so I could hold you down and make you see."

Hold me down, he thought. Yes, please. "And smack me upside the head."

"That too," she said with rather more enthusiasm than he expected. "Saturday can't come soon enough."

All too true.

. . . .

. . .

Henry stepped into the Psych office somewhat warily. He hadn't seen Shawn in several days, and Gus was being noncommittal when he called. He himself had dodged the station all last week and this morning called in with the very same 'flu' he'd heard was going around.

Shawn was at his desk, leaning back in the chair, hands behind his head. He looked half-asleep.

Gus was at his desk, staring at Shawn.

"So. Time for a pow-wow?"

"Go home, Dad," Shawn said without looking at him.

"Shawn, I just got here, and we need to talk. You too," he said to Gus, who hadn't moved. He took the sofa by the window, and the three of them formed a Bermuda triangle of sorts, one into which he wished he could make a lot of things disappear, such as the crapstorm which was going to hit as soon as Juliet came back to town.

"Nothing to talk about. I screwed up, and it's over."

"Yeah, you screwed up, but it's definitely not over."

"I meant the relationship. Jules. The woman I was almost halfway ready to think about someday marrying, maybe." He leaned forward and rested his forehead on the desk.

Gus said, "That's all you see?"

"It's all I care about." His voice was somewhat muffled.

Henry considered throwing something at him, but none of the toys were handy. "So the big picture isn't as important? Your business, my job?"

"You don't need your job, and Gus already has one."

Nice. That's my boy. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You're going to walk away from the one thing you've actually cared to do longer than a month? This is your greatest success, Shawn. Despite being founded on a lie, Psych has lasted six years. Six years."

Shawn flopped his head to one side and stared at Henry balefully. "Your point?"

"What you said I was going to tell you last week. Pick yourself up, deal with the consequences, and move on. You have skills, you have experience, and you can keep Psych going, except for the psychic part."

"Dad. I really do not care about my job right now."

"Shawn," Gus interrupted, "you'd better start caring. Yeah, I can go back to just the one job. I will be okay. If I get through the shame of being exposed as a fraud, that is. But you need this."

"And you're good at this. I trained you to be the most observant son-of-a-bitch in the world, Shawn, so stop thinking about the loss of a woman you never should have lied to in the first place and start thinking about moving past her."

"And being able to pay your bills," Gus added in a grumble. "With your own money."

Shawn closed his eyes. "You both suck."

"That's the spirit, son." Henry stood up. "My work here is done. Get in touch when you're ready to stop feeling sorry for yourself. Oh, and after I lose my job, I'm probably not going to be able to invite you over for dinner so often, so start clipping coupons. I know I will."

. . . .

. . .

Juliet paced the length of the deck, hugging herself against the slight chill in the night air.

She'd been texting Carlton earlier, a little oasis of peace in the turmoil of the rest of her hours here—and honestly, who would believe Carlton Lassiter could offer so much comfort just by being his grumpy self?—but now she was back to her circular thoughts.

Some of them were about him, about them. What he'd said earlier today, about not wanting to be part of the problem. She knew what he meant: rebound. He didn't want to be the rebound guy.

Juliet was 110% certain he wasn't—she knew him too well, appreciated him too much, needed him more than she'd thought possible—but how could he be sure? That was the problem.

She told him on Friday that once she had absorbed the enormity of the conversation she'd overheard, her romantic relationship with Shawn had taken a back seat (more like the barely-holding-on U-Haul dragging along behind the car) to everything else she was feeling.

It was as if…as if her romance with Shawn had been such a very long time ago, with barely remembered feelings. He'd pursued her forever, and she had resisted forever, and a tiny little part of her which didn't want to hurt his feelings (even though he wasn't there and would never know) kept asking in almost a whisper, is it because you knew a relationship with him would be short-term?

At the end of their doomed getaway weekend, when he confessed his assumption that she wanted to get married, she couldn't correct him quickly enough. Another part of her swooped in to assure him she might want it someday—again, don't hurt his feelings—but the true little voice said uh, no, Shawn, but thanks for playing.

Playing.

Maybe she had been playing with him. Maybe she'd been using him? To kill time? To—

She could swear Carlton was standing behind her saying forcefully, NO. You are not that kind of woman. You thought it could work. You were hopeful. You were optimistic. You were human, dammit.

"See?" she asked the night air mistily. "I told you I needed you."

What was it going to be like to see Shawn again?

She wanted some things settled before that happened. Great—you break up by email, and now you're thinking about calling him. Very noble. Very mature. Very—

Knock it off, O'Hara, Carlton said clearly in her head, and she laughed despite herself. Just do what you need to do. This wasn't exactly a textbook relationship anyway.

"You're awfully chatty for someone who's not here," she grumbled.

The cell phone was on the table next to the glider.

She sat down heavily and picked it up.

Shawn answered on the second ring. "Jules," he breathed. "Jules. Thank God. I've been so worried."

"Shawn," she said levelly. "Please don't… I don't want you to call me that anymore."

He hesitated. "Okay. I won't. I mean I'll try. It's ingrained now, you know, like a toenail, only, God, that wasn't very classy, was it. I mean it's—"

She cut him off. "I'm sorry I contacted you by email. I'm not sorry for what I said, or even for how I said it, but I needed the distance. I couldn't have gotten through it in a phone call or in person, not then." And it wasn't exactly easy now.

"I know. Gus and my dad both said I should cut you some slack."

Juliet couldn't help but roll her eyes a little. "Yeah, thanks. The thing is, I need you to know… I know you never intended to hurt me. Or anyone else. I know that."

"I didn't, Jules… Juliet. I swear I didn't."

"You started this big charade before I ever knew you and I'm sure you never thought it would last this long."

"No way. I mean, if anyone had told me I'd stick to anything for even a year, I'd have thought they were crazy. Loco. Brain-spazzed. Not playing with a full deck. Lights on, nobody home. Off a rocker, maybe two."

She waited patiently for him to finish listing euphemisms for 'crazy.'

He fell silent.

"It has to stop. You know it."

He was still silent.

"I don't know when I'm coming home, and we will talk face-to-face when I get there. But you need to know now that you have to tell Vick the truth, because if you don't, I will."

He was so very very quiet—a startling development.

"Have you told Lassie yet?" he finally asked.

"Yes, a few days ago. He's not going to do or say anything until I get back."

"Yeah, right." His derision was clear.

"He won't, Shawn, because I asked him to stand down." She hesitated, and then said what she was thinking. "I can trust him."

I can trust him with my life. I can't trust you with my pocket change.

He let out a low whistle. "That's a little cold, Jule...iet."

Her turn for silence, but it wasn't shame; it was annoyance.

"Okay. I hear you. Look, you know everything I ever said to you about… us… was true. All of it."

Juliet sighed. "Yeah, I know. I just wish what you said to me about everything else was true."

There was hurt in his voice now. "I'm guessing reconciliation isn't on the table, huh."

"I'm sorry, Shawn. This is just too much. If it were only the lie about being psychic—if that lie had nothing to do with my job; if it didn't mean you covered up criminals faking their own deaths and stealing paintings; if it didn't mean all the freaking wasted time while you put on shows and wasted time and led us on—" She stopped, knowing her anger had returned, and expressing anger had not been the purpose of her call. "I'm sorry. Obviously I have a lot of unresolved…" She trailed off. "It's just too much."

"I'm so sorry, Juliet. I never meant any of this to happen. You… this was the last thing I could ever have wanted. I am so, so, sorry."

"I know." She sighed again. "I'll talk to you when I get home, but I'm serious. You need to tell Chief Vick, either now or on my first day back to work. You have decisions to make, and giving you this heads-up is…"

"More than I deserve," he finished quietly.

Yeah. It really is.

. . . .

. . .

Lassiter soothed her when she called at midnight, crying. He told her she'd done what she had to do, and no matter what her bruised psyche thought, everything would eventually be okay. It wasn't like him to express, let alone feel, optimism, but she was Juliet, and with or without him (or anyone else), she would be okay.

She blew her nose and said she wished he was there.

Hearing her, so close and warm, he felt like he was, and dreamed of their kiss when he slept.

. . . .

. . .