CHAPTER FIVE
. . . .
. . .
Juliet drew a deep, spine-stiffening breath.
This was just the police station. She'd worked here for years. These people were her friends and colleagues. There would be no pointing or staring or laughing or mockery.
Right. Of course not!
She took a sharp left at the steps and sat on the low wall outside the main entrance, collecting herself.
After a minute, her phone rang.
"O'Hara, get in here," Carlton said firmly.
"You cannot possibly see me."
"No, but I saw you parking your car, and unless you were abducted by aliens between there and the front door, you're hiding somewhere in the bushes."
She looked around sheepishly. "Close enough. Has anyone said anything?"
"No, and the Chief is alone in her office."
"Will you go in with me?"
"I told you last night I would. Stop worrying and get your Scottish butt in here."
She'd spent most of Sunday with him. They watched a movie (Local Hero, with plenty of wonderful scenery from coastal Scotland), he taught her the Lassiter family recipe for spaghetti sauce (which was remarkably like non-Lassiter family spaghetti sauce recipes, but tasted especially good all the same) and they argued about two of their active cases, because oh yeah, they were cops and they would have plenty of work to do once the week started.
He hadn't pressed her on anything, he didn't seem at all uncomfortable about her being in his space, he didn't tell her she should answer Shawn's calls and texts, and she could not stop thinking about the look in his sea-blue eyes when he said he'd protect her until his dying day.
Because that hadn't sounded like Detective Lassiter, loyal partner, talking.
It had sounded like Carlton, the man.
Kinda made her feel shivery, too. Quite possibly even extremely shivery.
She wanted to stop thinking about it. She had no business considering Carlton the man, let alone Carlton the single, attractive, incredibly blue-eyed man. He was her friend, and she was in a stupid self-induced mess and he was Being There For Her, and she could not afford to have any unduly shivery thoughts about him now.
Not while she was married. Married, damn it.
Her phone buzzed again with a text: Coward.
She sent back: Potato-head.
But she got up, braced herself anew, and strode up the steps as if she hadn't completely lost her mind on Friday.
Carlton was standing in the middle of the bullpen, arms folded, jacket off and tie already loose. He eyed her critically, nodded slightly, and joined her in front of Chief Vick's door. "You can do this."
Just before she knocked, he added in a mutter, "Haggis-breath."
Juliet looked at him, startled, and laughed despite all of her trepidation. "You slithy tove!"
"Well, that's not… anything," he protested. "You have to stick with the proper ethnic slurs!"
Chief Vick called from her desk, "No ethnic slurs in the station, please."
They walked in together, Juliet rapidly losing her good mood. Carlton closed the door and sat in the chair next to hers.
"Chief."
"O'Hara." Karen Vick's eyebrow went up slightly. "I got your message about a personal emergency causing your run out of here on Friday." Before Juliet could so much as nod, Karen turned her deep brown gaze to Carlton. "I also heard something about a screaming match between the two of you."
"We resolved our… issue, Chief, and it will not happen again." His tone was uncompromising.
Vick, unimpressed, smiled. "Sure it will. You're partners."
"Not ever again like that," he qualified, still stern, and Juliet knew he was absolutely correct: neither of them would ever go so far again.
"I hope so. As an aside, you know 'slithy tove' is from Jabberwocky, right?"
"Yes, but Lewis Carroll is English." He was slightly impatient. "If you're going to start with potato-head for the Irish and move on to haggis-breath for the Scots, you can't just randomly throw the English in there too."
Juliet was trying not to laugh. He took his snarkery very seriously. (A little like Shawn, but she would eat dirt before telling Carlton such a thing.)
"But the entire United Kingdom is represented," Vick persisted. "A little abuse for everyone."
"There were some wayward Englishmen in my family history," Juliet offered.
"Irish too," Carlton said pointedly. "I've been telling you for years O'Hara is an Irish name."
She suddenly remembered the old come-on—"Got any Irish in ya? No? Ya want some?"—and the idea of Carlton saying such a thing to her flooded her with a most unexpected but not entirely unwelcome heat.
"Chief," she said abruptly. "I want you to hear this from me, and Carlton's here for moral support. I married Shawn on Friday afternoon."
Karen stared at her, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
Juliet helped her out. "I'm... not particularly happy about it, and congratulations are not in order."
"Oh, thank God for that," Karen breathed. "How much alcohol was involved?"
"Not as much as you'd think. I realized within hours what a mistake I'd made and I've asked Shawn to… to stand down," she finished helplessly.
Carlton's expression was neutral. "Whether he will or not remains to be seen."
"I need time to work through this, and I'm trying to be careful about it, but at the heart of everything is the certainty that I need to get out of this marriage as soon as possible. I don't know what it means for my relationship with Shawn. I don't know if it ends now or goes on life support or what. But the marriage… that's coming to an end, because that should never have happened in the first place. Not the way it did."
She could feel Carlton's watchful gaze on her, but she kept her focus on the Chief.
Karen nodded, as if somehow this impossible craziness made sense to her. "So you'd like to be discreet, at a minimum."
"Yes. And obviously I shouldn't work any cases for which Psych is hired. It's one thing to have dated one of our consultants, but—"
"But being married to one creates the appearance of impropriety," Karen supplied. "Yes, I agree. You'll pass off any cases they might be needed for, and if you play your cards right and the criminals cooperate, they won't be needed any time soon."
"God willing," Carlton muttered.
"Him too," Karen agreed. She was still staring at Juliet. "Seriously. How much alcohol?"
She was chagrined. "I wish it were more than one bottle of sangria on an empty stomach."
"It is more."
Juliet looked at Carlton, whose blue gaze was steady and calming.
He turned to Karen. "There was some Spencerian psychological manipulation involved."
"Yeah," Juliet admitted. "But it's not like I didn't know better."
"Well," Karen said reasonably, "he is very good at what he does. No reason he couldn't use his skills on you too."
No reason, thought Juliet, except his supposed love for her, and honest love shouldn't come with games when only one of them was playing.
. . . .
. . .
Carlton kept an eye on Juliet throughout the morning. So far he knew of no talk swirling around her—although both of them got the occasional Look from those who'd heard the tone of their argument on Friday.
It had been fierce. He regretted all of it, and not just because it had contributed to her subsequent marriage.
No one had asked questions that day: his long-perfected steely glare worked perfectly. He hoped he didn't have to use it today as well on her behalf.
Over mid-morning coffee in the conference room, he asked if she'd called Shawn after he took her home.
"I did." She sat in the closest chair, turning to face him. "I asked as nicely as I could if he'd consider keeping it quiet."
"And?"
"He said 'I'm sorry, Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that' and started singing 'Baby Come Back.'"
Crap. He didn't say it out loud. "And you said?"
"I asked him again." Her voice had dropped, and he sat down to hear her better. She swallowed, her free hand gripping the arm of the chair.
Crap, crap, crap. He couldn't help himself: he reached out and covered that warm, soft hand with his.
Juliet gradually relaxed, and he withdrew his hand—but she caught it, clasping it gently for one more moment… or three… before releasing him. "He asked why I wanted to hide our marriage. He said it was something to be proud of, to be announced to the world."
"If it were a normal marriage, he'd be right."
"He would." She drew a deep breath. "I asked him again, very specifically and without anger, to please honor my request that he not talk about the marriage right now. I explained that I wasn't trying to hurt him but rather to get my head together and make the best decision possible. He said there was no decision to make, because we love each other and we should be together. He actually—" She stopped, shaking her head. "He actually sounds as if he honestly has no idea what my problem is."
"Because he's an…" Don't say it. Do not say 'asshat.'
Juliet smiled—that same knowing smile she'd used on him a million times before. "I have an appointment to see a lawyer today at four. I started looking up attorneys after the phone call ended by me hanging up abruptly when he began to sing 'Every Breath You Take.'"
Carlton wasn't sure whether to say 'I'm so sorry' or 'Atta girl' so he opted for a noncommittal nod. He trusted her instincts. He just didn't want her to wonder later if she'd acted too quickly.
"I always thought the lyrics to that sounded stalkerish," he commented without thinking it through, and her eyes widened. "Not that you have to worry about him stalking you."
Because I'll shoot him first.
"Because you'll find him a shallow grave first," she said more lightly, but once again her smile was knowing—never seeming mocking but rather I know you and I like you anyway.
It was of the things he was confident about, although often puzzled: she did like him. He couldn't imagine why, but she liked him. And she trusted him. And he wished he could touch her hand again.
"I wonder what Henry thinks of the results of his little heart-to-heart with Junior," he mused, leaning back in the chair.
Juliet held her mug with both hands. "I'm sure it's not what he intended. I wonder if Shawn's even told him yet."
"He told your entire apartment complex! Why wouldn't he tell—wait, never mind. I forgot who we were talking about. His reasons for doing anything are always convoluted."
She grimaced. "The other thing that serves me right about being so stupid is what it's going to cost to get out of it."
"I'll help you," he said at once.
"Oh Carlton, thanks so much, but—you've been through it once yourself. I can do it. It's just ironic that after telling him so emphatically I didn't have debt and intended to keep it that way, I'll end up going into debt at least temporarily after all."
"You call it irony. I call it incredibly unfair." He ran his hand through his hair, restless, because none of this was fair at all. "Is annulment an option?"
She shook her head. "I don't think so. I read the possible qualifications and it looks like the only one which applies is fraud, but how can I prove I was essentially tricked into marrying him? And plus it's a big nasty thing to say in court, isn't it? That my boyfriend intentionally deceived me?"
But he did, Carlton thought, watching her. And she knows he did.
"Just tell the lawyer everything," he finally said. "Make sure he has all the facts so he can give you the best advice."
Juliet was uncomfortable, shifting in her chair. "I'll do my best."
"Please."
Again those dark blue eyes widened.
"Juliet," he said, her first name still feeling like a sweet and secret privilege, "for your future and your peace of mind, tell the lawyer everything."
She held his gaze a long while, and the silent message he sent her—if she could read it as well as she seemed to read everything else about him—was that he cared about her and expected her to care for herself just as much. "I will. I promise."
McNab came to the door to collect them for a scheduled witness interview, and Carlton hoped the rest of Juliet's day would be Spencer-free.
. . . .
. . .
At home that evening, Juliet weighed everything the attorney had told her.
The woman was in her fifties, pleasant and forthright, and Juliet felt comfortable enough to do as Carlton had (again, so wisely) advised: she tried to explain everything, starting with… Shawn. Explaining Shawn was tricky in and of itself, of course, even to people who knew him. But as it turned out, Camille Hughes had seen Shawn on TV a few times and had a sense of his personality (certainly his ego) already.
At first she said annulment was unlikely, but the more she listened, and particularly when Juliet got to the credit card use, she started looking thoughtful.
But Juliet was reluctant to flat-out say Shawn had intentionally defrauded her into marriage. It meant a public record of not only his duplicity but also of her stupidity, and neither aspect was appealing.
Camille gave her forms for both and told her the same thing Carlton had: think about this. She told her to use the week to consider all three options: divorce, annulment, and reconciliation.
Juliet didn't want to think about it. She was only four nights into this stupid marriage and she was already really, really tired of thinking about it.
Shawn had left an autographed photo of the two of them on her door. It was poster-sized, staring at her as she walked up the steps, mocking her with how simple everything had been when he was only her 'fun' boyfriend whose company she shared a few times a week. Back when all the flaws in his nevertheless solid friendship with Gus seemed as if they would never touch her—because Shawn would never treat her that way, because he would never want to, because he wasn't really as narcissistic as he seemed: it was all an act. For show. For fun. For a laugh.
Well, no more laughing.
Getting ready for bed, she couldn't help but think of Carlton, who had been rock solid for her over the past few days. Today in the conference room, when he'd touched her hand—that had been so nice. He'd made her feel both protected and trusted by that simple action, and she'd hated to let go of him after.
She'd hated it a little too much. Dammit. She could not, should not, be having thoughts like this about him… she sighed.
Too late.
At any rate, the poster was off the door, rolled up and dropped behind the sofa.
If only it could be so easy to undo Friday afternoon.
. . . .
. . .
Carlton was relieved to see Juliet looking a bit brighter when she came in on Tuesday morning. All of Monday passed without so much as a hint that anyone knew about the elopement, and while he knew this peace couldn't last, he was glad she could have any stay of execution at all.
Plus, she brought crullers for them both, and that was always good.
What was best—although terrifying—was when she stood by his desk with a folder and suddenly reached down and brushed a crumb off his shirt and then straightened his collar. It was terrifying because it felt very personal, and more so because she turned a little pink when their eyes met… but didn't jerk back. In fact, she went on to brush another and possibly imaginary crumb away as well, and then handed him the folder as if he had any muscle control left.
The moment passed, as moments like that should pass, and morning turned into afternoon.
They were having a rather spirited discussion (read: argument) about the witness statement in their extortion case when Carlton noticed a disturbance down the hall.
"Son of a bitch," he breathed, already angry.
Juliet followed his gaze, and he really wished she hadn't.
He really really wished she hadn't.
Spencer, wearing a white tux and top hat and twirling a baton (it was probably supposed to be a cane), was leading a parade of three floral delivery men who each carried two dozen red roses.
Everyone stopped, got out of the way, and stared as the procession made its way through the bullpen and inexorably closer to Juliet, who was on her feet now, two bright spots of color on her pale face.
To complete the spectacle, Spencer was holding a pink rose between his teeth.
He looked determined. He looked ridiculous. He looked like a man who didn't care what he looked like.
It was either brilliant or demonically dumbass.
"Shawn, please," Juliet said shakily. "Why are you—please, just turn around and leave."
He took the pink rose out of his mouth and stuck it behind his ear. "I cannot, my sweet Juliet." He dropped to one knee, the delivery guys fanning out behind him still nervously holding their flowers, and cleared his throat. "For you, I will now sing one of the finest love ballads ever written—"
"No!" she said, pleading. "Please, no, just go. Please!"
Carlton stepped in, glaring down at Spencer and hissing, "She is asking you to leave."
Spencer glared back. "You need to back off, Detective Lassiter. This crusade is not yours to interrupt."
You're the castle guard, he heard Juliet say in his head.
"Yeah, it kinda is." He barked at the delivery guys, "Clear out."
"The flowers," one said plaintively.
"Take them, leave them, I don't care. Just go."
"Stay!" commanded Shawn. "I need you for backup vocals."
The tallest one said, "Buddy, I told you in the parking lot I don't sing."
"Go," Carlton repeated, and his steely glare was enough to make all three of them skedaddle, dumping the roses on Dobson's desk as they passed in a hurry.
"Fine. I'll do it alone. It won't be easy to harmonize, though. Jules, you might want to sit down for this. I'm gonna take it slower than usual."
"Oh God, Shawn, please don't do this to me. Not here." She was whispering, her hands trembling, and Carlton wanted to punch Spencer in the face for making Juliet so unhappy.
Right before he whisked her into his arms and held her tight for the next fifty years.
"But I can't find you anyplace else, and how else can I make you see? Or make you feel?" Spencer smiled sincerely. "Because I know you do feel, honey."
Damn him. As monumentally stupid as he is, the whackaloony little fraud loves her.
Juliet's hand went to her mouth and her eyes were misty and Carlton—maybe only Carlton—knew she was not starry-eyed. She was trying not to cry. Everyone was staring unabashedly, which of course had been Spencer's goal beyond winning his woman back, and she was all too conscious of the attention as well as what lay ahead: an entirely unwelcome serenade.
Carlton was done waiting for Spencer to get the message. Clamping a hand onto his shoulder, he applied enough pressure to get Spencer to stand up on his own, protesting loudly all the while. He dragged him away from Juliet and through the multitude of curious co-workers, who managed a rather impressive group skedaddle after his single roar, "Get back to work!"
Throwing Spencer into the conference room and slamming the door, he shoved him into the far corner so Juliet wouldn't be able to easily see him gut-punch the idiot (if it came to that, and he might not mind if it did).
"Okay, Lassie," Spencer said sarcastically, getting his composure back quicker than he'd expected. "This is where you threaten to make good on that promise to shoot me, right?"
Carlton unclenched his fists. Look calm. Speak calmly. "Spencer, I would never do that here in the station."
Spencer had the sense to look momentarily nervous, but his bluster came back. "This is none of your business, you know."
"You just damn well made it everyone's business!"
"Do you even know what's at stake here?"
"Yeah, I do. Maybe more than you, Spencer."
Spencer nodded. "So she told you. I'm not allowed to tell anyone, but she told you."
"You told your friend, she told hers," Carlton said flatly.
This statement was not to Spencer's liking, and he drew himself up tall. "Get out of my way. I want to talk to my wife, and if you're not going to shoot me, then we're done chit-chatting."
Carlton slammed his hand to Spencer's chest, stopping his forward movement. "I'm not going to shoot you. I'm not even going to kick you in the ass… yet. But I do have one question."
"Ask it already! Before I forget the lyrics to the second verse."
He pushed him back toward the wall. "Why do you want to hurt her?"
Spencer was affronted. "I don't want to hurt her. I know love is a foreign concept to you, Lassie, but I love Juliet. I wouldn't hurt her for anything."
Remember, you can't kill him.
Not here, anyway.
"She asked you to keep quiet about this. How in the hell is dressing like that and marching in with the California State Floral Association keeping it quiet? Could you not see how upset she was? Did you think those were happy tears in her eyes? Did your scientific marvel of a brain somehow translate 'please leave' into 'please stay and humiliate me in front of my co-workers'?"
"It shouldn't be humiliating to have your husband tell you he loves you!" Spencer shot back.
"When a woman asks you to leave, and you don't, it's humiliating. When she says please don't make a spectacle of me, and you ignore her, it's humiliating. This really isn't that damn hard, Spencer. If you want to salvage anything of your relationship, then get the hell out now."
Spencer was silent, his hazel eyes giving nothing away—something he was very good at. He said coolly, "Let me pass."
Carlton stepped back, but not willingly, and followed Spencer out into the bullpen.
Juliet was at her desk, sitting very still and very pale. She stood up when Spencer approached, gripping the side of the desk for support.
"Jules, come outside and talk to me." He held out his hand.
Her eyes met Carlton's and he clearly read the uncertainty in their dark blue depths. He ached for her, but could not make her decision.
"Please," Spencer said quietly. "Just talk to me."
She nodded almost imperceptibly, and let him take her right hand, but as they passed Carlton, she made a point of brushing her left hand against his. It was so quick it might have been an accident, one he was sure no one else saw (their supposedly-busy-with-their jobs attention on Spencer in his tux)—but she turned her fair head and looked at him and he knew it was no accident at all.
Be strong, he told her with his heart, as she walked down the hall with her husband.
. . . .
. . .