Chapter 43: Bullets in the Bubble Bath

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The dress rehearsal wasn't as much of a chore as she'd anticipated. Rachel considered it a far cry from the rehearsal for Sugarplums and Stars while in Pittsburgh over Christmas. Thankfully, this time she didn't need to throw her shoe at anyone.

During her down time backstage, the other singers congratulated her on the baby, asked about the gender, and showed a genuine interest in her as a person. Not being quite as famous as she used to be certainly had its advantages when it came to socializing. People seemed to actually care about her, and not just about being seen with her. Rachel's mood had lifted significantly before it was her turn to go on stage. She was glad for it, because her mood always made a big difference in her performance.

Singing was all muscle memory for her, at least during a rehearsal. Rachel's eyes took a few minutes to adjust from her place on stage under the bright lights. Slowly, each layer of the theater before her came into view. Orchestra pit. Ground floor seating. Upper balconies. Her eyes focused on the individual faces scattered sparsely throughout the theater, some of them seated and some of them standing. Theater staff, family members, managers, photographers. In the very back of the ground level she could just barely make out Frank and Scott near the lobby exit, in rapt conversation. Her singing voice faltered just a tiny bit as she watched Frank break away from Scott and begin patrolling the aisles of the theater on his own.

He was relentless.

Watching him prowl about the theater in his suit and tie, with that serious look on his face, while she was on stage – it was like she'd been transported back in time, and he was her bodyguard again, and she was trying to concentrate on her performance, but she kept getting distracted by him.

Rachel wasn't sure if she was bothered by it, or attracted to it. Like everything else with Farmer, she assumed it was a combination of both.

When he reached the front row seats, he looked up at her, his expression still frigid. His eyes pierced her fleetingly before he whipped around and continued stalking up the other aisle. She tore her gaze away from him and stared up into the blinding spotlight as she sang out the highest note of the song. That was when she felt it. The little flutter in the base of her belly. She could barely be sure it was there, but it thrilled her so much that she grinned through the rest of her song.

When she made it backstage to her dressing room, she inspected her belly with her hand as if she could somehow encourage it to happen again.

She heard a knock on the door and went to open it. It was Frank.

"You sounded amazing tonight," he said.

She hadn't expected him to open with a compliment. Her cheeks burned slightly as he carefully closed the door behind him.

"Thank you," she whispered. He closed the distance between them and stood in front of her, too close to continue casual conversation, but not quite close enough to kiss. His hand reached out tentatively to brush his fingers along the material of her dress. She felt like she could start crying at any moment, and she wasn't sure if it was because of the compliment he'd paid her, or because he always seemed to hesitate before kissing her when they were anywhere outside the bedroom.

With a shy smile of encouragement, Rachel reached up to cup his jaw with her fingers, and she gingerly placed a kiss on his lower lip.

This time she was certain she felt the baby. It was even lighter than before – so light she would have missed it if she hadn't been standing in complete stillness.

She let out a breathless little laugh as she clutched his arm for support.

"What?" he asked.

"I can feel her moving," Rachel replied, eyes closed, hand on her belly, wishing so hard for it to happen just once more.

"Really?" His voice sounded like a hopeful little boy. He placed both hands lightly against either side of her belly.

Though her memories from carrying Fletcher were fuzzy, she was fairly sure Frank couldn't feel any movement from the outside yet. She didn't want him to take his hands away though, so she let him stay there for what seemed like an eternity, waiting with her, breathing nearly in sync with hers. She opened her eyes and looked down, overwhelmed by the sight of his large, familiar hands nestled amongst the delicate layers of pale gold fabric that made up her dress. Rachel again succumbed to a sweet, tender crisis at the idea that she was carrying Frank Farmer's daughter. She started to cry.

He tore his hands away from her belly and framed her face with his warm palms, kissing her urgently as if he feared someone would break into the room at any moment.

If Scott hadn't been seated right beside them on the way back to the hotel, she was sure Frank would have made love to her in the back of the limo.

By the time they were finally in the hotel room alone, Rachel felt like she was about to combust. Frank hastily locked the door behind them with obsessive fingers, then followed her through the massive suite into the bedroom. Every one of his footsteps heightened her anticipation until she reached the bed, anxiously tearing away her clothing while he locked the bedroom door.

The second trimester was really getting to her. Just watching him lock all those doors made her nipples hard.

With measured movements, he circled the bed, pulling away the decorative pillows that the housekeeping maids had painstakingly arranged to The Plaza's standards. By the time he'd completed his task, Rachel was already completely naked while he remained clothed. He tugged her by her wrists until she was pressed firmly against his body, his large hands roaming the small span of her back while she writhed in his grasp.

With great effort, she managed to pull his jacket off, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor. She felt so deliciously vulnerable with her bare skin rubbing against the varying fabrics of his clothing as he kissed her, her fingers struggling to undo the tiny buttons on the cuffs of his sleeves, then to loosen his necktie. She slid her hands beneath his suspenders, running along the length of his chest until she reached the holster at his hip.

"You forgot to give Pettigrew his pistol back," she observed, flicking the grip of the gun with her fingernail.

"How'd you know it was Pettigrew's?" he rasped as he undid the holster with a complex series of memorized maneuvers around his waist.

"I pay attention," she quoted him in an amused whisper.

She thought she saw him smile before he bent closer to kiss her again. His tongue danced relentlessly with hers as she unhooked his suspenders and plucked the buttons of his dress shirt apart. Before she could unzip his pants, he pushed her down onto the bed with her legs hanging off the edge and lowered himself between her knees. He cursed lightly when he felt how wet she already was, and the feeling of the naughty word mouthed against her flesh was almost enough to make her come. She clutched the shirt at his shoulders in warning after just four twirls of his tongue, and he responded with thrilling urgency.

Her heart began pounding as she heard him unzip and toss his pants on the ground. When he lowered himself on top of her, she saw that he hadn't bothered to remove his shirt. He tucked her legs beneath his shirt against his sides and slid slowly into her. He was momentarily weakened by the sensation, his head lolling to rest against her bare shoulder as he breathed shakily, his hips setting a languid pace against her.

She wanted to hate him for it, but the ticklish burn of being so stretched and filled made her want to worship him instead. He took the backs of her knees captive in both his hands again, adjusting them slightly higher around his torso so that he could reach greater depths.

She watched through hooded eyes as he moved inside her, each precious reaction revealed upon his face with every shift and gyration of his hips. The incessant symphony of New York at night played just outside the window, the vehicular harmony of distant doppler and car horns and sirens failing to distract her from the beauty of his expressions. His pale eyes were oddly alert as he continued thrusting, his features illuminated by the faint flashing blue and red lights from a parked police car somewhere on the street below their window. She saw the flicker of anxiety in his eyes for just a brief moment of weakness where he glanced at the window. And in that moment she wasn't making love to the man who whispered adoring words to her, and laughed like a middle-schooler, and held her hand in public. In a cruel twist of perspective, she was making love to the man who did perimeter checks, and carried two handguns, and showed not an ounce of affection on his face.

Rachel bit her lip in frustration, lifting one hand to touch his cheek as she attempted to bring him back. His eyelids fluttered as if being stirred from a daydream, and his attention was once again focused intently on her. He was so close to her, she could measure the length of his lashes, could make out the cold fibers of color in the irises of his eyes, could see every flinch of muscle in his neck as he strained to hover over her.

Desire flowing through her veins, she began to nibble on his earlobe, and his pace quickened violently, rendering her helpless beneath him. He said her name – a tight, carnal sound that was barely coherent if not for the timed pressure of both syllables as he beat against her. His breath caught, then released, caught then released in a pattern she'd become familiar with upon taking him as her lover. Her quaking knees pressed desperately into his sides as he unleashed streams of loving fire within her, and the feeling alone was enough to break her. She shuddered and cried out beneath his body, clinging to him with passionate hands until the waves of pleasure slowly subsided.

He reluctantly slipped out of her and finally released his arms from the confinement of his dress shirt, tossing it carelessly over the side of the bed. He laid back down beside her, placing soft kisses along her throat. She sighed in contentment and curled up against his warm chest, studying his austere countenance as he watched the police lights pulsing between the curtains of the window.

At last she closed her eyes and tucked her head under his chin. "They're not here to arrest you," she murmured.

His hand curled around the back of her head as he stroked her hair. He did not reply to her teasing comment before she drifted off to sleep.

The next morning was one of those rare mornings where Rachel woke up before Frank. She took one of his hands in hers and studied it sleepily in the faint morning light, committed to memorizing the patterns of his fingerprints. Every fingerprint on his left hand had an archlike shape, save for his middle finger, which had a unique bullseye sort of pattern to it. The tip of his pinky finger on his left hand was oddly petal-soft, a stark contrast to the rest of his calloused fingertips, being the least used one of all.

He stirred slightly in his sleep, and she laid his hand back down on the bed. Her heart leapt when she felt the telltale tickle of the baby moving inside her belly.

"Oh, good morning," she whispered, patting the spot where she'd felt the movement. "Are you planning to do this to me every day at—" She glanced at the clock. "—6:30 A.M.?"

"Hm?" Frank muttered, still half-asleep.

"I was talking to the baby," Rachel said. She grinned to herself. How surreal it sounded.

Just then Frank's cell phone began vibrating on the nightstand. He woke up with a start and reached over to see the caller before quickly answering. "Yeah?"

Rachel listened to the muffled male voice on the other line. She could vaguely make out something about 'police' and 'lobby.'

"Is that what the cops were doing outside last night?" Frank asked, agitated, as he got out of bed and began walking around the room to gather his clothes.

Rachel sat up, watching him nervously until his brief conversation came to an end and he hung up the call.

"Who was that?"

"Pettigrew," he answered. "Someone pushed two women off the side of the bridge into The Pond in Central Park last night."

"Oh, Jesus," Rachel murmured, wrapping her robe around her body as she walked over to the window to inspect the scene. There was tape set up, a couple cop cars, and a barricade along one lane of the road, but other than that, there didn't look to be too much commotion. She turned back around to see that Frank had already gone into the bathroom to shower.

With a yawn of resignation, Rachel stepped into her slippers and walked into the sitting room to make herself a coffee. She heard a knock on the door. Looking through the peephole she saw Laura Pentecost, fully dressed for the day in a matching navy blue pencil skirt and blazer, blonde hair perfectly set in a tight bun atop her head.

Rachel opened the door curiously. "Are you Matt Lauer's new co-host on The Today Show?"

Laura scrunched her eyebrows together in confusion. "Huh?"

Rachel gave her a dubious look. "You look like you're about to recite off the morning news to me."

Ignoring her comment, Laura forwardly pressed against the door so she could shimmy inside. "Did you hear what happened last night?" she hissed.

"Yeah, I heard," Rachel yawned again, shuffling over to the coffee machine.

"It's a good thing we have three bodyguards on this trip with us," Laura commented, peeking out the window at the scene below.

Rachel narrowed her eyes. "Frank isn't my bodyguard anymore," she stated with a dry laugh.

Laura pursed her lips and shrugged. "He sure acts like it."

The topic of their gossip promptly emerged from the bedroom dressed in a white dress shirt and gray slacks, his empty holster already in place. Laura scanned him casually before bidding him a good morning. He acknowledged her with an awkward nod before turning to Rachel. "I'm headed down there to check things out with Scott–"

Rachel slapped her hand down on the table, causing a container of coffee stirrers to spill onto the ground. "Why? Why can't you just chill the fuck out for a minute?"

Frank calmly glanced over his shoulder at Laura then back to Rachel, his eyes alone making a strong admonition to her outburst. He murmured low enough that Laura wouldn't hear, "I'll be back within the hour, I promise. I just want to see if they have a profile on the guy yet."

Rachel looked away from him with a sigh, softening a little when he reached out to link fingers with her. She looked down at where he touched her, savoring the smallest contact, when she felt the burn of Laura's gaze on them from behind.

"Okay, fine," Rachel gave in, granting him a reluctant half-smile after he kissed her cheek. At the very least, she was happy to have a reason to make Laura mad. Frank bent over to quickly pick up the coffee stirrers and placed them back on the table.

"Remember to lock the door," he reminded her with a curt glance over at Laura before he donned his suit jacket and left the room.

Rachel couldn't resist rolling her eyes at the I-told-you-so look on Laura's face.

"Yeah, he's an overprotective maniac," Rachel said as she finally poured herself a cup of coffee and settled into her armchair.

Laura adjusted her skirt as she moved back to the center of the room. "Well, I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing."

Rachel kicked her feet up on the footrest and sipped her coffee. "I feel great."

There was a bitter edge to Laura's voice as she muttered, "I can see that."

"Alright, then, run along now," Rachel shooed her off. "You're late for the eight o'clock spot."

With a forced smile, Laura left the suite. As soon as she was gone, Rachel stomped over to the door to lock it, per Frank's request. Rachel was growing increasingly irritated with Laura's efforts at friendship. She could sense it was all for image, which never used to bother her back in the day, but after having gotten a taste of the genuine care from relationships that actually meant something, Rachel didn't have the time to tend to any sort of half-assed bond that Laura might have thought they had.

After she finished her coffee, Rachel headed towards the bedroom to get ready for the day. Just then she heard another knock on the door. She groaned and went back to look through the peephole but saw no one. She opened the door to find a room service tray on the ground, richly decorated with tiny yellow and white flowers. She looked up and down the hallway before taking the tray inside, confused. Tucked into the golden cloth napkin was a small note that read, "Can't stop thinking about last night. Breakfast is on me."

First the roses at her show, now this? Since when did Farmer become so romantic? Rachel smiled to herself and opened the tray to reveal a plate of the most beautiful French toast she'd ever laid eyes on – which was probably because she was pregnant. She never ate French toast, but the aroma of it was so tempting that she couldn't resist. In about fifteen minutes, the entire tray was empty. She left the tray outside the door and went back in to take a bath.

The bathroom here was almost as big as the master bath back at her old house. It was composed almost entirely of milky violet marble, with intricate gilded ivy patterns along the ceiling. After treating herself to such a decadent breakfast, she felt in the mood to pamper herself a bit more. Along the sides of the large bathtub the hotel staff had placed an array of herbal soaps, oils, and bath bombs. She selected the jasmine scented one and filled the tub with steaming hot water, giggling to herself as tiny bubbles began to lift and float away from the surface of the water. As soon as she settled into the water, she sighed happily with the plan to stay there until the bathwater got too cool.

Somehow the hot water seemed to chase all her worries away, at least in the moment. Nothing bad would happen on this trip. Just like nothing bad actually happened in Chicago. So someone had torn apart some scarves in her dressing room? So what? It was probably just a coincidence and it probably had nothing to do with her or Frank. Maybe they were just planning to use the fabric pieces for a set design or something…

And nothing bad was going to happen to her or Frank. They were just feeling the aftereffects of PTSD – the paranoia was a normal part of healing from trauma – at least that was what Dr. Evers had always said. Once they could learn to cope with it, they would be perfect together. The press would eventually die down and the media would lose interest in her once she took a sabbatical for songwriting. Then they would move into their new home and take care of their precious new daughter, and Fletcher could even move in with them, and they could live happily ever after.

The bubble bath may have been a little too relaxing, Rachel thought, as she caught herself nodding off to sleep twice. She listened to the faint sounds of cars on the road outside the window, and then the shuffling sounds of someone else in the room just outside. Frank must have come back already. Maybe she could convince him to join her before the water got cold…

She jolted a bit at the sound of a door banging against a wall. It seemed to be coming from the bedroom. Surely Frank was in frantic mode because she wasn't in the very first room he'd checked. She rolled her eyes. "I'm in here, honey!"

The door to the bathroom swung open. It wasn't Frank.

"Oh, shit," the strange man said, a look of complete mortification on his face. Rachel screamed loud enough that she was certain all of Central Park could have heard her.

Then the bone-shattering palpitation of a single gunshot being fired from the doorway made her scream even louder. The cartridge of the bullet ricocheted off the edge of the bathtub, causing a cloud of bubbles to explode before her eyes. Doing the only thing she could think in her panic, she plunged under the surface of the water and held her breath while another gunshot caused the water to vibrate around her. She listened to the muffled commotion in the bathroom, heart galloping inside her chest until she couldn't hold her breath any longer. She burst out of the water, gasping for air, her blurry eyes opening to find a most distressing scene.

Frank was there, holding the intruder in an armlock against the massive marble sink, his gun pointed threateningly to the man's throat. All around the room, tiny bubbles still floated like oblivious little fairies through the air.

"I suppose you're gonna tell me how it was all just an innocent mistake, and how you had no idea Rachel Marron was in this room," Frank gritted through his teeth.

The man struggled in Frank's grip, a terrified look on his face as he glanced over at Rachel in the bathtub. "I swear on my fucking life! I had no idea."

"Bullshit." Frank adjusted his pistol so that it was pressed hard against the man's chin.

"I swear to God!" the man begged.

Rachel gripped the side of the tub and leaned slightly over to get a better look. The face of the man was not in any way familiar, but from the quivering, shuddering mess he'd been reduced to, she assumed he was telling the truth.

Stuttering, he attempted to explain, "I th-thought this room b-belonged to the woman I was w-with last n-night… That's why I s-s-sent breakfast up here this m-m-morning."

Still panting, Frank looked questioningly over at Rachel.

"Someone sent room service up here right after you left. There was a love note…" Rachel explained, suddenly embarrassed, "I thought it was from you."

She could see a spark of hesitation in the madness clouding Frank's familiar eyes, but he still did not let the man go.

"Frank," Rachel warned, shivering despite the warmth of the water surrounding her.

Before he could release the man, a stampede of uniformed NYPD officers came bursting into the bathroom with their weapons drawn.

So much for a drama-free trip.