A/N: I wanted to post chapter 27 of "The Sinner" today but I'm still writing it. So, in its place here's chapter 5.
Chapter 5:
She pulled her hair back, getting it up into a ponytail, before putting in her headphones. After selecting shuffle play on her iPod, she grabbed the wash rags and cleaner as she got busy tidying up her apartment as her mind tried to come to terms with everything that's happened in the past eleven hours. There was still a lot of nervous energy in her body despite spending her morning with Gil. She had a lot of cleaning to do and had a feeling she wouldn't be spending any amount of time there for a while.
There were clothes that needed to be washed and clothes that needed to be folded and put away. Her walk-in closet was in need of a purge and reorganization. She hadn't cleaned her bathroom in a few weeks. She had books that needed to go back on the bookshelves, plates and teacups that needed to go into the dishwasher, and piles of mail to sort and shred. She watered her plants that were among the framed artwork and mementos that she'd collected over the years. On her walls were snapshots of pictures she'd taken of the San Francisco and Las Vegas landscape, random photos of her life, and movie and band posters. Much like Gil's own house, she had no photos of family or friends.
She was trying to keep her thoughts away from Gil and Hannibal Lecter. The threat of a serial killer coming after them was something she didn't know how to deal with. But the more she tried not to think about it, the more she couldn't stop thinking about it.
Gil had answered most of her unspoken questions, but her head was still buzzing with a hundred more. When he said that she was taking the news well, she wanted to laugh. Instead, she held in her uncertainty and nerves as she told him that he was still who he was, which was the truth. A Shakespeare quote came to mind, "What's in a name? A rose by any other name"...was still a rose. Gil, no matter his name, was still the man she'd fallen in love with.
Everyone had a past, though most didn't have a completely different life. But as Gil told her, this was always meant to be his life before the FBI got involved. Did that include the ex-wife and stepson? She wondered if they still talked or if when going into Witness Protection, he had to cut off all contact. That must have been hard. She couldn't imagine losing her dad only for him to show up one day on her doorstep alive.
She bristled at the thought of her parents. It had taken her years to tell Gil about them, so she wasn't upset that after only six months together that he hadn't divulged any information about his former life. Granted, he couldn't really talk about it, and up until last night it didn't matter. And it didn't. The only thing that mattered to her was Gil's safety. Their safety. He wanted her to leave; take a trip somewhere to get away from the danger that lurked in Las Vegas.
She knew that it was for her own good. Gil always did everything with the best intentions in mind but leaving him when he was about to need her the most was unacceptable. She had expert marksmanship and was taking kickboxing lessons, especially after being held at knife point by a mental patient. She never wanted to feel that helpless ever again. She knew self-defense and how to handle herself and a weapon, but in that moment, when there was a makeshift shiv to her neck, she froze. All her training was gone.
God, the fear she'd seen in Gil's eyes when all he could do was watch. They had both felt so helpless. He wanted to protect her, but she also wanted the ability to protect herself. Though, she said that she could never take a life, and meant, that excluded self-defense and in defense of others. Being put in that position wasn't where she ever wanted to find herself again, but if she did—She could kill. It wouldn't be murder, per se, but it'd still wreak havoc on her soul.
She tossed the cleaning rag down into the bucket of soapy water she'd used to clean out her kitchen cabinets, as the anger rushed through her body. Why was some psycho-asshole even putting them in this position? After all this time, now was when Hannibal Lecter decided to come after Gil. Despite not working the Hayashi case, having only seen the sitting room and not the kitchen, she had seen Brass's look, and then Gil after he left the kitchen. It'd been bloody and brutal. Her stomach twisted. At the thought of human organs being eaten, she felt nauseous. She didn't even eat meat anymore.
In a way she was glad Lecter waited this long. Lecter was older, and Gil had all of them to protect him even though he seemed more worried about all of their safety instead of his own. She had to believe that they would get Lecter before he got to any of them.
She opened the balcony door to let the stuffy air out. It was a nice sunny and breezy day. As she looked out over the neighborhood towards the open desert and mountains, she leaned back against the doorframe and wondered once again why in the hell she moved to Las Vegas. The only answer was Gilbert Grissom.
She left San Francisco for him. Then she nearly left him a few times. Every time she thought about leaving Vegas, he would do or say something that made her change her mind. A plant being sent to her by a floral delivery service signed simply: "From Grissom." Him telling her that he became interested in beauty when he met her. The Christmas gifts: books and subscriptions to the things that he knew would interest her. Over the years, she learned that he hadn't been rejecting her. He'd been rejecting himself. Ignoring his emotions as he told himself it wasn't possible. Then, one day, he realized that it was possible.
Gil's love language wasn't spoken in words. The man had a hard time with words, except to quote something or talk about work or a hobby. There were days he never talked to her at all except for work despite being in the same room. He didn't think to say anything until a situation presented itself in which it was brought up. He was extremely self-sufficient and independent that he would forget at times that he had to consider her in his life before doing things.
And doing things was how he told her that he loved her. She liked receiving gifts, so he got her gifts. He cooked for her or brought over her favorite meals to share. She had yet to cook him a meal in six months. He got the door for her, pulled her seat out, and did all the things he could do to show her he appreciated her. Words came secondary, if at all. She was okay with that because she didn't know how to say what was on her mind either.
She knew what she felt but trying to get that into the words "I love you" felt damn near impossible. They hadn't said those words to each other yet. She kept thinking she'd wait until he said them first. She knew he did love her in all the things he did, so why was it so hard to voice it out loud? Fear that it'd scare him off. Fear that their love would turn out to be a lie. Fear of love. The answer was: all of the above.
Six years of wanting this relationship, and now that she finally had it, she felt at times paralyzed to say anything; afraid if she did then she'd ruin it somehow. Ruin it by letting him know just how scared she really felt inside. She was thirty-four years old but there were times when she felt so young and ill-prepared for a long-term committed relationship with a grown-ass man. As if she wasn't a grown-ass woman. But was she? She didn't even own her own house because she didn't feel responsible enough. Plus, if something broke, she didn't want to be the one to fix it.
Now she had to consider living with someone who she also worked with every day. Wouldn't that get smothering? They wouldn't have a break from one another. Her parents lived and worked together at the Bed and Breakfast, and that ended in murder. She even joked to Catherine once that if they all got a house together and moved in to save money, Gil wasn't invited. At the time she meant those words. She couldn't imagine living with Grissom. Having a house looking like his office, him keeping blood in the refrigerator, and not taking her into consideration at all before telling her to clean up after him…Not going to happen.
Then they actually started dating and he actually took her into consideration. Proving to her that all her fears were for nothing. She probably was overthinking, overreacting, and putting too much pressure on herself for no reason whatsoever. It wasn't like Gil hadn't been married before and had a stepson. What worried her wasn't his previous life, but whether or not he missed that life.
Did he want to get married again? Did she want to get married? How about children? Gil took on the responsibility of a dad with a kid who wasn't even his, which actually made her love him even more. He stepped up and took on the responsibility when he didn't have to. All she ever had was herself to worry about and take care of. If Gil wanted to be a father, would she be okay being a mother? That wasn't something on her to-do list.
Gil's life that she knew existed had been a life she could see herself in. Working together, being together, but still free to be independent from each other to do their own thing. Just the two of them. She wanted the freedom to leave if she wanted. What if her career took her to Alaska or something. She would want the option to go at a moment's notice. Not a house full of toddlers and babies and play dates, PTA meetings, and more responsibilities—Being rooted. Some people wanted that, but she didn't. She had no parental instincts; no desire to be a mother. She didn't even like kids. She didn't know what to do around them. And it wasn't like she could take motherhood out for a test drive to see if she would change her mind. You can't return a baby. There were no tryouts. She didn't even want to try. She knew her answer already.
She also did not want to be responsible for another human being's life. That scared her more than anything. There were times when she didn't even know if she was taking care of herself properly. She also had to take into account her own family's mental health problems. Schizophrenia was hereditary. Her own mental health wasn't exactly stellar. She knew what she could and could not handle. She knew who she was and who she was not.
She was not a mother. But could she be a wife? She had no idea. Where she knew what "mother" entailed, she had no idea what "wife" meant to Gil, or to her. She had an idea of what she wanted it to be, but had no idea if Gil wanted the same thing. Or, if Gil wanted a wife and house full of kids.
They had only been together six months, now was not the time to think about any of that. They were nowhere near marriage or talks of their future. Right now, they were still trying to figure out if they wanted to move in together or stay living separately. He wanted space; his own space to do his own thing. She wanted the same. Neither wanted to feel like they were constantly on top of one another, except for the times when that was exactly where they wanted to be.
She shook her head as she let out a deep breath. Checking the time, she had half an hour before she had to leave if she was going to make the meeting at noon. Pushing off the doorframe, she shut the balcony door and headed to her bedroom to clean up and change clothes. Maybe a hot shower would help relieve the stress.
The Las Vegas Police Department's headquarters was made up of three rectangular glass buildings that made a 'U' shape. Each building was five-stories tall and they were to meet on the third floor of building two, conference room 373. Gil took the stairs two at a time and he was slightly dizzy as he reached the third floor and made his way to the conference room.
Checking his watch, he realized he had only minutes before the conference started. He took the short walk across the hall to the restroom. He downed two of his migraine pills then swallowed a couple handfuls of water. After taking a few deep breaths, he exited the restroom.
The conference door was closed and as he opened the door, he realized his hands were shaking and his heart was about to beat out of his chest. An older agent stopped talking and watched him walk in before he went back to explaining whatever he'd been talking about. Gil didn't pay attention because he heard it all, knew it all, and experienced it all.
Kevin was in the very back, leaning against the wall. His team was sitting in the last row. Detectives Sofia Curtis and Brass were off to the side, near the back wall.
The agents looking at him were the ones who made him quicken his steps and hurry to the back. Everyone was staring at him as he made his way up the aisle. He also spotted the Sheriff, Ecklie, the Mayor and everyone else he didn't get around to informing before today's meeting.
"I thought you got lost," Catherine whispered over to him as he sat beside her.
"Who's that guy?"
"Special Agent Alec Pearsall," Kevin answered behind him. "Director of the Behavioral Analysis Unit."
Gil glanced over his shoulder at Kevin before eyeing the man at the podium. There were times he regretted going after Dolarhyde because of the effect it had on his life and family, but at the same time he had saved many families from becoming victims. If Jack hadn't had talked him into it then his life would have been drastically different. And truth be told, he liked his life. He liked his life a lot.
"Lecter had a plastic surgeon," Pearsall was saying. "Dr. Raymond Kubrick. He specialized in facial reconstructive surgery, meaning that we don't know exactly what Hannibal Lecter looks like today. But, based on composites from witnesses who'd seen him over the years, this is the most accurate recreation of his appearance today."
As Pearsall spoke the words, he thought of how Lecter must be feeling walking around as a free man with a new face. He was completely invisible now. Free to roam anywhere, speak to anyone, without fear. It wasn't like Hannibal feared anything anyways, but he would have a renewed sense of safety and security that would cause him exhilaration. He wouldn't have to take extra precautions to conceal his identity. He could be anyone.
He studied the picture of the drawn composite on the screen as Pearsall kept talking. Beady eyes, small teeth, a thinner, longer face and nose. Hair slicked back, like a rat. His voice would be unmistakably British even if it had also been altered. The tone would be nearly metallic, making your hairs stand up on end. And there was a deep vertical crease on the left side of his forehead that was unexplained by any type of muscle movement. He saw the crease present in the new face he'd created for himself. It was an identifier along with the unnatural speck of maroon in his blue eyes.
As Pearsall finished explaining the whole Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter background, he felt his muscles tighten when Pearsall started to mention how Lecter was caught. The slideshow wasn't helping matters. Neither was the fact that he had seen news crews outside waiting for word on what was going on.
"Now we all know that Lecter was apprehended by the FBI and the Maryland State Troopers, but that was only due to the extraordinary profiling done by Special Investigator William Graham who identified Dr. Lecter as the Chesapeake Ripper."
He heard the slideshow click and watched the light change. The whispering that started around the room and the way Catherine stiffened next to him told Gil exactly what was being shown. When he looked, sure enough, there was a picture of him when he was so much younger. His arms were crossed over his chest and he looked really upset about something. It was probably because someone decided to take his picture.
"Settle down people. Settle down," Pearsall was saying. "As we all know now, Will Graham is alive and with us today. I would like to personally thank him for joining us while also extending our regret for putting an end to his protection under our Witness Protection Program. For the past fifteen years, Graham has been living under the name Gilbert Grissom, who we all know as the foremost forensic entomologist in the country. He's also the night shift supervisor here at the LVPD's crime lab, and the lead CSI on the Hayashi murders. Dr. Grissom, if you could tell us what you know about Lecter, your thoughts so far about this case, maybe we can get something from that."
"You didn't tell the Sheriff or Ecklie, did you?" Catherine asked as she gestured to the two men.
He glanced over at them and saw their looks of disbelief. Ecklie, who was the Assistant Director of the lab, looked pissed. He suddenly felt like a child being sent to the front of the room to be reprimanded as he stood and made his way to the platform.
Ecklie stopped him with a hand to the chest. "You should've said something—"
"I couldn't," he said as he glanced at the hand that was still on his chest. He'd learned to control his bursts of anger a long time ago, but Conrad Ecklie had a way of making him forget. It started in his lungs as it got hard to breathe. His chest felt the heat growing out from where Ecklie had his hand pressed. "Didn't you hear Director Pearsall, Conrad? I was in Witsec. They never gave me the go-ahead to divulge that information—"
"But somehow your team doesn't seem too surprised by the news—"
"What's your problem? I had no obligation to tell you, or anyone. Now, get your hand off me," he said as he felt the urge to shove the hand away himself. He always tried to give a warning first.
Atwater had been standing next to Ecklie and he nudged him, making him drop his hand. "Grissom's right. He was under orders not to say anything. If he took it upon himself to notify his team himself, that's his right as their supervisor."
Ecklie didn't look too happy, but he hardly ever did. He was just upset that he didn't tell him personally. A year ago, Ecklie proved just how vindictive he was when he broke up his team. And he still had the audacity to think they were friends. They weren't.
He continued towards the podium now that the entire room was watching him. He felt the tension in his body, in the room, and wanted to leave. Director Pearsall moved aside and he took his place. Of all his times teaching and lecturing he had never felt more uncomfortable than when he had to talk about Hannibal Lecter or any other serial killer. That was why he stuck to science and forensics.
The slides switched and Gil glanced over his right shoulder to see a younger version of himself outside the state mental hospital. It was the photo Freddie Lounds took after he had talked to Lecter. "To recover the mindset."
"This was when Graham went to consult with Lecter about the Dolarhyde case," Pearsall told the group who all nodded.
Gil was suddenly hit with the fact everyone in law enforcement probably studied his cases as part of their Academy courses. His eyes caught the eyes of his team, especially Sara's. She smiled. "Uh, well, with Hannibal Lecter everything he does is for a reason; to tell a story," he finally said.
He'd taken the time before the meeting to review the case file that Kevin had given him. There was a lot of information. One of the things that didn't surprise him was the fact that Lecter had been living in Italy upon his escape.
"There's a purpose. For example, Lecter likes to draw and one of his drawings that he had displayed in his cell at the state hospital was of the Duomo seen from the Belvedere in Florence, Italy. It should've been painfully obvious to the FBI where Lecter had escaped too."
Agents looked over at Pearsall who said, "Lecter was, indeed, living in Italy."
"How'd you know that?" a voice asked from the group.
Gil stared at Pearsall for a brief moment before addressing the group. "I've seen his drawings myself. He has a deep love for the place. It has culture, art, and all the fine food and etiquettes of Europe."
"Why does that matter?" asked another voice.
He was confused by the question and the only thing he could think of to say was, "It matters to him. Imagine being locked away, with no view, horrible food, and unable to breathe fresh air and then one day...you're free. Where would you go? What would you do? Lecter, if anything, is a purest. He stays true to the parts of himself that makes him...him, no matter where he chooses to live."
"So, why is he here in his cesspool?" someone asked.
A couple of people laughed, and he felt his jaw tense. "A mother and father are dead, don't forget that." The laughter stopped. He continued on but avoided the question, "He doesn't want to get caught again." Gil remembered all too well the feeling of being confined in the psych ward of a hospital. It was maddening in itself, even if there were no bars that kept him in his prison. "Just the thought of getting caught is sometimes overwhelming. If he feels trapped, expect a response. But make no mistake, until he's done here, he won't leave."
Pearsall asked, "Do you have any thoughts as to why he's here? Why Daniel and Joy Hayashi? Anything about the method used to kill them?"
He remembered his thought as he entered the kitchen, that it was a dream he'd dreamt decades ago. And it was, when he had become the Chesapeake Ripper in order to catch him. His dreams had become the Rippers dreams. Hannibal Lecter's dreams.
He had to give them an answer. "The method…" it was getting hard to focus as he heard the slides change.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw the photographs he'd taken of Hayashi's kitchen. Who had given them the crime scene photos? Weren't they in evidence? As he stared at the photos, he couldn't help but be transported back to that kitchen.
But this time, though still appearing as himself, inside he felt different. He felt like Hannibal Lecter...
He stood in a dark room with no lights; it was completely black. An echo chamber as he took a step and heard his heel click in the darkness. Walking further into the dark room a dining room table appeared. On top of it was Joy Hayashi. Seated in a chair was her husband, Daniel. On the table was a wooden and metal medieval medical device. He picked it up, turned Daniel's head to the side, and started to turn the handle. The drill broke through skin, skull, and into the brain.
A lobotomy through the nasal cavity would have been easier to get to the brain, but he didn't want the frontal lobe. He wanted to go through the ear. There was a mocking, of sorts in the way he removed Daniel's brain. An irony. Joy had been an ear surgeon.
He'd studied neuroanatomy and knew that he was accessing the right temporal lobe. The area responsible for facial recognition, memory storage and recall, processing affect and emotional reactions, as well as language and visual perception. The loss of non-verbal material, such as music, pictures, drawings…These were the pieces he wanted. What he wanted to remove.
Once he was done with Daniel, he turned his attention to Joy. He picked up a knife and sliced through her skin. A Y incision, like an autopsy. Then broke open the breastplate, removing the heart first and then the lungs. His only interest was the heart; the lungs were for the display.
After he cooked his meal, he took a seat at the head of the table and admired the arrangement of the bodies. The display of Joy's body, chest ripped open and exposed, legs spread out, was an offering to her husband who sat before her. He could smell the odors, the blood. In his mouth, he could taste the tenderness of the heart as he took a bit and licked the oil and spices off his lips—
He gripped the sides of the podium as he kept his head down. As the answer formed in his head, he felt a tug in his mind with the pure truth of it. He didn't know why he knew it; he just did. It flowed out of his mouth so easily, so truthfully, that it hurt his heart that he knew it.
Taking a breath, he said, "Aside from displaying his victims, he mocks them. It's a form of humiliation. The device used on Mr. Hayashi is a medieval medical device used to drill holes in skulls. Lecter, um…used it to drill a hole through Daniel's right ear. Joy was a surgeon, specializing in ear surgeries for the hearing impaired. The device also has a connection to how I figured out that Lecter was the Chesapeake Ripper…Why Lecter is here, I can only assume that he's after me." He was the reason the Hayashi's were murdered. "What he wants from me was in the note he left."
There was a click of the slides behind him. He looked and saw the photograph that had been left on Hayashi's refrigerator. It was a split screen slide. One side the image of both him and Lecter, the other side was of the note on the back.
"Most of you probably know this, but Lecter loves to get inside people's heads in order to manipulate them. It's all a mind game. He wants me to be the one to find him. Joy Hayashi was my doctor. I believe he'll keep coming after the people in my life; people I work with."
He couldn't meet their eyes. He couldn't meet anyone's eyes.
Staring down at the podium, he said, "Drugs, psychedelics, are highly beneficial to him, especially now that he's older. Physically, he's no longer able to overpower someone half his age, so it's forcing him to adapt. Expect methods he hasn't necessarily used before, but ones he's efficient and comfortable administrating. He's used knives, and bows, but never a gun. Given his age, possible loss of muscular strength, he can't afford any slip-ups so, if he's not comfortable using a weapon like a gun, he won't take the risk."
"I bet you even know why he eats people."
He gave a nod. "I do, and you should as well if you're working this case. It's to show his contempt. We're all beneath him on the food chain." Turning his head, he looked right at Conrad Ecklie who'd spoken those words. In his mind, he saw Ecklie—in his death—humiliated as he was put on display in front of the entire lab for all to see. Naked, throat cut, disemboweled, and his testicles removed because he never had any real balls to begin with. "He eats pork. And you're nothing but a pig to slaughter."
Ecklie blinked back a few times before shifting in his stance as he glanced around the room. He was uncomfortable; he'd made him that way.
He stopped and took a breath. That was it. He was done. He went to step off the platform when someone called out from the back.
"How'd you catch him?"
Gil turned back as he asked the voice, "Excuse me?"
"How'd you know it was him? Are you smarter than him or what?"
He recognized the voice and didn't know whether to smile or frown at Kevin's question. "How did I know?"
"Yeah. You said the medieval medical device has a connection to how you knew it was him. What's the connection? There's nothing in the file about what tipped you off."
"'Wound Man', by Hans von Gersdorff," he answered. "It's an illustration in an old medical journal from the medieval period. Lecter had the journal in his office. I saw it. A victim of Lecter's was an exact recreation of that illustration. It was the missing piece to the puzzle. The piece of evidence he didn't want me to find. That's what we'll need to do in order to find him and stop him. It's all in the evidence. Truth is," he said, "he's smarter than all of us. He has disadvantages. He's insane. Passionate, and relentless. Those are flaws that will leave him vulnerable."
He quickly left the platform and didn't stick around for whatever else was going to be talked about.
"Gil–"
"Not now," he said as he pushed past the Sheriff.
The door swung open as he hurried out into the hallway. Steps could be heard behind him gaining speed. It could have been the Sheriff coming after him, or Ecklie, or just about anyone. He didn't want to talk to anyone right then. A hand touched his shoulder and spun him around.
He was surprised to see Kevin staring at him, but he was more surprised by the question.
"Are you okay?"
"I, um…" Was he okay? He had no idea. "I'm fine. I don't like being blindsided like that. I wasn't prepared—"
"You seemed pretty prepared to me."
Because he knew Lecter; he'd already become him once. It was easy to become him again.
Kevin looked back down the hallway, then asked, "I have a flight to catch. Someone was murdered in South Carolina. The scene's a few days old but sealed. Local police already did their thing, but they wanted us to take a look. They think it might be Lecter related. Come with me?"
"I'll have to clear it—"
"I already did."
"If I do this, then just…" What? Make sure I didn't go over the deep end? "Just promise me that you'll do this my way. I know Lecter better than anyone. I'm the only one who profiles him. You're the field agent. The last thing I need is for you to fight me on every decision. I respect you, your position, and I expect the same in return."
Kevin had dropped his head while he'd been talking, and now he held his eyes. "You have my word. Anything else?"
"Yeah, I want a couple members of my team to come with me." As he said that, he looked down the hallway and saw this team walking his way. The meeting was over.
Kevin gave a nod. "Deal."
They all exited the building and stepped out into the morning sun. Slipping on his sunglasses, Gil ignored the reporters who had a million questions as he pushed his way past them to get to the SUV.
Once free from the press, he said, "Sara and Nick, you two are coming with Agent Collins and I to South Carolina. They think Lecter killed someone out there before coming here. Go home and pack an overnight bag, we might be there awhile. Catherine, you know you're in charge until I get back. Warrick, Greg, you two finish up any open cases. Everything needs to be cleared out. Whatever's left goes to Harlyn's team."
"We'll take care of business," Warrick said as he and Greg fist bumped.
"If the murder was committed by Lecter, evidence will be sent here, so be prepared to start processing whatever comes in." He stopped at his car as he looked around at his team, his stepson, and said, "One last thing…When possible, use the buddy system. No one goes off on their own. I've already talked to the Sheriff, he said that he'll have patrols ready to post outside all our residences if needed. All right? That's it."
Sara lingered behind as he watched everyone else get into their vehicles and leave. Smiling at him, she asked, "Wanna be my buddy?"
He smirked as he got into his car and followed her to her apartment. As she went to pack a bag, he checked behind every door and looked in every closet with his gun in hand. He wasn't taking any precautions.
"Babe?" Sara said. He shut the door and turned around. "I doubt he's hiding in the linen closet."
Letting out a breath, he holstered his gun as Sara went back to rummaging through her dresser. He leaned against the doorframe, watching her, as his mind drifted to the last time they were in her bed together before the phone call about the 420 out in Summerlin.
"Okay, next question: how did you lose your virginity?"
Reaching across his body, he grabbed the card out of her hand and read it. "It doesn't say that. It says: "What's your favorite age so far and why?""
"Which, if your favorite age and the why is when you lost your virginity, then it begs the question how?"
He wanted to laugh. First, he couldn't believe he let Sara talk him into playing this couple's card game. Second, she was unbelievable. Tossing the card, he said, "That's not a discussion we're having."
"Oh, come on. I told you about my mile-high club experience."
"No," he said as he shook his head as he felt his face heating up.
"Oh, my…You're embarrassed." She was laughing, which caused him to laugh. It was contagious. "Was it that bad?"
"Worse than you think."
"Prematurely ejaculated, huh?"
"So much worse," he said as he rolled over and trapped Sara under his body. They were in bed, half clothed, and there was a rolling cart with forgotten food and a half empty bottle of red wine. Staring down at her, he said, "I had no idea what I was doing."
"Seemed to have picked it up by now." He felt her leg rubbing against his as he kissed her. "What's worse than coming too soon?" When he didn't say anything, she gasped, "No."
"Yeah. It was like my body decided that she wasn't the girl I wanted to lose my virginity to, so it just…shut down."
"Before…?"
He shook his head. "During."
She started laughing.
"It's not funny."
"You're still upset about it?"
"Yeah."
She laughed some more.
"After that, every time I saw her, I felt like apologizing."
"Was this in high school?" He shook his head. "College?"
"Graduate school."
Her eyes widened in surprise as she asked, "How old were you?"
"Eighteen. I got my bachelor's when I was sixteen. Masters at eighteen."
"How old was she?"
"Not eighteen."
"Aw, my poor baby," she said as she kissed him. "It's happened to me."
"You're a woman—"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you can fake it." She started laughing again. "A man can't do that," he said as he felt a smile on his face. "Have you ever faked it—"
"Yes–"
"With me?"
"What? No! Never."
"Have I ever turned you off?"
She went quiet and he gaped in surprise. "It's only when you eat insects. I can't kiss you after you've put a grasshopper in your mouth."
"But you can after I've eaten a steak?"
"That's different."
He shook his head in confusion. "How?"
"I used to eat steak."
He tried not to laugh but failed. Of all the things…She grabbed his face and kissed him. As he breathed out into that kiss, he wanted to tell her how much he loved her.
Before Sara, he felt like he was stuck in the ground and unable to move. He'd dated. But that was all he'd ever done since moving to Las Vegas. Going through the emotions but never actually getting emotionally involved.
No one touched him the way Sara touched him. She did more than turn his head, she opened up his heart again. She gave him hope, desire, passion, and so much love. He hadn't laughed this much in years. Hadn't smiled nearly as often as he'd smiled since letting her in.
There was still fear, but he was always afraid. He wouldn't know what to do without it. Despite the fear, he took a chance on being burned. Hearing Sara laugh was worth the risk of heartbreak. He wanted to tell her. It was there, in his mouth, waiting to be spoken out loud. Instead, he spread her legs open with his and settled between her thighs.
Lowering his lips to her ear, he told her, "To answer the question on the card…Forty-nine, because of you."
She wrapped her arms around his body, hugging him, as he kissed and licked her neck. She hissed and moaned, and then gasped in pleasure as he filled her completely. In her arms, he felt at home. It was the only place he wanted to be.
There was a hand on the back of his neck, and it wasn't his. Sara's other hand ran over his clothed chest. "Hey, don't worry. I can take care of myself. I've passed all my gun proficiency tests—"
"He's proficient in knives. Anything within six feet and you're dead."
"The reactionary gap. Anything inside of six feet isn't enough time to stop a knife attack and a gun becomes less reliable and accurate. I know the procedures, the statistics—"
"Stats aren't going to keep you safe." A growing knot pulled at his heart as he grabbed her waist. "We have to stay vigilant. We can't get complacent. He won't slip up, so neither can we. I'll check every closet and look under the bed if I have to."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah," he said. "I love you." Sara stilled in his hand. He knew the weight those words carried; how they could simultaneously mend hearts and break minds, or vice versa.
Or make beautiful brown eyes well with tears of—as Al Green put it best—love and happiness. "I love you too."
He already knew she did but hearing her say it still made his heart skip a beat. Their lips found each other and the kiss she gave him left him breathless.
TBC…