Head in a Haymow

by Chris Seaton

  What surprised her was the lack of bulk. Most men, even Roger, took lots of pride in beefing up those pecks and biceps, but everything on Agent Wyatt was painfully taut. It was like every muscle was so efficiently disciplined that any disproportion would be ostentatious.

  He had runner's legs for sure. Long, lean, tapered muscles twisted themselves around his bones and each other as they made their way up under the towel. Damn that towel. The muscles continued in tight, shallow bumps out of the top of it and up his torso.

  His chest hair was black, fine, and curly. It made Bernice wonder if the meticulously clipped hair on his head liked to curl in rebellion when it got wet. Like when he stepped out of the shower after brutally running his body like a freight train, fast and hard, beating the pavement mercilessly over and over, breathing and sweating profusely with each step.

  Bernice ran out of clothes to hang. She just stood there, reliving those four seconds again and again: the curve of the shoulder muscles into the neck, the tight meaty forearms, the perfectly proportioned hands, and that delicious curve exposing just a hint of butt cheek. God help her, she loved a nice ass on a man.

  One of the Muscovy ducks quacked in alarm when the cat got too close to her new brood of babies. It brought Bernice back to the present. She sighed in resignation and plodded back to the house just in time to catch the phone before the voice mail kicked in. “Hello,” she answered quickly.

  “Why aren't you in church?” Darlene crabbed back at her with no preamble.

  Bernice scrunched her nose. “I got a decent night's sleep for a change.” She should have let voice mail get it.

  “Well!” Darlene huffed. “Apparently I should have put it on the list. Leave it to you to miss church while I'm gone. If you break your neck and end up going to hell, you can't blame me for it.”

  “And I suppose you attended church with the devout Mr. Sparks?” Bernice inquired dryly.

  “As a matter of fact I did, and it was a delight,” Darlene replied smugly. “Everyone was up on their feet singing, and some people danced. The ladies were so elegantly dressed in these beautiful dresses and these gorgeous hats. It was amazing.” Bernice heard Darlene breath in awe.

  “Does this mean you're converting to a Baptist?” Bernice teased.

  “Of course not. Our Baptist churches at home aren't like that,” she corrected.

  Bernice could hear commotion in the background. “Where are you at?”

  “We're having brunch at the cutest little cafe,” Darlene replied. “Cameron's in the rest room. He's bringing me home tonight. We're going to the Minneapolis Museum of Art today.”

  Bernice groused with jealousy and poured herself another cup of coffee. “Of course you are.”

  There was a slight pause. “What're you doing today?”

  “Laundry.”

  “Have you seen Agent Wyatt at all?” Darlene broached.

  “Why would I?” Bernice returned. “He's investigating Herb's murder, not courting me.”

  “Can't he do both?” she inquired quietly.

  “Darlene, you're butting in,” Bernice warned her, wandering into the laundry room. The second load was already done. She opened the lid and emptied the clothes into the waiting basket.

  “If this is about Roger, don't you think he's had long enough to make an honest woman out of you?”

  “Hey,” Bernice protested, sandwiching the phone between her ear and collarbone, “maybe I like being a dishonest woman.” She hefted up the dirty laundry to the mouth of the washer.

  Instead of getting the indignant response she was expecting, she got something much less savory, pity.

  “Oh, Honey,” moaned Darlene, “no woman wants that.” Bernice heard the familiar baritone voice in the background. Darlene quickly excused herself. “Got to go. We'll see you tonight.”

  “Bye,” Bernice replied and hung up. She mock-copied Darlene with distaste while shaking the dirty clothes into the washer. “We're going to the Minneapolis Art Museum today. La Tee Da. I get to wash skivvies and scrape up chicken shit so obviously my dance card is full.” Her bitterness was interrupted by someone banging on the screen door.

  She didn't see anyone right off so she went out onto the porch. Agent Wyatt was out in the driveway leaning on his car fender and looking out at the farm.

  Bernice wasn't sure if she should be happy or pissed off to see him. So she split the difference and went for neither. “Yah?” she spoke up from the porch.

  He turned around to look at her for a moment before resuming his view of the farm. He proceeded to deliver an odd request in his usual crisp manner. “Let's go to Florida.”

  Chapter 11

  “There's dirty laundry in the washer, the chicken coop needs cleaning, the duck pool needs refilling, and the blueberry bushes need netting.” Bernice was mentally going over the list she had left for Darlene before departing the house that morning. That had been six hours earlier, so it was a fruitless endeavor. Still, it was better than dwelling on her present situation.

  She was on a plane with Agent Wyatt. She didn't know where they were going or what they were doing when they landed. She hadn't asked. She was told to pack an overnight bag and bring her passport just in case. And she did so without questioning why or complaining about being ordered around, which was totally out of character for her.

  She rode with him in almost complete silence for the entire two hour trip to the airport. She asked which gate and was told. She asked when their flight was leaving and if there were any layovers and was told that as well. She bought a paperback at the duty free shop and never opened it. Now, they somewhere over Florida.

  Bernice wasn't sure if Darlene would be upset that she had left so abruptly or elated that she had left in the company of Agent Wyatt. She ticked off the list in her head again. “Shit,” she stated softly.

  Agent Wyatt looked over at her. “What's wrong?”

  “Oh, it's nothing,” she answered quickly. “I just forgot to pick beans this morning.”

  He assessed her strangely and then smiled. “Well, it's too late now.”

  She nodded at the statement that seemed to sum up their adventure and any misgivings she was having about it. Then the captain announced their decent into Miami.

  They left the gate. Bernice followed Agent Wyatt to the rental car counter. He produced his paperwork and received his keys. Before she knew it, they were on their way. It was beginning to occur to her that this seemingly impromptu trip was thoroughly planned out.

  She took a closer look at his face and noticed signs of insomnia. Her deduction was that he had been up all night working on this. She suddenly felt grateful that he included her, and that she hadn't pissed and moaned about it.

  Instead she finally found her voice out in the parking lot. The heat and humidity was staggering in its sheer intensity. In a matter of seconds moisture was seeping out on her upper lip and forehead. “How'd you figure out Jessica's destination was Miami?” Bernice asked as she walked beside him while he scanned his receipt and the lot numbers.

  “Actually it's not,” he replied.

  This need to know response was very irritating, especially since she had held her tongue for the entire trip. She took a couple of deep breaths before continuing. “Then why are we here?”

  Agent Wyatt stopped and hit the key pad in his hand. A bright blue compact SUV blinked to life in front of him like a puppy at the pet shop. He politely opened the door for her.

  “I traced her Social to her passport. She's been using Miami as a port of entry quite regularly these past five years.”

  Bernice climbed in and watched him curiously as he took their duffel bags and tossed them in the back seat. “Then where are we going?”

  “The Bahamas,” he answered in a matter-of-fact tone, “Nassau to be more exact.”

  The expression “Hurry up and wait” had entered Bernice's mind on several occasions during the course of the trip, but the connotation was becoming a lot more pleasant.
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br />   They were seated in the air-conditioned restaurant on the Fiesta Commuter and Freight Boat. As the sun set in a glorious expanse of orange over the Caribbean side of the water, they found themselves four hours into the eight hours it took the vessel to drift into Nassau's busy harbor. Bernice was eating conch fritters and a fruit salad and drinking something spicy and exotic with a hint of rum. It was well worth the eleven hour wait.

  Agent Wyatt sipped at whatever he was drinking and silently perused their view. He had barely touched his meal, once again ordering the same as Bernice.

  She put off disrupting his thoughts for as long as possible. “The conch is quite good,” she remarked, pointing to his barely touched plate. “It tastes like fried calamari without the rubbery texture.”

  He finally moved his head to assess her, slightly longer than she was comfortable with, and then turned his attention to his plate. He stuck his fork into a fritter and examined it. “I've had them before,” he announced and popped it into his mouth, chewing with a blank expression.

  Bernice jumped at the chance of an actual conversation. “Really? You've been down here before?”

  “A long time ago,” came the short answer. Once again, there was no narrative.

  “For what? Like Spring Break?” she teased him with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

  “No,” he replied flatly, “my honeymoon.”

  The circulation of air blew out of her ears, leaving her deaf for an instant while Bernice absorbed the meaning of his statement. “Oh,” was her lame response.

  “Yeah,” he added, wiping his mouth and tossing the cloth napkin on the plate. “She learned to hate cops too.” Agent Wyatt rose at that point, mumbling, “I'm going to check on the car. Enjoy your meal.”

  Which Bernice silently acknowledged was impossible after that. She told her salad as much while she dissected it with her fork. “You can't just drop a bomb like that and walk away.” She downed the rest of her drink and got up to find him.

  The opening for the cars on the ship resembled the mouth of a tunnel on a freeway, except that it had a retractable railing. Agent Wyatt was leaning on it and looking over the water with his trademark expression of inscrutableness.

  Bernice cautiously approached him like she would a wounded animal. “I'm sorry if this trip is painful for you,” she offered quietly.

  “Well, it can't be helped now, can it?” His resolve was self evident. “Your outrageous wild goose chase turned up a real lead, and it's my job to track it down.”

  “And you need me here for that?” She faced him, mustering up some courage.

  He shook his head and smirked at the water. “Despite your methods and my better judgment, you have proven yourself useful. I figure the best course of action is for me to harness your powers for good instead of evil.” He glanced at her to gauge her reaction.

  Bernice was perplexed, but amused. “So I'm to leave my Cat Woman suit with the retractable claws in my suitcase?”

  “You paint an interesting picture, Bernice,” Agent Wyatt remarked, “but it's a tad bit warm down here for that much pleather.”

  It was approaching the wee hours of the morning when they checked into their economy hotel. Their room was small but clean with two full size beds. They took turns showering and mindlessly scanning through the satellite TV channels until everyone was set to finally settle in.

  After about an hour Agent Wyatt heard the slowing of Bernice's breathing, indicating she was asleep. He envied her the privilege and reflected on the day.

  When they were able to concentrate on the case, their confinement together seemed to go more smoothly. But he could tell they were both avoiding the same subject when they walked into this room. He wondered there in the dark whether or not Bernice was disappointed that there were two beds. He knew he kind of was.

  His thoughts inevitably shifted to his ex-wife. She would have hated this room. “Evan? Two Stars? Really?” Somehow his ambitions were never quite lofty enough for her tastes. Part of him understood that he should be grateful to her for mentally shoving him up the ranks of his profession. But in the end he had known it would never be enough. Their mutual resentments about it had eventually gotten the better of them.

  Bernice seemed to have no expectations about her lovers. He guessed that was more an act of self preservation rather than a conscious choice. Roger might be the kind of guy to let sleeping dogs lie, but he wasn't. He wanted to figure her out. Nothing worth knowing ever came easy.

  Exhaustion eventually overtook him. In the dim light of the early morning, he finally let himself sleep. He was awoken a precious few hours later to the squeak of protesting springs on a cheap mattress.

  It came from Bernice's bed where she was thrashing in her sleep. Her eyes were scrunched shut and her mouth was forming soundless words, save for a spare hiss or gasp, as she battled with the demons that haunted her dream.

  The logical part of him knew to let her ride it out, but her body twisting and writhing in that invisible torture was more than he could bear. He rolled out of his bed into hers and pulled Bernice's protesting form into his arms.

  “No!” she moaned pitifully.

  He recognized the whimpering from the episode in the woods. He ached with the memory of it and pulled her closer. “Wake up,” he requested softly, rubbing circles into her back.

  She flinched at his touch and arched away from him like a rebelling toddler who refused to be restrained. She flailed her legs desperately. Agent Wyatt huffed in surprise at the narrow escape of his groin in the struggle. He wrapped his legs around hers.

  Her eyes started to flutter as another gasp escaped her gaping mouth. Agent Wyatt buried his face in the crook of her neck and hugged her even tighter, willing her to fight herself awake. After a couple more spasms she did, going deathly still. Bernice released her breath in harsh huffs. Her eyes popped comically wide open. They frantically darted around her in an effort to help her brain gain some perspective. They told her she was in a hotel room intimately sharing a bed with Agent Wyatt.

  He raised his head to interpret her features with concern. Her complete look of disbelief was not easing his trepidation. “Bernice,” he breathed.

  Simultaneously they knew, but she was the one who initiated.

  It was the kiss they had both been fighting tooth and nail to avoid, and the kiss that refused to be denied. It was sweet and wet in its length and suction. Their heads ground together in delicious union as they fed the festering desire that eroded away their stubborn walls of emotional remoteness.

  Their restless squirming made them flagrantly aware of a mutual lack of clothing. She was wearing her signature t-shirt tent and a pair of panties, but the shirt had ridden up well past her bellybutton exposing most of her torso to Agent Wyatt's wife-beater and boxer-briefs. They made a tropical ecosystem in the closed space between them that was in stark contrast to the air conditioned room.

  He carefully and slowly unfolded her from his embrace, watching for the least amount of resistance to his presence.

  Bernice rolled onto her back and pulled him with her, relishing his weight on top of her. She worked her hands under his sticky shirt to mold her palms around the muscles in his back.

  Agent Wyatt released a throaty groan that escaped through his nostrils. He buried his fingers in her thick unfettered hair and held her face between his thumbs. Grinding his pelvis into hers, he watched her pupils dilate in silent acceptance.

  She allowed her line of sight to linger down the length of him to what she knew was waiting for her in the poly-cotton pocket with the Calvin Klein waste band.

  “Not yet,” came the warning above her. She looked up to witness the smirk of the devil himself. He dislodged a hand from her hair and pulled his clingy t-shirt over his head. She smiled in pure delight at the opportunity to inspect the curly chest hair up close and in person. She worked her hands around his arm pits and over his nipples, stroking his breast plate indulgently.

  He gasped and swore s
oftly at the initial contact, collapsing on top of her and kneeing her legs further apart. He worked a hand between them and cupped the moist warm fabric of her panties. She panted against his mouth and arched into the contact, slipping her tongue through his teeth in response.

  The exquisite wantonness of it all was swiftly overtaking them. Agent Wyatt rolled off of her in his frustration and pulled her onto his thighs. Bernice worked her hands back over his chest and wiggled herself on him, smiling with her own devilish amusement.

  He grasped the bottom of her voluminous shirt, grinding out, “Who the hell dresses you?” before pulling the detested garment over her head.

  Out of the modesty of sharing a hotel room with a virtual stranger, Bernice had elected to wear her bra to bed. In hindsight it seemed so silly.

  Agent Wyatt pulled himself up to a sitting position. He assessed the bra with a sweet smile. Its taupe nondescript practicality was pure Bernice. Fact of the matter was she didn't need lacy fabric to showcase her assets. Her lush round ripeness needed to only be properly acknowledged.

  “All in due time.” He looked into Bernice's eyes and pulled down one strap. “Say my name.”

  She lost herself in those deep intense pools. She spoke without realizing it. “Evan.” It formed on her lips as a suggested question, and that wasn't cutting it.

  “No,” he scolded, kissing her naked shoulder. “Say it like you mean it.” He worked the other strap down. “Like the first time.” He kissed the other shoulder.

  They faced off with eyes smoldering and lips parted in anticipation. Her hands wandered to his butt. His hands lightly brushed the inside of her armpits. They were embroiled in a dark staring contest. He wanted her to speak. She was making him wait for it.

  His pinkies touched the tops of her mounds. He won. She dug her fingers in the supple flesh of his butt cheeks. There was no flirtation in her tone. “Touch me, Evan.”

  So he did.

  He cupped her ample breasts, working his rough palms over her tender nipples in an unnerving friction made to delight and frustrate with its sweet torture.