by Terry Odell
She grabbed Randy's belt buckle. "Off. Off. Off."
And he was lying beside her, bare skin to bare skin, lips to lips, chest to chest. Her breasts ached and she pressed harder against him, squirming to provide the friction her nipples begged for.
"Slow down," he murmured.
"No. Now. I need you." She reached for him, encircling his erection.
He flipped her onto her back. "You have me."
"Inside."
"Soon enough." His hands, so large and strong, stroked her neck, caressed her breasts.
She covered his hands with hers. Pressed them against her skin. "Harder," she gasped. "I want to feel you touching me. Everywhere."
He kneaded her breasts, thumbed her sensitized nipples. Stroked. Sucked. She lost herself in the sensation of fingers, lips and tongue moving down her body, finding those places where there was nothing but his touch and every touch shot pleasure to her groin. And then he was there, over her, parting her thighs.
She reached for him, guided him, thrusting upward even as she took him inside. She grabbed his buttocks, trying to get him closer, deeper. Her internal muscles clenched. She felt him fill her, aware of the way all feeling migrated to her core until there was nothing else and her universe exploded into shards like the bits and pieces on her shop floor.
From above, Randy gasped with his own release. With a shudder, he collapsed on top of her. Still boneless, she wrapped her arms around him aware of nothing beyond wanting the connection to last forever.
* * * * *
Randy woke to the sound of water running. Slowly, he drifted up through the fog of sleep. Sarah's bed. No Sarah. Shower. He smiled. Worked for him. He tossed the covers aside and padded to the bathroom.
He pulled back the curtain and stepped into the tub. Sarah didn't jump, so he knew his arrival wasn't a surprise. He also knew she didn't mind because she leaned into him when he put his arms around her, wrapping her fingers around his penis, which was growing harder by the second.
"Morning," he mumbled into the crook of her neck.
"Not much longer," she said. He hadn't checked the clock, but the sunlight came through the bathroom window from high in the sky.
He poured a dollop of shampoo into his palm, massaged it into Sarah's scalp.
"Mmmm. I'll let you do that, but only for the next twenty minutes," she said, twisting to face him, still stroking his erection. "Then you absolutely have to stop."
"Your water heater won't last twenty minutes." He lathered her hair, the peach scent of her shampoo, as always, heightening his arousal. Or was it her blue eyes that did him in? No, they were closed. The constellation of freckles across her nose and cheeks? He dabbed a dollop of suds on the tip of her upturned nose. Or the curve of her ears? He traced them with a fingertip. The curve of her neck? The peak of her nipples under the shower spray. His cock throbbed under her touch.
"God, I want you, Sarah." He circled her areola with a thumb. As he knew she would, she moved his hand to her nipple. He lowered his mouth to the pebbled nub, reaching for her thigh. Urging it upward.
"Not like that." She leaned back under the spray, sending foam swirling down the drain. "Too many accidents happen in bathrooms."
She hadn't let go of him, her nimble fingers moving from balls to cock, slippery with soap. He dug for the control he needed and grabbed her wrist. "You keep doing that and it'll be an accident, all right."
Her eyes sparkled. Her other hand sneaked in and took over. His hips bucked involuntarily.
"Sarah. God, Sarah. Stop or—"
"Or what?" she teased, her hands moving ever faster.
"Or I'll—Oh, God Sarah." Pressure built and control was as slippery as Sarah's fingers.
"You're always quick in the morning," she whispered. "Enjoy it. I'll accept payback after you cook me breakfast. Or do you really want me to stop?" Her hand slowed, teased, tormented.
"God, Sarah. No. Don't stop." He closed his eyes and gave in.
Later—much later—after a French toast brunch, his debt to Sarah paid in full, with interest, followed by a trip to his house to attend to Starsky and Hutch, they were back at Sarah's shop armed with cartons, trash bags and his Shop-Vac.
He turned off the ignition, but she didn't move. "I'm not sure I can look at it again," she said.
Squeezing her hand, he said, "This was your idea, but if you'd rather not, we can go somewhere else, do anything you want. I promised you the day and it's your call."
She sighed. "No, I need to do it. See if there's enough left once I get rid of the unsalvageable." She turned her eyes toward him, her gaze distant. As if she was looking through him.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
She smiled. Shook her head. "Nothing." She unclicked her seatbelt. "Let's do it."
He got his vacuum from the back of the truck and she grabbed a broom and dustpan. Inside the door, she stopped. He rested a hand on her bunched shoulders, kneading the tense muscles. "I think we should set up your tables and shelves first. Give you a place to put the good stuff. Separate it from the trash."
Under his touch, her shoulders stiffened again. He winced. "Sorry. Bad choice of words. Very bad."
"No, you're right. Doesn't make it less painful, but so much of this is nothing but garbage now. I have to deal with it." She moved out from under his touch and set the broom against the wall. "Might as well start with the bookshelf units. They'll hold the most."
He followed her to the far wall and hoisted one of the wooden units upright. Another faraway look crossed her face. Was there sadness mixed in? Stupid question. She was standing in the middle of the most important thing in her life and it was scattered at her feet like autumn leaves after a stiff breeze. He moved to the next shelving unit.
They worked into the evening hours, Sarah examining each piece of merchandise, jotting notes, placing items on shelves while he did janitor duty. Although they were often mere inches apart, it was as if they were on two separate planets. Not sure how to fix things with her—hell, he didn't know what was broken—he merely did what he could to get rid of the mess as he let his mind ponder the case.
Pottery, especially Hugh Garrigue's pottery, seemed central, because now it was clearly more than an act of simple vandalism.
Did thinking about the case count as overtime? Not that he cared. He had a puzzle and like a terrier with a bone, he couldn't let go. He made mental lists.
Dental records. Witness reports. Cars spotted at the scene. The video tapes from the press conference. Pottery. Maybe Sarah could give him some direction there. Kovak's ViCAP request. Too soon for DNA. Expand the missing persons reports. The key. Check with the New Jersey prison warden.
All of which could and would be covered by the county sheriffs, he realized. To keep the town council from disbanding the police force, he needed to make some kind of a breakthrough. His stomach knotted. And growled. They should both eat. Sarah had been moving things around for the past twenty minutes, but there was nothing left on the floor to add to the collection, only tiny bits and pieces.
"I'll run the vacuum over the floor one more time," he said, "and then we should take a break."
She turned, and for the first time, she looked at him as if she saw him. "I guess." She surveyed the room once more, moved a book two inches to the right and strode to her office. "One minute."
After sucking up the last bits and pieces with his Shop-Vac, he carried it to his truck and hefted the boxes of debris into the Dumpster. When Sarah didn't appear, he went back inside. She had a piece of paper in her hand and was carrying it to the front door. Her posture was straighter, her step more certain.
"What do you have?" he asked.
She held up the sign she'd made. "Watch For Our Reopening."
He helped her tape it to the inside of the glass, then nuzzled her hair. "You are going to be just fine, Sarah Tucker."
Her blue eyes were moist as she met his gaze. "I hope so."
"Shall we celebrate new beginnings? I think
I have a bottle of champagne in my fridge."
"What the heck." Her enthusiasm was underwhelming, but he accepted it.
At his house, he popped the cork on the bottle of champagne and they sipped as they put together a passable meal of salad, pasta and French bread.
"We could have stopped at Thriftway," he said, breaking the quiet as they finished their dinners. "Bought steaks. Lobster. Something more special than spaghetti."
"We haven't had a lot of luck with special meals lately, have we?" She finished what was in her champagne flute and poured herself another. "This is fine."
Her tone said it wasn't. Enough. He stood, picked up her glass and took her by the hand. She could have been sleepwalking as she followed him to the living room couch. He was tired of skirting issues. "Sit down." She did as he asked. He set the champagne on the coffee table, then sat in the easy chair. "There's more going on here than your shop, isn't there? You've been wanting to talk for days now. Let's do it."
She reached for her champagne and took a healthy swig. "You know, I think today was the first time you were involved in my work." She put the glass down and grimaced. "That didn't come out right."
"Take your time." If there was one thing he was good at, it was leaving empty silences. People tended to fill them if you waited long enough.
"We've been seeing each other for a while. I got scared."
Now he took a drink of his own champagne. "Of me?"
She shook her head. "No. Not you."
"Then of what?"
"I don't know how to say it. I don't quite understand it all myself." She wiped her hands on her jeans. "I love you. I know that."
His heart skipped. There was an unspoken "but" in there. Again, he waited.
"I wonder if I can love us," she said. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "When I think of us, I keep having memories, images of what I think us should be. And you're not the us I see."
His fingers curled into fists. He kept them between his body and the arms of the chair, hoping Sarah wouldn't see them as he strove to keep any hurt from showing in his face. The heat at his neck was a bad sign, but she seemed to be studying a spot on the carpet.
He cleared his throat. "What do you see?" He lowered his voice to a whisper, too, trying to keep any emotion out of it.
She twirled the champagne flute by its stem, her eyes still downcast. Good. He didn't want to read her face.
"I don't mean to hurt you," she said. "I keep seeing my life with David." She lifted her eyes, wide, blue and brimming with tears. "Please. I don't mean I expect you to be David. I haven't adjusted to how different my life would be with you. David and I were in business together. We made all our decisions together." She gave a quiet snort. "Not always happily, or easily, but we were a business team as well as husband and wife. We were always together and it worked for us."
Could he tell her he might be out of a job soon? But as much as he loved being with Sarah, he couldn't see himself as a shopkeeper. He couldn't find any words and she went on.
"I think I could get used to you being on call so much. And this new overtime rule—that might make things easier. But you can't—or won't—talk about your work. It's like there's the part of your life I'm allowed to share and this other part—a too big part—that's off limits. You build a huge brick wall and you go behind it and won't let me in."
Pain stabbed behind his sternum. He clawed his fingers through his hair. "I-I guess it's ingrained." He finished his champagne, tempted to start on his bottle of Jameson. "I had a semblance of a relationship once. It was over years before I met you."
"I never thought I was the first woman in your life. I have no problem with your past."
"Well, maybe you do. Heather—that was her name—was …" Shit, what had he ever seen in Heather? "She was … superficial, to say the least."
"You told me a little about her once," Sarah said. "Liked parties?"
"That she did. She couldn't—wouldn't understand how my job could be more important than her social life."
"Randy, I don't think that—"
He held his hand up, stopping her. "I know. You've always understood what the job means. But I guess I was conditioned to leave it at the station. She never wanted to talk about it, never wanted it part of the us we never even had." He crossed to the couch and sat beside her. "I made the stupid mistake of generalizing her pettiness to all women. You included. I-I'm sorry. It's a habit, but one I'd be willing to try damn hard to break if that's what's keeping us apart."
"We're not exactly apart. Not apart apart, anyway. But I'm confused and now there's the shop thing. I'm glad you're a cop, but then I get into that taking care of me thing. I guess that goes back to David, too. We were partners and it might not be logical, but I feel like you want to be in control."
"I'm a guy, Sarah. It's hard-wired into our DNA that we protect our women."
She smiled for the first time. "Caveman, eh?"
He gave a half-grin in return. "I can't help the way I'm made. It's not that I don't think you can take care of yourself. I know you can. But I want to be there for you." He took her hands.
"I'd like to be there for you, too. Like the other night, but not only when things get that bad."
He felt like someone had unlocked a jail cell. "Can we work on it?"
"I think I'd like to try."
He leaned forward to kiss her. Even before their lips touched, a thrill vibrated through him. It actually took several seconds to register it was the phone in his pocket. He didn't abandon his journey to her lips as he fished out the offending device.
"Damn it to hell," he said, pulling away, checking the display.
No overtime. Take the fucking weekend. So why was the chief calling him at nine o'clock on a Sunday night? He gave Sarah one quick kiss. "Sorry. It's the chief."
Chapter Twelve
The look of abject apology on Randy's face made up for her frustrated anger that had spiked when his cell rang. She'd been as guilty as he had when it came to not sharing her thoughts and feelings.
"It's okay," Sarah said. "I never said I wanted you to give up your job. I'll consider it part of the 'let's try' thing. You take the call and then you tell me how you feel."
"I can tell you that right now. Like I'm either on duty or off, but it can't be both ways."
"Unless it's important. Which it must be, because otherwise why would the chief call you when you're not supposed to be working?"
He got up and stomped to the kitchen. "Detweiler."
Another murder? She tried to listen to Randy's end of the conversation, but he wasn't saying anything. Until she heard him say, "Yes, sir, tomorrow morning."
He returned and flopped onto the couch, his long legs crossed at the ankle, stretched under the coffee table. His hunched shoulders belied the relaxed pose.
"Okay," she said, massaging his neck. "Tell me what he said that upset you."
"He didn't say anything."
She dug her nails into him.
He jerked away. "Ouch."
"Let's try again. I'm Sarah, not Heather. What did he say that upset you?"
"He wouldn't say—wait, before you do that Vulcan neck pinch thing again. He said for me to report to his office at six tomorrow morning. He wanted to catch me so I wouldn't go straight to the Sheriff's Office."
"So it wasn't another body?"
"No. I think I'm being called on the carpet. He had that tone he uses when he's being perfectly calm and rational but you know his teeth are aiming for your ass."
"What did you do?"
"Damned if I know. He said there were claims of impropriety and he wanted to give me a chance to tell my side."
"You?" Sarah couldn't imagine anyone less capable of improper behavior, although Randy had told her he'd stepped across some professional boundaries when she'd been kidnapped and he was trying to find her. But the reason Chris had been able to grab her was because Randy had been following the rules and not his instincts about Chris in the first place.
"Yeah, me. It happens. Some citizen doesn't like the way you're handling an investigation, they'll file a complaint. Or they call on the phone and you're not quick enough with your answers, or you don't sound sincere enough, or maybe it's because it was Tuesday."
"You think that's all it is? Who could it be?" She paused. "That's probably outside of what I'm allowed to know."
"Maybe. But the chief didn't give me anything. Just, 'In my office. Oh six hundred. Sharp'."
His imitation of the chief's authoritative voice was enough to make her cringe. "Not good?"
Randy shook his head. "Not good. If it was the usual groundless complaint, he'd have either said so, or told me to drop by after shift."
While she didn't like that Randy might be in trouble, she felt a warm connection that he'd taken a step toward trying to share.
"Can I help with anything?" she asked. "I have to be in tomorrow to wait for the insurance adjuster. I need to pull all my inventory files, show what's missing. Plus, I've got to update all the files to show what's still in stock."
"Did you get copies of the pictures Connor took?"
She nodded. "And he sent them straight to the insurance company. I feel a lot better now that things are cleaned up."
"If you can pull me a list of all the customers who were in your shop for the last week, that will be a starting point."
"I'll try, but if they didn't buy anything, I can't promise I'll remember. I'll ask Jennifer."
"I should talk to her, too."
Sarah felt a twinge of unease. "You can't think she had anything to do with it."
"No, but she might be able to fill in a piece of information you forgot."
"Okay. Maybe you should take me home now. I told you it would have been easier to drop me off there so I could have my car here."
His expression shifted to his here we go again look.
