“Doing my best. Let’s see what the tests show.” Charlie popped some chips in his mouth, and then licked his fingers.
She took a bite, talking around her food. “I was so hungry, I almost ate at the restaurant, but felt too guilty knowing you were here, and you’d probably not eaten since we saw each other last.”
He rubbed his face, leaning back in his chair. “I’m so tired I can barely think.”
She nodded, licking her lips. “So, is this a bad time to talk, then? ’Cause what I have to say requires you to think. To really think, Charlie. About us.”
Yeah, it was a bad time to talk about “us.” Them. On a good day, Cynthia could talk him in circles. Now, he was punch-drunk tired. She’d want to talk about what happened in the office, their latest kiss, and he wasn’t feeling particularly flexible about what it meant. If she didn’t see things the way he did, he didn’t think he had it in him to be polite about it.
“If you want to talk,” he said, mostly because he suspected that was the right answer, “we’ll talk.”
“If I want to.” She took another bite, lifting her brows. That, more than anything, told him maybe he’d miscalculated the “right” answer. Shit. Sometimes he thought he would have a more successful social life if he threw darts at a board of prewritten responses and just said whatever the dart landed on. No dartboard on hand, he was forced to dig deep and hope he could keep up.
“Do you want me to apologize for kissing you?” He’d do it, but he wasn’t sorry. He’d kiss her again. And soon.
She snorted and finished chewing. “I’m not looking for apologies, Charlie.” She grabbed a beer and used her keys to take the bottle top off. Handing it to him, she then grabbed one for herself. “I’m looking to understand.” She chugged until it was half gone.
“I think it’s pretty clear why I kissed you.” He took a pull off his beer. He’d kissed her because she was damn sexy, and he wanted her. Wanted her bad. And he’d wanted to kiss her, and more, for years. Did she want to hear that? He wanted to tell her.
She lifted her brows, not looking convinced. “Are you looking for sex as sport?”
He recoiled from the idea. Not that he hadn’t had his fair share of sport. He just had no intention of doing that with Cynthia. Damn. Was their latest kiss a result of her being horny, and Charlie making himself available?
“No.” He hadn’t meant to sound so…sanctimonious. But he was kind of offended.
She tilted her head to the side, avoiding his gaze, and then opened her hoagie again, picking at the cheese and meat. It told him she wasn’t hungry anymore. “We’re married, Charlie, but I’ve got ambitions and a career I’m focused on. I’m no one’s ‘little woman.’”
He felt his stomach twist with irritation. Did she just accuse him of attempting to turn her into a housefrau? It was a kiss. And it had been hot. “What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing. Just so we’re clear.” She sipped her beer, avoiding his gaze.
“We’re not. Why don’t you spell it out for me?” Like always.
She sighed, putting her beer down. “My life is my career on purpose. I’ve fought hard to be taken seriously in the FBI, and in this precinct in particular. Everyone thinks profiling is woo-woo soft science, so add that on top of my gender, and I’m always walking a fine line here between acceptance and…well, and not.”
He nodded. He’d heard her fears and complaints from day one, right out of Quantico. “You have a well-earned chip on your shoulder. So what? I think it lends you charm.” He winked, hoping to lighten the mood. She grimaced, picking at her sandwich again, eating the innards, then licking her fingers. “Cynthia, nothing’s changed between us, except we’re married. And it’s a piece of paper, right?”
He ate some chips, watching her closely. Would she take his bait and rail against him? Would she declare their marriage wasn’t just a piece of paper, and their kiss meant their marriage was more than a get-out-of-jail card? Her eyes lost focus, and he thought she wouldn’t respond…until she did.
“You’re the only one I can be completely myself with, Charlie.” She caught his gaze, and he saw her fear. “I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you.”
His bait had caught unexpected booty, and he didn’t know what to do with it.
“Listen, I know I’m clueless, but humor me. Why would you ever lose me?”
“You’re not clueless.” She shook her head, grimacing. “You’re…blunt, reason-driven. A methodical thinker.” She sipped her beer, smiling. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”
“One, huh?” His cheek kicked up.
She was being kind. When emotions fell into the equation, he was clueless, and she knew it. Well, he didn’t want to be clueless with Cynthia. He wanted to understand. Was she telling him to back off? That it was better to keep some of what they had than lose it all? He tried that idea on, then instantly dismissed it. He wasn’t sure he could back off. He loved her. He wanted her. And he knew she wanted him back. There was no faking her responses to him. At least, that’s what he was telling himself.
Sipping their beers, neither said another word, nor even met the other’s gaze until they were done with their hoagies and chips. Then Cynthia slung her bag over her elbow and gathered up the trash, putting the empty bottles back in the six-pack holder.
“We need to sleep,” she said. “We’re dragging.”
“Your place or mine?” As exhausted as he was, he feared tonight would be another night of no sleep. Wanting her the way he did, he’d be thinking of her under the same roof, wanting to touch her, but with Cynthia’s little pep talk, he wasn’t sure that was in the cards for them.
“Socks,” she said. “Shouldn’t we stay at your house?”
“He’s fine. I keep kibble out, and we’ll stop by in the morning to feed him canned food. I think you’d be more comfortable at your place, especially after the day you’ve had. You’ll want your things around you.”
She nodded, her lower lip jutting out. “You make me sound pathetic. What about you? Don’t you want your things around you?”
He shook his head. “I have you, and my go-bag in my trunk. That’s all I need.” Cynthia studied his face. “What?” he said, but she shook her head, and then walked toward the door.
“Is that go-bag the same one in your trunk that has the hoods, duct tape, and zip ties?”
“No,” he said. “I logged all that into evidence.” He opened the morgue’s door for her.
She stepped into the hall. “Charlie, what am I going to do with you?” She waited for him to lock up behind him, then they walked toward the elevator. Her gait was markedly slower than his. “The evidence is mounting, and you being a stickler is helping the unsub.”
“Maybe. But I won’t break the law.” He slid his hand into his pocket, reassuring himself that he had his car keys. “I didn’t do anything wrong, so evidence will bring us the lead we’re waiting for. Until I’m pulled from this case, I’ll work it.”
“Feels like a mistake,” she said. Feels. Feelings. Since when did feelings close a case?
“Emotion has no place in evidence collection,” he said. “We follow protocol and hope for the best. I’ll leave feelings for the jury.”
The lights had been dimmed in the hall because it was after hours. The other offices were dark also, and everyone was gone but for a skeleton crew. Charlie saw a pretty, blond housekeeper pushing her cart around the hall corner as Cynthia dropped the trash into a bin. She tucked the two extra hoagies into her cavernous pocketbook, tossed the empty beers, and then caught up with him at the elevator door. It binged, and then opened. Charlie held it open as she stepped inside.
The moment felt so normal. As if this could be his life from now on. Meeting up after work, going home together. He wanted to get used to it, maybe even take it for granted, and he liked to think Terrance wo
uld have approved. Of everything. His position as a forensic pathologist. Cynthia as an FBI profiler. He’d have been happy for them. Maybe was, looking down on them from heaven.
She arched a brow, silently asking him a question as the elevator doors closed them inside. “You’re smiling,” she said, and then punched the garage floor button.
“Terrance. I think he’d be proud of you.” His smile widened when she predictably grimaced.
She clutched her bag to her chest and kept her back to the elevator wall. “Terrance thought I was his irritating little sister. ‘Clinging,’ I believe was the term he was fond of using. Your memory is faulty.”
Wrong, but this was an old argument. “I remember just fine. I remember always liking you.”
Her jaw dropped. “You didn’t know I existed.”
“I just hid it well.” She was just so damn cute. “Lusting after my best friend’s little sister would have earned me a pummeling. A well-deserved pummeling. You weren’t even eighteen,” he said.
“Lusting?” She seemed no less stunned.
He didn’t see the big deal. “I wasn’t blind. The better question is: who didn’t lust after you? All your curves and swinging blond hair, swaying hips, and pale blue eyes.” He perused her curves until he noticed her blush. “I was a sophomore in college. You were in high school and too young. I had no business thinking about you.”
Her eyes lost focus, and he suspected she was reviewing that era of their relationship through a new lens. About time, he thought. “I didn’t think you knew I was alive,” she said.
His cheek kicked up. “You were too busy reading.” When he took the remaining beer cans Cynthia held dangling from their plastic loops, she lifted her fingers to the back of her head. “Does it hurt?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” But she winced a little before dropping her hand. “Got to admit, though, I’m a bit stunned. Where were all those lusting boys you talk about when it came time for prom? If you’ll recall, I never went. Was never asked.”
“Senior prom?” She’d been at the hospital, reading to him in a loud enough voice to be heard over his respirator.
Her spine straightened, and then a familiar expression of guilt and anxiety contorted her face. “Sorry,” she said.
“What for?” He knew. They both knew, but he was so damn tired of it that he called her on it.
She held her bag to her chest a little more tightly. “For reminding you.”
Not what he’d expected her to say. He’d expected mea culpas for her brother’s part in landing Charlie in the hospital. He hadn’t heard one for years, thankfully, but that was usually her go-to response.
“I don’t mind reminders.” His scars were daily reminders that he’d survived. He glanced at the light on the wall indicating the elevator had arrived at the garage floor. “I’m the man I am today because of that accident.”
“Not the accident.” She peered at him. “Your reaction to it.” She slung her bag over her elbow. “You know you’re wonderful. Right?” She thought he was wonderful. His cheek kicked up, but he didn’t trust his voice to speak without embarrassing himself. “And—” She glanced at the lights indicating the door was about to open. “And I like kissing you, Charlie, but I don’t want you to think I expect anything from you because of it.”
“You’re saying my virtue is safe?” He smiled, because she made no sense.
“Exactly.” She nodded, as if they were on the same page. They weren’t.
The elevator door clanked open. His stomach tightened. “And what happens if I don’t want to be safe?”
Charlie hit the door-close button, then pulled Cynthia into his arms. Her pocketbook fell to the floor as their lips came together and he cupped the back of her neck. The kiss was rough, hot, and wet, with lots of tongue.
The door binged and opened again with a clatter. He heard a gasp, and knew it wasn’t Cynthia’s, because her tongue was in his mouth. He forced his eyes open and saw Teresa, framed by the darkened garage. Her hand held the elevator door open. He and Cynthia broke apart.
“I left my identification card in my desk,” Teresa said. “I thought you two would be gone by now.”
Cynthia took a shaky breath, grabbed her pocketbook off the floor, and then hurried off the elevator into the garage.
Charlie nodded. “I left the signed forms in your desk, Teresa. Ah, see you tomorrow.” He caught up with Cynthia, draping an arm over her shoulders as they walked to his car.
The elevator door binged and closed with a clank, triggering Cynthia to look left and right. They were alone. She shrugged off his arm, looking irritated, and continued to brood on the drive to her house.
Charlie didn’t mind. He figured she was processing what he’d already come to accept. It was just taking Cynthia longer. Like eating. She took longer, but sooner or later, she’d come to terms with their new reality.
They were forever.
Chapter Nine
The first and only time Cynthia ever cold-cocked someone was in college, freshman year. It was a defining moment in her life, directing her to seek a career in law enforcement, with a focus in criminal psychology. And she owed it all to Charlie.
Six months after the accident, when he was still in the hospital, she’d convinced him and MIT that he should end his scholastic medical leave and attend classes again, despite still being wheelchair-bound. He’d graduate late, but he’d graduate. It took some finagling, but by scheduling her classes Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, she could bring Charlie to his classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
The “cold-cocking incident” happened early that first semester, when no one knew yet if Charlie could meet this challenge. She’d parked his wheelchair in class, and then left the hundred-seat auditorium to use the restroom before class started. At the door, Cynthia passed two perfectly coiffed students, smelling of Chanel and wearing designer clothes. The young women noticed Charlie, his wheelchair, and his medical devices, and were visibly and vocally recoiling. Cynthia ignored it, until one—phone in one hand, spiced latte in the other—curled her lip, and said, “I’d rather die than be disabled.”
Cynthia remembered stopping, as if she’d run into a wall. She remembered her fingers clutching the door’s handle and her vision blurring as fresh memories of Terrance’s wake and funeral resurfaced. She was told later—in her MIT-mandated anger management counseling session—that she’d snapped. Many reasons were suggested, but even now, the last thing she remembered of the incident was their tittering and giggles. Then, nothing. But there were plenty of witnesses.
Cynthia cold-cocked the student. Tackled her.
Her father happily wrote a large alumni donation, smoothed things over with the student’s family, and Cynthia found her major, which eventually landed her at The National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC), a major branch of the FBI’s Crisis Incident Response Group.
All because of Charlie. No one screwed with him, not while Cynthia was around.
But she’d yet to find a way to protect Charlie…from Charlie.
She worked that problem well into the night, too stimulated to sleep, and it was the only reason she heard the suspicious noises in the apartment. Rolling out of bed, she quickly and quietly shrugged into an oversized T-shirt and a pair of panties. If there was an intruder, she wasn’t getting caught naked. Then she slipped her gun from its holster, also quietly, and carefully turned the knob on her door to prevent any telltale sounds from giving her away. Then, on nimble feet, she hurried down the hall to investigate, gun at the ready, fearing an intruder had broken in while she and Charlie slept.
But it was just Charlie. Not snoring on the couch, per se, so much as making noises in his sleep. She allowed the gun to hang at her side, feeling a bit ashamed at her disappointment. She could have used the workout an intruder would have provided.
Cynthia approached the pullout cou
ch, her path lit by moonlight peeking in from between the drapes. First thing she noticed was his quilt had slipped off the mattress. Second thing she noticed was he was nearly naked, and his boxer briefs left little to the imagination. She gawked with zero shame, admiring his body splayed on the queen-sized mattress too small for his length. She loved how big he was, and all his nakedness was making her feel aflutter.
In college, during his hospital days, she’d seen his body waste to skin and bones as he healed from injuries that miraculously didn’t kill him. He never looked like this back then. This version of Charlie had easily fifty pounds more muscle mass, sculpted calves, heavy thighs, wide hips, flat belly, deep chest, and massive shoulders. He was perfection.
Even with the scars. They’d faded pale, but she could see every one of them, and knew their stories. One ran from his belly button to beneath the waistband of his underwear, where dashboard shrapnel had ripped into his body. No longer raw and puckered, every scar bore tribute to the violence that almost killed him. His stomach was peppered with them, as was his right shoulder, left arm, and his leg.
His leg muscle flexed, pivoting her gaze to his face. Had she woken him? A study of his features told her no. He still slept, so she peered at his leg scars again, frowning. Not because the scars were unattractive. They were Charlie’s scars, so they were beautiful scars. The most beautiful scars ever. But the muscles beneath twisted and spasmed before her eyes. She’d found the origins of his pain, and marveled that he could sleep through it.
Cynthia leaned close—so close she could smell him—and peered at his eyes. Was he faking sleep? Wishing she’d leave? His eyes remained closed, and he seemed asleep, so she thought no. The guy was just so used to his chronic pain that he’d trained himself to sleep through it.
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