by V. K. Powell
“You were his caregiver.”
“Until cirrhosis put him in the hospital and then hospice. Not much I could do after that.” Finley pressed her hand against her chest as if it ached to tell her story. “So, you see, we really couldn’t be more different. You had a perfect family and childhood. I envy that closeness.”
“We were far from perfect, Fin.” This time when Dylan cupped her hand and brought it to rest on her lap, Finley didn’t resist. “Our lives changed the night the police chaplain and my dad’s commanding officer told us he’d been killed by an armed burglar. It seemed life had been perfect until that moment. Papa was my champion, protector, and confidante. We talked about everything. G-ma and Mama were devastated but held it together for us, but his death affected each of the kids differently. Simon became the de facto man of the house too early, Ben turned into a wild thing and acted out, Jazz withdrew, and I…”
Finley looked over at her and squeezed her hand. “You what?”
“Grieved in silence, suppressed my anger, and decided to become a doctor to help people who’d suffered as my family had.”
“And decided never to date cops and feel that loss again?”
Dylan caught her breath, surprised how easily Finley made the connection. “Yes.” Something inside her softened at the way Finley stared at her and gently squeezed her hand. She understood how Dylan felt.
“I came to a similar place. If I don’t care deeply, I can’t be hurt like my dad was.”
“Now I get your rep,” Dylan said. “You’re a poser.” The pieces of Finley Masters were forming a different picture, one that Dylan liked very much.
“It serves me well.”
But it didn’t tell the whole story. Dylan nodded and choked back a sob. Without their shields of independence and camouflage, she and Finley were wounded souls who’d been hurt in different ways but come to the same conclusion—love wasn’t worth the pain. Maybe they could comfort each other in another less damaging way.
“Hey, this is supposed to be a happy outing.” Finley brought Dylan’s hand to her mouth and pressed a gentle kiss into her palm before releasing. “Tell me about Hamilton.”
The sensation of Finley’s lips on her hand spiraled through Dylan like a backdraft spreading with the introduction of oxygen. For the first time in her life, she ached to be touched and kissed until everything else disappeared. She gulped for air and forced her attention back to Finley’s question. “Hamilton. Yes. You seriously don’t know anything about the play?”
Finley shook her head.
“It’s about an immigrant from the West Indies who basically becomes George Washington’s go-to guy and the first secretary of the treasury. Blah, blah, right? But the music, the music is to die for. It’s a combination of hip-hop, jazz, blues, rap, R&B, and Broadway. And if that doesn’t get you going, there’s the history aspect. Aaron Burr, Thomas Jefferson, King George. And the family angle, which appeals to me as much as the music.”
“You really are a fan.”
“A fan? I’m a devotee.”
“Good, because we’re here. I hope you’re ready to enjoy yourself, Ms. Carlyle.”
“I am indeed, Ms. Masters.” Finley started to get out, but Dylan caught her arm. “And thank you for telling me about your family. I know it wasn’t easy.”
“I was surprised how easy it seemed with you, but don’t tell anyone. I have a rep.” She winked at Dylan, grabbed her coat from the back, and came around to open the door.
When Dylan took Finley’s hand and slid from the Jeep, she fake-stumbled against Finley and held just long enough to feel the press of their bodies and the perfect fit of breasts and thighs. “Thank you.”
“My…my pleasure.”
Dylan walked arm-in-arm with Finley toward the Durham Performing Arts Center entrance and thought this woman could definitely be a pleasure. No harm in casual sex with a self-professed playgirl who wasn’t interested in long-term either. Sexual attraction wasn’t love. She edged closer to Finley and again heat swelled between them. Yes, this could work, but it was time to stop kidding herself that one and done was even a possibility.
Chapter Fourteen
Finley placed her hand in the small of Dylan’s back and guided her gently toward the entrance to the Durham Performing Arts Center, surprised when Dylan leaned into her touch. Unless her imagination was playing tricks, something had shifted between them on the drive. Maybe talking about her family had turned the tide. She sensed an opening, a possibility that hadn’t existed before, but Dylan was no ordinary woman, so Finley’s usual game wasn’t likely to work. Was she even playing the game anymore, or was she being played?
She ushered Dylan through the front door enjoying the view as she entered. Her little black dress showed off curves Finley had only imagined beneath her scrubs. It was short but not slutty short, a tasteful get-a-glimpse-of-quad length, and Finley couldn’t stop looking at her. A red jacket and matching calf-length boots added the right amount of spark. Dylan’s brunette hair fell loosely around her shoulders and stopped at the scooped neckline of her dress that revealed a hint of her full breasts. Everything about Dylan Carlyle turned Finley on and scared her more than a little.
“Want a drink?” Finley asked.
“Lead the way. I’m in your hands,” Dylan said, following her toward the lounge.
If only. But if Dylan truly placed herself in Finley’s hands, she had a feeling she’d be more cautious and protective, possibly even gentler than she normally was with women. Nah, who was she kidding. She’d ravish the hell out of her until she couldn’t walk. At least that’s what her body wanted right now. “What would you like?” Finley asked.
“Chardonnay.”
Finley ordered the wine, a beer for herself, and handed the glass to Dylan. “Every man in the room is looking at you…and envying me.”
Dylan grinned. “But I’m the lucky one. Every woman’s eyes are on you.”
Finley raised her glass to hide her embarrassment. “Here’s to an exciting evening.”
Dylan quirked a brow and responded. “Yes, to excitement.”
Finley’s sip of beer warmed in her mouth as she swallowed. Was Dylan flirting or was it just wishful thinking on Finley’s part? The twinkle in Dylan’s brown eyes said the former, and Finley couldn’t resist testing her theory. “Are you flirting with me, Doctor?”
Without a flicker of indecisiveness, Dylan said, “Definitely. Does that freak you out?”
“Considering our short but rocky past, just a little, but I’m recovering.” She was way beyond recovered. Her mind flashed images of peeling Dylan out of that dress, and her body responded with heat and a hungry ache.
“Good.” Dylan toasted her glass to Finley’s again and stepped so close that Finley felt the warmth of her body against her chest. “Then here’s to flirting…with possibilities.” She took another sip. “This is good wine, but another glass could put me in the danger zone.”
Finley placed her finger under the foot of Dylan’s wine glass and playfully tipped it forward. “Bottom’s up. I’m a danger junkie.”
“I’ve heard that about you.” Dylan slid a finger between the buttons of Finley’s shirt and dragged her fingernail across her abs. “You’re tight.”
Finley sucked in a breath. “Damn, if you keep that up, we won’t see the play. I’ll find a place with more privacy and a locking door.”
Dylan flicked the underside of Finley’s breast before withdrawing her finger. “Guess I’ll leave you with that, for now, because I really want to see this play.” She finished her wine and placed the glass on a nearby table. “Let’s find our seats.”
Finley drained her stein and happily followed like a devoted puppy. “Yes, ma’am.” She tucked her hand under Dylan’s jacket and guided her slowly down the aisle, lifting her head higher with every admiring glance Dylan received.
They settled in the fourth row, and Dylan leaned over and whispered, “These are fantastic seats. Remind me to thank you
properly later.”
Finley’s center tightened as Dylan’s hot breath brushed across her ear and down the side of her neck. She cupped Dylan’s hand and brought it to rest on her thigh, as close to her crotch as she dared in public. “I’ll definitely remind you.”
The curtain rose and the audience erupted in applause. “Here we go,” Dylan screeched, gripping Finley’s hand so tight she winced.
From the first note of the first song to the last, Dylan quivered with excitement beside her, often mouthing the words or quietly singing along. Finley couldn’t stop watching her. She’d never seen Dylan so unguarded, engaged, or so happy. And she’d provided her this experience. By the end of the show, almost three hours later, Dylan’s head rested against her shoulder.
When the final curtain call ended, and everyone filed out, Dylan remained in her seat, leaning into Finley’s side, her arm wrapped across her waist. “This has been the most amazing night. The play was everything I imagined and more. I’m happy, invigorated, and exhausted. How is that even possible?”
“I have to admit, it was a powerful show,” Finley said. “And you really got into it.”
“I certainly did, but as much as I enjoy reveling in the afterglow, we should probably go.”
Finley kissed the top of Dylan’s head, inhaled the scent of her flowery shampoo, and slowly rose. Would she ever be this close to Dylan again, this connected to her? The playful mood of earlier seemed to have been replaced by something deeper, but what did it mean?
“Pit stop before the drive home?” Dylan asked.
“Sure.”
Dylan grabbed Finley’s hand and dragged her to the deserted ladies’ room and into a stall. She eased her against the wall. “May I kiss you, Finley Masters?”
“Is that a trick question?”
Dylan stood on her tiptoes and licked Finley’s bottom lip. The delicate action felt like a second request, one Finley was eager to answer. Dylan’s kiss was so light that Finley ached for more pressure but didn’t push.
“Thank you for tonight,” Dylan said.
When they kissed again, Dylan was more assertive, lips pressing harder, tongue demanding. Finley’s knees weakened, and she encircled Dylan’s waist to pull her closer, but she backed away.
“Out. Get your own stall,” Dylan said.
“Tease.” Dylan slammed the door closed, and Finley placed her hands against the cold metal. She wasn’t ready to stop kissing Dylan. She backed away slowly, staring at the door and the red leather boots underneath. A feeling shot through her that she didn’t immediately recognize. Fear. She was never afraid—not at home with her morose father or at work facing dangerous criminals—but Dylan threatened a place her bravado couldn’t protect. Her heart.
* * *
Dylan’s skin tingled as she walked toward the Jeep, a combination of excitement from seeing Hamilton and danger from kissing Finley. Twice. But she couldn’t stop. Their intimate conversation on the drive over, Finley’s chivalry all evening, the closeness of her body, along with the climax of the show stoked Dylan’s desire. And damn it, she’d wanted to kiss her.
Finley opened the passenger door and waited while she settled. “Are you okay? You haven’t said much since…the restroom.”
“I’m good. Thanks.” Was she really? Harmless flirting with a woman like Finley was one thing, but kissing her was another. Playing with fire came to mind. Before the show, she’d decided she could have casual sex with Finley, but after kissing her, she wasn’t sure. She couldn’t even stop at one kiss. Better to err on the side of caution. “Just tired, I guess.”
“Most of the traffic has cleared, so I’ll have you home in record time. Relax.” Finley closed the door and made her way to the driver’s side.
But Dylan couldn’t relax. The firm texture of Finley’s lips, the minty taste of her breath, and the tenderness of her kiss—something Dylan hadn’t expected—spun like a record on a turntable in her mind. She grew warm again and lowered the window to let in the cool air.
“Sure you’re all right?” Finley asked.
“Yeah.” She squirmed in her seat and turned toward Finley. Time to distract. Things were getting out of hand quickly. “So…can I ask a question?”
Finley nodded and started to reach for her hand but stopped as if she sensed Dylan needed space.
“It’s something I’ve wondered about for years, but no one seems to know the answer.”
“Now I’m intrigued. Hope I can succeed where others failed.” Finley gave her a quick smile while maneuvering through traffic on the highway. “Be brave. I’ll protect you.”
“Why are cops so dead set on being macho, fearless jerks?”
“Wow. So not what I expected. And I thought we’d gotten past that.”
“Not likely.” She hoped Finley wouldn’t see through her effort to put some distance between them. Her sexually playful mood was slowly being replaced by anxiety as desire took over. “Well?” Finley’s mouth tightened, her eyes darkened, and Dylan thought she wasn’t going to answer.
“Cops feel fear like everybody else but are trained not to show it. We don’t have all the answers but are taught to pretend we do. I can only speak for myself, but I live with fear on the job daily. Sometimes it’s so thick I can taste it. I’m afraid I’ll be killed or kill someone else, afraid of acting or not and the consequences of my choices. I worry about some dirt bag going free because of a technicality in my arrest, mishandling of evidence, or wording in my case report. The threats are often invisible, draining and frying my adrenal glands over and over throughout a shift. I think any cop who isn’t a little bit afraid is crazy or just reckless.”
“I’ve heard you are reckless.” Finley’s response was deeper and more insightful than Dylan expected, and she softened her tone to honor that. “I appreciate your honesty. Sounds like you’ve thought about fear a lot.”
“I’d be shortsighted not to think about something that is such a major part of my work life, but I don’t consider myself reckless on the job. I just have to be willing to step in when others won’t. On the personal side, yes, I can be spontaneous and a bit reckless at times.”
“What’s your biggest fear, Fin?”
Finley increased her speed and passed several cars before answering. “I’m most afraid of not being good enough, of failing, and somebody I care about being hurt or killed.” Her grip on the steering wheel tightened.
“Like Hank.”
“Yeah, like Hank or Robin…or someone else. You could’ve easily been shot that day.” Finley glanced at her, and Dylan saw her jaw tighten.
“Pull over.”
“What?”
“Pull the car over,” Dylan said again.
Finley steered to the side of the road, stopped, and turned on the emergency flashers. “What’s going on?”
Dylan leaned over the console, pulled Finley close, and tried to kiss her. She’d been wrong about Finley. She was a sensitive but damaged woman beneath all the bravado, and Dylan wanted her so badly she couldn’t wait to kiss her again. Distance and caution be damned.
“Dylan…what…are you doing?” Finley pulled away.
“What you said was so touching, and I want you so much right now. I mean a lot.”
“What?” Finley was pressed against the driver’s door as far away as possible.
Dylan stared in Finley’s eyes, unable to understand her resistance. “Are you seriously not going to kiss me?”
Finley licked her lips. “On the side of the road? Yes, I mean, no, I’m not. I haven’t made out in a vehicle since I was a teenager, and it doesn’t suit a woman like you, Dylan. Besides, we’re only ten minutes from your place.”
“Not my place.” Dylan settled back in her seat and straightened her dress, second-guessing her decision after Finley’s reaction.
“Are you sure about this?”
“No, but if I think about it too much, I’ll change my mind. Can we just go with it?”
“I’m not sure about my p
lace,” Finley said. “I’ve never…I mean, I don’t usually—”
“Then just drop me at home. Your car shouldn’t be in my driveway tomorrow morning when my family wakes up.”
“My place it is.” Finley gunned the gas and spun into the travel lane. She slid her hand up Dylan’s thigh and stopped at the hem of her dress. “You have about eight minutes to change your mind.”
Should she? Having sex with Finley would place her on a long list of similar conquests. But there was so much chemistry between them, and no one was more qualified as fling material than Finley Masters. The tenderness she’d seen in Finley tonight could just be part of her game, but Dylan didn’t care. Decision made. Again.
Before she second-guessed herself yet again, she changed the subject. “So, how do cops deal with all the stress and fear of the job? I’ve never broached the question in my family because I didn’t want to know the answer.”
“Depends on the person. Lock it away, compartmentalize, deny, get a hobby, take drugs, drink, pray, fight, fuck—whatever gets you through. Some are lucky enough to have friends, family, or partners who know how to deal with the special brand of cop crazy.”
“Mama used to say Papa never really took off his uniform because it was always there like a permanent tattoo or brand. I was never sure what that meant.” Dylan glanced at Finley, her stare straight ahead, and her expression serious.
“The things you see and do on the job seep into your pores like a toxic gas. You can’t rinse or scrub them away. Your partner and family expect you to come home from work, hang up the uniform, and be an open, loving, communicative person, like nothing’s happened. It doesn’t work that way. A lot of cops end up chasing the thrills of work off the job, through other vices, which doesn’t help family life either.” She cocked her head to one side. “That could be why I’m impulsive and reckless in my personal life sometimes.”