DISCLAIMER: Women's Murder Club and its characters are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. No infringement intended.
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"Feeling dirty yet?"
Lindsay looks up from where she is standing at the sink, at the mirror image of herself and the woman who has spoken these words. She lets herself be embraced but stills the woman's hands when they begin to sneak underneath her robe. "It's the first time I've done this," she says, making it sound as defensive as she feels. She hasn't exactly always gone by the book, but this is different. This is crossing the line, a big, red, blinking one.
The woman smiles. "For what it's worth, I couldn't have told."
Lindsay's mouth quirks in a wry grin. "I've never slept with an informant before," she clarifies unnecessarily.
"Does it matter?"
Lindsay has an indignant answer rehearsed and ready, of course it does, because it's wrong, because but she can't turn back time. And if she takes a honest look at what has just happened, she'd have to face other, far more uncomfortable truths. "What do you think?"
The other woman leans forward, resting her forehead against Lindsay's back. "We do good work together. Why question it? Okay, so maybe once you thought you'd never take advantage of anyone, and know it's not me you really--"
"Stop," Lindsay cuts her off harshly, her face burning at the blatant listing of facts. She spins around. "You could have said no. It would have been as easy as that."
A soft chuckle is the answer. "I'm not stupid."
Lindsay leans back against the sink with a sigh. "Why are we having this conversation?"
"Right. In about an hour I'm going to smoke out some creepy child molester for you, so I suppose we could spend the time differently. Don't you worry, Lindsay, I don't expect you to introduce me to your friends. Now that would be a little awkward."
Silently, Lindsay agrees as she takes in the petite red-headed woman who can make her feel so bad with words, but does the exact opposite with her body. Remembering, Lindsay feels her breath catch in her throat, her heartbeat quickening; this time, she doesn't stop her.
"Then I've got to make it worth your while," she says, her voice going darker, the color of insane, helpless need. It doesn't go unnoticed, judging from the flash of lust in the woman's eyes.
Kissing hungrily, they stumble back into the bedroom and onto the bed, back to naked moments later. Lindsay once again tastes the skin of the woman who risks her life for her over and over again. Not for a paycheck or membership in a non-existing club, but because the few alternatives she has would be so much worse.
At least, as ironic as that sounds, that way, Lindsay can keep her a little safer, or that's what she tells herself. She wishes she could do more.
For the moment, they both get to pretend they could be someone else. For the moment, it has to be enough.
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