DISCLAIMER: Women's Murder Club and its characters are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. No infringement intended.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To Demeter94[at]yahoo.de
SERIES: Thunderstorm Series
I watch my reflection in the window of the 13th story hotel room, oblivious to the beautiful panorama of city lights below us. I could never lie well, not even to myself. Excited, happy, anxious, terrified, it's all there.
Lindsay walks up behind me, wrapping her arms around me tightly. Part of me still has a hard time believing I'm really here, with her, that it's not a fantasy I made up. Because I've had those, in what seems like another time.
Her hands on my waist linger for a moment, then sneak upwards underneath my shirt. I draw a sharp breath as her fingers skim over my ribs and higher; then she puts her lips to my neck and I lean back immediately, give her more access. It's almost embarrassing, I think, how easy I am, but then again, I've always known it would be this way.
I knew it long before Lindsay returned from Cambodia, Jill and I parted as friends, and nothing was the same anymore.
If tonight she needs all the power, I'm willing to let her have it. Everything for her. I'm not known for doing any thing halfway.
"You feel so good," she whispers, the low warm tone of her voice sending a shiver skittering down my spine.
"That's the plan," I say, smiling at our shared mirror image in the glass pane.
I can feel the water rising already. I'm happily going to drown tonight.
Lindsay feels pretty good as she stands at the railing, a glass of wine in her hand, the warm summer wind teasing her hair. Accomplished. Capable. A little vague and confused about the sensations still lingering, her body refusing to settle down and relax, but that's nothing new. She has left Cambodia, but not all of it has left her yet. She remembers all the shrink lines.
In her mind, she replays their moments together, the feel and taste of Cindy's skin, warm and strangely familiar under her hands and lips.
Cindy's disappointment when she sent her away. It nearly broke her heart, but she had to do it. Rebuilding the boundaries, body and soul, with the only person she trusts now to respect them. Cindy will be back. One day, she might be able to have a lover spend the night without the fear of falling asleep, not listening for the sound of a gun being cocked.
She might be able to let Cindy give her everything she wants to. Not tonight though.
Lindsay takes another sip, the forms and lights of the cars thirteen stories down blurring into a disturbing kaleidoscope. There is another way to escape the nightmares, quicker, messier. She has the morbid image of Claire being called to the scene for a moment. She steps backwards, realizing it's not safe for her to be out here, a little plastered and off balance in every sense of the word.
Neither here nor there...
Back inside the room, she lies down on the bed still fully clothed, wondering if she'll ever find home again.
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