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41
GAFFER'S RIDGE INN
THURSDAY NIGHT
Savich paused at the bathroom door, his hair still damp from the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, and watched Sherlock. She’d changed into her tiger-striped boxers and flowy top, his favorites he’d packed without thinking. Now he realized she might think they were too sexy, which they were, and it might make her uncomfortable. She was standing by the bed, her hand on the covers, unmoving, staring down.
He said quietly, not wanting to startle her, “Sherlock, please don’t be concerned. I’m not going to jump you.”
She slowly turned to look at him, head to toe. He said, his voice calm, trying for a bit of humor, “Usually I don’t wear anything to bed, but maybe it would be best if you handed me a pair of boxers and a T-shirt from my go bag.”
His black go bag was open on the bed. She picked out a pair of royal-blue boxer shorts, held them up, and suddenly saw herself laughing, watching Dillon walk away from her, a rip in his pants, his royal-blue boxer shorts on display, and she was responsible. She blinked. She held up the boxer shorts again. “Did you ever rip your pants? And you were wearing blue boxers?”
He gave her a huge grin. “When you were in the FBI Academy, I role-played a bank robber in Hogan’s Alley and your job was to spot me and bring me down. During our scuffle, I ripped my pants. Believe me, you weren’t the only one laughing her head off. I had to toss the pants.”
“I saw you walking away in my mind, even heard myself laughing. I know you’re not going to jump me. You’re not that kind of man.”
She stopped, walked over and handed him the T-shirt and boxers. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be out in a minute,” he said, and closed the bathroom door.
Sherlock paused in front of a photo of a beautiful golden retriever framed on the wall beside the bed. His name was Carl, printed in gold leaf on a plaque beneath the photo. He was leaping high, catching a Frisbee in the air. She touched her fingertips to the photo. “That was an excellent catch, Carl. I’ll bet you were a great dog. So, can you help me out? I’m not eighteen anymore, and that superbly built man in the bathroom is my husband. I have a child with him. What do you think, Carl? Should I consider taking him as a lover? A stranger with benefits? Or is that too wicked?” She began to laugh at herself.
Savich came out of the bathroom, heard her speaking to the lab in the photo. And waited, saying nothing, listening.
“On the other hand,” she said to Carl, “I don’t believe in cheating. At least I don’t think I do. It’s strange, but I know about some things, about how to do my hair and my makeup, what I like to eat, how to drive, even my ankle Glock 380—it’s familiar to me. Ah, but people—it’s people mostly who are gone. I wouldn’t recognize my parents. I haven’t even had a glimpse of them. And Gabriella? I know she’s Sean’s nanny, but nothing else. I have these brief snapbacks, I guess you’d call them, but mostly they don’t mean much to me. Are people in a specific part of the brain? And that’s the part that’s wonky?” She sighed. “What’s a girl to do, Carl? That’s the question, isn’t it? Would sleeping with him really be like cheating, since I don’t know him? Would I feel like doing the walk of shame tomorrow morning?” She turned away from the picture. “I know so much and so little.”
Savich walked to her, very gently took her arms in his hands. He hadn’t touched her bare arms in too long a time, because the bruises were still vivid and had to hurt. He studied the bruises on her shoulders from the seat belt, managed to smile down at her. “I love the tiger stripes.”
She started, froze, then, finally, eased. “I thought you did like the tiger stripes, well, on some level I did. I see you looking at the bruises on my arms and shoulders. They’re not so bad now, Dillon. They don’t hurt much and they’re fading, too. Oh dear, did you hear my conversation with Carl the golden retriever?”
“Your end of it, yes. Carl didn’t add much of anything.”
She laid her palms on his chest, felt the warmth of his flesh through the black T-shirt. She leaned up, breathed him in, then jerked back. “Do I do this often after you shower?”
“Sniff me to make sure I’ve washed behind my ears? Yes, usually.”
“Somehow I don’t think checking to see if you’re clean has anything to do with my sniffing you.”
Savich cupped her beloved face between his hands. She’d loosed her hair from the clips and now it was a wild nimbus around her head. He fingered a bright corkscrew curl, wrapped it around his finger. “I think the first time I saw you, I fell in love with your hair. The amazing color—it’s not red, more titian. I wanted to bury my face in all those curls.” That was only the beginning of what he’d wanted when he’d first laid eyes on her at Quantico more than six years before, but it was best to stop.
She took a step back from him, pressed her palms against her head. “I hate this. I try to act normal, like I’m here and tuned in to everything, only I’m not. You probably heard me tell Carl I know how to do things, like when I saw the piano at Eagle’s Nest, I knew I could play. I know who the president is, how to use my cell phone, my iPad. It’s people, Dillon, it’s people who are hidden away. How can I know things and yet not know people? Even you, the most important person in my life, and you’re a stranger to me.” She poked a finger against her chest. “All I know about who I am or what I am is what you tell me.” She began to cry, silently, tears running down her face. “I’ve lost you and me. I’ve lost what we are.”
He wanted to weep with her, but instead he drew her in. She didn’t resist. “It’s okay to cry, baby. I know everything’s hard. It’ll be okay, you’ll see.” Stupid, meaningless words. He felt her shaking with the force of her tears. He stroked his hands up and down her back. He said against her hair, his voice steady, “The truth is I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I do know that here”—he laid her hand against his heart—“you’ll remember. You’ll come back to you and to me. Carson said you’re intuitive and she’s right. I’ve seen you shine with it. But for now you’ll have to trust me to have your back. Can you do that? Can you trust me?”
She raised her face, tears still wet on her cheeks, swallowed. “I’ve watched how you act with other people, how you treat them. I’ve seen how kind you are. But I heard you tell Mrs. Bodine you’d kill her if she hurt me again, and she believed you and I believed you. You’re a warrior, Dillon, and you protected me. Do I trust you?”
Her palm was still against his chest and she felt the steady beat of his heart. “I’d be an idiot if I didn’t. So yes, I trust you.” She gave him a crooked grin. “I look at that bed and know it shouldn’t worry me. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help it.”
He kissed her hair, said against her ear, “We both have to be patient, Sherlock. And honest with each other. If there’s anything you want to say to me, please, always say it, okay? And don’t worry about the bed. I don’t want to be a stranger with benefits.”
She nodded against his neck. “Maybe what we need is a good knock-down, drag-out fight, yell at each other. The problem is, I can’t think what to yell at you about. Do we fight?”
“On occasion.”
She leaned back in his arms. “Do we fight about money? About sex? What?”
“Maybe because I’m the better cook? Well, at some things, like lasagna. You hate it when guests praise my lasagna and ignore your garlic toast and Caesar salad. Actually, it’s really quite funny. But then you bring out your apple pie and everyone drools and praises you to your eyebrows, and all’s right with the world again.” He kissed her forehead. “But seriously, we don’t fight about money or about sex.” He gave her a crooked grin. “We have enough of both. We’re very busy trying to raise our boy and do our jobs. When we have knock-down, drag-outs it’s usually about work. I’m your boss. I give you assignments you sometimes don’t agree with and you leap into the fray, no holds barred. You’re ferocious.”
