Authors: Radclyffe
She drove to a run-down bar on the fringe of the Tenderloin, an eight-block section of the city where the bars were open all night, solace was for sale on the streets and tendered in dark alleys, and nobody cared about your name. No one wanted to, and even if they did, the rule of the streets dictated that your identity and your particular brand of need would be forgotten in the morning. The bar was nearly deserted, as she expected it to be. No one who had anywhere to go, or anyone to go to, was still about. Like her, the few people at the bar, leaning protectively over their drinks while staring into the glass searching for answers, sought no company. She didn’t bother to check the shadowed corners for anyone who looked like trouble the way she normally would in a place like this. She didn’t care. In fact, a little trouble would be welcome. She’d have an excuse to strike out, to vent her rage, and release the terrible ache in her chest that had nowhere to go but inward.
The bartender looked up disinterestedly from the girlie magazine lying on the long counter in front of him. Nothing surprised him anymore, not even the appearance of a good-looking woman in a dive like this. Besides, this one didn’t look like she wanted anything but a drink, fast. “What’ll you have?”
“Scotch, double—straight up.”
He poured it neatly, slid it in front of her, and moved away.
Rebecca stared at the glass for a long moment, then reached for it with a steady hand.
*
Catherine woke instantly at the first buzz of the doorbell. Her ability to move from deep sleep to instant attentiveness was ingrained from years of medical training. She sat up, glancing at the digital clock beside her bed. It read 4:53 a.m. She reached for the robe that lay across the foot of the bed, swung her long legs to the floor, and pulled it on. She had been naked under the covers. Hastily, she tied the belt as she hurried through the living room, snapping on a table lamp in passing.
As she fumbled with the deadbolt on her front door, she asked, “Who is it?”
“Rebecca Frye.”
Catherine hesitated, surprised. She had assumed when Rebecca neither showed up for dinner nor phoned that she had been detained at work. At least that’s what she had hoped. There was always the chance, of course, that Rebecca had simply forgotten about their…date. Or she had changed her mind and wasn’t interested in pursuing anything personal between them after all. Whatever brought the detective to the door at this hour must be serious, and Catherine felt a quick surge of anxiety.
“Just a second.” She slid the chain off and hurriedly pulled the door open. Rebecca was slouched against the doorjamb. She looked terrible. She was in the same clothes that Catherine remembered her wearing at the hospital nearly eighteen hours before, and the previously impeccable charcoal linen suit was now grimy and wrinkled. That handsome face, starkly illuminated by the security light above the door, was white and drawn, and there was a frightening vacancy in her normally vibrant blue eyes. Her short, thick blond hair was disheveled, as if she had run her hands through it countless times.
Catherine grasped her arm and pulled her inside, closing the door soundly behind them. “What is it?” she asked, leading Rebecca to the sofa. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Rebecca answered hoarsely, sinking heavily into the plush cushions, her head dropping back wearily. She took a deep shuddering breath, turning her face slightly toward the woman who sat close beside her. “My partner, Jeff Cruz, was murdered tonight. Executed. Him and another cop,” she said flatly, her pain-filled eyes not registering the psychiatrist’s shock. She didn’t feel Catherine move closer, nor the protective arm she slipped around her shoulders.
“God, Rebecca! I’m so sorry.”
“He was twentynine years old. He’d only been married a year. He was a good cop.” She thought of the five years that she and Jeff had been partners. She saw him every day, spent more hours with him than any other human being; they talked about things they wouldn’t tell their wives or lovers; they shared horrors and faced dangers that no one else could understand. There was no way to describe the hole his loss left in her soul.
“He must have been very important to you,” Catherine said gently, her hand resting softly on Rebecca’s rigid back.
Tell me.
Rebecca shrugged, staring at the floor, her face wooden with exhaustion. “We’re cops. He looked after my skin, and I looked after his.” Her voice broke on the next words. “Until today.”
So much pain.
Catherine remained still, resisting the urge to gather Rebecca in her arms and comfort her. That’s what she wanted to do, had an almost overwhelming
need
to do. But that was not what Rebecca needed. Not yet.
Talk to me; let me listen.
“Tell me about him?” For a long moment, she thought Rebecca would withdraw. Holding her breath, she waited.
Finally, haltingly, Rebecca began to speak. She spoke softly, as if she were talking to herself.
“I wasn’t hot to have a rookie partner at first, especially a young hotshot like him. I figured he’d be too cocky to train and too arrogant to admit he had anything to learn. I was wrong. He wanted to be a good detective, and he’d listen to whoever could teach him something. He listened to me. He came along fast. In just a few months, we were really a team.”
“Were you friends, too?” Catherine asked quietly.
Keep talking. Let me do this for you.
Rebecca clasped her hands between her knees, stared at them, thinking about friendship. Friendship between cops was a funny thing. It was something mostly unspoken, but it was the one thing you really needed—someone to count on.
“He took a chance for me a few years ago. My life was a mess.
I
was a mess. My lover had left me. She said I was never there for her. And that even when I
was
around, it wasn’t enough. She was tired of being a cop’s wife; she needed more.” Rebecca laughed bitterly. “She was right, though. I wasn’t taking very good care of her. After Jill left, I drifted in and out of affairs; none of them worked out. I was drinking. Pretty soon, I was drinking during the day—on duty—and Jeff knew it. I was a hazard—to him, to myself, to everyone.”
She stopped then and looked at Catherine, expecting to find rejection or disgust. That was certainly the way she felt about herself. Instead she found kind acceptance in Catherine’s eyes and the soft smile that welcomed her each time they met.
“What happened?” Catherine prompted softly.
“He came to me one night after a shift. He said he knew that I was drinking on the job, that he didn’t want to turn me in, but that he couldn’t afford to have a lush for a partner. I was pissed. I told him to turn me in if that’s what he wanted. I didn’t care anymore.”
Rebecca laughed softly at the memory. “Jeff is a bit shorter than me, and slim for a guy. But he grabbed me by the lapels and slammed me into the wall. His face was in my face, and he was yelling. He said, ‘Listen, you stupid fuckup. You’re my partner, and I
care
. So your old lady ditched you. Big deal! You think that hasn’t happened to a hundred other cops? You think you’re special ’cause you’re a dyke? Well, you’re not. You’re just a cop, just like the rest of us. So you either get it together fast, or I’m through with you.’ He shook me around a little. He was pretty hot. I just stared at him. He’d never let on before that he knew about Jill and me. I was trying to think of something to say when he stomped away.”
Catherine smiled with tender sadness at the image, thinking what a good man Jeff Cruz must have been. Then she realized Rebecca was shaking, her face a study in loss.
This must be killing her.
She pressed a little closer, her arm tightening around Rebecca’s waist. “What did you do?”
“I drove to an AA meeting that night. That was four years ago. We never talked about it again.”
“He trusted you, Rebecca. And you didn’t let him down.” She felt some of the tension in Rebecca’s tight muscles dissipate, but she knew the pain remained. “Where have you been all night?”
“After I told Jeff’s wife about…about him, I went to a bar.”
“Did you drink?” Catherine asked evenly.
Rebecca laughed harshly. “I sat there with it in my hand for a long time.”
“What stopped you?”
Rebecca met Catherine’s gaze, her defenses shattered by the memories she hadn’t wanted to relive. “I thought about you. I don’t know why…I…I just thought…if I told…if I came…Ah, Jesus, I don’t know why I came. I’m sorry…I…”
Catherine stroked Rebecca’s cheek lightly with her fingertips, pushing the hair back from her forehead. She hadn’t meant to touch her, but listening to her, watching her struggle not to give in to her agony, was breaking her heart. Rebecca wasn’t her patient, and she wasn’t a psychiatrist at the moment. She was a woman wanting desperately to comfort the woman she cared for. She leaned slowly forward, whispering, “You were right to come. I’m so glad you did.”
At the touch of Catherine’s hand on her face, the fiber of Rebecca’s resistance snapped like a straw in the wind. The unconditional tenderness pierced her armor like the pain could not, eclipsing her consciousness until there was no reality except the hazy green of Catherine’s eyes, the heady aroma of her scent. She needed the respite of this woman’s embrace more than she needed air to breathe.
“Catherine,” she gasped and found Catherine’s lips, bruising them unintentionally with the force of her kiss. She devoured Catherine’s mouth, sucking her, drinking her in—desperate for her. Already past thought, she pushed her back against the couch, fumbling with the tie of her robe, wanting to feel her skin. She groaned in surprise when Catherine yanked her shirt from her trousers and slid her hands up her back, the sensation of warm hands on her skin making her impossibly aroused.
Her blood was molten, searing her veins—everything moving so fast—all so good, too good to stop. Moaning, drowning in the feel of Catherine’s tongue thrusting insistently against hers, she struggled to contain her need. But it was far too late—once unleashed, she could not call it back. Desperately, she pulled away from the kiss and lowered her mouth to Catherine’s breast, catching the nipple between her lips.
“Oh, God,” Catherine cried, holding Rebecca’s face to her, forcing her nipple harder into Rebecca’s seeking mouth. She closed her eyes, arched her back with the sharp pleasure of it. “Rebecca…”
Rebecca couldn’t hear the plea. She was burning, the very breath in her lungs evaporating from the heat. When she felt Catherine’s arms tighten around her, pulling her close, she lost it. Flinging one thigh over Catherine’s, she pressed her down on the sofa and slid on top of her. “I can’t…I can’t…I’m sorry,” Rebecca choked brokenly, aching with the fierce rush of blood through her pelvis, consumed by the agonizing pressure of Catherine’s leg between hers, her clitoris ready to burst. Eyes closed, she thrust frantically, unconsciously, driven by instinct and need.
“Yes…yes,” Catherine urged, driving her hips upward, forcing Rebecca to the edge.
“Ooh…,” Rebecca moaned, hips pumping erratically in a frenzy of release. Head flung back, arms rigid, she cried out with each wrenching spasm. Finally she collapsed, shaking, into Catherine’s arms, groaning faintly with the lingering pulsations, gasping for breath.
“Rebecca, Rebecca,” Catherine murmured, gently running her fingers through the damp blond hair as she cradled Rebecca’s cheek to her breast.
Rebecca closed her eyes and let herself drift in the solace of Catherine’s body. Surrendering to the salvation of that strong, sure embrace, she savored a peace she had long forgotten.
Rebecca sat up with a jolt. The sun streaming through the bay windows into her eyes had awakened her. As consciousness returned, memory did also, and pain rode the coattails of remembrance. The finality of Jeff’s death twisted through her, an unrelenting ache she would carry with her for a long time. She drew a shaky breath, trying to ease the fist of agony in her chest and looked around the room.
Jesus, God…Catherine’s living room.
The sight of her jacket neatly folded over the arm of a nearby easy chair brought back vivid images of the night before—Catherine listening to her; Catherine consoling her; Catherine comforting her.
And then you just about jumped on her.
Y
ou must have been out of your mind, Frye! God, what must she think? Of course, you didn’t give her much choice, after all.
Christ, you came all over her like a kid on his first date. And she probably just felt sorry for you.
Her face burned with a conflicting mixture of dismay and renewed desire. She remembered her loss of control with embarrassment, uncertain whether she had the courage to face this compassionate woman after what had happened. Even as she struggled with the thought, she yearned to touch her again. The
want
was so powerful it left her shaking.
I need to get out of here. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.
She pushed herself reluctantly to a standing position and started to straighten her disheveled clothing. As she tucked her shirttail into her trousers, she discovered her shoes and belt beside the sofa.
God, where is my gun?
She looked about frantically, relaxing slightly when she saw the shoulder holster hanging on the knob of the closet door. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed Catherine removing that. It was part of her.
“Everything all right?” a soft voice inquired.
Rebecca turned around to find Catherine in the kitchen doorway, watching her, a faint smile on her lips. She looked more beautiful than Rebecca remembered. Her wavy hair, highlighted in bright sunlight, shone with rich reddish tones streaked throughout the darker auburn. Here and there a faint silvering of early gray only served to accentuate the elegant planes of her face. She wore a pale green silk dressing gown, and the look of desire in her deeper green eyes sent a bolt of arousal directly between Rebecca’s legs. Her head began buzzing, and she was instantly wet.