“H-hurt?”
he
demanded, shifting a little
and biting back a groan as friction sent a
shiver through him. Sara began to clamber up, taking her time in
sliding one
long leg down the side of his. Grissom got a lovely view of her thighs
again
before she smoothed her skirt down and accepted helping hands to pull
her to
her feet. Simon brushed her arms and shoulders, making little concerned
noises.
“I’m
fine, I’m fine, really, just a little sore,” she
murmured with an
embarrassed smile. Grissom got up, dusting himself, trying desperately to
keep turned away from Sara and Simon. He
concentrated on nullifying
thoughts:
dead kittens, vomit, Ecklie naked--yes, that did it. No
problem
now. Grissom looked up to see Simon
studying him with a bemused
expression.
“Much
swelling there?” came his whispered, direct jibe. Grissom
blushed and
chose to ignore it. He waved away help and apologies from the woman
whose shoe
had caused the pileup, turning his attention to Sara. She
didn’t
meet his eyes, and stood wobbling a
little.
“Ankle,”
she muttered, looking down to where a torn spot on her stocking showed
a reddish lump rising just above the anklebone.
Immediately Simon dropped to
one knee and examined it, gently touching the
injury.
“Looks
as if you bumped it on the floor my dear. A little ice should help. Can
you walk?”
She
could, with a hand on Grissom’s shoulder, and together he and
Simon helped
her to the bench. He carefully placed Sara’s foot in
Grissom’s lap and added,
“Let
me find some ice--keep that elevated, won’t you
Gil?”
Gritting
his teeth and shooting Simon a hard gaze, Grissom nodded. The last
thing he needed at the moment was
another clear shot up Sara’s skirt, and her seductively prim
shoe in his lap,
but he couldn’t say no, not after the fact. So sitting very
still, Grissom
looked up and
across the fair grounds,
thinking once again of Ecklie, but in a
European Speedo this time.
“Grissom?
Um, if you’re going to throw up, please don’t do it
on my leg--”Sara
murmured in a worried voice. He shook himself out of his
thoughts
and glanced over at her, undoing all
his good work of a moment
ago as he
looked in Sara’s warm eyes. Her heel pressed against
his--well,
his lap, and he shifted a little,
trying for a smile.
“I’m
not good at socializing, Sara. Whatever it is that you and Simon do, I
can’t. It just doesn’t happen for me.”
Sara
looked at him, and she cleared her throat a little, tipping her head
shyly
in a way that made her hair fall in front of her face.
“Me
either. Simon’s the one who can do it. I’m not much
of go outer, but around
him, it’s easy. When we go places, I’m not worrying
about
talking too much or making an
impression or
anything.”
“Oh.”
Grissom responded softly, nodding his head. It made sense.
Simon’s
whole personality hinged on making
other people comfortable, usually in very uncomfortable situations, and
clearly
even Sara felt
the glamour. He looked
down at her foot, realizing he’d been stroking
her shoe. Sara chuckled.
“My
spinster shoes. When I wear them I feel like I should have my hair in a
bun
and carry a cat around. Creepy old Miz Sidle, you know?”
“Never
creepy, and certainly not old--”Grissom told her firmly,
feeling
a smile cross his face. She
said nothing, and
flexed her foot. “And you’re not a spinster
yet.”
“So
YOU say. I am over thirty and unmarried, which is the definition of a
spinster. That always sounds so pathetic. Bachelor doesn’t. A
man can
be a bachelor all his life
and it doesn’t
have the stigma that spinster does.”
Grissom
shook his head. “Maybe not, but it’s lonely just
the same. I think
that’s part of the reason I came with you and Simon
tonight.”
“What’s
the other part?” Sara wanted to know. Grissom shook his head,
not ready
to divulge that one. Simon came back with the ice, wrapped in a
napkin and held it out to Sara.
“For
your damaged gam, my dear, courtesy of the lemonade vendor, who sent
this
as well--” he handed her a large plastic cup and Sara sipped
it thirstily.
Simon looked down at Grissom’s first aid and nodded a little.
“Not
a bad bump, really, although her polka dancing is probably over for the
night. Sara, are you going to be able to walk, or shall we call it
an evening?”
She
finished her mouthful of lemonade and flexed her foot a little, her
expression lost in thought.
“I’m
good as long as I can hang on to the two of you I think. I really wanted
to get in ONE chicken dance if I
could--” she added, shooting Grissom a daring expression. He
flinched a little.
As he slid her foot
from his lap and
helped her stand, Grissom whispered, desperately,
“Look,
couldn’t we just pass on it and I’ll slip you a
hundred dollars tomorrow
instead?”
“That’s
bribery.”
“My
dignity is worth it--”he argued, letting Sara loop her arm
through his; she
shook her head.
“No
deal. I’m dead set on seeing you flap your arms and waggle
your behind,
Grissom.”
He said
nothing, but his aggrieved expression made her giggle as she slipped an
arm through Simon’s. He set a slow pace and the three of them
made it down the cement walkway back
towards the main hall. They
didn’t speak
much, savoring a companionable silence as the sound of the brass band
before
them grew louder. Simon found them a seat at one of
the
benches and guided Sara to it just as a
familiar bar of music rang
out. She
burst into a grin. Simon rolled his eyes skyward and Grissom cringed,
visibly.
People
scurried to the dance floor, quickly forming a ring, laughing and
chattering Simon shot a dire look at
Grissom, unflinching and direct. Wilting slightly, Grissom followed his
mentor
up to the dance
floor as Sara watched
the pair of them settle themselves with a chubby little girl between
them. The
bandleader called out places and the
musicians swung into the
chicken dance with merry enthusiasm, the tune rollicking
out as the people on the floor began to move.
Sara
couldn’t breathe. She laughed and laughed, clutching her
stomach, and
snorting helplessly at the sight of Gil Grissom, renowned entomologist
and
night shift supervisor half-heartedly going through
the
motions of flapping his elbows and
shaking his rear end in time
with the
music. The child next to him gave him a stare and shook her head, then
turned
to loop arms with Simon for the chorus. Sara gripped her bench, feeling
her
face grow redder and redder as the dance went on.
When the
last strains died away, Simon and Grissom came back to the bench to
collect her. Sara had her face hidden in a napkin promoting St. Pauli
Girl beer,
and her shoulders were still shaking.
“You
win, Sara my love, you most definitely win,” Simon hooted,
dropping onto
the bench on one side of her. “Oh what I wouldn’t
have given for a video
camera.”
“No!”
Alarmed, Grissom looked around, trying desperately to wipe his damp
temples and regain what shreds of dignity he could. As he sat down on
the other side of her, he leaned closer
and muttered into her ear.
“I’ll
have you know that I wouldn’t have done that for my own
MOTHER, Sara Sidle,
so any mention of this incident in the lab will mean that
your
next evaluation will be less than
objective.”
“Oh
I can be discreet . . . Herr Grissom,” she chortled, looking
up at him
through bright eyes, her cheeks still pink.
Simon
made a great show of fishing out his wallet and carefully pulling out
five twenty dollar bills, laying them on Sara’s palm with
grand
ceremony. Grissom gave a
pained sigh and made
a production out of
checking his watch.
Simon smiled.
“Oh
I agree, time to head home. The spirit is always willing but in the
seventh
decade the flesh is catching up. Home, Gil, and don’t spare
the horsepower--”
They
made it back to the
It had
been a good evening, a surprisingly good one, and Grissom
wasn’t sure if
it was the company or the change of pace that made it so.
Probably
both, he mused. They drove back, the
conversation bouncing
around from Kafka
to the Civil War to skin diving, all in a happy flow
of
words.
“Ah
the coast of
“Sorry,
Simon, but I don’t own a bikini. Beaches in
“That’s
why you need time in warmer water, Sara. Hot water, to be
exact.” A
hint of something in his voice made Grissom glance up into the rear
view mirror
to glare briefly at Simon, who shot back a sunny smile,
completely uncowed.
“Don’t
you agree with me Gil?”
“About
what?” he asked suspiciously, sensing a trap. Simon rolled
his eyes.
“About
Sara, of course. She needs time in warm water.”
“She’s
not a teabag, Simon.” They pulled into the parking lot of the
Sirocco
and up to the main doors. Sara climbed out along with Simon, much to
Grissom’s
alarm, but it was merely to hug him and hand off one of the cuckoo
clocks.
“Ah!
One last thing--”Simon muttered. He shifted around to the
driver’s side
and tapped on the window; Grissom rolled it down. “Do you
have a
coin, Gil?”
Obligingly
Grissom fished in a pocket. Sara came around to watch, her curiosity
up. Simon took the quarter and flipped it, spinning it up
into
a silver ball up in the air.
“Call
it, Gil--”
“Tails,”
came the automatic response. Simon deftly snatched the coin out
of the air and slapped it onto the back
of his hand, staring down
at it. His
shoulders sagged in obvious defeat and he shot a sideways
glare
at Grissom, who flinched a little at
the iciness of it.
“What?”
Ignoring
him, Simon looked at Sara, drawing himself up manfully and taking her
hand.
“I
have lost to Gil, my dear, drat the luck. It appalls me to admit
defeat.”
“Defeat
in what way?” Sara asked with a sudden sense of wariness.
Simon sighed
heavily, patting her hand between his two.
“I
have lost the pleasurable privilege of kissing you goodnight, of
course.
Talk about ill fortune and missed opportunity! Instead, my rightful
indulgence
rests on the lips of Grissom here. What an utterly annoying
development.”
“Wait
a minute!”
Simon
held up a hand, nodding at her in apparent commiseration. In a stage
whisper he added, “Just close your eyes and think of the lab,
then let me know
if he does all right when I see you on Monday then--”
He
turned away, then turned back and pointed one knobby finger at Grissom.
“Of
course you could always forfeit--”
“No.”
It came out before Grissom even thought about it consciously; Simon
nodded slowly, his glare still evident.
“Very
well then,” he sighed, and turned once again to stride
towards the
Sirocco. Sara watched him go, her cheeks hot. Numbly she walked around
the
The
vehicle pulled out again into traffic and embarrassed silence. It
stretched
on and on, and finally in desperation, Sara held up the clock.
“I
think it needs a battery.”
“What
size?” came Grissom’s quick query. She looked at
the bottom, prying open
the tiny compartment there, checking the layout.
“A
pair of double As. I’m pretty sure I have some back at my
place.
I’ll dig them out
of my old Walkman and it
should run. The clock that is, not the Walkman.” Sara clamped
her jaws shut to
stop her babbling,
risking a tiny
sideways peek at Grissom. He was focused on the road, but she noted
that his
hands were locked on the steering wheel tightly enough to make his
knuckles
white.
They
pulled into the parking lot of her apartment complex, and Grissom felt
the hot coil of tension in his stomach
tighten yet another turn.
Simon’s words
echoed in his head, and along with the shiver of excitement
they created came the nagging
gleam of annoyance. Grissom
prided
himself on acuity, and in this moment he knew he’d been set
up.
Why? He wasn’t
sure, but it didn’t pay to ask
too closely when he had a chance to kiss Sara, however chastely.
Grissom
climbed out. Sara watched him, her eyes big and liquid as he walked
over to her.
“The
clock.”
“The
clock?”
“I’d
like to see it chime.”
“Oh.
Sure.”
Leading
the way, Sara pulled open the lobby doors and began the climb up the
stairs, acutely aware of the heavy tread just behind her. She felt both
annoyed
and exasperated with Simon, but breathless just the same. His gauntlet
had been
masterfully thrown; Grissom had responded, sort of, and heaven knew
what the
next few minutes would bring.
Carefully
she fished in her purse for her keys, and congratulated herself
mentally for
getting them into the lock without shaking too
much.
“Come
on in--”Sara muttered, pushing the door open.
The
apartment was moderately sized, Grissom judged, but beautifully
organized
and a clear reflection of many facets of Sara. A handmade earthenware
pottery
vase full of dried sunflowers graced her kitchen counter. Two
overstuffed sofas
formed a cozy corner in the living room, both of them in neutral colors
but
loaded with pillows of deep red and
gray.
Grissom
glanced around, trying to hide his delight at seeing so much texture
and color and personality everywhere: the intricate wooden beaded
curtain
hiding the hallway to the other rooms; the Art Nouveau champagne
posters on the walls; a full-scale
articulated skeleton on the corner wearing a green felt fez with tissue
paper
flowers stuck in
the ribs; a bamboo
parrot cage hanging overhead with a live Boston fern sprouting through
the
bars.
“This
is . . . you,” he nodded, satisfied and intrigued. Sara
looked up from a
drawer in her kitchen, startled.
“Huh?”
She used a fork to pry at the batteries in the Walkman in her hand.
“Your
apartment’s got . . . character.”
“It’s
got clutter that I keep fighting, tooth and nail, but I’ve
figured out
that memories are sometimes more important than
organization. Ah!”
At that
last, one of the double A batteries flew up and across the breakfast
bar; Grissom caught it neatly with one hand, snagging it with the
reflexes of an outfielder. Sara grinned
broadly when he held it up.
“Pop
fly, no score--” he replied, tossing it back to her. She
nodded and carefully
placed it into the clock bottom. Intrigued, Grissom came closer as she
fitted
the panel back on and snapped it in place.
“So?”
“So
we have to move the hands to the hour to make it chime--” she retorted,
carefully using one elegant index
finger to spin the minute hand up to the twelve. Since the hour hand
was on the
five, the tiny cuckoo popped through the little trap door above the
clock face
and
chirped sweetly.
“Cu-ckoo,
cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo, cu-ckoo.”
With a
click the bird retreated once more and the door snapped shut. The
clock ticked and Sara set it to the
correct time. Grissom looked at
it,
definitely amused.
“It’s
got--charm, I suppose.”
“It’s
kitsch and very German and I’m going to put it over my sink here,”
Sara decided with a grin. Grissom
nodded, watching as she held it up and tried to center it between two
mounted
plates already on the wall. One was of the
“Need
help?” he asked, but she shook her head.
“Nope,”
she muttered, adding, “Thank you though.” Stepping
back to the sink,
Sara pushed the pin, but it refused to sink into the drywall. Grissom
hid his grin and walked over,
reaching to her hand. She tried
pushing
again, but failed. He took it from her.
“You’ve
got a stud here.”
“Excuse
me?” Sara flushed, looking up at Grissom. He gestured to the
wall with
a tip of his head.
“A
support beam, a stud. You’ll need a hammer or something heavy
to drive this
in if this is where you’re going to hang the
clock.” Came
his calm voice. Sara nodded
over-vigorously,
clearing her throat a little.
“Oh,
yes, right. Let me grab my bowling ball.”
Grissom
watched her head off, not sure he’d heard her correctly.
“Your bowling
ball, Sara?”
“Well
you said we need something heavy, and I don’t have a hammer.
Hang on,
it’s under the bed--”
He
couldn’t help thinking of it. A bowling ball under her bed.
Why? Was she
planning on rolling it at burglars? Lost in the strange image of Sara
striking out masked bandits, Grissom
turned to see her carrying a bright pink and white marbled bowling ball
towards
him.
“That’s
. . . yours?” he asked. She nodded, handing it to him. Not
light.
Carefully Sara pulled the plates down and set them on the
counter.
“Yep.
Three years in a league in
Motioning
to him, she held the pushpin, and Grissom lifted the ball. It made a
hard thunk against the pin, sinking it in a few centimeters, and Sara
nodded,
so he did it again. After two good hits the pin was in to the hilt, and
Sara
sighed happily. She rehung the plates and was about to put the clock up
when
her cell phone rang.
“Sidle.
Oh. Um, no. No. That’s right,” She murmured into
the receiver.
Grissom suddenly knew who was
on the phone.
He took it from her
fingers, trading the
bowling ball for it, and snapped,
“Simon,
no I have not kissed her yet and we’ll see you in the lab on
Monday.
Goodnight.” He clicked the phone off, looking up at Sara, who
was staring at
him with big eyes.
“Um
. . . actually, that was Bonnie Rodriguez about my deposition next
week--”she
murmured gently. Grissom froze. His face felt like a
campfire,
the heat flaring over it in a wave
as he stared at her. Sara picked up the cuckoo clock and turned,
hanging it
neatly on the
pushpin, then turned back
to him. Grissom hadn’t moved.
“Grissom?”
she asked, a little worried. He gave a shake of his head, like a dog
troubled by a flea and managed a sickly smile at her.
“I’ll
call her back and apologize tomorrow . . .” he faintly
murmured.
Sara reached over and patted
his arm, feeling
a great surge of simple adoration for him.
“She’s
a DA, she’s used to abrasiveness. Did you want something to
drink?
Coffee, hot chocolate, beer?”
“Ah,
no, no thanks. I really should get going,” Grissom replied,
suddenly
caught up in the image of Sara sipping hot chocolate, and
having
a little fringe of cream on her upper
lip. She gave a shrug and nodded, steering him to the door, then very
carefully
turned her face, offering him her right cheek. Puzzled, he stared at
her.
“For
the kiss,” she quavered, not looking at him, “So
you can live up to the
letter of the bet if not the spirit, you know?”
Grissom
looked at that velvety fine-boned profile and a quiver fluttered
through his belly. A thousand urges flooded through him, ranging from
Boy Scout
to barbarian, and in the end he gave in to their insistent arguments,
knowing
it was perhaps his one opportunity,
possibly his only one--
He slid
his hands along the underside of her jaw line, turning her startled
face towards him, savoring the softness of Sara’s skin as he
pulled her closer.
“This
is Vegas, and winners here take all--” he breathed, and
before he could
talk himself out of it, Grissom kissed her.
Sara’s
mouth was sweet, her surprise making her lips part slightly under his
and Grissom could no more resist the impulsive desire to slip into that
mouth
than he could to breathe. Their tongues slid together, rasping in a
heady rush
of pleasure. They molded to each other easily, naturally. Deeper,
wetter, the
kiss went on as Sara’s arms wound around his shoulders, and
Grissom’s muffled
groan blended with hers. When he finally pulled back, needing to
breathe and
resenting it, Sara looked up at him, tousled and sweet, utterly,
completely
kissed. Then she licked her lips and Grissom groaned again at the sight
of
that.
“That
was . . . “ he trailed off, not having the vocabulary to
describe the
sweet maelstrom surging through his entire body now. No tingles, no
pangs, just
hard, urgent desire manifesting itself in ways Sara wasn’t
going to miss if she
kept pressing up against him like that.
And she
didn’t judging from the little pleased sigh that escaped her. Grissom
leaned back against the door, needing
the support it gave as he closed his eyes. Sara leaned against him, and
her
arms began to loosen a bit.
“Man
I am SO glad you won the coin toss,” she murmured in a husky
voice that
sent shivers down his spine even as he smiled.
“That
makes two of us,” Grissom replied, looking into her dark chocolate
eyes. Sara smothered a little
laugh, tilting her head and
giving him a
soft, inviting look. He bent forward and kissed her again, wanting to
keep it
soft and gentle, but the moment their lips touched the heat flared
again; Sara
surged against him with a little whimper.
It was
delicious and tender, a kiss of intimate promise fueled by dual desire
and restrained by time. Sara pulled away first, sighing with a great
shudder,
then reached for the doorknob just next to Grissom’s
left
hip, turning it.
“Very
nice. So, thanks for a lovely night, and the clock and, uh,
I’ll see you
at the lab on Monday, okay?”
Startled,
Grissom found himself herded out into the hallway as Sara gently
waved her fingers at him and closed the door again between them. He
stood stupidly there for a moment; his
body still tense and hungry, his brain at a loss to figure out what had
just
happened. Woman here, woman tasty, woman . . . gone.
The urge to pound on the door flared, but guiltily, Grissom glanced up
and down
the hall, aware of the lateness of the hour. He ran a hand along the
back of
his neck, and slowly began to turn for the stairs, slightly dazed and
very,
very confused.
On the
other side of the door, Sara held her breath even as her body yearned
to
yank the portal open again fling herself at Grissom.
I-Chihuahua!
Who knew the man could KISS like
that? She dizzily chided herself. With reluctance, she flipped the
locks and
turned from the
door, wondering if
she’d
done the right thing.
“Cu-ckoo!”
the clocked chimed the half-hour, and Sara wholeheartedly agreed.
“Ah,
just in time!” came Simon’s cheerful voice on
Monday
morning. Sara
looked into the Trace Lab
to see him with an apron on over his clothes and his sleeves rolled up.
He was
rolling long ropes of clay, laying them
out in rows on the counter while in front of him on a stand stood one
of the
Bone Yard skulls. Sara hung her jacket on a chair and came
over,
watching him roll another rope of the
flesh-colored clay out.
“Reconstruction,
cool.”
“I
hope to have a good likeness done and then perhaps show it around both
locally and at the border patrol offices. Young Nick has traced the
cloth on
the bean sack to a specific pattern run from last year, so we do have a
time
frame for at least one of the killings. The last report we have on the
acid
scarring on the bones confirms that the bodies were submerged for
substantial
periods of time before
inhumation.”
“Nasty.
How long would it take for a body to lose its biodegradable
essence?”
she asked, donning a lab coat and helping him to roll the clay. She was
grateful for the professional talk since she wasn’t quite up
to discussing
Grissom’s kisses, or the conflicted Sunday she’d
spent
trying not to think about
them. Simon paused
to think a moment.
“A
few weeks, but much of it depends on the concentration of the acid. So
far the exact percentage has eluded young
Sanders, but from what Captain Brass has told me, they’re
searching all the
known
manufacturers and storage
facilities at the moment.”
“Ah.”
They
worked quietly for a while, and Sara found herself relaxing a little,
grateful not to be facing an inquisition. She helped Simon mount the
depth
plugs on the skull, and watched as he carefully began
to
apply the sealant to it.
“How
is your clock?” came his soft question. Sara shot him a look,
but Simon’s
attention was on the skull.
“Fine.
Once I got some batteries into it that is. Why? Doesn’t yours
work?”
“Oh
yes, mine works just fine. I’ve a good mind to pack it up and
send it to my
daughter in
“I
don’t see why--you’re good at this. Why give up
what you love to do?”
Simon
nodded, running his fingers along the skull’s maxilla in an absentminded
caress. “And yet I love my home
and family too. Isn’t it odd
that some
people feel you cannot have both?”
Sara
shifted her gaze from the skull to Simon, and saw in his face a gentle
understanding.
She blinked for a moment, and he gave a soft chuckle, reaching to clap
a bony
hand on her shoulder.
“No second thoughts, Sara my dear. My philosophy on most
things is not
either/or, but both.”
“So does this mean I can have you AND Grissom?” she
murmured under her breath.
Simon shot her a sideways look, snorting a little as he picked up
the first coil of clay, hefting it in his
hands.
“Oh hardly, Miss Ménage a trois--Gil and I are too
much alike to ever share
someone as delectable as you. No, in our case, this is one of those
rare
concessions I’ll make. Grissom OR myself, and trust me,
I’m
not a gracious loser. How was
he?”
“Good. MORE than good. I’m in a lot of trouble
here.”
“Hmmm. Not necessarily. How long did he stay?”
“I shoved him out the door after the second kiss.”
“Good girl. Hand me another coil there, will you?”
Simon murmured as he
finished off
the first one in a slow wrap
along the skull’s base. Sara handed him a few more ropes of
clay and just when
they reached the chin, Grissom appeared in the doorway. He glanced at
the skull
for a
moment, which was easier than
looking at either one of them.
“Greg locked in the concentration, and we may have a possible
site for the acid
immersion,” he spoke softly. “Brass is getting the
warrant now.”
“Good.” Simon nodded, not looking up from his work.
Grissom continued.
“Since you’ve been working on this exclusively,
we’re leaving in a few minutes.
I want you with me, Sara.”
After he’d left, Simon glanced over at her and nodded.
“I bet he does.”
“I have to go--any advice?” Sara pleaded, peeling
off her lab coat. Simon
shrugged.
“Be polite, be professional--and stay quiet. Let HIM spend
some time trying to
find the right words.”
“Thanks--” Sara sighed.
