Cock and Bull
Late afternoon, an hour before sunset forty miles north of
the main drag. The ranch was quiet, except for the peripheral sounds associated with
every crime scene: Policemen on walkie-talkies, muted conversations, the occasional crackle of a radio. Added over this one hung
the soft buzz of flies.
Many flies.
“Whoah. This looks—messy,” Catherine
Willows observed with a wince. Warrick Brown nodded, but his attention had
wandered back, briefly, to the silent observer standing just behind them. He
shifted, peeking over his shoulder at her; she looked up at him dispassionately
then back to the crime scene.
“Okay,
Goldilocks is still with us—“ he sighed, “What have we
got?”
The
unfamiliar detective who’d met them at the barn door gave a shrug, clearly out
of his league on a farm instead of a busy street.
“Got a
call when the owner was overdue for a lunch date--Violent domestic dispute, two
bodies—“
“—Three
if you count HIM,” Warrick pointed with his chin at the enormous mountain of
decaying Angus bull that lay in a fly-infested mound in the cattle chute.
Wincing, Catherine nodded, but a dry voice piped up from behind them.
“Four—there’s
a body UNDER it too—“
Startled,
both Warrick and Catherine glanced down to see fingers, slightly grey, mutely
reaching out from under the huge animal carcass. They all stared for a long
moment.
“Looks
like SOME one got Ferdinanded,” Warrick sighed.
*** ***
***
THREE
WEEKS EARLIER
Gil
Grissom looked up from the file before him to the woman, frowning slightly. Out
of all the duties of his job as supervisor to the night shift of the
Criminology Lab, personnel matters were the ones he like the least,
and those dealing with the added burden of disciplinary action annoyed him
intensely.
“Ecklie
wants you on my shift—why?”
The
woman didn’t twitch, but her mouth moved with a faint sense of irritation
before she spoke.
“Well
sir, it’s supposed to be a reprimand for my unprofessional behavior, but I
suspect it’s also a convenient way for Ecklie to antagonize you. It’s pretty
evident there’s no love lost between the two of you.”
“So
without benefit of ANY sort of consultation, he feels he has the right to dump
you onto my shift for the next few months?” Irritated, Gil rubbed his forehead.
The woman drew up her shoulders and looked at him steadily.
“I’ll
do my share, Doctor Grissom, and you won’t get any trouble from me, but if you
don’t accept my temporary transfer, I’ll be farmed out to
Gil’s
mouth twitched as he considered what the woman’s body language was telling him.
Lydia Petrowski was a petite blonde of strong Polish stock, with
a lushness of curves not often seen in Las Vegas, where the air tended to favor
lean women. Her honey blonde hair hung nearly to her waist in two heavy
gleaming braids, making him see her briefly as a Viking maiden, especially when
paired with her big blue eyes. The stubborn set of her mouth spoke of a
determined nature though, and the file in front of him confirmed that. Conrad Ecklie’s terse documentation cited instance after instance
of minor infractions to standard CSI procedures. Most of them were annotated
with petty commentary, but Gil noted that both her evaluations were high and
solve rate were better than good.
He
sighed.
“What
seems to be the main issue of contention? Off the record, Ms. Petrowski, but if you’re going to be on our shift I’d like
to know.”
“I wish
I could tell you, sir, but it’s not something tangible. Dr. Ecklie and I don’t
see eye to eye on a number of issues—“ She paused and
rushed on, “--including the definition of personal space.”
Gil
kept his expression passive, but inwardly nodded; it fit what he knew of the
man.
“I
appreciate your candor and discretion, Ms Petrowski.
Report in tonight and we’ll put you through your paces then.”
“No
“Nah,
we’ll save you the commute. And besides, we’re a little short-handed at the
moment.”
Which
was true—Nick was still on medical leave and would be for another six weeks, so
the transfer seemed serendipitous at the very least, he mused.
Warrick
strode around the corner of the communal locker room,
and the tune he was whistling died on his lips as he caught sight of a
waterfall of lush blonde hair being slowly brushed in neat methodical strokes.
Mesmerized by the sight, he simply stared.
“Twenty
four, twenty five—“ came the low voice of the woman
with her back to him. Two little hands slid over her shoulders, gathering the
hair and deftly parting it; Warrick was aware of a hard throbbing against the
inside of his fly and damned little else beyond that beautiful cascade of honey
gold hair. The woman turned, catching sight of him for the first time; her gaze
went up and up, finally reaching his face.
“Ohhhh. You’re Brown.”
At this
point Warrick would have cheerfully admitted to being damn near any color of
the rainbow, but he blinked instead and nodded.
“Categorically as well as personally, yeah.”
The
woman blushed then, a slow rise of pink through her pale complexion, and
Warrick smiled seeing it. It was rare enough to actually get the better of
anyone on the nightshift, wit-wise, but adding a pretty woman into the exchange
made it all the sweeter. He held out a hand and she shook it, her touch cool
and strong even though her fingers were small.
“Warrick
Brown.”
“Lydia Petrowski, transfer from the dayshift. I’ve seen your
reports come through the labs,” she confessed, her hands flying to braid one
side of her hair as she spoke. Amused, Warrick watched her deft, graceful
movements and nodded.
“Gris
said you’d be joining us for a while—how did you piss off Ecklie?”
“Some days just by breathing. Look, I’d prefer not to talk about
him if we can help it, all right?”
“Fine by me—lots of better topics out there. Gil’s passing out assignments
pretty quick, so we need to hustle if we want something decent—“
And so
it had begun. Lydia stayed quiet and unassuming through her introductions to
Sara and Catherine, making it clear she knew her place in the pecking order.
Gil assigned her to Sara the first few nights, tagging along to do the scutwork of evidence collection, at which she quietly
excelled.
Most of
the cases of the next few weeks were cut and dry: a few hit and runs, a dead
wino in a culvert off the strip, two burglaries. Warrick found himself watching
Lydia, finding her concentration both amusing and slightly erotic; her habit of
sticking the tip of her tongue out when she was intensely focused never failed
to stir him slightly.
“Is
something wrong?”
“What?
No, I don’t think so—“ he countered, dropping to a squat and resting his
forearms on his thighs, watching her pour a plaster mold of a tire track.
“You’re
staring. I’m starting to feel like you’re going to grade everything I do,
Warrick.”
“Sorry—didn’t
mean to cramp your style,” he offered lightly, embarrassed to be caught.
“Ad I
didn’t mean to put you on the spot—“
“I can
dig it.”
At that
*** ***
***
Dignity,
Gil Grissom told himself grimly, it was all a matter of perspective and the
will to stay focused on the evidence. Despite the trappings of the shop and the
overwhelming potential for embarrassment he would NOT lose either of them. He
would keep his focus—
“Oh.
My. God,” Sara Sidle breathed, her voice a low squeak
of astonished awe. Gil drew in a breath and risked a glance at her, hoping the
flush he felt didn’t actually show on his skin.
“I
can’t believe this! I see . . . a wall of dicks. Please tell me this is for
real, Gris—a robbery homicide at Tickled Pink! Nick is going to be eating his
heart out for the next CENTURY over missing this.”
“It’s a
crime scene and we’ll treat it like any other crime scene,” came his soft
chide; Sara arched an eyebrow at Gil, a little smirk on her lips.
“Riiiiight. We’re standing in a doorway shaped
like a huge pair of red vinyl lips, looking at about a quarter million dollars
worth of erotic paraphernalia displayed in front of us and YOU want to consider
it JUST another crime scene?”
“Yes,”
Gil managed evenly. Sara blinked at him, the smirk twitching a little, her dark
brown eyes twinkling.
“Fine. Suck all the pleasure right out of the moment.”
“Sara—“ he winced, looking away, wishing she hadn’t used that
particular verb, not HERE anyway. She laughed, charmed by his embarrassment and
warmed by his attempts at dignity. With a quick pat to his broad shoulder, she
picked up her evidence box and sauntered off, muttering,
“No, no
you’re right. It’s fine. Speaking of sucking, I’ll start over by the wall
of—latex re-creations there.”
Gil
sighed, willing himself to look back over the showroom floor, wishing for the
millionth time that the stomach flutters Sara’s presence invariably gave him
would die down.
It was
ridiculous, he told himself. He was nearly fifty, a competent professional well
versed in the vagaries of a solitary life. He didn’t NEED the complications of
an attraction, especially one to a younger, beautiful colleague. It was all
so—cliché. Middle-age crisis, he chided his ego with a bitter laugh, except
he’d never had a first wife to trade up for the trophy model.
And
there was no doubt that Sara Sidle would be a trophy for ANY man: the woman was
long; lean, blessed with a touch of the exotic and a great deal of pragmatic
charisma. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her gracefully kneel and pop
the latches on the kit, her moves practiced and smooth. She fished out the camera,
checked the flash and the film, then looked around,
still smirking.
Resolutely,
Gil turned his attention away from her and back to the center of the shop, to
the bloody body on the carpet there.
It
appeared to be a bludgeoning, Gil deduced, a serious one judging by the heavy
trauma to the victim’s head. Certainly a single blow hadn’t killed her though,
since the blood trail indicated she’d staggered then crawled to the middle of
the shop before succumbing. Gil squatted down as Jim Brass approached,
a slightly amused expression on his face.
“I
think our victim was a bit more than tickled—“
“And a
lot more than pink—a guess at lividity I’d say she’s
been here for three to four hours.”
“Sounds
right—we got the call from one of the employees who was
supposed to come in for the swing shift which would put the time of struggle at
about
Gill
tugged on his gloves and took a pair of tweezers out of his kit. Deftly, he
fished among the blood-soaked hair on the back of the victim’s head and held up
a long white shard of what looked like porcelain.
“Broken
vase, statuary?”
Brass
looked around sharply, trying not to let his glance linger on any one item in
the erotic boutique. It was a losing battle.
“Let’s
face it, Gris—if you’re looking for a long heavy cylindrical weapon, you’ve
come to the right place,” he grunted.
*** ***
***
Warrick
tried not to look too closely at the flat dry sandwich before him; it was too
reminiscent of the body from the ranch. Coming into the room, Catherine shot
him a sympathetic glance.
“I’m SO
with you there—IHOP will be off my break list for a while. Our victim’s name
was Rowley Glover, and Robbins just confirmed cause of death as asphyxiation,
mitigating factor, a ton and a half of certified Angus bull sitting on his
face.”
“Glad THAT’s cleared up—“ Warrick
snorted, sipping the can of soda in his hands. Catherine smiled briefly and
sorted a few other papers in her hand.
“Glover
was a veterinarian, had a practice specializing in
cattle and sheep apparently—all the local ranches knew him.”
“And the other two?” Warrick drawled out as Lydia
walked in, holding a steaming Tupperware container. The warm fragrance of
tomato sauce drifted into the break room; Warrick’s
stomach growled reflexively, making both Catherine and
“Tummy talking?” Catherine asked sweetly. Lydia set
the dish down on the table and shot a glance at the other two, her smile
inviting.
“Stuffed
cabbage—I made plenty, so help yourself if you want.”
“You serious?” Intrigued, Warrick sat up and stared into the
steaming dish. Catherine had already gotten a paper plate and was scooping out
one of the rolled sections, humming a little.
“Over
on the Dayshift, Naomi and I took turns bringing in Friday potluck. I guess you
guys don’t do that, huh?”
Catherine
and Warrick looked askance at her;
“Cabbage—I
haven’t had that since I left home back in the Reagan era, man.”
“It’s a
cruciferous vegetable and good for your digestive system,”
“Don’t
tell me it’s healthy—I was starting to ENJOY this!”
For a
while the three of them ate, passing small talk and sharing the dish. Finally
Catherine sighed, dabbing her lips.
“Okay,
I think I’ll be able to function for another two days—thanks--now, back to the
case.”
“The
other two bodies were Karla and Vince Harris, the couple that owned the ranch,”
“So—wife
and husband shoot each other—but what’s up with the bull and the vet?”
Catherine mused. Warrick raised his eyebrows.
“Love
triangle? Someone cheating on someone? Maybe hubby
caught the wife with the vet?”
“Or
wife caught the vet with the husband—“
“Or one
of them with the bull—“ Warrick teased, making both
women squeal and laugh.
“That’s
just sick, Warrick—WAY too kinky even for Vegas—“ Catherine
accused, leaning back in her chair and crossing her wrists on top of her head.
“Nothing
is too kinky for Vegas—but we’ll take a look at the ballistics and trace
evidence. What about the bull?”
“It’s
being autopsied now—“
“Man
such a waste—“ Warrick mused. “That was some PRIME
beef.”
“--Beef,
tomatoes, cabbage, rice and a hint of garlic—“ came
Gil’s authoritative voice as he entered the break room, glancing around
sniffing. “Stuffed cabbage?”
“Oh
yeah—
Gil
hesitated, but Warrick flashed him a grin and flipped a
thumbs up; seeing that, he picked up a paper plate.
“How’s
the homicide at the sex toy shop going?” Catherine purred. Gil kept his eyes on
the Tupperware.
“We’ve
identified the victim but haven’t found the murder weapon yet,” he admitted
reluctantly, scooping out some of the savory meal.
“Really? Considering the available arsenal--”
“I’ve
got a shard of something vaguely resembling a plaster that I’m having the lab
look at,” Gil replied, shooting her a quelling glare.
“Any theories?”
“I’ll
hold off until we’ve got more to look at. This is good—“ he
added.
“Polito—“
“I’ll
go with—“ Warrick offered. Catherine waved them off,
and once they were gone, turned to Gil with a knowing smile.
“So
where’s Sara?”
“She’s
checking a few—items--collected at the site for prints,” he replied
uncomfortably. Catherine was silent for a beat then prodded,
“Items?”
“Catherine—“
“Sorry,
it’s just strange to see you so—reticent about evidence. Normally the weirdest
grossest things don’t seem to bother you.”
“Yes
well dildos aren’t quite my forte. Give me a tarantula over a vibrator any
day.”
“THAT
is one sick image, Gris—“ Catherine laughed, earning
another look from her boss. He finished eating the cabbage rolls and sighed;
Catherine patted his arm comfortingly and left him alone to his thoughts.
Gil
rubbed his eyes. The memory of Sara calmly bagging sex toys as thick as her
wrist had been unnerving as hell, and his equilibrium hadn’t been helped much
either by her cheerful familiarity with the items in question.
“Looks
like the fight started in the back room. The victim was chased around the
boutique past the condom counter, over by the wall of dicks—sorry, dildos, and
finally overcome here in the center of the bondage display,” Sara had merrily
announced. Gil remembered wincing slightly as she picked up something with
tweezers, her eyebrow arching.
“Nipple
clamps—at least they aren’t the alligator types—“
“Alligator--?”
“—Clamps,
like on wiring kits. Part of my territory in
And
that comment alone brought forth scenes in Gil’s head that threatened his
already none too stable facade. The thought of Sara’s nipples, (which he had
seen outlined more than once through her silk tops and tee-shirts) wouldn’t
leave his thoughts. She had an elegant chest anyway, and wasn’t afraid to
showcase it, but now he was fighting the urge to peek at her every few minutes.
And the
hell of it was, Sara knew it, too. Gil could sense her mild smugness peppered
with humor as she moved from area to area, focusing on the evidence, making no
other comments to him during their assessment of the scene.
A gauntlet had been thrown, a subtle taunt to
his libido that he couldn’t quite avoid, not this time.
*** ***
***
The
remains of the bull were on the tiled floor, sitting on a plastic sheet.
Warrick looked at Dr. Polito with polite amazement.
“Electrocuted, yes. The poor creature was literally
shocked to death by the prod up its rectum,” the vet repeated.
“What
was an electric prod doing up his—?” Warrick asked slowly, as if afraid of the
answer. The vet, a dry thin little Italian man with great sad eyes magnified
behind thick lenses snorted.
“Part
of the semen collecting procedure, Mr. Brown. The bull is lured into a chute by
a teaser cow in estrus. There, his penis is fitted with an artificial vagina
for specimen collection, and ejaculation is brought forth by a quick shock to
the bull’s prostate via the prod in his rectum.
“Whoah, hey, doc—they SHOCK his ass to get him to—produce?”
Warrick felt a little nauseated, and the urge to cross his legs was almost
overpowering. Dimly he wished Nick was hearing this—it wouldn’t be the same in
the retelling, that was for DAMN sure.
“A
single mild shock is the usual method, nothing inhuman there—but this prod is
one of the few models out there with several higher settings and unfortunately
it packs as much wallop as a stun gun. A shock of that magnitude against the
animal’s prostate for an extended session was enough to stop his heart.”
“Excuse
me, but isn’t semen collecting a two person project?” Lydia asked in a soft,
urgent tone. Polito nodded.
“Most
of the time, yes—and there are some oddities here that bother me.”
“Like?” Warrick asked.
“First
of all, the probe is the sort that has a button that needs to be held down to
deliver the shock—it’s not automatic. And the second problem is that this bull
was sterile.”
“Sterile?”
“No
sperm in that ejaculate, so this bull was worthless for breeding purposes. He
was no stud.”
*** ***
***
Sara
looked away from the results sheet of the fingerprint analysis and managed a
faint smile. Greg was absolutely ecstatic to run the prints for her, especially
after seeing what they had come off of.
“Lovely
lovely latex—so yielding for prints—impressionable,
like me—“ he chortled. Sara smiled, letting him do his
preen and impress dance as he scanned the multiple prints and ran them through.
“My my, whole lotta touching going
on—these phalluses have been handled by at least THREE different people.”
“You
always touch the thing you love—“ she countered,
tearing the sheet from the analysis and scanning the names. Greg looked over
her shoulder and frowned.
“That’s
weird—I KNOW that second name.”
“Personally?”
“Nah,
it’s the perp from the case Warrick’s
on—Karla Harris. She left her prints on an electric probe that had been up a
bull’s backside.”
Sara
stared at the name, her jaw working a bit as she tried to see the connection.
Thanking Greg absently, she made her way to Gil’s office, paper in hand,
thinking hard.
“Gris,
I think two of our cases are possibly linked.”
He
turned from the bucket of plaster to look at her through his safety goggles, a
quizzical expression in his eyes.
“Really?”
“Really. It’s too much of a coincidence for Karla Harris’s
fingerprints to be in the Tickled Pink AND on the killing probe out at the
ranch don’t you think?”
Pulling
his goggles off, he came over, looking down at the fingerprint readout and
nodded, slowly. Sara took a moment to study his profile, drinking in the
features she loved so well: his curly silver hair, his amazingly long
eyelashes, the soft curve of a mouth she’d fantasized about—
“Definitely odd. Now we just need to find the
connection. Good job, Sara.”
“It
wasn’t me, it was Greg—he caught the repetition—“ she
conceded. Gil gave a nod, pleased she was willing to give the credit where it
was due, and for a moment they stared at each other. Sara looked away first,
reluctantly shifting her gaze to the bucket.
“What’s
that?”
“Plaster
from the shop. I’m mixing up one of the unused packets in an attempt to find
the murder weapon.”
“Ah.
What’s your theory?”
“Our
victim, Wendy Ortiz, was dealt her blunt object trauma by something
approximately eight and a half inches and about seven pounds, most likely
cylindrical. Take a look at the porcelain shard from the scene and you’ll see
it the splinter’s fracture line is vertical, with a curve to it.”
“Okay,
so what does it mean?”
“Well,
considering what we’ve already found at the site, it would be logical that she
was making plaster casts of phalluses. The shape is right.”
“Eight and a half inches?” Sara blurted, blushing as she
pulled away from the microscope. Gil was slightly pink himself.
“Just
an approximation,” he added, wishing she didn’t look so amused.
“Casts
from life? So she was killed with a plaster penis that was molded from someone
out there,” Sara crossed her arms and frowned.
“Conceivably—and not much of a lead unless she kept records
of clients or customers.”
“I can
check the shop records—but I didn’t think plaster weighed that much, and
wouldn’t it have shattered on the first blow?”
“Normally
it doesn’t and yes, it would have shattered, but this plaster is an unusual
mix—it’s almost 30 percent quartz grit, so that would add both weight and
strength to the—phallus.”
Sara
grinned and tilted her head, studying him.
“You
can’t say it, can you?”
“What?”
“Dick.
You just can’t come out and call it a big fake stone dick, can you Gris?” she
challenged sweetly. He looked at the bucket to avoid her glance.
“I believe
in appropriate language in appropriate settings, Sara. The object in question
is a phallus. A dick is something far different.”
“All
right, how do you define a dick, Gris?”
“Conrad
Ecklie.”
“Touché! And a cock?” she pressed, smiling at him. Gil lifted his
head and shot her a serious look, speaking in a low voice.
“Well,
aside from the standard definition of being the male bird of various species, a
cock is what a penis becomes when it’s erect.”
Sara
fought a shiver; actually hearing Gil say the word along with a startlingly
clear definition surprised her enough to twitch a bit.
“Wow—“
“Therefore
every man has a penis, a few men ARE dicks and as for cocks—“
Anything
more either of them would have said was interrupted by Catherine’s cheery
entrance.
“Hey
guys—we’ve got more of a mystery with our ranch case. Looks like Hector was shooting blanks.”
“Hector?”
Both Gil and Sara asked curiously. Catherine nodded, her mouth pursed.
“The bull. Vet says he was sterile, so there wouldn’t have been any
point in collecting his semen. But the records show that Doctor Glover was out
there to the ranch on a regular basis, supposedly taking Hector’s
semen for storage. Now why do you suppose he’d do that?”
Sara
involuntarily glanced back at the bucket of plaster and grinned. Following her
glance, Gil sighed.
“Probably to get a few inches closer to Karla Harris.”
*** ***
***
Warrick
and Lydia drove in silence back to the ranch, each
lost in thought. Warrick glanced over at her once or twice, covertly. Her profile
intrigued him, as did her calm demeanor.
Dimly
Warrick wondered what Nick would make of her, and the though sparked a tiny
negative note in him.
Once they arrived,
“If
Gris is right, then Karla Harris beat Wendy Ortiz to death, drove back to the
ranch, electrocuted Hector and blew her husband away. We’ve got the .38 she
used on hubby and herself, and we know how she killed
Glover, so all we need is Wendy’s murder weapon.”
“And a
motive—we know she was having an affair with Glover; the neighbors confirmed
that. But why do in the other two?”
“Bingo—“ carefully
“Oh
man, this is too damn surreal—“
Cautiously,
he reached in and gingerly pulled out a long plaster cylinder, its surface
stained with rusty spatters and small lumps of grey. He blinked and held it up;
“That’s
one really big—“
“—Reason
to be pissed. I suspect we’re looking at Karla’s motive, and Glover’s last
personal impression.”
*** ***
***
“Sex—it
all came down to sex-“ Catherine sighed, leaning on
the counter in Gil’s office. Gil frowned, but didn’t contradict her as Sara gave
a slow nod and picked up the story.
“The vet and the rancher’s wife having an affair. He keeps coming out to the ranch,
presumably to collect samples from Hector, but in reality to leave his own
deposits with her. Everything’s hunky dory until Glover starts seeing someone
else.”
“--Wendy
Ortiz the owner of the Tickled Pink, who presumably is awed enough with
Glover’s attributes to make a more concrete impression of it—“ Warrick added.
“So
Karla follows him, finds out about Wendy and confronts her. Grabbing the model
of Glover’s phallus, Karla chases her rival and clubs her to death with it,
smearing the thing with brain tissue and blood. Then she carries it with her to
the truck and drops it on the front seat.”
Gil
held up the bagged dildo, contemplating it with a detached sadness.
“She
drives back to the ranch, pulling up at such a speed that the dildo rolls off
the seat and under it,” Gil recited softly. “At that point Glover is already
putting Hector in the chute. Karla either pretends to help him or traps him
there, and hits the on button for the probe, frying poor Hector, who gives into
gravity and lands on Glover.”
Catherine
let one elegant hand slam on the counter as she spoke.
“Pancake-o-rama for Glover. The noise brings hubby Vince out
to the yard carrying a gun, and by then Karla has to be hysterical, well aware
that she’s killed twice. She pulls the gun from him, they struggle, and she
shoots him. At that point, completely freaked out, she turns the weapon on
herself, and it’s over, the whole drama’s played out.”
For a
moment none of them spoke. Sara finally sighed, shaking her head gently.
“The
death of a myth, gentlemen—bigger isn’t always a good thing. Glover would have
been better off keeping it to himself.”
“Just
because he wasn’t smart about women, you’d consign the poor guy to his own
means or wet dreams?” Warrick snorted cynically. Sara batted her eyes.
“Hey
Warrick, I thought guys over the age of seventeen didn’t have wet dreams—“
“--Only
when we forget to masturbate—“ Gil muttered
absent-mindedly, reaching for a file on his desk. Everyone froze. Sensing the
shock, Gil looked up, puzzled.
“You
FORGET to masturbate?” Warrick asked softly. Catherine, still in smiling shock,
slipped out the door, tugging
Sara
laid a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension under her fingers. She dropped
down to whisper in his ear.
“Two
things, boss—TMI, and for the record—if you ever need a hand—“
She
sauntered out, leaving him frozen in place behind his desk, breathing
erratically, glasses sliding down his nose.
END