Summary:
Investigating a pair of deaths at a Sumo match brings Warrick and
“For
the honor of
It was a gusty sound, loud and powerful in the
small room and the four other men kneeling around the low table who heard it
feared the strength behind that exhalation, but carefully hid their reactions.
For a moment, no one spoke, then the oldest, a wizen little figure in a black
suit looked up at Taro and stared, unblinking at him. Taro bowed and reached
for the bowl on the table.
The
chanko nabe steamed fragrantly, long tendrils of enticing scent filling the
air, and Taro drank it gratefully, tipping the gold porcelain bowl to his mouth
and swallowing the entire contents in a few deep gulps. Gracefully he set the
bowl down again and bowed once more to the wizened little gnome in the black
business suit. The tiny man spoke up, his voice as dry and thin as he was.
“We
will watch you, Taro Nakatashi, and await your victory.”
“I am
humbled,” Taro replied in a deep rumble. Rising, he made his bows to the rest
of the group and turned, leaving them. As his mountainous silk-robed bulk
passed through the doorway, two of the men sighed and glanced at each other.
The little old man let his gaze drop to the porcelain bowl.
“Dispose
of it, immediately.”
Pulling
on latex gloves one of the men reluctantly picked up the still warm soup bowl.
*** ***
***
Warrick
sighed. This sound wasn’t gusty, it was worried and faintly amused; the sound
of a man roped into doing something he wasn’t exactly comfortable with. One
glance at the woman next to him confirmed THAT on more than one level.
Lydia
was wiggling in her seat, excited and impatient, looking at a glossy program in
her hand and muttering to herself. Warrick shook his head and glanced around at
the audience with a calculating glance. The NeoTokyo arena easily seated
30,000, and it looked like a capacity crowd tonight. Thrusting his jaw out, he
shook his head and leaned to speak to his companion.
“So
you’re telling me that ALL these people forked out over seventy five bucks a
seat to cheer on a bunch of huge guys in diapers trying to knock each other out
of a ring?”
“Look
Warrick, Sumo is a contest of strength and strategy. Trust me, once you see a
few of the rounds you’ll change your mind. We’ve got some pretty good matches
coming up—Kashitoma is on a roll right now, and Taro’s the BIG favorite—“ she
burbled happily, holding out the program.
Warrick settled back into his seat, listening
to her distantly, and trying not to peek down the cleavage of her dress. The
latter was a losing battle as far as his hormones were concerned; whenever
faced with the rounded curves of
“Of course
this is only an exhibition, a Jungyo, so it doesn’t actually count in their
rankings, but still, it’s a fabulous display, don’t you think?”
Forcing
his attention back to the ring, Warrick gave a weak nod, knowing that what HE
considered a fabulous display certainly wasn’t the same as hers.
“Oh
come on— You didn’t have to come along you know. I invited you because I had
the spare ticket and I thought sports were your THING!”
“Sports,
“In
“You’re
kidding. It can’t be THAT big.”
“Oh
yeah, and that’s just the official stuff. Hell, throw in what the Yakuza’s got
going illegally, and we’re talking a betting stake equal to one of our Super
Bowls, Warrick.”
He had
no answer to that and sat back, slightly stunned at the implications. Lydia
leaned closer to him, her voice low.
“I’ve
got about thirty bucks on Taro myself—that’s a lot, I know, but I’m pretty
confident he’ll win.“
“You GO
girl—“ Warrick muttered, thinking back over his own past when bets of ten
thousand and more had been common.
“Sorry,
I didn’t mean to sound like some stupid tourist—I don’t bet more than fifty if
I can help it.”
“It
pays to be cautious—“ he offered with a wry grin, “ Although I’d put something
up against you anytime—“
The
minute the words left his mouth he regretted it, but
“Oh
this I HAVE to hear this—come on, Warrick—what will you bet me?”
He shot
her a speculative look, gaze connecting completely with hers for the first time
that evening, and
“All
right—you say your man Taro’s the house favorite, so here’s the deal. If he
loses, I take you dancing.”
“Dancing?”
“Not
the point—besides, it all comes down to who leads anyway,” he countered, a grin
on his beautiful mouth.
“All
right—“
“If
Taro wins, you’ve got yourself an extra pair of hands for that yard work you
were bitching to Sara about—fair enough?”
Before
*** ***
***
There’s
something fishy here—“ Gil teased. Sara shot him an arch look before stepping
carefully through the broken glass and spilled water that littered the floor in
front of the damaged tank. Catherine rolled her eyes.
“Gris,
don’t quit your night job, okay? And exactly why does it take three of us to
check out what seems to be an evident robbery?”
“Because
assumptions are often wrong—“ he chided, pulling on latex gloves and gazing at
the scene. Detective Vega smiled, coming up behind them.
“The
back tank of the Atlantis was their showpiece—a two hundred gallon salt water
aquarium complete with tropical fish, living coral and their treasure chest.
Ever see it before tonight?”
Gris
and Sara shook their heads but Catherine nodded.
“Oh
yeah—seventy five thousand dollars worth of pearls and other gemstones in a box
about the size of a footlocker—“ she sighed, a smile on her face. Sara nodded
knowingly.
“Saw it
on a date here, huh?”
“
“Happiness
is a high roller sugar daddy—“ Sara smiled. Catherine dimpled happily and
looked at Gris, who was staring at both women with a look of impatience on his
face.
“If
we’ve finished our little jaunt down memory lane, we DO have a crime scene to process—“
he chided, but gently. Catherine sniffed, shooting him a disapproving look.
“Sometimes
you have all the romantic instincts of the insects you study, Grissom—“ she
accused lightly. He managed a smirk.
“Quite
a compliment, thank you.”
“It
wasn’t a compliment—“ Catherine grumbled, taking out sample jars and getting
them ready to label. Gil looked at the aquarium thoughtfully. The remaining
fish were spooked, hiding in the broken coral. The top edge of the tank itself
had a huge chunk cracked out of it and faint traces of blood were still
evident. He took three photos.
“Ah but
it is—for example, the scarlet-bodied wasp moth can take almost nine hours for
a single act of sex.”
“Whoah—talk
about going slow—“ Sara muttered, snapping on gloves and gingerly scooping up a
fragment of coral. Catherine didn’t look convinced. Grissom continued.
“A pair
of giant water beetles were recorded having sex over a hundred times in a
thirty six hour time frame.”
Catherine
looked at Sara and they both silently mouthed ‘lube!’ behind Gil’s back. He
pulled out a penlight and studied the prints on the edge of the tank.
“Although
the most flattering would have to be to be compared to a male Swedish seed bug
I suppose—“
“And
that would be because--?” Sara drawled out. He shot her a mischievous look.
“His
genitalia is two thirds the length of his body and he has total control of all
intimate encounters—“
“Yeeh
hah—John Holmes of the bug world,” Catherine snorted, making Sara burst into
laughter. Vega just shook his head tolerantly amused.
“Seems
we had three burglars screen the tank with a few baggage carts to hide their
break-in. They only managed to steal about a third of the gems and we’re hoping
you guys can pick up something to help us figure out who did it.”
“Someone
careless—which means desperate—“ Gil observed, taking a swab of blood from the
edge of the glass. “Was anything else missing?”
“Not
really—we’ve got a few dead fish, a lot of damaged coral and a broken
filtration system. They tried to haul the treasure chest up but the top of the
tank was too close to the wall, so they had to reach in and scoop, apparently.”
“With
what?”
“A
net—we found it, and some of the jewels near the back door.”
“Gris,
I have a wet boot print here on the carpet—“ Sara murmured, setting a blot
paper to pick it up. Grissom came over and squatted, studying the sole print
bleeding through the thin tissue.
“Big—size
thirteen or more—“ he quipped. Catherine came up holding a medium fishnet low
on the handle near the webbing.
“More
prints, possibly,” she observed. Gil looked over the crime scene once again and
frowned.
*** ***
***
“The
salt tossing is ceremonial—gets rid of evil spirits in the ring and I suspect
it probably gives them traction too,”
Six
matches into the Jungyo, and Warrick had a whole new appreciation for Sumo. The
first bone-jarring charge, the utter ferocity of the two combatants stunned
him. He could almost FEEL the hard slams and shoves himself; sense the strain
of sinew and weight and momentum in each collision. Clearly there were
strategies going, but he wasn’t sure what they were, and so far not a single
competition had turned out anywhere near what he’d expected.
“So the
guy in the red belt, Kashitoma—he’s the odds on to win? He’s gotta be about
seventy pounds lighter than the other dude—sheer physics tell me he’s going to
lose, Lydia.”
She
tilted her head to face him, blue eyes bright.
“His
slap technique is second to none, Warrick. These guys can’t hit with a closed
fist, but an open one is fair game, along with tripping, pushing and body
blows.”
“Ow—“
Warrick winced, imagining one of those huge slab hands knocking teeth out.
“Would
you put your arm around me?” she whispered. Warrick shot her a startled look
and she sighed.
“I’m
getting eyed up by a bunch of guys who are going to be hitting on me before the
end of this thing—a blonde into Sumo is a real turn-on to this sort of crowd.”
“I
bet—“ he snorted, not surprised. Casually he snaked an arm around her shoulder
and tightened his grip;
“Hey!”
“Shhh—they’re
doing that badass macho man stare down gameface thing—“ Warrick replied, hiding
his amusement. Lydia turned her attention back to the ring, leaning comfortably
inside Warrick’s embrace. He shifted, feeling the warm press of her breast
against his chest and fighting the instant reaction THAT was creating.
“Seven
seconds—he’s really ON tonight!”
“Damn
that was quick—“ Warrick agreed, eying a few other patrons three seats away who
were passing huge wads of yen notes back and forth.
“Match
of the night, Mr. Brown—Taro Nakatashi versus Maso Yamachiri. They’re both
Ozeki rank, so this ought to be good, even if it’s just an exhibition match.”
Warrick
sized the two men up and could see why Taro was the crowd favorite. His
presence was impressive, and he held an air of humble confidence in everything
he did. In contrast his opponent seemed slightly arrogant, tossing the ceremonial
salt as if it were lawn seed, and glaring at the crowd.
“Yamachiri
is known as a bit of a sore loser—less than gracious sometimes.”
Warrick
watched absently as the two men took their stances and stared at each other.
The gyoji referee circled them once, looking elegant and slightly ridiculous in
his kabuki clothing.
“The
tension’s terrible—I hope it lasts—“ she purred. Warrick shifted a little,
needing to—readjust himself—at the heat in her words.
And the
men charged. The hard slam of their impact seemed to send shock wave through
the stadium and the audience rocked forward. Yamachiri locked a grip on
Nakatashi’s belt, trying to shift him, but the other man didn’t budge. Warrick
watched their feet bracing in the hard packed dirt;
“Ohh!”
Nakatashi
staggered a bit, but rallied, moving in on his opponent and wrapping his arms
around him. Then came the slow steady push, the drive of a human tractor. The
crowd was chanting ‘Taro! Taro! Taro!’ in a low compulsive way, and Warrick
sighed, resigning himself to an afternoon of clipping hedges and pulling weeds
when it happened.
Yamachiri
staggered; Nakatashi’s drive was too powerful, and he began to fall a few feet
from the edge of the ring. As Yamachiri dropped, Nakatashi stiffened visibly
and clutched his big hands in the air a few times. Yamachiri landed in the
dirt, his neck hitting the half buried rope of the dohyo ring, and in a
spectacularly unexpected surprise, Nakatashi fell ON him, all three hundred and
seventy pounds flattening the other man. A crack rang out, clear as a shotgun
blast.
The
crowd was up, everyone on their feet watching as the gyoji moved in to help
separate the two wrestlers, poking them lightly with the paper fans After a few
seconds though, it became apparent that neither man was conscious.
“Warrick—I
think—oh God, I think he’s—dead!“ she muttered. He nodded.
“I
think you might be—right—“ he replied, sliding out of his seat and making his way
down to the ring, where the beginnings of pandemonium were setting in.
*** ***
***
“This
isn’t a joke, Gris. I’m looking at two dead Sumo wrestlers and a crime scene
like you’ve never had before—“ Warrick sighed into the cell phone. He glanced
over at
“Just
get here as soon as you can—“ Hanging up, Warrick looked at the captain, who
sighed.
“We’ve
got limited jurisdiction on this one, so you’re going to have to work fast.
Right now everyone’s co-operating, but I don’t know how long that will last.
Ms. Petrowski seems to know some Japanese--?” trailing off, Brass stared over
his shoulder at her and then back at Warrick, who nodded.
“She’s
a Navy brat— her dad was assigned to Atsugi NAF back when she was a kid. She
told me she can catch about one word in seven, so she’s not fluent or
anything.”
“And
that’s why she’s here at a Jungyo?” Brass persisted gently, looking at Warrick,
who gave a shrug.
“Hey,
she said she had an extra ticket to a sporting event—how was I to know she was
a Sumo fan?”
Brass
smiled indulgently and turned back to the group of men, leaving Warrick to look
at the dohyo ring.
He
looked at it with a critical eye, noting the scattered salt and various
footprints all through it. Nothing looked particularly unusual, so he moved
closer to the edge of the ring where the two men had fallen. Blood stained the
dirt here, and Warrick made a mental note to have samples taken from both the
dirt and the rope edge. Something caught his eye and he leaned closer, looking
at the rope edge.
It was
wet, but not with blood. Possibly saliva.
“So,
what’s the story, Morning Glory?” came Nick’s cheerful drawl as he came
forward, kit in hand, eyeing the ring with interest. Warrick took the kit from
him and fished out gloves swiftly.
“The
story is over seven hundred combined pounds of dead wrestlers.
“Yeah,
you and about a million Japanese viewers—the media outside the casino right now
is insane, dude.”
“No
doubt—“ Lightly Warrick swabbed the rope and packed the samples, then took
fresh ones of the bloodstained dirt. Nick held the flashlight on the site.
“So was
this a date?”
“Say
again?”
“You
know, with
Warrick
shot Nick a withering stare that the younger man cheerfully ignored.
“She
had an extra ticket—“ Warrick explained for what felt like the hundredth time,
“Damian has the German measles, otherwise HE would have been the one here with
her.”
“Nevertheless,
I’d say judging by the sportscoat and that manly hint of aftershave you’re
wearing—“ Nick grinned. Warrick sighed, noisily.
“Yeah
well it’s all moot now anyway. We’ve got bigger issues at hand.”
“Tough
luck—although I gotta admit, Ms Petrowski looks mighty fine in pink—“
Warrick’s
head snapped up; Nick flashed a ‘gotcha’ grin and began to walk the perimeter
of the crime scene. Lydia broke away from the group and came back to Warrick,
her expression tense.
“This
is bad, Warrick. Reeeeeally bad.”
“How
bad?”
“It would be like having both Andre Agassi and
Pete Sampras drop dead at a tournament overseas. Everyone wants answers right
NOW—the casino people, the exhibition sponsors, the managers, the broadcasting
crews—“
“Lotta
heat. So let’s make it a point to do it right,” Warrick intoned seriously.
*** ***
***
“This
is—monumental,” Robbins sighed. Across from him, nearly hidden by the enormous
body, David nodded and pushed up his glasses. Robbins glanced over at the other
gurney and shook his head.
“You
KNOW neither one of them is going to fit into the drawers—“
David
nodded again, blinking nervously. Robbins moved to the nearest dead man and
gently shifted his head, which already lay at an odd angle. A soft swish of
doors, and Gil walked in, tugging on a gown.
“Wow—“
he blinked.
“Times
two, I know,” Robbins agreed. He motioned Gil over and they stood looking at
the first wrestler.
“Our
first body—Mr. Yamachiri. Broken neck—right here at C2 and C3. From the various
descriptions I got of the accident, our wrestler here fell against the hard,
rounded raised surface of the ring, in this case the dohyo rope. The weight of
his opponent slamming down on him at this critical point was enough to create a
forced flexion and snap the spine almost instantly—that was the gunshot sound.”
“Quick—“
Gil muttered. Robbins nodded.
“And
fairly painless—he died instantly. To be honest, I don’t see any need to do any
further workups on him at the moment.”
“Looks
fairly straightforward,” Gil agreed, eying the dead man with a small glance of
compassion, “An accident, and probably not one unheard of in Sumo.”
“This
other one though—Mr. Nakatashi--“ Robbins limped over to the other gurney and
frowned. Gil followed, circling onto the other side and studied the man’s face.
“Heart
attack? Stroke?”
“I
don’t think so. He’s got none of the characteristics of either, and given his
youth and physical condition, they’re not likely. The average Japanese diet is
low in cholesterols, so I’m betting his arteries are fairly clear. I was
thinking a possible aneurysm until I saw this—“
He ran
latex-covered fingers over a deep flush down the dead man’s jaw line and
throat. Gil leaned closer.
“Is it
a rash?”
“It’s
more like a residual symptom. I suspect our wrestler here died of an allergic
reaction of some sort.”
Gil
blinked. He looked up at Robbins and thought furiously.
“What
sort? Biotoxin? Prescription overdose?”
“Not
sure—I’ve got swabs from his mouth off at the lab, and once I get into his
stomach we’ll have a better idea of what he may have ingested. Whatever it was
resulted in a little paralysis.”
“Okay—keep
me posted—“ Gil nodded.
He
stepped out of the autopsy bay and blinked at rush of people moving up and
around him clutching notepads and tape recorders. Alarmed, he looked over their
heads, seeing Mobley coming towards him, grim expression on his face.
“Is it
true that Nakatashi and Yamachiri both died under mysterious circumstances Mr.
Grissom?” a young Asian American reporter demanded. An older man elbowed his
way in front of Gil, his eyes almost accusing.
“Why is
the Las Vegas Police Department delaying any information about these deaths?”
Mobley
drove himself forward into the crowd to stand next to Grissom, his voice low
and authoritative.
“I
assure you all that the authorities of the
As
security began to herd the reporters out, Mobley shot a sideways look at
Grissom, a look tinged with dislike and desperation.
“One
hour, Grissom, sixty minutes—I need something to throw to this pack,” he hissed
in a low voice. Gil stared back at him.
“My
people don’t jump through hoops, sheriff—you’ll get our findings when they’re
done.”
On that
note they parted, each man stiff-backed and angry. Gil lumbered into Greg’s
cubicle, scowling; the younger man flinched under that ferocious gaze.
“Okay—time
to appease the Gods. I processed the blood DNA from your treasure chest case
and ran it though the usual databases. Our jewel thief isn’t a local boy.”
“Do
tell—“ Grissom softened a little, staring at the printout Greg handed him. “
“Hai.
Interpol lists him as one Ruki Makamatsu—“
“—Suspected
yakuza associated with a Japanese syndicate known as the Kaiju—so what would HE
be doing stealing gems out of a casino?”
“A good
question, but not one his DNA can answer—“ Greg admitted.
*** ***
***
Lydia
sat in the dark, looking at the monitor patiently. She ran the tape again,
watching the end of the match for what seemed the eighth time when she felt
someone come into the screening room.
“Hey,”
Catherine smiled.
“Hey—“
“Can’t
get much more definitive than that—“ Catherine sighed.
“Pretty
cut and dry. I’ve been looking at the other rikishi, Taro though, to see if
there’s any sort of clue to HIS death, and I think there is.”
“Talk
me through it—“ Catherine urged, hitching up a chair.
“Okay,
here—when both of them circling around in their tamari—their waiting areas—the
camera pans over Taro, and he’s looking a little stiff. See how he’s rubbing
his mouth?”
“Nerves?”
“Not
likely—this is for show—there wouldn’t be any change in rank from this match.
Taro’s too professional to have a problem with nerves.”
“Okay,
so it could be symptomatic of something—“ Catherine agreed.
“And
here, walking up the hanamichi. He’s jerking a little on the left side, but I
didn’t see a stumble or a limp.”
“Hanamichi?”
“The
path up to the ring—sorry—it’s like the procession of a boxer to the ring—sort
of a red carpet? And THERE—see? He’s grimacing. Something’s definitely not
right.”
Catherine
nodded, seeing the look that
“More
than a tummy bug—like a paralysis of some sort. Maybe we’re looking at a
neurotoxin of some sort. But if this match doesn’t change their rankings, why
poison the guy? Cui Bono?”
It was
“Latin,
sorry—who gains? What’s the motive?”
“Well,
Taro was the favored man—if someone bet against him knowing he was going to
lose the match, they’d clean up—“
Catherine
slowly nodded.
“Oh
yeah, that’s motive. So the question is how—“
Lydia
clicked the tape off and gave a little sigh, looking down at her hands.
“I had
a bet with Warrick and now—I don’t know which one of us won or lost—I guess
that won’t be settled until the Association makes a ruling on it.”
“Warrick
bet you?” Catherine, who was rising from her chair, smiled.
“Yard
work versus dancing. Now it’s in a holding pattern.”
“Well,
considering how he feels about you, it’s my guess he’ll figure out a way to
win—and believe me, he’s the one who could do it.”
Lydia
turned her blg blue eyes up at Catherine, her cheeks slightly flushed.
“You
mean—he likes me?”
“Uh,
YEAH—you can’t have missed the clues, honey. He eats your cooking every time
you bring it, he bullies Gris into having you team with him, he does you favors
without a second thought—“
“I
didn’t think it was about LIKING me—I just thought—“
“In all
honesty, Warrick is definitely interested. If I were you, I’d find a way to
LOSE the bet,
*** ***
***
Nick
looked over the statuesque brunette very discreetly, trying to keep a
professional expression. She was handing him photographs and speaking in a
melodious voice.
“—Dealings
with them throughout LA and the Bay area mostly—any port of entry. If your lab
has any evidence linking the Kaiju to the Sumo wrestler’s death it would be a
huge step in controlling Yakuza activities in the
“In
what way, Special Agent Pachelli?” he murmured, liking the sound of her name.
She gave a quick grin.
“If we
have enough to deport and restrict their entry, we can keep an eye on the
remaining known members and tighten the net, so to speak. Right now it’s pretty
clear that part of the money that built NeoTokyo was from the Kaiju, but tying
it in directly is hard.”
“Maybe
not as hard as we think. Nick, we need a warrant for the kitchens of the
NeoTokyo hotel,” Gil announced calmly. Regretfully, Nick handed back the photos
to Pachelli and moved off. Gil looked at her.
“And
you are?”
“Special
Agent Grace Pachelli from the FBI, organized crime liaison. Your office
contacted us when the Interpol database pulled up Ruki Makamatsu. What are you
looking for in the kitchens?”
Gil
managed a bland smile.
“When
we find it, I’ll tell you.”
Special
Agent Pachelli looked as if she wanted to say something, then smiled and
nodded.
“Fair
enough.”
A pager
went off; Gil glanced at his and excused himself to the autopsy bay. Robbins
was looking over a sheet and nodding to himself.
“Hey
Gris—definitely poison. Tetraodontoxin to be exact. Found in the ovaries and
entrails of—“
“— A
Pufferfish, commonly known in
“Well,
the toxin can’t be destroyed by cooking, so our wrestler must have downed it in
his soup an hour or so before his match. He would have been feeling numbness
and the onset of paralysis right up until his collapse.”
“And
now it’s time to see if we can find who did it to him and why—“ Gil nodded.
*** ***
***
The
kitchens were still new, the scent of fresh paint and good food everywhere. Gil
glanced around at the cooks lined up against one of the stainless steel
preparation islands. He looked at them mildly.
“Who
prepared the food for the wrestlers?”
“The
younger ones prepare for the rest—“ one cook ventured politely. Gil nodded as
if this made sense.
“Here?”
The man
pointed to the island and nodded; Nick began to carefully examine the table as
Gil stepped around it.
“Which
one made the stew last night, and has this table been cleaned since then?”
“Of
course—health code states we clean constantly—“ the cook announced. Gil looked
up and around the island; both he and Nick spotted the small plastic bucket at
the same time. Nick lifted it down from the upper shelf and sniffed it.
“Salt
water.”
Gingerly
he turned it around to examine its edge. Three quarters of the way around, two
bloody fingerprints came into view.
“Looks
like we may have landed the right fish—“ Gil quipped softly.
*** ***
***
“—And
that’s pretty much it. Once they hauled Makamatsu in and laid out the
evidence—the blood, the shoe print, and the fingerprints--he confessed to his
part in the poisoning. They sliced up the fish and cooked it in that little
separate pot of that stew they make.”
“The
chanko nabe, yeah—“
“Yeah.
According to him, they only meant to make Taro sick and have him lose the
match, but that’s not what happened.”
“And
because of the Kaiji syndicate’s greed, two athletes are dead and a nation is
in mourning for them. Sometimes I don’t understand human nature, Warrick—“
“The dark
side is always with us,” he admitted, wishing he didn’t sound like Yoda saying
it, but
“Yeah
well I think it’s ironic that the Sumo Association ruled to grant a Kuroboshi
AND a Ken-boshi at the same time, so each man was left with the honor of the
status quo. Taro would have loved it, and Maso would have argued the point.”
“All I
know for sure is the next time we go out for a sports event it’s going to be
something
“The
next time?”
Warrick
smiled lazily, not quite answering as he turned to look at the dance floor. The
music had shifted to a slow song and he glanced back at
“Change
of pace, Lyd—come on—“
She
blushed, hesitating a moment, but slid out from her seat when he reached for
her hand, his fingers cool from the glass. Warrick led them out among the other
couples, then turned and held out his arms; shyly,
“Hey, I
only stepped on your toes ONCE—“ he chided softly. She nodded, trying to catch
her breath at his nearness, her eyes on the strong lines of sleek muscle on his
chest where his shirt lay open. It was so close
“I like
your cologne—“ she murmured softly. Warrick gave a pleased little shrug, using
the moment to steer her around another couple and pull her closer.
“Only
the good stuff. You’re not wearing what you usually wear either though—“ he
noted, shifting in slow shuffles on the floor, unconsciously keeping pace with
the music as he focused on the soft touch of her hands on his shoulders.
“Ah—yeah.
I know it’s a bad idea to wear anything at work, but April talks me into it,”
She admitted with a shy little laugh. Warrick shook his head.
“She’s
an interesting guy.”
“You
don’t know the half of it—sometimes it’s unnerving to have a cross dresser know
more about waxing a bikini line than I do—“ she blurted, then blushed. Warrick
just smiled. Lydia felt good in his embrace, warm and rounded, a lush armful
taunting his senses in more ways than one. He tried to keep from tightening his
grip, but his arms refused to cooperate. Lydia moved in closer, pressing
against him.
“Anyway,
this is—nice.”
“Nice—“
he echoed softly, closing his eyes, losing himself in the slow sweet rock of
their bodies to the sultry music. Lydia rested her cheek against his; for a hot
moment of giddy sweetness both of them held their breath, caught in the web of
mutual attraction.
“Hey—“
concerned, he lightly nuzzled her face, barely brushing it with his own, caught
up in the blue of her eyes.
The
first sensual slide of tongue to tongue brought a heady rush of pleasure; both
Sheer
erotic rush made Warrick growl a little; Lydia moaned, her hands clutching his
shoulders, fingers digging into his shirt. They had to break for breath, and
did so regretfully, panting a little.
“Ohhhhh—“
she gasped, swaying, overcome as she stared up at him.
“Lyddie—“
Warrick rasped, trying to put a world of meaning into her name, not sure how to
tell her all the things he wanted to say, NEEDED to say. Then she closed her
eyes to kiss him once more, moving instinctively and Warrick lost himself in
the depths of her mouth again.
Slow
and timelessly sweet they kept kissing, tempering urgency with gentle passion
until Warrick felt her breathing go ragged. He slowly steered them off the
dance floor and into the dim shadows behind the DJ, out of sight, never letting
go of her.
“I-I
didn’t mean for you to know—“ she muttered, blinking at the change of light.
Warrick dipped his chin, glad for the press of the wall at his back as he
luxuriated in her touch.
“That’s
MY line, baby,” he assured her softly, feeling a surge of something deep and
strong through his chest, a mingled sensation of comforting lust. Heat between
them was building, physical demanding heat making him a little crazy. Warrick
let his mouth rain little kisses on her nose, her cheeks, all along her
forehead while she gave little sobbing giggles.
“It’s
crazy—I mean, here I was thinking we were friends—“
“—We
are—“
“—And
wanting to kiss you even though I shouldn’t—“
“—Now
that’s just WRONG. I fully endorse the kissing,” Warrick argued lightly,
backing up his statement with a lovely flick of his tongue over her lips.
“Warrick,
you know what I mean. We WORK together—“
“Shhhh—don’t
go there right now,” he urged softly, and
“Easy—“
he pleaded in a low whisper, delighted at the wicked pressure, “I’m not exactly
stable at the moment.”
“And I
am?”
He
smiled at her, gently brushing a finger along her cheekbone, marveling at the
tantalizing feel of her skin.
“Taking
you home before we both get into trouble here,
“Yeah.
I guess you’re right—“
Slowly
they disentangled from each other and walked back to the table where Lydia
collected her purse. Warrick ushered her out, acutely aware of her nearness, of
his own aching arousal.
She was
quiet during the ride home, and once they reached her house, she gave him a sad
little smile, one that sent a note of uncertainty in him. As they got out of
the car she murmured,
“You
don’t have to walk me in—“
He cocked
his head, green eyes slightly hurt.
“Come
on, Lydia, of course I do—for one thing, April’s watching from the front
window, and for another—I need to know when I’m going to see you again.”
Lydia
sucked in a deep breath, holding it as she closed her eyes.
“Do you
really think that’s a good idea?”
For an
answer, Warrick reeled her in for a kiss. He tried to stay gentle, but she
shivered, her lips opening to his once more, eagerly. Warrick plunged into the
hot sweet depths of her mouth, feeling a strong surge of possessiveness rise up
within him; after a long sensual moment Lydia broke away, laughing softly.
“Boy
talk about presenting your—argument!” came her happy sigh. He cradled her head
against his shoulder for a moment, smiling off into the night.
“Well
you know how it is with evidence—“ he teased, and Lydia muffled her laugh
against his shoulder, hugging him tightly.
END