WiP: Rope, 5 of ? (Lie To Me)
Chapter Four: Compartmentalization
The remains of dinner are spread out across the table, an untouched pickle and the crust of a sandwich bearing the crenellated marks of Wallowski’s teeth on her side, nothing but grease-stained wax paper on his. Pretzels litter the no man’s land between them, dropping fat crystals of salt like snakes shedding skin. A ragged line of bottles bisects the lot. Floating above them, the lovely detective’s chocolate brown eyes are heavy-lidded with desire.
“So…” she sighs, the sound ripe with anticipation.
Cal grabs a Guinness, realizes it’s empty and puts it back before grabbing another. He should be enjoying this more than he is. “So.”
“You must really like my ass.” The generous line of her mouth curls into a smile as she tilts her head coyly and looks at him from beneath a dark fringe of lashes. “Kissing it’s becoming a real habit with you.”
Grinning, he wags his eyebrows at her, prompting a surprisingly girlish giggle. “I’m motivated purely by self-interest.”
She shakes her head, still smiling. Saying no, meaning yes.
“I gotta admit,” she says, leaning forward with one elbow on the table, flashing him a good look down her blouse. Cradled in a black lace bra, her tits are lush and enticing, enough to keep him occupied for days. “I didn’t think you’d be able to get Tharp to pick up the phone, let alone sit down for an interview.”
“So much for flattery.” He takes another long draw from his stout, savoring the bitter malt flavor.
“Man, I don’t know how you can drink that,” she grimaces, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “It smells like a mix of soy sauce and piss.”
“Don’t knock it ‘til ya try. Here,” he laughs, rising from his chair to hold the ale out in offer. The alcohol makes his head swim pleasantly. “Open up. Have summa mine.” He’s making a joke of it, but the thought of putting the bottle to her pipefitter’s lips excites him. Only, in his mind’s eye, the mouth opening itself to him is a soft pink cupid’s bow, the eyes above it wide and blue. Pushing the thought away, he leans in closer to Sharon.
“Don’t come near me with that stuff, I mean it!” she warns, playfully doubling up her fist. He turns and she hits him in the bicep, pulling her punch so it rolls harmlessly off his arm at the last instant.
“Yeah, yeah.” Winking at her, he drains the rest of the bottle.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she continues, picking up her train of thought. She closes one eye and points the neck of her own beer-a domestic lite-at him like she’s aiming a gun. “I always knew you were good. But that partner of yours…?”
She snorts and takes a drink.
An angry defense leaps to his lips but he bites it back, leaning against the refrigerator to peel the label from his Guinness. He’s still sober enough to realize that discussing Foster with the detective is about as useful as discussing faith with an atheist; she simply has no frame of reference with which to understand. Besides, he doesn’t want Gillian figuring into this.
Seeming to sense his irritation, Sharon swings a bare foot out from under the table to nudge his jean-clad leg. “C’mon, Lightman,” she purrs, running her arch along his inseam from ankle to knee. Her toenails are painted a gaudy, glittery gold. “I didn’t mean anything. Don’t get all pissy.”
“She saved your ass,” he feels obligated to reply. But the d-cupped detective is smiling and flashing her tits at him again, so it comes out sounding low and thick, like a come-on.
“I’ll send her a card.”
“Mmm,” he grunts, noncommittal. A slight discomfort in his shoulder distracts him, something on the refrigerator door starting to dig into his skin from the pressure of his body weight. He knows without looking it’s the magnet used to pin a snapshot from Emily’s last birthday to the fridge. In the photo, she’s standing on a chair, wearing a huge sombrero and a look of pure mortification. A group of mariachi players surrounds her, their open mouths forever frozen mid-note. Gill is seated just to Em’s left. Because of the angle, only her upturned face is captured in the photo, there but not quite, hovering on the periphery. Her smile is so brilliant, sometimes it hurts.
Sighing impatiently, Sharon drums her fingers on the table, flinging bits of salt in all directions. Once she’s sure she has his attention, she rises from her chair and saunters over to where Tharp’s file rests on the counter next to the sink, rolling her hips invitingly. Cal’s cock twitches with interest. He shifts so the magnet digs into a different part of his back.
She takes a sheet of paper from the file then turns, holding it out for his inspection. One of Tharp’s naughty pictures. Or, to be more precise, a copy of a print that sold last year at auction for a bloody fortune. The murky, moody image of a naked woman tied to a chair. Shot from behind and slightly beneath, the model’s bound hands are the picture’s focal point. Only the back of her head is visible, the delicate curl of one ear… Her face is turned away from the camera. She could be almost anyone. An anonymous woman.
“Just so we’re clear,” Sharon says, putting her free hand on the juicy curve of her hip, “you’re sure about how you want to play this?”
He runs his tongue over his teeth and shrugs. “’S not a matter of what I want, love. It’s just the way ‘tis.”
“You’re seriously telling me that a guy this obsessed-” She wiggles the photo at him for emphasis. “-isn’t capable of trying to kill someone?”
“That’s not what I said, now is it?” Annoyance sharpens his tone. It’s one thing to explain the science to an interested audience; it’s another for her to take what she wants from it and disregard the rest.
Her brow wrinkles in confusion. “But-”
“I can’t tell you whether or not he’s capable of killing someone,” he explains, looking at Tharp’s photo but thinking of the picture at his back. Somehow it doesn’t seem right that they’re in the same room, let alone the same medium. “Personally, under the right circumstances, I think we’re all capable.”
“Okay,” she concedes, “point taken. How exactly does that help with my case, though?”
Cal walks over to the trashcan and torpedoes his empty bottle. In no hurry to reply, he stares at the 8x10 she still holds at a distance, like something the cat dragged in. He gauges his answer carefully.
“Look,” he finally says, reaching out to take the picture and finding the paper stock slightly greasy from her fingers, “all I can tell you is, when I asked Tharp if he intended to kill Laura Friedt, he denied it without a hint of deception. Not one. He was tellin’ the truth.”
“What about Foster?” she asks, stubbornly folding her arms over her ample chest. The good cop considering all the evidence. “What’s she think?”
“I gave you my opinion.” He hands the photo back to her. “If you want Foster’s, you’re gonna have ta ask her.”
Sharon finds that amusing. Chuckling to herself, she lightly tosses the photo onto the counter. “Gotcha in trouble with the old lady, did I?”
“My business associate,” he replies, emphasizing those three words, “thinks you’re bad for our bottom line. She doesn’t want you drainin’ the company resources.”
“The resources, huh?” Grinning, she steps in close, her gaze darting from his mouth to his eyes suggestively. “You just keep telling yourself that.”
His knee brushes hers and his cock gives another twitch. “I don’t want to talk about Foster.”
Raising an eyebrow in lewd speculation, she coils her arms around his waist, pushing her tits against his chest. Her perfume envelopes him, something heady and floral mixed with the yeasty smell of Bud Lite. Beneath the soft curves, he can feel a layer of muscle, solid and unyielding. Her mouth hovers just above his. “You sure? You seem to be enjoying yourself so far.”
“That,” he replies, fitting his hands to her hips, “has nothing to do with Foster.”
“No?” Tilting her dark head toward the photograph on the counter, she smiles wickedly. “Then maybe it has something to do with that?”
Watching her face closely, he doesn’t reply.
“Oh c’mon, Lightman…” She presses against his body and laughs and he can feel the sound vibrate through him. Her fingers wander to his belt buckle. “You know I can keep a secret.”
He leans back a little, giving her room to work. “Better than almost anyone I know.”
“So,” she purrs, easing his belt loose, “you might as well tell me, right?”
He smiles, letting her see only what he wants her to see. “What ‘bout you, detective? You like a little bondage and domination in between the old protect and serve?”
She tries not to give anything away, but her upper lip curls in disgust, ever so slightly.
“Nah,” he surmises, “you’re not the type.”
“What type is that? Stupid?”
He runs the pad of his thumb along her sneering jawline. “Trustin’. It takes a lot of faith to put your life in someone else’s hands.”
Unbuttoning his fly, Sharon frowns. “Tell that to Laura Friedt.”
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The remains of dinner are spread out across the table, an untouched pickle and the crust of a sandwich bearing the crenellated marks of Wallowski’s teeth on her side, nothing but grease-stained wax paper on his. Pretzels litter the no man’s land between them, dropping fat crystals of salt like snakes shedding skin. A ragged line of bottles bisects the lot. Floating above them, the lovely detective’s chocolate brown eyes are heavy-lidded with desire.
“So…” she sighs, the sound ripe with anticipation.
Cal grabs a Guinness, realizes it’s empty and puts it back before grabbing another. He should be enjoying this more than he is. “So.”
“You must really like my ass.” The generous line of her mouth curls into a smile as she tilts her head coyly and looks at him from beneath a dark fringe of lashes. “Kissing it’s becoming a real habit with you.”
Grinning, he wags his eyebrows at her, prompting a surprisingly girlish giggle. “I’m motivated purely by self-interest.”
She shakes her head, still smiling. Saying no, meaning yes.
“I gotta admit,” she says, leaning forward with one elbow on the table, flashing him a good look down her blouse. Cradled in a black lace bra, her tits are lush and enticing, enough to keep him occupied for days. “I didn’t think you’d be able to get Tharp to pick up the phone, let alone sit down for an interview.”
“So much for flattery.” He takes another long draw from his stout, savoring the bitter malt flavor.
“Man, I don’t know how you can drink that,” she grimaces, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “It smells like a mix of soy sauce and piss.”
“Don’t knock it ‘til ya try. Here,” he laughs, rising from his chair to hold the ale out in offer. The alcohol makes his head swim pleasantly. “Open up. Have summa mine.” He’s making a joke of it, but the thought of putting the bottle to her pipefitter’s lips excites him. Only, in his mind’s eye, the mouth opening itself to him is a soft pink cupid’s bow, the eyes above it wide and blue. Pushing the thought away, he leans in closer to Sharon.
“Don’t come near me with that stuff, I mean it!” she warns, playfully doubling up her fist. He turns and she hits him in the bicep, pulling her punch so it rolls harmlessly off his arm at the last instant.
“Yeah, yeah.” Winking at her, he drains the rest of the bottle.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she continues, picking up her train of thought. She closes one eye and points the neck of her own beer-a domestic lite-at him like she’s aiming a gun. “I always knew you were good. But that partner of yours…?”
She snorts and takes a drink.
An angry defense leaps to his lips but he bites it back, leaning against the refrigerator to peel the label from his Guinness. He’s still sober enough to realize that discussing Foster with the detective is about as useful as discussing faith with an atheist; she simply has no frame of reference with which to understand. Besides, he doesn’t want Gillian figuring into this.
Seeming to sense his irritation, Sharon swings a bare foot out from under the table to nudge his jean-clad leg. “C’mon, Lightman,” she purrs, running her arch along his inseam from ankle to knee. Her toenails are painted a gaudy, glittery gold. “I didn’t mean anything. Don’t get all pissy.”
“She saved your ass,” he feels obligated to reply. But the d-cupped detective is smiling and flashing her tits at him again, so it comes out sounding low and thick, like a come-on.
“I’ll send her a card.”
“Mmm,” he grunts, noncommittal. A slight discomfort in his shoulder distracts him, something on the refrigerator door starting to dig into his skin from the pressure of his body weight. He knows without looking it’s the magnet used to pin a snapshot from Emily’s last birthday to the fridge. In the photo, she’s standing on a chair, wearing a huge sombrero and a look of pure mortification. A group of mariachi players surrounds her, their open mouths forever frozen mid-note. Gill is seated just to Em’s left. Because of the angle, only her upturned face is captured in the photo, there but not quite, hovering on the periphery. Her smile is so brilliant, sometimes it hurts.
Sighing impatiently, Sharon drums her fingers on the table, flinging bits of salt in all directions. Once she’s sure she has his attention, she rises from her chair and saunters over to where Tharp’s file rests on the counter next to the sink, rolling her hips invitingly. Cal’s cock twitches with interest. He shifts so the magnet digs into a different part of his back.
She takes a sheet of paper from the file then turns, holding it out for his inspection. One of Tharp’s naughty pictures. Or, to be more precise, a copy of a print that sold last year at auction for a bloody fortune. The murky, moody image of a naked woman tied to a chair. Shot from behind and slightly beneath, the model’s bound hands are the picture’s focal point. Only the back of her head is visible, the delicate curl of one ear… Her face is turned away from the camera. She could be almost anyone. An anonymous woman.
“Just so we’re clear,” Sharon says, putting her free hand on the juicy curve of her hip, “you’re sure about how you want to play this?”
He runs his tongue over his teeth and shrugs. “’S not a matter of what I want, love. It’s just the way ‘tis.”
“You’re seriously telling me that a guy this obsessed-” She wiggles the photo at him for emphasis. “-isn’t capable of trying to kill someone?”
“That’s not what I said, now is it?” Annoyance sharpens his tone. It’s one thing to explain the science to an interested audience; it’s another for her to take what she wants from it and disregard the rest.
Her brow wrinkles in confusion. “But-”
“I can’t tell you whether or not he’s capable of killing someone,” he explains, looking at Tharp’s photo but thinking of the picture at his back. Somehow it doesn’t seem right that they’re in the same room, let alone the same medium. “Personally, under the right circumstances, I think we’re all capable.”
“Okay,” she concedes, “point taken. How exactly does that help with my case, though?”
Cal walks over to the trashcan and torpedoes his empty bottle. In no hurry to reply, he stares at the 8x10 she still holds at a distance, like something the cat dragged in. He gauges his answer carefully.
“Look,” he finally says, reaching out to take the picture and finding the paper stock slightly greasy from her fingers, “all I can tell you is, when I asked Tharp if he intended to kill Laura Friedt, he denied it without a hint of deception. Not one. He was tellin’ the truth.”
“What about Foster?” she asks, stubbornly folding her arms over her ample chest. The good cop considering all the evidence. “What’s she think?”
“I gave you my opinion.” He hands the photo back to her. “If you want Foster’s, you’re gonna have ta ask her.”
Sharon finds that amusing. Chuckling to herself, she lightly tosses the photo onto the counter. “Gotcha in trouble with the old lady, did I?”
“My business associate,” he replies, emphasizing those three words, “thinks you’re bad for our bottom line. She doesn’t want you drainin’ the company resources.”
“The resources, huh?” Grinning, she steps in close, her gaze darting from his mouth to his eyes suggestively. “You just keep telling yourself that.”
His knee brushes hers and his cock gives another twitch. “I don’t want to talk about Foster.”
Raising an eyebrow in lewd speculation, she coils her arms around his waist, pushing her tits against his chest. Her perfume envelopes him, something heady and floral mixed with the yeasty smell of Bud Lite. Beneath the soft curves, he can feel a layer of muscle, solid and unyielding. Her mouth hovers just above his. “You sure? You seem to be enjoying yourself so far.”
“That,” he replies, fitting his hands to her hips, “has nothing to do with Foster.”
“No?” Tilting her dark head toward the photograph on the counter, she smiles wickedly. “Then maybe it has something to do with that?”
Watching her face closely, he doesn’t reply.
“Oh c’mon, Lightman…” She presses against his body and laughs and he can feel the sound vibrate through him. Her fingers wander to his belt buckle. “You know I can keep a secret.”
He leans back a little, giving her room to work. “Better than almost anyone I know.”
“So,” she purrs, easing his belt loose, “you might as well tell me, right?”
He smiles, letting her see only what he wants her to see. “What ‘bout you, detective? You like a little bondage and domination in between the old protect and serve?”
She tries not to give anything away, but her upper lip curls in disgust, ever so slightly.
“Nah,” he surmises, “you’re not the type.”
“What type is that? Stupid?”
He runs the pad of his thumb along her sneering jawline. “Trustin’. It takes a lot of faith to put your life in someone else’s hands.”
Unbuttoning his fly, Sharon frowns. “Tell that to Laura Friedt.”
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