Fic: Carry My Secrets Through the Morning Light (Raydor/Fritz)
Title: Carry My Secrets Through the Morning Light
Author: afrakaday
Rating: M
Word count: 4800
A/N: Spoilers through 7x11, “Necessary Evil”
Summary: Even casual lovers fight from time to time, forcing Sharon to address an issue she'd rather not.
____
Fritz glanced at the reflection of his lover in her bathroom mirror as she applied her makeup and he brushed his teeth. These quiet domestic moments following their surreptitious get-togethers as they both prepared for work were simultaneously enjoyable (a time to revel in easy intimacy with the woman he was sleeping with) and guilt-inducing (a reminder that he was missing this time with his wife). He’d noticed over the course of their affair that a majority of their meaningful conversation seemed to have occurred in her spacious bathroom, honest communication generally coming more easily in the unguarded early morning hours before they both locked away the fact of their involvement and any feelings it might engender for the remainder of the day.
“How did you end up separating from your husband, Sharon?" he asked her softly after he'd placed his toothbrush back in the vanity drawer. After weeks of contemplating the question, he finally decided to voice it.
“It doesn’t matter." She frowned as she searched a drawer for a hair clip. "We’ve been separated for years, okay? We don’t really see each other.”
“Don’t ‘really’ see each other? What does that mean?”
She glared at him in the mirror, eyes glowing. “Stop. Just ... stop.”
Fritz reached out to stroke her cheek. “I don’t understand how anyone could be married to you and not want to be with you.”
She pulled away from his touch, leaning closer to the mirror to check whether he had smeared her blush. “First, you should be perfectly familiar with the concept, since you are here right now and not with your wife. Second, maybe it’s not that he doesn’t want to be with me, Fritz, but rather the other way around. That didn’t occur to you, hmm?” She pursed her lips and looked over at him. “Why does anyone decide they're better off in separate households? The usual, predictable reasons, I guess. Gambling. Drinking. Arguing about both of those things. Philosophical differences over how to raise our kids.” The stony expression that settled over her face after the final word was a strong signal: discuss this no further. Though he was curious why they’d never gotten divorced after years of separation, he obviously wouldn’t be getting an answer to that question today.
"It just seems odd to me that you know so much about my relationship with Brenda, yet I don’t know anything at all about your family,” he persisted anyway.
“Well, it’s my business and has nothing to do with you. So.” She pushed past him, the fluttering sides of her unbuttoned blouse against her creamy skin causing a similar effect deep in his chest.
He followed her into the textile sanctuary of her walk-in closet, leaning against the door frame and watching her jerky movements as she pulled on an impeccably tailored black pantsuit.
“Why are you so secretive about this?” he asked. “Maybe I’m just looking out for myself. Need to make sure some guy isn’t going to beat me over the head with a baseball bat for sleeping with you while I’m on my way out to the car one morning.”
Stony silence. Not even a hint of the amused look he’d been foolish enough to hope for.
“Maybe I want to know about it because I want to know more about you. Because I care about you.”
Her lack of a response was punctuated with the abrupt sound of an angry zipper.
“At least you have kids to have had philosophical differences about,” he said, realizing he was getting nowhere with his current line of questioning. “I would have very much liked to be a parent.”
“It’s always tough when both parents are in law enforcement,” she pointed out, finally looking up at him. “I’ve seldom seen it work out for anyone I’ve known.”
“So is your husband a cop, then?”
"No. And it's my experience that men who cheat make poor fathers,” she warned as she finished fastening her buttons. She reached up to a shelf and pulled down a shoebox; it felt like a Louboutin kind of day, the red-soled 80-millimeter pumps less conspicuous with pants than a skirt.
"What do you mean?" he asked, though he suspected he knew.
“Look," she said, ignoring his rhetorical question. "I can assure you that you have no need to fear for your personal safety, except that if you don’t leave the issue alone, my service weapon and I will make you wish you had.” She strapped on her holster and patted said weapon for emphasis before asking pointedly, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
Chastened by her mild threat and recognizing a dismissal when he heard one, he backed out of her closet and picked up his briefcase from the foot of her bed before slipping into his shoes and out of her house.
* * *
“Fritzi, TSA’s not even a real federal agency,” Brenda Leigh Johnson whined to her husband. “So what if your independent contractor with a federal agency’s letters on his windbreaker is a ringer for my victim. This murder belongs to Major Crimes.”
Sharon patiently waited out Brenda’s diatribe before asking him, “Did you recover casings from the scene of the shooting of the TSA agent?”
Fritz turned from Brenda to face Sharon and frowned. "Yes."
"Were the casings found at that scene entered into the ATF registry?" Sharon pressed. "If so, we can check them against the casings we found last night--"
Fritz had a headache. He definitely didn't enjoy having both of the women in his life ganging up on him to pump him for information about a TSA agent he could barely recall. It was too early, the jacket on the FBI’s investigation too thin, and he was under-caffeinated.
"Yes, they were,” he snapped in response to Sharon’s question about the casings. “And by the way, I don't work for you."
He immediately regretted his words and tone as a hurt look crossed her face, quickly replaced with her impassive professional facade. She had just been doing her job, he knew, and was uneasy being tasked with overseeing Major Crimes’ internal operations. But being in the same room as the two women had frayed his nerves a bit. He tried to look apologetic, but she'd turned away from him and was watching Brenda watch the video feed.
Brenda hadn't even noticed their loaded exchange, totally transfixed on Detective Gabriel’s questioning of the victim’s wife occurring in the other room.
Sharon tried to get her attention, stepping into the space between Fritz and Brenda and effectively boxing him out. “Chief,” she began, continuing when the blonde looked up at her, “asking all these questions at every one of your crime scenes for the past two months, I am feeling less like a Captain and more like a hall monitor every day. I understand the importance of the federal lawsuit we are facing, but I am not convinced that my constant presence in your division is necessary.”
"Well, that makes two of us, Capt'n." Brenda wrinkled her nose in annoyed agreement, her eyes already straying back to the monitor.
Sharon nodded slightly, looked briefly at Fritz, and squared her shoulders. “And there is something else, something very important, that I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
She wouldn't dare, Fritz panicked. Would she? Rational thought fled as he considered what announcement Sharon might possibly have for Brenda other than "Guess what, Chief, I've been banging your husband"? He’d figured the testy exchange between him and Sharon earlier that morning had been minor, causing him little concern that it would have any lasting effect on their relationship. Had it in fact been so serious that Sharon was about to out them to Brenda Leigh, at work?
He held his breath as Brenda we waved her off. "Not now, Capt’n," she said absently, turning to Fritz to berate him some more over their jurisdictional disagreement.
Saved! he rejoiced. Still, what the hell had she been thinking? He tried to focus on Brenda, afraid to look at Sharon in that moment for fear of escalating whatever tension was between them.
Sharon didn’t look at either of them as she stalked out of the room.
* * *
Sharon watched her cheap prepaid phone vibrating on the vanity, feeling her blood pressure rise with each irritating ring of the default tone. She really didn’t feel like talking to him, but it was the third time he’d called in the past two hours. She sighed and picked up the phone; time to put the man out of his misery. “Yes?” she said coolly.
“Sharon, I’m sorry about today,” he said before she could hang up. “This morning, then in the observation room with Brenda. I shouldn’t have snapped at you while we were working.”
“Fine. Thank you.”
“What was the thing you were trying to tell Brenda?”
She laughed bitterly. “What did you think I was going to tell her?”
He hesitated, refusing to take the bait. “This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have over the phone. Can I come over?”
“No. I have plans tonight,” she said. She set down her curling iron and examined the back of her hair using a silver-backed hand mirror. “And I don’t really want to see you.” The soft tone of her voice made her words no less blunt.
“Just to talk. Tomorrow if it works for you?”
Humming thoughtfully, she mulled over his request. “Fine. Tomorrow morning, early. I’ll have coffee ready.”
* * *
Sharon checked her hair and makeup one last time in the rearview mirror before stepping out and letting the valet drive her personal car away. As she smoothed her clingy black dress over her hips, she wondered why she’d let Gavin talk her into coming to the holiday party his firm threw for clients.
“Please, Sharon,” he’d wheedled, “the party needs more badass bitches like you to make things interesting.”
“Badass bitch?” she’d repeated incredulously.
“Yes, honey, don’t you think for one second that I’ve forgotten about that stunt you pulled with the beanbag gun. You have to come and tell stories like that. Lawyers are so boring. Next Wednesday, okay? Eight o’clock, the Katsuya in Brentwood.”
And he’d hung up on her before she could say no. So here she was, the evening’s entertainment, apparently, though it seemed to her the brass band playing clever arrangements of pop tunes would serve in that capacity perfectly adequately. She followed the sound of the music into the restaurant’s back room, tucking her clutch under her arm as she looked around for Gavin or the bar.
“Captain Raydor!” A loud squeal caught her attention, and she whirled around. Gavin, arms outstretched, looked sharp as usual in his lightweight navy Brioni suit and bejeweled Santa brooch. He kissed both her cheeks, and she noticed his already had the tell-tale flush of a few drinks. “You look fabulous, darling.”
“Thanks, Gavin,” she said, toying with her long strand of pearls. “Nice brooch.”
"So I have some good news, and some not-so-good news. Which do you want first? Oh, let's get you a drink, what do you want?"
"Chardonnay would be fine," she replied, accompanying him to the bar and gratefully accepting the glass. "I suppose I'll hear your good news first."
"Well," he began, setting his cocktail down at an empty high-top table and leaning toward her conspiratorially, "the good news is, there are more than a few eligible bachelors here this evening to whom I would love to introduce you."
Sharon looked around; the gathering was not large, and from what she could tell, most of the men looked either too young for her, or obviously coupled. Typical.
"Sure," she said, figuring she'd be pleasantly surprised if Gavin proved her impressions wrong. Also, she didn't want to fight with Gavin about whether she should be dating. "Now what's the bad news?"
Gavin sighed dramatically, winced, and covered her hand with his own atop the table. "My doofus of a law partner has invited your buffoon of a husband. I'm sorry, Shar. I just found out he was coming a few minutes ago."
"Is he bringing the tartlet?" she asked with a frown.
"Probably. RSVP list says Vince Raydor and guest."
"Okay," she said, draining her wine in two large gulps. "Then I will just finish this drink and leave." She tipped the empty wineglass to her lips again, lapping at the last few drops and setting it back down with a thud.
"Oh, come on, Sharon, it won't be that bad. Let me get you another drink."
She looked toward the entrance, expecting to see her estranged husband, but he wasn't there. "Fine, one more. But I leave the minute that hypocritical asshole walks in.”
“Make sure he sees you first,” Gavin suggested, grabbing a glass of wine from a passing tray and setting it before her. “You look really hot.” He quirked a discerning eyebrow. “Like you’ve been getting laid. Regularly.”
Sharon was helpless to prevent the sheepish blush that confirmed his statement. “Hmm,” she admitted. “It’s...rather good.”
“Shar, I wish you would get together with someone who is actually available for once.” Gavin’s eyes showed compassion and concern for his friend, devoid of judgment.
She shook her head slowly. “This thing with him, it’s so easy. Fun. Or it was, until yesterday, at least.” She frowned at the thought.
“Oh, sweetie. What happened?”
“Out of the blue he starts asking about Vince. Wants to know why we split, what he does for a living, blah blah blah. I really didn’t want to talk about it, so I kicked him out. He was a jerk to me at work later that morning, although he did call to apologize tonight while I was getting ready to come here.”
Gavin smiled knowingly. “You clammed up and told him to leave, yet he called to apologize?”
She shrugged, shoulders slumping defensively. “I guess. I don’t see why he can’t keep things simple, though.”
“Because there’s something more between you than mere chemical attraction,” Gavin pronounced with a flourish, bringing his hand to rest against his heart. “Oh my God, you two are like a cop version of Tracy and Hepburn.”
She laughed. “Thanks for the flattering comparison, Gav, but while I might enjoy de facto freedom to pursue long-term, if informal, relationships, Fritz is hardly estranged from his wife.” She took a sip of wine and swished it around in her mouth as she thought. “He loves her. He only spends time with me because she neglects him. And she only neglects him because she’s a very good police officer.”
“You seem surprisingly okay with that,” he said.
“Sometimes it’s easier to be with someone who can’t want more than I have to give,” she said simply. “And on that note...” She nodded her head toward the group of recent arrivals gathered at the entrance and took a final sip of wine, setting the half-full glass down on a tray next to the bar before turning back to Gavin for a hug. “Thanks for getting me out of the house tonight, even if you did lead me into an ambush by my ex.”
“Well, thanks for coming,” he said. “I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to regale any fabulously fit, interesting, and straight men with your bean bag story.”
“Maybe next time,” she said with a wink. She looked over at Vince; he hadn’t noticed her presence, apparently too busy preening next to his arm candy. “Ugh. Why does the tartlet have to be so young? She’s closer in age to our kids than us.”
“And she’d kill for your legs,” he said. Squeezing her shoulder, he added, “Go on, make your escape.”
As she strutted confidently to the door, her husband caught her eye. She smirked and gave him an indifferent three-fingered wave as she heard Gavin call in afterthought, "And make things right with that yummy agent of yours!"
* * *
When she got home that evening after a regrettable stop at In-N-Out for a grilled cheese with pickles (the indulgence had seemed warranted at the time, after being denied an opportunity to eat anything at Katsuya), she washed off her makeup, slipped into a comfy LAPD t-shirt, and flopped onto her bed. She spread her limbs out across the mattress, willing herself not to think about the men in her life and failing miserably.
She wished that Vince didn’t still affect her. He may have moved from starlet to strumpet to tartlet and back through the ranks several times over since their split, she and Gavin assigning each new girl one of Vince's three types as they came along, but each one simply took the place in her mind of the woman for whom he'd first broken up their family. (This was easy to do, given that they always stayed the same age.) Worse still was the guilt and anger at herself she felt for all the times she'd agreed to take him back, thinking it would be different. She'd finally figured out that it never would. And still he refused to sign the papers she'd served on him years ago, claiming divorce was a mortal sin and his family would ostracize him if he couldn't take Communion at Mass.
“Ugh.” She kicked her legs against the bed in frustration, then consciously relaxed and concentrated on her breathing, as she often had to do when dwelling on the fact that the future of her personal life was constrained by Vince's absurd concern for his utterly irredeemable soul. She hugged her knees to her chest and let herself think about her lover instead.
She knew she had overreacted to Fritz’s innocuous questions, which had been perfectly reasonable coming from someone she’d been sleeping with for months, but they'd hit a raw spot. And that had been before she saw the jerk in the flesh, which still rattled her more than she’d like to admit. It was a problem that her insecurities about relationships not only led her to carry on with a married man, but to push him away whenever he tried to get close.
Fritz was gentle, passionate, understanding. He was honest with her. So very different from her ex-partner, the term she preferred to husband when thinking about Vince; relegating him the same label as former work partners gave her linguistic and emotional satisfaction. She wasn't sure what she wanted from Fritz, but she owed it to both of them to at least try to open up to him.
As the scent of his cologne surrounded her and Gavin’s parting advice echoed in her head, the pull of the booty call burn phone became too great to resist. Groaning, she reached for the device and texted him a brief message.
"I'm sorry too. See you tomorrow."
* * *
Sharon looked up from the paperwork she’d been doing to kill time while she awaited his arrival and glanced at the clock as Fritz’s series of curt knocks to her condo door ended. Ten of six gave them plenty of time, but she’d already decided on her priorities for the morning. First, she was going to jump his bones. Then they could hash out whatever they needed to discuss. Though she hoped not in her bathroom. It always seemed like their serious conversations happened in there, which she found a bit unsettling. On the other hand, neither the workplace nor the booty call burn phone seemed an appropriate means of such conversion, either.
She answered the door wearing a short silk robe that barely reached mid-thigh and nothing else. Grasping his lapels in greeting, she dragged him through the threshold and closed the door behind them.
Sharon didn't say anything, just led him to her bedroom, where a tray containing a carafe of coffee and two cups sat on a mahogany tallboy dresser. Despite his need for a strong jolt of caffeine at some point--Brenda's bitter brew had proved particularly unpalatable that morning--he was pleased when Sharon bypassed the coffee entirely and pushed him onto the bed.
"I don't want to fight with you, Fritz," she murmured against his lips as she straddled him, her robe falling open to give him an eyeful (soon handful, then mouthful) of her breasts. "What we have together isn't worth fighting over."
"What do you mean?" he asked, reaching down between them to unfasten his pants. She lifted her hips off him just enough they they could slide his pants down and off.
She went to work on his button-down next, fingers deftly moving along the placket as she shifted her center against his growing hardness. Once her task was done, he pulled it off his arms and threw the garment to the floor, figuring he'd just hang it up in her bathroom while they showered to get the wrinkles out. His undershirt followed. She pushed him into his back and lowered herself onto his cock without preamble.
"I mean," she nibbled on his ear, "I already have a husband with whom to get into spats, or even knock-down, drag-out fights if that's what I'm angling for." A lazy roll of her hips made them both moan in pleasure. "I don't know why I was so determined to not answer your questions yesterday, but I do know it was what led to us fighting. So I'm sorry."
Fritz bucked up and gave her ass a hard slap. "I'm sorry, too," he said. "For pushing." He grasped her hips and drove into her with deep, long thrusts. "You're like a fucking drug, woman." They moved against one another, completely in sync, for a few more moments before he traced a finger around her nipple and added, "And I don't know if you were aware of this, but I've got a bit of an addictive personality."
"I may have heard something to that effect while I was investigating that incident where Andy Flynn got jumped leaving a meeting," she admitted as she ground herself against him shamelessly. "God, Fritz. That feels fantastic."
“Don’t talk about Flynn in bed,” he said sternly, smacking her ass again to show her he meant it. That just caused her to laugh, then lean down to whisper in his ear, "Do it again?"
"Oh yeah," he said with another loud slap against her flesh. She sat up and stopped moving for a moment, leaning back to look over her shoulder at the red marks he'd left on her buttock.
"Nice, Fritz," she said, impressed.
"Not supposed to be nice," he growled, pushing into her insistently.
She braced her hands against the smooth expanse of his chest and angled her hips so her clit slid along his length with each excruciatingly slow thrust. Back and forth she accepted him, clenching her muscles at the zenith of each intrusion. The strain showing on his face made her take mercy on the man, tilting her hips back again to take him fully, deeply, and faster.
"Oh, thank God," she could have sworn she heard him mutter. His hands grasped her shoulders, urging her on, using her body for leverage as he sought to bring about her own end. He began to tense up under her, and she reached her fingertip down between them to flick at the bundle of nerves there so they could break through the “do not cross” tape together.
“Yeah,” Fritz groaned as she rolled off of him. “Definitely addictive.”
Sharon gave herself a few minutes to catch her breath before rising to retrieve the coffee tray and bring it over to the bed. She poured herself a cup, then shrugged back into her robe and sat next to him, leaning against the solid wood headboard of her carved sleigh bed. She took a sip and said, "So. Yesterday."
He opened his eyes and pushed himself up to sit beside her, pulling the sheet up over his lap. "Yesterday." He nodded at her nonverbal question and she handed him her coffee as she poured a second cup.
"You wanted to know what I was trying to say to Chief Johnson when the three of us were watching that interview."
"I did," he said neutrally. "Still do."
"I was going to tell Brenda of my intention to retire from the LAPD."
Fritz's eyes widened in comprehension. "Oh! I heard about that yesterday. Brenda still hadn't, though. I was the one to tell her." He cocked his head. "I was surprised you didn’t say something to me first. You're quitting the force to work at the convention center?"
She shook her head. "No, I am not."
"But you told Taylor and Pope you were?"
"Correct," Sharon said.
"Why....Ohhh." Fritz was pretty sure he knew why, now. "The leak."
"Goldman knew by yesterday afternoon," she confirmed. "Proving that he has a quicker line on internal LAPD information than a Deputy Chief. And that's a problem."
They were both silent for a moment as they contemplated the implications. "Well, I'm glad you're not leaving, Sharon," he said sincerely. "You are very good at what you do, even if Pope is currently frustrating your talents by having you audit Major Crimes."
"I appreciate that," she said. “It was kind of fun announcing to him that I couldn’t do it anymore.” Her brow furrowed as she thought back to the previous day’s exchange. "So yesterday--you thought I was going to say something about us? That that was my big announcement to make to Brenda Leigh?" She began to laugh, falling over against his shoulder in a fit of giggles. "Oh Fritz...your powers of logical deduction are surprisingly lacking for an employee of the Federal Bureau of Investigation."
"Only where you’re concerned, I think. And I'm glad to have been wrong," he said, allowing himself a small smile at his own expense. “I was pretty worried there for a minute.” He wrapped an arm over her shoulders and pulled her against him as her giggles subsided.
“Sharon...I actually have something to tell you, too,” he said once her squirming stopped, admiring the expanse of flesh peeking through her loosely belted robe. She looked at him expectantly, suddenly very serious. “We can’t continue for the next couple of weeks, at least. My in-laws are coming for an extended visit.”
She drew her foot up along his calf and smiled at the thought of Willie Rae and Clay; while their daughter might be oblivious, they were definitely people who would have no reservations about getting into their son-in-law’s business. It was time to turn off the burn phone for a while. “Good.”
“Good?” Fritz’s face fell.
Sharon laughed at him and turned on her side to face him, trailing her fingernails from his pubic bone up to his nipple and avoiding eye contact. “Yes, good. You were hoping I’d fight you about that? You thought I’d pine for you, make demands on your time?”
He shook his head. “No. That’s not your style, Raydor.” The fondness with which he spoke her last name matched the look in his eyes as he reached over and pushed her hair out of her face.
She finally turned her eyes to his. “The reason I said good is that I couldn’t entertain you here anyway for the next few weeks. Until mid-January at least.”
“And why is that?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Because, Agent Howard, it is winter break, and my kids will be home from school.”
“When?”
She reached over to her nightstand and grabbed her Blackberry, opening the calendar application. “My daughter arrives in two days. My son not until early next week, he’s in graduate school and has a shorter break.”
“Is he going to be here?”
“Who?” Sharon was confused. Of course her son would be there; hadn’t she just said that?
“You know. Your husband.”
Sharon’s sunny disposition instantly turned clouded. “Not this again, Fritz.”
Fritz took the phone from her and set it on the side table, pushing her onto her back and reaching over her in the process. “Okay, okay, I’ll let it go.” Settling his body on top of hers, he pushed her onto her back and buried his face into her neck. “But only if you give me something to tide me over until January, Captain,” he whispered into her ear.
“You’re going to make me late for work,” she protested.
He flexed his hips against hers so she could feel the evidence of his improbably short refractory period, asserting his need and re-igniting her own desire.
"Last time...for now," she sighed in assent, arching up to meet him.
Author: afrakaday
Rating: M
Word count: 4800
A/N: Spoilers through 7x11, “Necessary Evil”
Summary: Even casual lovers fight from time to time, forcing Sharon to address an issue she'd rather not.
____
Fritz glanced at the reflection of his lover in her bathroom mirror as she applied her makeup and he brushed his teeth. These quiet domestic moments following their surreptitious get-togethers as they both prepared for work were simultaneously enjoyable (a time to revel in easy intimacy with the woman he was sleeping with) and guilt-inducing (a reminder that he was missing this time with his wife). He’d noticed over the course of their affair that a majority of their meaningful conversation seemed to have occurred in her spacious bathroom, honest communication generally coming more easily in the unguarded early morning hours before they both locked away the fact of their involvement and any feelings it might engender for the remainder of the day.
“How did you end up separating from your husband, Sharon?" he asked her softly after he'd placed his toothbrush back in the vanity drawer. After weeks of contemplating the question, he finally decided to voice it.
“It doesn’t matter." She frowned as she searched a drawer for a hair clip. "We’ve been separated for years, okay? We don’t really see each other.”
“Don’t ‘really’ see each other? What does that mean?”
She glared at him in the mirror, eyes glowing. “Stop. Just ... stop.”
Fritz reached out to stroke her cheek. “I don’t understand how anyone could be married to you and not want to be with you.”
She pulled away from his touch, leaning closer to the mirror to check whether he had smeared her blush. “First, you should be perfectly familiar with the concept, since you are here right now and not with your wife. Second, maybe it’s not that he doesn’t want to be with me, Fritz, but rather the other way around. That didn’t occur to you, hmm?” She pursed her lips and looked over at him. “Why does anyone decide they're better off in separate households? The usual, predictable reasons, I guess. Gambling. Drinking. Arguing about both of those things. Philosophical differences over how to raise our kids.” The stony expression that settled over her face after the final word was a strong signal: discuss this no further. Though he was curious why they’d never gotten divorced after years of separation, he obviously wouldn’t be getting an answer to that question today.
"It just seems odd to me that you know so much about my relationship with Brenda, yet I don’t know anything at all about your family,” he persisted anyway.
“Well, it’s my business and has nothing to do with you. So.” She pushed past him, the fluttering sides of her unbuttoned blouse against her creamy skin causing a similar effect deep in his chest.
He followed her into the textile sanctuary of her walk-in closet, leaning against the door frame and watching her jerky movements as she pulled on an impeccably tailored black pantsuit.
“Why are you so secretive about this?” he asked. “Maybe I’m just looking out for myself. Need to make sure some guy isn’t going to beat me over the head with a baseball bat for sleeping with you while I’m on my way out to the car one morning.”
Stony silence. Not even a hint of the amused look he’d been foolish enough to hope for.
“Maybe I want to know about it because I want to know more about you. Because I care about you.”
Her lack of a response was punctuated with the abrupt sound of an angry zipper.
“At least you have kids to have had philosophical differences about,” he said, realizing he was getting nowhere with his current line of questioning. “I would have very much liked to be a parent.”
“It’s always tough when both parents are in law enforcement,” she pointed out, finally looking up at him. “I’ve seldom seen it work out for anyone I’ve known.”
“So is your husband a cop, then?”
"No. And it's my experience that men who cheat make poor fathers,” she warned as she finished fastening her buttons. She reached up to a shelf and pulled down a shoebox; it felt like a Louboutin kind of day, the red-soled 80-millimeter pumps less conspicuous with pants than a skirt.
"What do you mean?" he asked, though he suspected he knew.
“Look," she said, ignoring his rhetorical question. "I can assure you that you have no need to fear for your personal safety, except that if you don’t leave the issue alone, my service weapon and I will make you wish you had.” She strapped on her holster and patted said weapon for emphasis before asking pointedly, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
Chastened by her mild threat and recognizing a dismissal when he heard one, he backed out of her closet and picked up his briefcase from the foot of her bed before slipping into his shoes and out of her house.
* * *
“Fritzi, TSA’s not even a real federal agency,” Brenda Leigh Johnson whined to her husband. “So what if your independent contractor with a federal agency’s letters on his windbreaker is a ringer for my victim. This murder belongs to Major Crimes.”
Sharon patiently waited out Brenda’s diatribe before asking him, “Did you recover casings from the scene of the shooting of the TSA agent?”
Fritz turned from Brenda to face Sharon and frowned. "Yes."
"Were the casings found at that scene entered into the ATF registry?" Sharon pressed. "If so, we can check them against the casings we found last night--"
Fritz had a headache. He definitely didn't enjoy having both of the women in his life ganging up on him to pump him for information about a TSA agent he could barely recall. It was too early, the jacket on the FBI’s investigation too thin, and he was under-caffeinated.
"Yes, they were,” he snapped in response to Sharon’s question about the casings. “And by the way, I don't work for you."
He immediately regretted his words and tone as a hurt look crossed her face, quickly replaced with her impassive professional facade. She had just been doing her job, he knew, and was uneasy being tasked with overseeing Major Crimes’ internal operations. But being in the same room as the two women had frayed his nerves a bit. He tried to look apologetic, but she'd turned away from him and was watching Brenda watch the video feed.
Brenda hadn't even noticed their loaded exchange, totally transfixed on Detective Gabriel’s questioning of the victim’s wife occurring in the other room.
Sharon tried to get her attention, stepping into the space between Fritz and Brenda and effectively boxing him out. “Chief,” she began, continuing when the blonde looked up at her, “asking all these questions at every one of your crime scenes for the past two months, I am feeling less like a Captain and more like a hall monitor every day. I understand the importance of the federal lawsuit we are facing, but I am not convinced that my constant presence in your division is necessary.”
"Well, that makes two of us, Capt'n." Brenda wrinkled her nose in annoyed agreement, her eyes already straying back to the monitor.
Sharon nodded slightly, looked briefly at Fritz, and squared her shoulders. “And there is something else, something very important, that I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
She wouldn't dare, Fritz panicked. Would she? Rational thought fled as he considered what announcement Sharon might possibly have for Brenda other than "Guess what, Chief, I've been banging your husband"? He’d figured the testy exchange between him and Sharon earlier that morning had been minor, causing him little concern that it would have any lasting effect on their relationship. Had it in fact been so serious that Sharon was about to out them to Brenda Leigh, at work?
He held his breath as Brenda we waved her off. "Not now, Capt’n," she said absently, turning to Fritz to berate him some more over their jurisdictional disagreement.
Saved! he rejoiced. Still, what the hell had she been thinking? He tried to focus on Brenda, afraid to look at Sharon in that moment for fear of escalating whatever tension was between them.
Sharon didn’t look at either of them as she stalked out of the room.
* * *
Sharon watched her cheap prepaid phone vibrating on the vanity, feeling her blood pressure rise with each irritating ring of the default tone. She really didn’t feel like talking to him, but it was the third time he’d called in the past two hours. She sighed and picked up the phone; time to put the man out of his misery. “Yes?” she said coolly.
“Sharon, I’m sorry about today,” he said before she could hang up. “This morning, then in the observation room with Brenda. I shouldn’t have snapped at you while we were working.”
“Fine. Thank you.”
“What was the thing you were trying to tell Brenda?”
She laughed bitterly. “What did you think I was going to tell her?”
He hesitated, refusing to take the bait. “This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have over the phone. Can I come over?”
“No. I have plans tonight,” she said. She set down her curling iron and examined the back of her hair using a silver-backed hand mirror. “And I don’t really want to see you.” The soft tone of her voice made her words no less blunt.
“Just to talk. Tomorrow if it works for you?”
Humming thoughtfully, she mulled over his request. “Fine. Tomorrow morning, early. I’ll have coffee ready.”
* * *
Sharon checked her hair and makeup one last time in the rearview mirror before stepping out and letting the valet drive her personal car away. As she smoothed her clingy black dress over her hips, she wondered why she’d let Gavin talk her into coming to the holiday party his firm threw for clients.
“Please, Sharon,” he’d wheedled, “the party needs more badass bitches like you to make things interesting.”
“Badass bitch?” she’d repeated incredulously.
“Yes, honey, don’t you think for one second that I’ve forgotten about that stunt you pulled with the beanbag gun. You have to come and tell stories like that. Lawyers are so boring. Next Wednesday, okay? Eight o’clock, the Katsuya in Brentwood.”
And he’d hung up on her before she could say no. So here she was, the evening’s entertainment, apparently, though it seemed to her the brass band playing clever arrangements of pop tunes would serve in that capacity perfectly adequately. She followed the sound of the music into the restaurant’s back room, tucking her clutch under her arm as she looked around for Gavin or the bar.
“Captain Raydor!” A loud squeal caught her attention, and she whirled around. Gavin, arms outstretched, looked sharp as usual in his lightweight navy Brioni suit and bejeweled Santa brooch. He kissed both her cheeks, and she noticed his already had the tell-tale flush of a few drinks. “You look fabulous, darling.”
“Thanks, Gavin,” she said, toying with her long strand of pearls. “Nice brooch.”
"So I have some good news, and some not-so-good news. Which do you want first? Oh, let's get you a drink, what do you want?"
"Chardonnay would be fine," she replied, accompanying him to the bar and gratefully accepting the glass. "I suppose I'll hear your good news first."
"Well," he began, setting his cocktail down at an empty high-top table and leaning toward her conspiratorially, "the good news is, there are more than a few eligible bachelors here this evening to whom I would love to introduce you."
Sharon looked around; the gathering was not large, and from what she could tell, most of the men looked either too young for her, or obviously coupled. Typical.
"Sure," she said, figuring she'd be pleasantly surprised if Gavin proved her impressions wrong. Also, she didn't want to fight with Gavin about whether she should be dating. "Now what's the bad news?"
Gavin sighed dramatically, winced, and covered her hand with his own atop the table. "My doofus of a law partner has invited your buffoon of a husband. I'm sorry, Shar. I just found out he was coming a few minutes ago."
"Is he bringing the tartlet?" she asked with a frown.
"Probably. RSVP list says Vince Raydor and guest."
"Okay," she said, draining her wine in two large gulps. "Then I will just finish this drink and leave." She tipped the empty wineglass to her lips again, lapping at the last few drops and setting it back down with a thud.
"Oh, come on, Sharon, it won't be that bad. Let me get you another drink."
She looked toward the entrance, expecting to see her estranged husband, but he wasn't there. "Fine, one more. But I leave the minute that hypocritical asshole walks in.”
“Make sure he sees you first,” Gavin suggested, grabbing a glass of wine from a passing tray and setting it before her. “You look really hot.” He quirked a discerning eyebrow. “Like you’ve been getting laid. Regularly.”
Sharon was helpless to prevent the sheepish blush that confirmed his statement. “Hmm,” she admitted. “It’s...rather good.”
“Shar, I wish you would get together with someone who is actually available for once.” Gavin’s eyes showed compassion and concern for his friend, devoid of judgment.
She shook her head slowly. “This thing with him, it’s so easy. Fun. Or it was, until yesterday, at least.” She frowned at the thought.
“Oh, sweetie. What happened?”
“Out of the blue he starts asking about Vince. Wants to know why we split, what he does for a living, blah blah blah. I really didn’t want to talk about it, so I kicked him out. He was a jerk to me at work later that morning, although he did call to apologize tonight while I was getting ready to come here.”
Gavin smiled knowingly. “You clammed up and told him to leave, yet he called to apologize?”
She shrugged, shoulders slumping defensively. “I guess. I don’t see why he can’t keep things simple, though.”
“Because there’s something more between you than mere chemical attraction,” Gavin pronounced with a flourish, bringing his hand to rest against his heart. “Oh my God, you two are like a cop version of Tracy and Hepburn.”
She laughed. “Thanks for the flattering comparison, Gav, but while I might enjoy de facto freedom to pursue long-term, if informal, relationships, Fritz is hardly estranged from his wife.” She took a sip of wine and swished it around in her mouth as she thought. “He loves her. He only spends time with me because she neglects him. And she only neglects him because she’s a very good police officer.”
“You seem surprisingly okay with that,” he said.
“Sometimes it’s easier to be with someone who can’t want more than I have to give,” she said simply. “And on that note...” She nodded her head toward the group of recent arrivals gathered at the entrance and took a final sip of wine, setting the half-full glass down on a tray next to the bar before turning back to Gavin for a hug. “Thanks for getting me out of the house tonight, even if you did lead me into an ambush by my ex.”
“Well, thanks for coming,” he said. “I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to regale any fabulously fit, interesting, and straight men with your bean bag story.”
“Maybe next time,” she said with a wink. She looked over at Vince; he hadn’t noticed her presence, apparently too busy preening next to his arm candy. “Ugh. Why does the tartlet have to be so young? She’s closer in age to our kids than us.”
“And she’d kill for your legs,” he said. Squeezing her shoulder, he added, “Go on, make your escape.”
As she strutted confidently to the door, her husband caught her eye. She smirked and gave him an indifferent three-fingered wave as she heard Gavin call in afterthought, "And make things right with that yummy agent of yours!"
* * *
When she got home that evening after a regrettable stop at In-N-Out for a grilled cheese with pickles (the indulgence had seemed warranted at the time, after being denied an opportunity to eat anything at Katsuya), she washed off her makeup, slipped into a comfy LAPD t-shirt, and flopped onto her bed. She spread her limbs out across the mattress, willing herself not to think about the men in her life and failing miserably.
She wished that Vince didn’t still affect her. He may have moved from starlet to strumpet to tartlet and back through the ranks several times over since their split, she and Gavin assigning each new girl one of Vince's three types as they came along, but each one simply took the place in her mind of the woman for whom he'd first broken up their family. (This was easy to do, given that they always stayed the same age.) Worse still was the guilt and anger at herself she felt for all the times she'd agreed to take him back, thinking it would be different. She'd finally figured out that it never would. And still he refused to sign the papers she'd served on him years ago, claiming divorce was a mortal sin and his family would ostracize him if he couldn't take Communion at Mass.
“Ugh.” She kicked her legs against the bed in frustration, then consciously relaxed and concentrated on her breathing, as she often had to do when dwelling on the fact that the future of her personal life was constrained by Vince's absurd concern for his utterly irredeemable soul. She hugged her knees to her chest and let herself think about her lover instead.
She knew she had overreacted to Fritz’s innocuous questions, which had been perfectly reasonable coming from someone she’d been sleeping with for months, but they'd hit a raw spot. And that had been before she saw the jerk in the flesh, which still rattled her more than she’d like to admit. It was a problem that her insecurities about relationships not only led her to carry on with a married man, but to push him away whenever he tried to get close.
Fritz was gentle, passionate, understanding. He was honest with her. So very different from her ex-partner, the term she preferred to husband when thinking about Vince; relegating him the same label as former work partners gave her linguistic and emotional satisfaction. She wasn't sure what she wanted from Fritz, but she owed it to both of them to at least try to open up to him.
As the scent of his cologne surrounded her and Gavin’s parting advice echoed in her head, the pull of the booty call burn phone became too great to resist. Groaning, she reached for the device and texted him a brief message.
"I'm sorry too. See you tomorrow."
* * *
Sharon looked up from the paperwork she’d been doing to kill time while she awaited his arrival and glanced at the clock as Fritz’s series of curt knocks to her condo door ended. Ten of six gave them plenty of time, but she’d already decided on her priorities for the morning. First, she was going to jump his bones. Then they could hash out whatever they needed to discuss. Though she hoped not in her bathroom. It always seemed like their serious conversations happened in there, which she found a bit unsettling. On the other hand, neither the workplace nor the booty call burn phone seemed an appropriate means of such conversion, either.
She answered the door wearing a short silk robe that barely reached mid-thigh and nothing else. Grasping his lapels in greeting, she dragged him through the threshold and closed the door behind them.
Sharon didn't say anything, just led him to her bedroom, where a tray containing a carafe of coffee and two cups sat on a mahogany tallboy dresser. Despite his need for a strong jolt of caffeine at some point--Brenda's bitter brew had proved particularly unpalatable that morning--he was pleased when Sharon bypassed the coffee entirely and pushed him onto the bed.
"I don't want to fight with you, Fritz," she murmured against his lips as she straddled him, her robe falling open to give him an eyeful (soon handful, then mouthful) of her breasts. "What we have together isn't worth fighting over."
"What do you mean?" he asked, reaching down between them to unfasten his pants. She lifted her hips off him just enough they they could slide his pants down and off.
She went to work on his button-down next, fingers deftly moving along the placket as she shifted her center against his growing hardness. Once her task was done, he pulled it off his arms and threw the garment to the floor, figuring he'd just hang it up in her bathroom while they showered to get the wrinkles out. His undershirt followed. She pushed him into his back and lowered herself onto his cock without preamble.
"I mean," she nibbled on his ear, "I already have a husband with whom to get into spats, or even knock-down, drag-out fights if that's what I'm angling for." A lazy roll of her hips made them both moan in pleasure. "I don't know why I was so determined to not answer your questions yesterday, but I do know it was what led to us fighting. So I'm sorry."
Fritz bucked up and gave her ass a hard slap. "I'm sorry, too," he said. "For pushing." He grasped her hips and drove into her with deep, long thrusts. "You're like a fucking drug, woman." They moved against one another, completely in sync, for a few more moments before he traced a finger around her nipple and added, "And I don't know if you were aware of this, but I've got a bit of an addictive personality."
"I may have heard something to that effect while I was investigating that incident where Andy Flynn got jumped leaving a meeting," she admitted as she ground herself against him shamelessly. "God, Fritz. That feels fantastic."
“Don’t talk about Flynn in bed,” he said sternly, smacking her ass again to show her he meant it. That just caused her to laugh, then lean down to whisper in his ear, "Do it again?"
"Oh yeah," he said with another loud slap against her flesh. She sat up and stopped moving for a moment, leaning back to look over her shoulder at the red marks he'd left on her buttock.
"Nice, Fritz," she said, impressed.
"Not supposed to be nice," he growled, pushing into her insistently.
She braced her hands against the smooth expanse of his chest and angled her hips so her clit slid along his length with each excruciatingly slow thrust. Back and forth she accepted him, clenching her muscles at the zenith of each intrusion. The strain showing on his face made her take mercy on the man, tilting her hips back again to take him fully, deeply, and faster.
"Oh, thank God," she could have sworn she heard him mutter. His hands grasped her shoulders, urging her on, using her body for leverage as he sought to bring about her own end. He began to tense up under her, and she reached her fingertip down between them to flick at the bundle of nerves there so they could break through the “do not cross” tape together.
“Yeah,” Fritz groaned as she rolled off of him. “Definitely addictive.”
Sharon gave herself a few minutes to catch her breath before rising to retrieve the coffee tray and bring it over to the bed. She poured herself a cup, then shrugged back into her robe and sat next to him, leaning against the solid wood headboard of her carved sleigh bed. She took a sip and said, "So. Yesterday."
He opened his eyes and pushed himself up to sit beside her, pulling the sheet up over his lap. "Yesterday." He nodded at her nonverbal question and she handed him her coffee as she poured a second cup.
"You wanted to know what I was trying to say to Chief Johnson when the three of us were watching that interview."
"I did," he said neutrally. "Still do."
"I was going to tell Brenda of my intention to retire from the LAPD."
Fritz's eyes widened in comprehension. "Oh! I heard about that yesterday. Brenda still hadn't, though. I was the one to tell her." He cocked his head. "I was surprised you didn’t say something to me first. You're quitting the force to work at the convention center?"
She shook her head. "No, I am not."
"But you told Taylor and Pope you were?"
"Correct," Sharon said.
"Why....Ohhh." Fritz was pretty sure he knew why, now. "The leak."
"Goldman knew by yesterday afternoon," she confirmed. "Proving that he has a quicker line on internal LAPD information than a Deputy Chief. And that's a problem."
They were both silent for a moment as they contemplated the implications. "Well, I'm glad you're not leaving, Sharon," he said sincerely. "You are very good at what you do, even if Pope is currently frustrating your talents by having you audit Major Crimes."
"I appreciate that," she said. “It was kind of fun announcing to him that I couldn’t do it anymore.” Her brow furrowed as she thought back to the previous day’s exchange. "So yesterday--you thought I was going to say something about us? That that was my big announcement to make to Brenda Leigh?" She began to laugh, falling over against his shoulder in a fit of giggles. "Oh Fritz...your powers of logical deduction are surprisingly lacking for an employee of the Federal Bureau of Investigation."
"Only where you’re concerned, I think. And I'm glad to have been wrong," he said, allowing himself a small smile at his own expense. “I was pretty worried there for a minute.” He wrapped an arm over her shoulders and pulled her against him as her giggles subsided.
“Sharon...I actually have something to tell you, too,” he said once her squirming stopped, admiring the expanse of flesh peeking through her loosely belted robe. She looked at him expectantly, suddenly very serious. “We can’t continue for the next couple of weeks, at least. My in-laws are coming for an extended visit.”
She drew her foot up along his calf and smiled at the thought of Willie Rae and Clay; while their daughter might be oblivious, they were definitely people who would have no reservations about getting into their son-in-law’s business. It was time to turn off the burn phone for a while. “Good.”
“Good?” Fritz’s face fell.
Sharon laughed at him and turned on her side to face him, trailing her fingernails from his pubic bone up to his nipple and avoiding eye contact. “Yes, good. You were hoping I’d fight you about that? You thought I’d pine for you, make demands on your time?”
He shook his head. “No. That’s not your style, Raydor.” The fondness with which he spoke her last name matched the look in his eyes as he reached over and pushed her hair out of her face.
She finally turned her eyes to his. “The reason I said good is that I couldn’t entertain you here anyway for the next few weeks. Until mid-January at least.”
“And why is that?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Because, Agent Howard, it is winter break, and my kids will be home from school.”
“When?”
She reached over to her nightstand and grabbed her Blackberry, opening the calendar application. “My daughter arrives in two days. My son not until early next week, he’s in graduate school and has a shorter break.”
“Is he going to be here?”
“Who?” Sharon was confused. Of course her son would be there; hadn’t she just said that?
“You know. Your husband.”
Sharon’s sunny disposition instantly turned clouded. “Not this again, Fritz.”
Fritz took the phone from her and set it on the side table, pushing her onto her back and reaching over her in the process. “Okay, okay, I’ll let it go.” Settling his body on top of hers, he pushed her onto her back and buried his face into her neck. “But only if you give me something to tide me over until January, Captain,” he whispered into her ear.
“You’re going to make me late for work,” she protested.
He flexed his hips against hers so she could feel the evidence of his improbably short refractory period, asserting his need and re-igniting her own desire.
"Last time...for now," she sighed in assent, arching up to meet him.