TITLE: House Arrest (26/35)
PAIRING: Lindsay/Cindy
DISCLAIMER: Women’s Murder Club does not belong to me. The characters do not belong to me. They are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. I have no problems with that as long as I can borrow them for short bursts and use them in pursuit of my own enjoyment. I am not trying to infringe. Though, I don’t know why anyone has a problem with fan fic. After all, it really is a compliment. If anyone wants to write fan fiction about my book, feel free.  

(12/30 - LINDSAY’S POV)

“Twenty questions?” Cindy asked.

They were both pleasantly tipsy, and Lindsay was actually about to suggest they retire to the bedroom, because Cindy was getting more and more relaxed, and the more relaxed she got, the more she kept staring at Lindsay with a desire so blatant, it would have brought Lindsay to her knees if she’d been standing. But Cindy also looked excited by her proposal.

“I spy with my little eye? That kind of twenty questions?”

“No. This kind of twenty questions,” Cindy answered, pulling a tiny stapled booklet from her bag by the couch.

“What is that?” Lindsay asked.

It looked like a religious pamphlet.

“The Getting to Know you Bible.”

“The Getting to Know You Bible?”

“Yeah. It has twenty questions that are supposed to tell you everything you really need to know about someone. My friends and I made this in college.”
 
Lindsay pictured Cindy, a few years younger, sitting around with a group of writing majors, brainstorming questions for the Getting to Know You Bible.

“That’s cute. So all of your friends were nerds?”

Even Cindy’s glare was sexy as hell.

“Kinda,” she admitted, blushing.

She opened the little booklet and flipped through it, and Lindsay took a sip from her glass, and wondered exactly what she had done to have this person sitting in her living room. This person who was optimistic and generally happy. This person who understood that she had spent the past two weeks examining the deaths of five kids and a woman, and she wanted to push the image of a little girl with her neck slit, bleeding onto the white teddy bear still cradled in her arms out of her head by whatever means necessary. A person who understood that, when she suggested they get drunk, it’s because she really needed to. Because today had been bad, and she couldn’t imagine that this man could do this to his own daughter.
 
Cindy hadn’t asked any questions. She hadn’t needed to. Because she got it. She got Lindsay. She’d just grabbed a glass and agreed to Butter Shots and straight Amaretto. For her. She’d done it for her. So, if Cindy wanted to get to know her better through a self-created torture device like the Getting to Know You Bible, she was in.

“Okay, hit me,” she drawled.

And it was totally worth it when Cindy smiled over at her.

“You sure?” she asked.

“I’m half-drunk. You’d better get it in while you can.”

And Cindy took those words to heart and turned instantly back to page one.

“Question #1. How often do you masturbate?”

Lindsay nearly spit Amaretto.

“Aren’t there any lead-in questions?” she sputtered.

“No. We all knew each other really well, so the questions had to be… personal.”

“Incredibly personal,” Lindsay amended.

“Incredibly personal,” Cindy agreed, but kept looking at her as if awaiting an answer.

“I don’t know,” Lindsay said. “As often as I have to.”

Cindy was delighting way too much in the ability to make her blush.

“Hopefully less now,” she added, and her blush transferred to Cindy’s cheeks as she ducked her head to look back down at the book.

“Question #2,” Cindy started, then shook her head. “Never mind. I know this one.”

“What’s the question,” Lindsay demanded, way more curious than she wanted to admit.

“What’s your most private mole?”

“What in the hell is a private mole?”

Cindy moved the few inches down the couch to bump into her, and turned to face her.

“This…”

Transferring the book to her left hand, Cindy slid her right hand, without warning, down between Lindsay’s legs, placing a finger very high and very far back on her thigh, bumping into every receptive spot in the area in the process.

“…is a private mole.”

Lindsay grabbed her wrist and pulled it away.

“Do you want to get through those questions?” she asked warningly.

“I don’t know,” Cindy responded, eyeing her lips. “Do I want to get through these questions?”

And Lindsay couldn’t take it. She twisted her hand into the collar of Cindy’s shirt and pulled her forward, blindly finding the table beside the couch to set her glass on, before tangling her other hand in Cindy’s hair.

Cindy kissed her back hungrily, her lips and tongue doing their damnedest to melt Lindsay into a pile of submissive flesh and bone. Then, she just stopped. She just stopped kissing her. All of a sudden. She pulled away, unlatched Lindsay’s hand from her shirt, and scooted back down the couch.

“Question #3,” she said and cleared her throat.

So, this was how it was going to be. Teasing. Toying. Tormenting. Two could play at this game. Though how long she could fight the urge to throw Cindy onto her back and straddle her against the cushions was definitely up in the air.

“Why aren’t you answering the questions?” Lindsay asked, before Cindy could get out question #3.

“What?” Cindy asked, her voice faltering.

“Why aren’t you answering the questions?” she asked again, though she knew she’d been heard. She leaned over to whisper into Cindy’s ear. “Come on, Baby, how often do you masturbate?”

The term of endearment came very easily to her lips, and, combined with the hot breath she exhaled against the side of Cindy’s throat, it had the desired effects of making Cindy’s chest start heaving and goose bumps form down her neck. It took every fiber of Lindsay’s being not to run her tongue up the trail.

“Once, twice, three times a day?” Lindsay asked softly, still hovering as close to Cindy as she could get without touching her. “More since you met me?”

“My schedule may have picked up,” Cindy admitted, her voice breathy. “…barely.”
 
“You’re a terrible liar,” Lindsay husked and leaned back against the arm of the couch. “And don’t worry. I already know the answer to the second question too. Next.”
 
Cindy appeared to be having some difficulty reading. Lindsay was totally going to win this contest.
 
“Question #3,” Cindy repeated finally.
 
Her tongue made an appearance, coming out once again to wet her lips, and Lindsay sat helplessly as it had its usual effect on her. Even in profile, Lindsay could make out the smirk that followed the action onto Cindy’s face. So, she was aware of the impact that particular action had on her. Lindsay was going to have to be a little more careful about guarding her hand.
 
“Who’s the last person you slept with?”
 
“You mean besides you?”
 
Cindy looked over at her slyly, and Lindsay seriously considered forfeiting and tackling her opponent.
 
“You first,” she urged instead.
 
“You wouldn’t know her,” Cindy responded, turning away.
 
“Her,” Lindsay said. “I already know something new. So, who was it?”
 
“Just some intern at the paper. It was after an office party. I was lonely. I really don’t want to talk about it,” Cindy said in rapid succession.
 
“Okay,” Lindsay replied softly.
 
She knew Cindy well enough to know that a one night stand wasn’t exactly her style, and she could see on her face just how guilty she still felt about it.

“You?” Cindy asked.

“Tom,” Lindsay answered without much thought.

Cindy looked over at her slowly, her eyes scrutinizing.

“That long huh?”

“I wish,” Lindsay scoffed. “It was right before he married Heather. And I really don’t want to talk about it.” She tilted the empty Amaretto bottle up on one edge. “I do, however, want more drink. I’ll be right back.”

The Earth tilted only slightly when she stood and she managed her way into the kitchen with very little spectacle. What was left? Nothing that she could drink without some sort of mixer, which she didn’t have. So, either it was time to start coffee, or time to talk Cindy into postponing the game with offers of TLC or tough love. She was debating which would work better when an alarm went off. It sounded close by, like, for instance, inside the apartment. Lindsay’s eyes went wide.

“Cindy!” she called, running out of the kitchen.

She rushed to the door as fast as she could manage with her head spinning the way that it was. When she yanked it open, Cindy was halfway through the door into the stairwell.

“Cindy!” she yelled, but Cindy didn’t stop.

Lindsay growled and tore after her, yanking open the stairwell door when she reached it, and not even thinking twice about performing a move she used often when she wasn’t under the influence. She hopped over the railing, falling down onto the next set of stairs just behind Cindy. It was a sloppy landing, and could have been dangerous. If she’d been thinking more clearly, she never would have tried it. She could have caused either one, or both of them, to take a tumble down the stairs, but she managed to grab onto the railing with one hand and catch Cindy’s arm with the other.

Cindy tried to yank her arm away, and Lindsay found herself sobering up very quickly. She pulled Cindy back to her and wrapped both arms around her waist, dragging her back up the stairs.

“What in the hell are you doing?” she growled.

“What do you care?”

“You’re going to get the entire force out here,” Lindsay told her, pulling her back through the door into the hallway and toward the apartment. “Would you please stop fighting me?”

A door opened down the hall and an old man stuck his head out.

“Evening Mr. Miklochek. Could you mind your own damn business?” she barked, reaching the apartment and pulling Cindy back inside.

The alarm stopped as she dragged Cindy back through the door and made it to her cell phone on the third ring. She pushed Cindy down on the couch, keeping one hand on her, while she flipped open her phone one-handed. When Cindy shrugged her hand off, she didn’t force the issue, but she did stand in front of her to prevent any further fleeing.

“Boxer,” Lindsay said into the phone, answering all of the questions she knew were coming. “It must have been a glitch. She’s sitting right in front of me. Sorry about that.”

Cindy sat with her arms crossed, staring down at the floor, during the length of the brief conversation.

“Now you want to tell me what in the hell that was?” Lindsay asked as she hung up.

“Nothing,” Cindy muttered.

“Nothing?” Lindsay queried in her most disbelieving tone. “You just wanted to offer a belated Merry Christmas to the San Francisco police department?”

“I’m sorry okay. Just… would you just leave me alone?”

It hurt to be asked that. It was the last thing that Lindsay wanted to do, and it hurt a lot that Cindy was asking.

“Cindy, what happened?”

But Cindy didn’t answer. She wouldn’t even look at her. She could tell that Cindy’s wish to be left alone was sincere and fixed.

“Are you going to stay here?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m going to stay here,” Cindy mumbled.

She sounded miserable.

Lindsay wanted to ask her again what happened. She wanted to sit down and hold her. She wanted to handcuff their wrists together in a symbolic attempt to make her understand that she was stuck with her. But she knew that any one of those endeavors would be fought at every turn, and it just wasn’t worth it.

“Fine,” she said dejectedly and walked into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her, and giving Cindy what she wanted.