Extreme Sensitivity… as an excuse. – A Women’s Murder Club Series, part 10

TITLE: Extreme Sensitivity… as an excuse. (10/?)
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. (Well, not anymore. Jackasses.) 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.

(Cindy’s POV)

Itching to touch.

As a proficient writer who could claim a somewhat extensive vocabulary and above average grasp of the English language, and also as an exceedingly curious person, one would think that such a hackneyed expression wouldn’t have been so very lost on her. But she just didn’t get it.

Itching? Why itching? Why not yearning? Or needing? Or desperate? Why not something that actually meant what was being said without having to run it through context first?

She took no issue with clever turns of phrase. She practically lived for them. She liked to think that she kept a few in her own arsenal that would make such an impression one day that she would immediately be moved out of the land of shared workspace and into a real office with a solid door where people had to knock and seek permission before intruding.

In fact, she was quite well-versed in popular idioms. If ever struck by the fancy to do so, she had it in her to write a story so full of them that anyone from another culture wouldn’t understand a word.

But itching? Really? It always made her picture an allergic reaction: hives, watery eyes, snorting and wheezing, possible anaphylactic shock, the need to carry a supply of Benadryl and an epinephrine pen. It just wasn’t appealing imagery, especially considering the sensation it was supposed to embody.

Whenever she’d happened upon the phrase, usually in love poems by people who couldn’t be bothered to splice together words of their own, she’d wondered how exactly the verbal illustration had managed to become a cliché.

What exactly was sexy about itching?

Now she knew. Nothing. There was nothing the least bit sexy about itching. At all. Regardless of how unattractive the notion still seemed, however, she was suddenly much too aware of why it was so overused. There was really no other way to express it.

To leave the diner, she had to get up from her seat. To get up from her seat, she had to stop touching Lindsay. And ever since she’d stopped touching Lindsay, she was itching to touch her again. Fingertips literally tingling with the desire to do so, and standing near Lindsay’s SUV outside the diner with Jill and Claire, all Cindy could think to do was keep rubbing the itchy fingers up and down her pant leg in an, as of yet unsuccessful, attempt to scratch away the overwhelming sensation.

Was it really possible that she’d gone through over a quarter century of her life and never needed to put her hands on something the way that she needed to put her hands on Lindsay?

One furtive glance over at the object of her current ruminations, standing with her hands thrust in her back pockets, looking her usual combination of intimidating and inviting at the same time, despite the fact that she was somewhat lopsided due to the ankle brace she was still sporting, and Cindy at once realized, it was a definite possibility. She may have been a naturally inquisitive person from birth, but it was becoming quite apparent that she had never before burned with such an insatiable curiosity as the one she harbored in regards to Lindsay. Oh, and all of the ways in which she was curious about Lindsay.

She didn’t recognize that her surreptitious glimpse had turned into a flat-out stare until Lindsay’s eyes turned to her and she was caught motionless in them as surely as if she’d been hit with a stunning spell. She waited for it. One beat. Two beats. But the wide smile that she was anticipating never came. Instead, the expression Lindsay wore was so deep, so unmistakable, Cindy finally had to look away from it or risk hyperventilating in reaction.

Ever since she had met Lindsay at her door the night before, Lindsay had offered a non-stop supply of smiles, laughter, and teasing. It had been very easy to assume that, now that Lindsay knew that she had more than friendly feelings toward her, or at least had to suspect it after the kiss, she was going to have fun with it. That’s what she had been doing, wasn’t it? Having fun? The jokes, the flirting. Lindsay was playing off of her foolish moment of weakness. It was a source of amusement for her. Nothing more.

Thus far, it had been fairly easy to believe. But that look, there was no jest in that look. That look said plenty, none of it funny.

“So, we were going to the park to take the boys swimming. I don’t suppose the two of you want to come?”

Brain still in overdrive, trying to figure out what wasn’t being spoken, it took Cindy some time to process what had been. When she finally did, she looked up to find that she’d become the center of attention and tried not to flinch at the discovery of six inquiring eyes on her.

Contrary to past patterns, Lindsay didn’t answer for her. She actually seemed to be awaiting an answer from her.

She could get out of this. It would be just as simple as saying yes to Claire’s offer. Going to the park in a group would be infinitely safer than being alone with Lindsay. And if this were all just a big cruel tease, there was bound to be some pain in the end, but there was definitely something sincere in that look, something unknown and tempting, and it didn’t require a lot of introspection to know what she wanted. She wanted to be alone with Lindsay.

“Linds, didn’t you say your leg was feeling sensitive?”

Lindsay smiled, slow and contented. Definitely not amusement.

“Extremely sensitive, yeah,” she responded in a low voice.

Cindy felt heat roll through her, swallowed, and looked to Jill and Claire, hoping that she wasn’t glowing red.

“I should probably take her home,” she managed around the persistent lump in her throat.

“Thought maybe,” Claire valiantly fought a smirk. “Come on Jill. Let’s leave Florence Nightingale to her work.”

Claire put her hand on Jill’s arm and started to lead her away.

“I want to go with them,” Jill said.

“You’re not invited,” Claire responded to her.

Even as Claire continued to pull Jill toward the car, Jill whirled to look back, almost tripping over her own feet in the process.

“But maybe someday, right?” she called.

“No more Bloody Mary’s for you,” Claire’s voice was barely loud enough to carry back to Lindsay’s car. “And if you say anything even remotely vulgar in front of my kids…”

“Please! They say things when you aren’t around that make me blush,” Jill said as she crawled into the passenger seat.

“Like what?!?”

But Jill had already pulled her door shut.

Claire ran around the front of her car and opened the driver’s side door.

“Like what?” she asked Jill again as she climbed in, but the answer was lost as she shut the door and a moment later, they were driving off.

“Guess our offer for a threesome is on the table,” Cindy uttered, humored by their inebriated friend, despite her other anxieties.

“Before that can happen, I really vote for a twosome first,” Lindsay responded.

And there it was. You couldn’t get much clearer than that. Now, there was only a matter of whether it was a prank or a come on.

Cindy turned to find out, and was met with a soft smile that she couldn’t quite read. God, did Lindsay have any earthly idea how much she could trample her heart into the ground if she was just messing around with her? Suddenly terrified that it showed, Cindy dropped her eyes and headed for the car.

“Cindy,” Lindsay gently called.

Sighing at her own inability to resist, Cindy turned back to her.

Lindsay’s arm lifted into the air, hovering there as if waiting for something.

“Right,” Cindy whispered, moving back to her debilitated friend. Lindsay’s arm instantly came down across her shoulders and, shakily, she draped her arm around Lindsay’s waist. As they hobbled together toward the car, the itching in her fingertips mutated into a pleasant warmth. “Is this the real reason you’ve insisted on going sans crutches all day? So you’d have an excuse to get close to me?”

“Maybe,” Lindsay murmured. “The intern said that I could use the crutches as needed, and why would I need them when I have you?”

Now desperate not to touch Lindsay, Cindy propped her up against the side of the car and pulled the keys from her pocket. Hands shaking noticeably, she tried to unlock the passenger door without success. Lindsay’s hand covered hers and Cindy somehow managed to not drop the keys. Lindsay took them from her, unlocked the door and dangled them before her.

“Thanks,” Cindy uttered, barely glancing up to take the keys back.

Lindsay pressed in on her, an imposing physical presence in her personal space.

“So are you coming back to my place to get your car… or are you coming back to my place?” Lindsay questioned softly.

Cindy couldn’t help but look up, finding it hard to accept that Lindsay was looking at her exactly the way she’d always wanted Lindsay to look at her. A sudden humidity seemed to seize the air, stealing her breath as she tried to come up with an answer for her, but couldn’t. She wanted to explain to Lindsay that this wasn’t a game for her, but she couldn’t do that either. What she could do was hope that the touching and the looks were as real as they seemed.

A daring hand reached out and opened the door for Lindsay.

“Just get in the car, Linds.”