Extreme Sensitivity… as neurosis. – A Women’s Murder Club Series, part 6

TITLE: Extreme Sensitivity… as neurosis. (6/?)
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) 

There was no one else to blame. This was absolutely, unequivocally her own doing. All her fault. She’d brought it on herself.

So now, what should have been a fun, relaxing Friday night with her three closest friends was going to be a manageable night with two of them and an incredibly excruciating night with the other. She’d put herself into a truly awkward position, her nerves were already working crazy overtime, and she was perfectly prepared to spend the whole of the evening extremely sensitive to anything that Lindsay said or did, dissecting every word, nitpicking every action, and searching for deeper meaning, any indication that Lindsay felt even an iota of a flicker to her carnal fuse.

Of course, the possibility certainly existed that, if Lindsay was burning hot, it wasn’t in a good way. Inspector Boxer’s extreme emotional reactions tended more toward the negative than the positive.

Even if Lindsay was entirely freaked out though, or irate, Cindy couldn’t exactly regret what she’d done either. It had personally provided her hours of entertainment the night before, as the brief moment repeated like a skipping record in her mind and she found herself a little more turned on with every instant replay. As short-lived and quasi-innocent as the actual event had been, it seemed to have already reached legendary status in her consciousness. Like a Beatles song. She’d never grow tired of it.

The abnormally long time that it took for someone to come to the door, Cindy knew that she had to be first on the scene. If anyone completely able-bodied were inside, she wouldn’t still be standing, waiting to be collected, in the hallway.

It was entirely unfair! She had gone well out of her way to arrive ten minutes late, including scripting and rehearsing her excuse in front of a mirror so that, when she lied, it might actually come close to looking like the truth, all in an effort to avoid this very scenario of being alone with Lindsay.

For a moment, she really considered fleeing while she had the chance, going back to her car and waiting until she witnessed the arrival of either Jill or Claire, but, knowing that Lindsay would somehow know that she had done just that and never assume that it was merely kids playing a prank, Cindy restlessly remained where she was, feelings of excitement and anxiety alternating in the pit of her stomach.

The majority of her was more than eager to see Lindsay just like she had always been, every time, since the very beginning. There was a very tiny, terrified, part, though, that would be only be appeased by the knowledge that she’d never have to face Lindsay again.

The door swung open, and Lindsay appeared before her, propped up on her crutches, a partial obstruction to the narrow doorway.

“Hey,” Lindsay greeted in that low drawl that Cindy would pretend, yet again, didn’t instantly weaken her knees.

The tiny, terrified part instantly fell in line and the whole of Cindy was delighted to see Lindsay. She may as well own up to the fact now that Lindsay was her drug of choice and any attempts to quit would result in extreme withdrawal without actually reducing her taste for it in the least.

Mmm… tasting Lindsay. She wouldn’t be opposed to doing that again.

Subconsciously, Cindy’s tongue traced her lips and she realized that Lindsay was probably expecting some sort of reply to her greeting.

“Sorry I’m late,” Cindy immediately started rambling upon opening her mouth. “I thought I had time to stop for an oil change… and the line was kind of long and then I got blocked in by another car and all my fluids were low and they wanted to air up my tires.”

She’d tried to stop the flow of words, but the second she started talking it was too late, and now she’d said too much. Partway through the fluids portion of her excuse, it became obvious was lying, and the amusement that came to Lindsay’s face during her rapid-fire recitation of bogus events was a sure indicator that she hadn’t even planned to mention the tardiness.

Feeling utterly foolish, and knowing that she had to be reasonably red-faced, Cindy dropped her gaze to the floor with a sigh. And also because, when she was looking up, it was as if Lindsay’s lips had a big “Look at me! I’m great for kissing!” sign attached to them. She couldn’t seem to focus on anything else.

“Okay then,” Lindsay responded in a voice way too humored. “Are you going to come in… or did you need to go have your fan belt looked at?”

“Coming in,” Cindy mumbled.

Lindsay moved out of the way as much as she could, but Cindy was still forced to step over a crutch and press in far too close to Lindsay for her sanity. The familiar smell filled Cindy’s senses. She fought the urge to lean in and boldly inhale.

“So, what are Jill and Claire’s reasons for being late?” Cindy asked in an effort to deflect attention from herself once she had cleared the Lindsay-shaped obstruction to her entry.

“They didn’t need any. They’re not late,” Lindsay responded as she closed the door and followed after her into the living room.

“Are they invisible?” Cindy glanced around the apartment, definitely empty other than the furry-coated creature sleeping just inside Lindsay’s bedroom door.

“They were already here. Then they left. They got their hands on some KT Tunstall tickets for tonight,” Lindsay responded.

“Those tickets sold out in like ten minutes,” Cindy said in disbelief, and with just a touch of envy. “I couldn’t even get any through the Register. Too bad they couldn’t get them for us too, huh?”

“If you feel that strongly about it,” Lindsay offered in a somewhat quieter tone. “I’ve got two more in my jacket pocket if you would rather go meet up with them.”

“Really?” Cindy started excitedly. “That would be awes…”

As her brain caught up with Lindsay’s words, her own trailed off.

There was a rather there. She had just been given a choice between two desirable options. Either they could join Jill and Claire at the concert. Tempting. Or she could stay where she was, alone with Lindsay. Considerably more tempting. Especially considering the fact that, if it had been Lindsay’s intention for them to go out, when she was running late Lindsay would have just called her and told her to meet them there, but she hadn’t. At the very least, she would have mentioned the tickets first thing, but she hadn’t done that either. In fact, it seemed that she’d had no intention of mentioning the tickets at all until Cindy had shown interest.

Lindsay had invited them all over, then dispatched Jill and Claire. On purpose. But for what purpose exactly?

The possibilities were few.

One – Lindsay was going to ream her, causing severe emotional and auditory pain, and didn’t want witnesses.

Two – Lindsay was going to beat on her, causing severe physical pain, and didn’t want witnesses.

Each of those things sounded particularly unpleasant.

Three – There was going to be calm discussion of the kiss, potentially ending in severe heartache or, dare she even imagine the possibility, renewed hope.

Four – There was going to be a reenactment of the scene from the hospital.

That one, she was really pulling for.

Though she wasn’t sure the odds were in her favor, the jackpot was just too damn high for Cindy not to take the gamble. She looked up to find Lindsay studying her with an unnerving diligence.

“I’m good,” she managed, despite the acute onslaught of dry mouth.

“Are you sure?” Lindsay lips turned up into a grin that Cindy knew was impairing her brain function when the only phrase she could come up with to describe it was hella-sexy.

“Yeah. I imagine those crutches could cause severe chafing if you were forced to lean on them all night. I don’t mind a quiet night in with my favorite cripple.”

That’s what she said, but her tone implied substantially more. It hummed with the distinct timbre of wanting to lay Lindsay down by the fire and tear into her like Christmas morning.

“You’re a real sport,” Lindsay teased, smile growing.

If Cindy had been more sure of her thought processors, she might have been convinced that she heard a similar quality to Lindsay’s voice, but the sudden pervasive vision of Lindsay sprawled beneath a pine tree covered in nothing but tinsel was enough to keep all blood frustratingly far from her brain.

“I do aim to please.”

She did not just say that.

“Take out?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll grab the menus,” Lindsay responded, hobbling toward the kitchen. “Then we can talk. I’d love to get the 411 on that whole aiming to please thing.”

As Lindsay disappeared through the doorway, Cindy tried to comprehend what had just taken place. In another situation, at another time, she would have been positive that Lindsay was making fun of her, but in this situation, at this time, it sounded extraordinarily like flirting.