Extreme Sensitivity…as a mode of embarrassment. – A Women’s Murder Club Series, part 8

TITLE: Extreme Sensitivity… as a mode of embarrassment. (8/?)
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)

“Hey sleepyhead,” Lindsay’s voice husked from right beside her before the waking up process even had a chance to fully register in Cindy’s mind.

Two contradictory urges instantaneously clashed in reaction to the gentle wakeup call. One was to clamp her eyes tightly shut again and pretend she was dreaming it. The other was to jump up from her reclined position and gawk around wildly to prove that she wasn’t.

What in the hell happened? And, more importantly, why in the hell couldn’t she remember any of it?!?

Warily, she allowed her eyes to fully open, casting them in the direction from which the rumbling drawl had originated and, unsurprisingly, discovered Lindsay staring back at her. A deep breath and surreptitious glance around at her surroundings, and Cindy realized she wasn’t in Lindsay’s bed. Thankfully? She was still on the couch, emerging from a ball at one end, while Lindsay sat with her back against the arm and her knees drawn to her chest, silently sipping coffee at the other.

At some point, Cindy had been covered by a soft blanket that would have been rather cozy if not for the unexpected circumstances in which she found herself waking up beneath it.

Lindsay slowly smiled at her and she knew that she must look ridiculously confused and, more than likely, disheveled. Idly wondering just how long Lindsay had been watching her sleep, Cindy casually felt for signs of drool and ran her fingers through her hair in case of pillow head.

“It’s morning,” she lamely stated, glancing toward the windows.

“I was about to wake you up,” Lindsay said. “You must be extremely sensitive to the vibrations of the trolley. You got a little more relaxed every time it passed by. About the fifth time through, you conked right out.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t get much sleep the night before last,” Cindy tried to push out a justification for the phenomenon past her utter humiliation.

One side of Lindsay’s mouth turned upward more, her smile becoming a smirk, and Cindy felt the furious blush crawling up her cheeks.

“Too much caffeine,” she lied.

A soft chuckle accompanied Lindsay’s deliberate, unconvinced, nod.

“You could have woken me up and made me go home,” Cindy uttered, righting herself to sitting and looking everywhere but at the woman whose couch she had fallen asleep on without permission the night before.

“I’m a cop. I can’t send someone out under the influence and prone to bouts of narcolepsy,” Lindsay teased.

She was getting far too much enjoyment out of this.

“I really am sorry,” Cindy reiterated, mortification setting in good and proper.

“For being tired?” Lindsay’s question remained playful, a side of her that Cindy was unfortunately rather unused to seeing. “Don’t be. I didn’t get much sleep that night either… and it had nothing to do with caffeine.”

Swallowing hard, Cindy turned her head away, resisting the impulse to whistle to prove how laid-back she was feeling while Lindsay cruelly attempted to open a topic she’d been doing her best to avoid.

“So are you fully awake?” Lindsay’s sudden shift left Cindy slightly reeling.

“Uh… yeah,” she replied when she found her place in the conversation. “I’ll just… I’ll just get my stuff and go.”

She pushed the blanket from her lap and started up, stopped by Lindsay’s next words and exceptionally quick reflexes, which allowed a long arm to reach out and snag her wrist before she could get away.

“Not yet, you won’t,” Lindsay declared. “Jill and Claire are buying me breakfast at the diner to thank me for the tickets and you’re coming with me.”

“Oh… okay,” Cindy consented without a second’s deliberation, her eyes drawn down to Lindsay’s hand on her wrist. She hoped Lindsay couldn’t feel the pulse beating wildly beneath her fingertips.

“I don’t think I have any bottoms that won’t be a couple inches too big and a foot too long, but I can get you a shirt if you want to change.”

Despite the fact that she’d spent the night in her clothes, Cindy doubted that she smelled or looked that rumpled, but she liked the idea too much to say no.

“Yeah, thanks,” she answered and Lindsay hopped up, presumably to go fetch the offered article.

“Towels and washcloths are in the linen cabinet outside the bathroom if you need those,” Lindsay reminded her as she moved leisurely toward her bedroom. “Oh and Cindy?”

“Yeah?” Cindy turned from the couch to see Lindsay hovering in the doorway.

“Don’t feel bad about falling asleep on me. I didn’t mind.”

Even though she didn’t know quite what to make of it, Cindy couldn’t help smiling in response.

“It is too bad though,” Lindsay continued. “I had plans for you.”

She winked and stepped backward out of sight, and Cindy put her hand on the arm of the couch to keep from pitching forward onto the floor.