Extreme Sensitivity…as distraction. – A Women’s Murder Club Series, part 9

TITLE: Extreme Sensitivity… as distraction. (9/?)
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.

(Lindsay’s POV)

She owned white t-shirts. Black t-shirts. Solid long-sleeve shirts. Neutral-colored button-ups. In fact, the majority of her clothing items were completely indiscernible from others like them. So why, when she went searching for something for Cindy to wear, she felt it necessary to choose the most obvious item in her wardrobe, she wasn’t entirely sure. It had just beckoned to her. She was powerless to resist the pull. Or, it could be argued, she didn’t try all that hard.

The fact that her selection was being put on such glaring display though was something for which she refused to take the blame. Sure, maybe it was intended to be a display, but the glaring? That was all Cindy.

A few weeks before, there had been a small episode in Lindsay’s apartment with a load of darks. This shirt was a casualty of that laundry mishap. As a result, it was now two sizes smaller than it had once been. Lindsay was well aware that it would be tight, subconsciously she was sure it had even factored into her decision, but she hadn’t quite grasped just how much more amply Cindy would fill out the shrunken material. So much so that, before they left the apartment, Cindy even felt the need to bring the snug fit to her attention.

“Uh, Linds… it’s a little tight.”

Lindsay had turned to find Cindy completely correct and distractingly hot in the casual style of dress, her hair loosely pulled back. She found her brain again, moistened suddenly dry lips with her tongue, and seriously considered bailing on Jill and Claire for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

“No it’s not,” she finally replied, smiling wickedly. “So are you ready?”

After a lengthy hesitation, and seemingly against her better judgment, Cindy shrugged and gave in.

“I guess so.”

That’s how it had happened. That’s how Cindy ended up sitting next to her in the booth, squirming under the inquiring stares of both Claire and Jill, in a navy t-shirt that the term “form-fitting” didn’t do a lick of justice, her breasts jutting the big white letters ‘SFPD’ out as if making some kind of proclamation to the world.

At the very least, the delightfully-presented acronym had drawn the attention of every employee and customer in the diner, especially the two sitting across from them.

Though she didn’t want to scrutinize her reasoning too much, being blithe about the whole situation actually felt surprisingly natural, that attention may have been the most profound motive for dressing Cindy up like a billboard. Lindsay wanted Jill and Claire to get used to the idea. If she had her way, Cindy would have lots of opportunity to borrow clothing from her, and they may as well grow accustomed to it now.

“Nice shirt,” Jill said, eyeing the lettering almost too intently for Lindsay’s liking.

“I borrowed it,” Cindy nervously replied, fiddling with her knife and fork like a bored five-year-old.

“I assumed,” Jill returned. “Or you’re just a really big fan.”

After watching Cindy flush vigorously, Lindsay pulled her eyes from where they had been locked sidelong on her to glance at Jill. The knowing grin cast her way made her feel all warm and fuzzy and at ease until her gaze continued over to Claire, who was also staring across the table at her, but without a trace of Jill’s good humor.

Lindsay’s smile faded instantly, and she too felt the overwhelming desire to start squirming and playing with her silverware.

Claire’s concentrated glare deserted her to flit over to Cindy for a half a second, then returned just as sternly as before. As much as she didn’t want to, Lindsay understood the insinuation. Claire knew her too well. She knew her unfortunate track record when it came to relationships. She knew that she was rather emotionally stunted. It was actually somewhat expected to be on the receiving end of this menacing ‘if you hurt her, I can kill you in ways that only a medical examiner would ever come up with’ look from her.

What Claire didn’t appreciate, however, was just how butterflies and moonbeams she felt about Cindy. How could she? Lindsay hadn’t even recognized it herself until recently. But the lack of understanding was something that could be solved expeditiously.

With a gentle smile at her concerned friend, Lindsay returned her focus to Cindy, sliding her arm up to trail along the back of the booth until her fingertips met the soft skin at the back of Cindy’s neck.

She anticipated a reaction. She didn’t, however, intend for the fork to spring from Cindy’s hand, fly three feet into the air and land with a very noisy clatter on the floor next to the table.

“Sorry,” Cindy said quickly, diving away from Lindsay’s touch to recover the errant utensil.

Lindsay was relieved to see that Claire had given into the unexpectedly comical atmosphere and, like Jill and herself, was withholding laughter.

Cindy’s reprieve didn’t last long. When she returned to her seat, Lindsay’s hand was still right there waiting, fingertips gently clutching onto the place where neck and shoulder met.

“I’ll grab you another fork,” their very-on-top-of-things server announced as she breezed by.

“Thanks,” Cindy mumbled, setting the fork on the table with a quickness, as if afraid that she might lose it again under Lindsay’s ministrations.

“So, uh… the concert was really good,” Claire announced, clearly trying to pull the attention from Cindy. “Sorry you couldn’t get enough tickets for everyone.”

From the corner of her eye, Lindsay saw Cindy peek fleetingly up at Claire before returning her eyes to the table. It seemed Cindy couldn’t even convincingly lie by omission. The inside knowledge that they could have joined them at the concert, but chose dinner in and a movie instead, was written all over the redhead’s slouching form.

“Eh,” Lindsay shrugged. “We kept ourselves entertained.”

Cindy’s eyes grew as wide as the saucers on the table. Without delay, Lindsay’s fingers initiated a gentle massage on her neck, hoping to reduce the evident tension. With a nearly inaudible sigh, and probably unconsciously, Cindy leaned back into her hand.

“Oh yeah?” Jill queried with undisguised interest. “Do tell.”

“Do you need to know anything about carburetors or herb gardening?” Lindsay threw out. “I’m like an encyclopedia on those things.”

While Jill and Claire tried to determine if that was some kind of secret code, Cindy finally broke into a considerable smile, her faint laugh filling the air. Watching her, Lindsay was struck by such an astonishing swell of warmth, it scared the hell out of her. She was just getting used to the whole jonesing for Cindy thing. She wasn’t quite ready for much more than that.

Without checking in with her brain first, Lindsay watched her hand move from Cindy’s neck to push a strand of red hair that had fallen out of her ponytail back behind her ear. For the first time since they arrived at the diner, Cindy’s eyes met hers and Lindsay was too spellbound to blink.

Or was she ready for more?

“So you just talked?”

The disappointment in Jill’s voice couldn’t have been more flagrant.

“Yeah,” Lindsay grudgingly pulled her gaze from Cindy’s to respond. “What did you think we did?”

Jill pouted, Claire shook her head at the libidinously-minded ADA, and a soft touch against Lindsay’s, apparently extremely sensitive, outer thigh made her jerk upright, her leg kicking out reflexively. Her shoe made hard contact with something in front of her and then Claire was jumping too.

“Ow!” Claire shouted, reaching down for her leg.

“I’m so sorry,” Lindsay asserted.

Despite feeling bad for booting Claire rather brutally, she felt the inappropriate urge to laugh, so she did, drawing a glower of disbelief from across the table.

“Are you okay?” Cindy asked, considerably more sincere in her guilt.

“Yeah,” Claire answered, her breathlessness an indicator of just how much it really did hurt. “I’ve got two.”

“I really am sorry,” Lindsay tried again.

“It’s okay,” Claire responded with a long-suffering roll of the eyes.

The appearance of their order temporarily ceased the amend-making, and then they were left in peace to eat.

Anticipating it more this time, Lindsay didn’t cause any more injuries when Cindy’s hand returned to her thigh, resting on it in what could have been construed a casual manner if not for the automatic reaction of Lindsay’s body. What was barely a touch felt more like a caress, electric currents firing off indiscriminately from the point of impact.

In response, Lindsay returned her hand to Cindy’s neck, resuming the gentle massage she’d earlier abandoned. For the rest of the meal, she unsteadily fed herself with her non-dominant hand, partly involved in the food and conversation, but for the most part otherwise engaged.