I couldn’t help myself; I reached a hand out and touched the closest breast. The feel of it was soft, incredibly smooth, and invited a closer and more thorough examination. I covered it with my hand and was rewarded with a feeling of satisfaction I had never before experienced, or even believed was possible. The perfect pink nipple rubbed against the palm of my hand, and it grew harder—and that, too, was amazingly, implausibly satisfying.
Jackie moved slightly, a small shifting of hips and shoulders, and one eyelid fluttered. I took my hand away, and then, still not at all sure what I was doing or why, I moved my mouth down to her breast and rubbed my lips on it.
Jackie stirred again, and then her hand slid softly over my cheek and around to the back of my neck, and I sat up to look at her face.
Her eyes were half open and her tongue slid over her lower lip and then her mouth curved into a sleepy smile. “Again …?” she said in a husky half whisper. She reached a hand up and pulled my face down onto hers, and we again’d.
Somewhere far away, in a fog of perfect bliss, an annoying buzz began to worm its way into the ethereal cloud of euphoria where Dexter floated undreaming. I tried to push it away and rise back up onto my cloud, but the sound got louder and more insistent, and the cloud began to break up, wisps of sheer happiness fading into the dull, grainy-eyed numbness of returning consciousness. I heard a rustling beside me and opened one eye as Jackie slapped at the alarm clock, and then lurched out of bed and scurried for the bathroom.
I watched her go, stupid from lack of sleep, but awake enough to marvel at what had happened to me. I was lying in a Real Star’s bed, and I had spent the night doing improbable things with her—things I had never before thought about doing, but somehow I had done them quite naturally with Jackie. And I thought again about the crowds that followed her with such slack-jawed adoration, and how any one of them would have given everything they owned to be me right now—or at any rate, a few hours ago. But there was only one me, and I was it, and I had spent the night in bed with Jackie Forrest.
I heard the water start up in the bathroom, and Jackie began to splash around under the shower. I stretched and lay there for a moment, very pleased with myself. I had done a remarkable thing, and I felt quite good about it. But beyond that, I realized I was also hungry, which shouldn’t have been a surprise. After all, I had burned quite a few calories in the night, and my body was never shy about asking for a refill.
I got out of bed and stared dopily around, looking for my shorts. I was pretty sure they had made it into the room, but not at all certain about just how far. I finally found them at the foot of the bed, unde
r the crumpled bedspread. I pulled them on and padded out to the living room, site of my former bed, the elegant leather couch. Lovely to look at, delightful for lounging, but not at all the ideal spot for sleeping, and I would have been glad to move off it for a much smaller reason. But to move right off the couch and into Jackie’s bed was the best of all possible worlds.
But as I caught myself sinking into a bog of fatuous self-congratulation, a nasty little thought dove in beside me. Why should I assume the move meant anything? Last night Jackie had been upset, scared, desperately in need of comfort and company. That was no guarantee that she would feel that way again tonight, or the next night, or ever. I am hugely ignorant of human sexual and emotional matters, but I knew enough to know that almost nothing in that area is ever certain. Everyone is different, everyone has different expectations, and no two humans ever have the same experience, even when they have it together. From what I can tell, the whole thing is like two people speaking different languages that have the same words; it all sounds the same, but the words have different meanings in each language. For one person love means sex, and for the other it means forever—two completely different meanings, and yet even the pronunciation of the syllable is the same.
So what did last night really mean?
For me? I’d had a far better time than I’d ever had without using duct tape, and I was very willing to make it the New Normal—but I had no idea what Jackie was thinking. She’d acted like she was having fun—but it could have been just that, acting. Maybe she had decided to trade a few hours of undignified exertion for the extra protection of having somebody next to her, a security blanket in case Patrick showed up. It certainly made more sense than thinking she had decided that Dexter was destined to be her one and only forever. After all, she was a world-famous beauty, and what was I? Nothing, really, no more than a simple forensics geek who moonlighted as a human vivisectionist. I had no right to assume there would be any more than one night, no logical reason to think that one evening of sweaty embrace had been the first step into a bright new future.
I stood there beside the couch in the warm sunlight that poured in through the windows, and I felt myself deflate. It would all end much too soon, and now there was a great deal more to regret than the excellent room service menu.
On the other hand, the menu truly was excellent, and deflated or not, I was still hungry. I picked up the phone and ordered breakfast.
I had finished eating and was halfway through my second cup of coffee by the time Jackie finally came out onto the balcony. She hesitated for just half a second, and then she leaned over and kissed me before she sat down. “Good morning,” she said.
“It seems to be,” I said cautiously. “How … um,” I said, and I heard myself stutter off into a rather awkward silence.
“What?” Jackie said.
“Well,” I said. “I was going to ask how you slept—but it suddenly sounded awfully stupid, because …”
“Yes,” she said.
“So, um—would you like some coffee?”
“Very much.”
I poured her a cup and she picked it up and held it in front of her mouth with both hands, blowing to cool it, and then sipping. When it was about half gone, she lowered the cup and took a deep breath. Then she let it out, slowly and audibly, and looked down at her lap. “I don’t …” she said, and then bit her lip and looked up. “I feel terrible.”
I did not see any way to take that remark as a compliment, and that must have shown on my face, because Jackie looked slightly startled and hurriedly added, “About Kathy. Being—dead.”
“Oh,” I said, with a certain amount of very selfish relief. I had been so wrapped up in my own torturous thoughts that I had actually forgotten about Kathy’s murder. Very shallow, no doubt, but I have never claimed to be a compassionate person.
“It’s my fault,” Jackie said. “My selfishness got her killed. And then we— I just feel so awful about what I did.…”
I wanted to tell her that she really shouldn’t, because she had done it quite well, but this time I knew she was talking about Kathy. Clearly, some words of comfort were called for—and surprisingly, I realized I wanted to make her feel better. “Jackie,” I said. “It really wasn’t your fault. If anything, it was mine.”
She looked startled. “Yours?” she said, and I nodded.
“I am supposed to be the expert,” I said. “And I had no idea he would attack Kathy. So you couldn’t possibly know.”
Jackie sipped her coffee and frowned. “Maybe,” she said. “But—”
“In fact,” I said, “this is so totally against Patrick’s pattern that I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out it wasn’t him.” I did not add that I would have been even more surprised to find out it was.