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And I hadn’t been able to think about shit else since. Not even after I got home and worked through some of the frustration in my system.
Even as I came, I knew it wasn’t going to be enough.
I needed her. Her fingers in my hair, her skin against mine, her heels digging into my ass, her moans against my lips.
I didn’t even give a fuck that it wasn’t smart in the context of what we were working on. We were adults. We could fuck and work together.
At least that was what I was making myself believe because I both needed her on this case, and needed her on a physical level.
Judging by the way she melted against me on the deck of the ferry when I’d moved in behind her, she was still feeling the same way with some time and space to think it over.
She was stubbornly silent on the whole way back to the city, and even on the subway ride, then the walk to the warehouse.
Fury was the only one who got to be addressed by her. “Hey, my girl. Have things been calm around… uh oh. Man down,” she said, walking over toward where on Fury’s brand new bed, where a toy lamb that had been gutted. “That’s okay,” she said, patting Fury’s broad head. “I’m sure he had it coming,” she said as she grabbed the leash, clipped it on, then took off, leaving me to follow in her wake or hang back.
Deciding to give her a few moments to herself, I stayed back at the warehouse, cleaning up the fluff from the lamb, but leaving the toy itself on the bed, refilling the water, and waiting for them to return.
Clearly, Saylor had a lot of frustration to walk off, because she was gone for forty-five minutes before she came back with an exhausted-looking Fury, who came over to get a big drink before dropping down on her bed.
Saylor moved around, preparing food that Fury was too tired to eat before finally turning toward me, but I was pretty sure her gaze was on my chin. “I want coffee. Then I will show you my idea,” she said, brushing past me to pet Fury’s head one last time before moving outside, not even waiting for me as she took off down the block.
Coffees in hand, we took a subway back to Washington Heights, then a cab that drove us right down the street where the row houses were.
“Saylor, the fuck? We can’t be here,” I said, voice low so the cabbie didn’t hear.
“Trust me,” she said as the cab idled next to a car parked on the street two buildings up from the row houses, but across the street. “Come out this side,” she said as I slid money to the driver, then followed her out.
She strode up to the door of the building, not so much as glancing backward toward the row house, and knocked on the door to the building.
It opened maybe a moment later.
“Sam!” the woman greeted, making my brows shoot up as Saylor offered her hand.
“Thanks for meeting us on such short notice,” Saylor told her, all smiles that didn’t meet her eyes.
“Of course! I don’t even know how you heard about the vacancy so soon,” the woman said, and Saylor shot me a smirk as the woman turned to guide us toward the elevator.
I had a feeling I knew how she’d heard about it so soon.
And I wondered if she had to promise to choke down some awful pizza rolls to get that information.
“It’s a cozy studio,” the woman prattled on as we rode the elevator up to the third floor, “with an updated bath and partially furnished,” she told us as she produced a key, then pushed open a door that likely had a killer fucking view of the row house we wanted to keep an eye on.
In real estate terms, ‘cozy’ was just a nice way of saying miniscule. I was pretty sure the entire studio could fit into the bedroom of my apartment, and my place wasn’t all that roomy either.
There was a bare mattress sitting on an ancient metal frame against the wall and a cheap gray big box store couch, all too-stiff cushions and cheap stitching, pushed up against the windows to the street. We both moved in that direction as the woman talked about the kitchen appliances that we wouldn’t be using at all.
“Oh, yes, lovely view, isn’t it?” she asked, coming up behind us when she realized she’d lost our attention as we both watched as someone moved out of the front door of the row house, puffing casually on a cigarette, completely oblivious that he was being watched.
Eventually, we both followed the woman and her clicking heels to the kitchen, then bathroom she’d mentioned that looked like it was maybe updated in the nineties.
Not that it mattered for our purposes.
“We’ll take it,” Saylor declared as we moved out into the studio again. “I believe I heard that short-term rentals were preferable.”
“Well, the owner is thinking of selling,” the woman admitted, nervously tucking some of her white-blonde hair behind her ear.
“That’s perfect for us,” Saylor declared. “Do you want me to pay for three months up front?” she asked.
