My Killer Vacation

Over the top of Taylor’s head, I promise him a slow death with my eyes.

“Fuck off,” I mouth, very precisely.

“I’m going to pair up with Quinton,” he blurts, feigning interest in one of his life jacket buckles. “B-but I’ll catch you on a flippity flop, yeah?”

The others waddle off down the beach in their gear, listening to the older man explain how to keep their goggles from fogging up. Instead of following them, Taylor crosses her arms and cocks a bikini-clad hip, making my fingers itch to tug on the strings.

“Did you hear that?” I drop all of the equipment, except for the goggles and snorkel. “He’ll catch you on the flippity flop.”

“Oh shut up.”

The look she’s giving me is pure venom. I want to kiss her so bad, my stomach is in knots. Don’t you dare. Some annoying sense of self-preservation warns me that I can’t get used to having my hands and mouth on her. I can’t make it a habit or it’ll be impossible to break. I’ve resolved to back off from this woman or risk becoming too distracted.

If I put myself in a position to make another life or death mistake, what was the point of leaving Boston in the first place? Didn’t I turn my badge in and leave so I wouldn’t have the power to misread evidence and ruin another case? Another set of lives?

Clearly interpreting my silence as irritation—with her—Taylor turns on a heel in the sand and sashays toward the far side of the cove. “Could you just stay on the beach, please? I’d actually like to enjoy myself.”

Of course, I follow her, fascinated by the way her bikini bottoms are creeping up the sweet split of her ass, revealing more and more cheek as she goes. “You heard him, half pint,” I say gruffly. “It’s a buddy system.”

“Obviously we will never be buddies.” Her steps slow a little. “Not unless you want to share with the class anything you learned at the police station.”

“Nope. You want to tell me why there was a knife at the front door of your house?”

“Nope.”

I grind my teeth. Not only because we’re at odds and I find I really don’t…enjoy that. Being combative with people is normal for me. It’s how my family communicated. In blunt facts and fights and insults. Honestly, I could give a rat’s ass if people think I’m a disagreeable bastard. And it’s embarrassing to admit, even to myself, but I kind of wish Taylor would smile at me more. She did it a yesterday, didn’t she? What needs to happen on my part in order for there to be more smiles?

There’s nothing dangerous or irresponsible about smiling.

It’s safer than sleeping together. Right?

Last night on the beach, when I told her about some of the uglier parts of my past, she did a whole lot more than smile at me. I have to make sure we don’t get that far again—for her safety and the good of the case—but the longer I go with her angry at me, the more restless I become. Why can’t I just be indifferent to her like I am with everyone else?

I don’t have the answers. I just know I don’t like her walking away from me angry.

Disappointed.

That trust she gave me last night…I can’t help wanting another hit.

I have to give up ground in order to receive some, don’t I?

Shit.

“Listen, Taylor…” I take hold of her elbow and draw her to a stop, trying not to obsess over how smooth she is. Everywhere. Although, might as well admit it. I’ve lost the battle over obsessing about her body at this point, as evidenced by the fact that I’ve been carrying her red, lacy little hookup panties around in my back pocket since Thursday. “Time of death came in early. Oscar had been deceased for twenty-four hours when you found him. Your alibis checked out. So…”

Her face brightens and my heartburn evaporates. “We’re not suspects anymore?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She breathes a laugh. “You hated telling me that, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Wow. That response was way too quick to be believable. I plant my hands on my hips, but drop my hands almost immediately. “No. I didn’t hate it.”

She’s squinting up at me into the sun. No shades.

Without thinking, I take mine off and put them on her.

They’re so big on her, they slide right down to the tip of her nose and she goes momentarily cross-eyed watching them slip. Why does it feel like there is someone doing gymnastics in my chest? “Well.” I jerk my head at the cove. “Go look at some fucking fish.”

She bursts out laughing and the glasses fall off completely.

I catch them before they hit the sand.

“What’s so funny?”

“Well.” She struts off toward the rock formation and here I am again, keeping pace with her. “I was thinking if you were one of my students, I’d ask you to draw me a picture of your feelings. And they would probably look like the cover of a death metal album.”

The word “feelings” in itself makes me jumpy, so I push the conversation in another direction. Because at least she’s talking to me now. Not quite smiling yet, but there’s time.

No there isn’t. You’re supposed to be investigating a murder.

“What are you like?” I ask, more curious than I have the right to be. “As a teacher.”

“Well…” We enter an opening in the rock formation, stopping in front of a shallow tide pool. Overhead, there is a rocky overhang that blocks the sun and she peers up at me in the absence of light, as if deciding if she can talk to me. Trust me. I make a mental note about the timeline of our acquaintance. I was mean, also known as my usual self, until last night and once I let up, she softened. Trusted me. Mean again this morning, lost that trust. Maybe I should just stop being mean. That seems like the only route here if I want her to…

What?

Like me?

What good is liking me going to do her? Or me, for that matter?

“I’m a crier,” she says finally and my worries take a backseat. For now. “I cry all the time. I’m famous for being found weeping in the staff supply closet.”