In the Belly of the Beast

29

It wasn't like she was a rookie, like she'd never been under fire. But in that instant, all of her training had left her. 

In the few seconds when she'd heard the hammer click and the icy voice, her brain had literally seemed to shut down. She had been paralyzed, waiting like a trembling animal for the Reaper's stroke.

Nothing had prepared her for this.

The image she held of herself was shattered.

It was impossible to describe the way she felt now, the barrage of self-doubt that slammed her ego, the sickly smell of fear that still lingered in her nostrils.

Death had stared her in the face, and she had shrank from it.

Nothing in any manual she had ever read prepared her for the topsy-turvy tumble of emotions she was now experiencing.

When they arrived at her apartment, Traynor took the keys and unlocked the door. He flicked the lights on, and their brightness hit her like a head-on collision.

She ran to the bathroom and heaved repeatedly.

What is wrong? She wondered again as wave after wave of nausea passed over her.

He stood close to her, and she caught the scent of his cologne, light, musky.

"Get a shower," he'd quietly said. "Stop beating yourself up. Just get into your p.j.s and brush your teeth. You'll feel better."

She gathered a towel and washcloth, panties and an over-size tee. When she was finished, she emerged from the bathroom into an empty den. She thought that he had gone.

A rattle of pans came from the kitchen. As she stood in the doorway, his head popped up above the counter.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to rummage. But my little hunt was successful."

He held up an omelet pan.

"Go," he directed. "Sit."

She wandered back into the den.

"Turn on some music, if you have any," he said from the kitchen. "Something soothing, mellow."

The sounds of a slow bluesy jazz ensemble filled the apartment.

"Traynor, you don't have to, I mean it. Really. I'd rather be alone."

"No way. You'd just spend the whole time in some heavy self-flagellation. And you'd enjoy it, too. Nothing like being your own whipping post once in a while."

She looked at him.

"What, you think, Fontaine, you're the first cop to mess up, the only one who's ever let his guard down, who's ever frozen?

"Trust me, you ain't. Still, kinda' breaks your heart though the first time you face your own mortality, and you realize you're just like the rest of us – human."

He chuckled to himself.

"Least you held your water. That's better than I can say for a lot a' guys. Like yours truly."

"You're just trying to make me feel better. I appreciate it, Tray, I really do, but making up bedtime stories to help me sleep isn't. . ."

"Whoa, Fontaine. You wait just a minute here. I don't sugarcoat a thing to make it go down easier. And I don't lie, especially when it concerns me.

I mean anyone as good looking as I am, and as near perfection as has ever walked the earth, I might add, doesn't need to fabricate yarns just to make you feel better."

"You conceited son-of-a. . ."

She caught the twinkle in his eye, and she laughed out loud.

"Really true?" she asked, "I mean the part about the soggy zipper?"

"Soggy zipper? More like the whole dam burst. I was soaked from the waist down. Ruined a perfectly good pair of pants. Not to mention what it did to my shoes."

He continued to gather the ingredients for the meal.

"I loved those shoes. Handmade. Italian. Cost me a fortune. Softest leather you ever saw. In the end, they looked like those shrunken gnarly gloves of O.J.'s. Woulda' crippled me permanently to have ever worn them again."

She smiled at the image.

"Now, let me do my magic in your kitchen. Will you go and press out some wrinkles on the couch while I see what I can whip up for us."

He entered the room a few minutes later with omelets.

"Hope you don't mind. I raided the fridge and ransacked your cabinets. Wine ain't that great a' vintage, but then, I'd bet there's plenty of winos out there on the streets would give their right arms for it."

They talked through the night and into the dawning hours of day.

Over the coming weeks, he helped her through the rough spots, and as time passed, her confidence in herself and her ability to do the job returned.

It seemed only natural that, having become friends, they became lovers.

He began spending much of his downtime at her place.