Brock pulled over outside his building a minute later and she got out of the car still chuckling. But he noticed the way her soft laughter trailed off as she walked into the building. He needed to say something. Fast. He needed to fill the silence only a few minutes longer. Once they reached his apartment, he trusted he'd be able to distract her alright.
"So you sent your son back to college?" he asked, praying for this elevator to be more friendly than the mean things back at the field office and hurry up.
She rolled her eyes. "Nothing worse than having your own child parenting you around the clock."
Brock nodded, his smile saying, 'I hear ya.' The elevator stopped at the ground floor and they got in.
"We shouldn't complain about having responsible, caring children," he said.
"Meaning Andrea was like a watchdog on you last year," she said.
Brock sighed. "Made me feel like a spoiled kid, you know? I waited for her to go to school in the morning to do all the things she wouldn't let me do."
Gillian smiled. "Yeah, she knew. She was annoyed at first, but then she got to find it funny."
Brock frowned. Then he recalled Andrea had mentioned she'd talked to Gillian often while he recovered from his experience with the militia.
"Bet that was your doing."
"You're underestimating Andrea," she replied softly. "So, Michigan?"
He got the memo and nodded again.
"When?"
"Next week, if nothing comes up."
The elevator was as kind as to reach Brock's floor and they walked down the hall, still talking.
"What're you expecting to come up?" she asked. "Please, tell me. I'm craving for some work."
Brock smiled. Of course she was. A whole month away was too long for her.
"Nothing in particular. But with protests at Trump's events, and five states in the area holding their GOP primaries next Tuesday..."
"No harm in being ready."
"Exactly."
Brock pushed his door open, for her to walk in first. Gillian did, her heart racing as she set foot inside. She'd been there only once since Brock rented it. That stormy night, right after quitting the PD and right before he moved back to DC for the next four or five months. The night of that quick, silly kiss that put her on the run as if the Devil chased her—it was Brock chasing her, actually, and it felt scarier than the Devil himself back then. Back then? Not anymore? Then why did she stand like an idiot now, barely two steps away from the door, her heart drumming as to crack her chest open?
Brock saw how stiff she was, close to the only exit as if ready to escape, her arms folded tight across her chest. Time to do something, Brockner. Something radical. But first, at least take off your suit coat.
Gillian smelled his cologne when he walked in behind her, while her eyes darted around the small living area and the open kitchen. She waited for the dooming click of the knob as she listed the differences she was able to spot on the apartment. The couch was against the side wall on her left, not under the window anymore. That bookshelf on the wall opposite the couch was new. Russell's granny always had a good taste for furniture—a century ago. This bookcase looked lighter than what Russell's granny liked. Not quite expensive, yet somehow classy. And the TV on the central shelf looked great. Like everything about Brock, it was neat and functional. She could bet the books were sorted by subject. And each subject was sorted alphabetically. Finding any given book would take hardly a minute.
Before she could find anything else to focus on in order to keep her sudden terror in check, Brock's hands rested on her hips from behind and his nose brushed her hair out of the way for his mouth to meet her neck. He grabbed the strap of her bag hanging from her shoulder and guided it down, to drop it on the floor at their feet.
Gillian didn't need any other focus, because her mind went blank. Her head leaned back and rested on his shoulder when he pressed his chest to her back, eyes closed as his lips parted and his tongue and teeth teased her skin. Brock's hands slid up her sides. Her arms moved down and her fingers reached down and back for his pants, to make sure he wouldn't pull away from her.
As if.