Knox County Ch. 09

He only groaned in response.

Elizabeth began gyrating her hips, trying to crush her clit against his pubic area. Still her fingers rubbed, and she felt the moisture building between her legs, easing her movements.

"I love you," he whispered, looking back at her.

She leaned over, pressing her chest against his. "I love you, too." Then she brushed her lips against his and felt him respond. His lips parted, his tongue sought hers. As they kissed, she felt her orgasm building.

He must've sensed it, also. "Hurry," he panted. "I'm not going to last much longer."

She went back to his mouth and kissed him deeper. At the same time, her fingers continued rubbing circles around her clit, and she felt the sensations begin. Then she felt a hand mashing her breast, her hardened nipple being squeezed between thumb and forefinger. This sent her over the edge. She moaned long and low into his mouth, her tongue wrestling with his as her gyrations on his hips quickened.

Then she felt his release, his pulsing cock shooting torrents of cum deep within her belly. "Yes, Will, yes," she repeated over and over again, loving the feeling of him filling her.

They lay side by side on the bed afterward, her stroking his chest and he trying to catch his breath. After a moment, he raised his head and looked at the bandage on his chest. "I don't see any blood," he said.

She looked down. The thought had never crossed her mind, she realized. This was stupid, and she looked at his eyes searching hers.

"I just . . . I didn't even . . . ."

He stroked her face, smiling at her. "That means we can maybe do it again later, after Brandon's asleep."

Her eyes went back to the bandage, searching for any sign of tearing of the sutures.

"No excuses now," he said, grinning.

Still, she was worried. She had let her physical needs overwhelm her common sense. "I don't think we need to send you back to the hospital, do you? I think you can wait a little longer."

He faked a pout. "Really, I'm okay for this."

She shook her head. "I wasn't thinking," she insisted. "The effort could tear the sutures. And I don't want to have to explain to the emergency room nurses how they got torn."

"Well then," he said, "there are ways of making sure that doesn't happen."

She looked at him, trying to figure out what he meant. The realization struck when he gently pulled her head toward his waist and her eyes turned to find him already hard again.

"My my," she murmured, "someone's built up a bit of a reserve." She opened her mouth and for the second time in twenty minutes took his hard cock between her lips. He was right, she realized, no way a blow job could hurt him.

"I'll owe you," she heard him say as her mouth began sliding along the length of his prick.

* * *

It had been three weeks since the shooting at the courthouse, and Tim somehow had managed to duck any blame. It helped, of course, that no one knew about his confrontation with George Silverman. Sure, they all suspected it was Silverman who had beaten him up, but no one had a clue that he had returned the favor at Silverman's front door. Better still, no one had an inkling that Tim's relationship with Jenny Silverman was behind the whole mess, just him and Aimee.

He'd expected Aimee to rat him out, but she was still to wrapped up on Sean's recovery to have told anyone. Sean was out of the hospital now, he'd been told, and recovering at home. There were still the occasional reporters milling about town, having lunch at the diners or questioning Tim and his fellow officers, but the story was dying down as Sean recovered. Thank God for that, Tim thought. He knew he couldn't live with further ruining Aimee's life.

Tim closed the door behind him and locked the bolt.

"Hello, stranger," said the voice in the corner, making Tim jump with surprise.

He looked at the source of the voice and saw the figure huddled in the chair, covered in shadows.

"Jenny?"

She said nothing.

"What're you doing here?" Tim was nervous. They hadn't seen each other–for obvious reasons–since her dad had tried to kill him, dying himself in the ensuing gun battle.

He heard her sniffling, and he reached over to turn on the light.

"Don't," she commanded. He froze, withdrawing his hand from the switch. The sniffling resumed.

"Are you okay?" he said. Christ, he didn't know what to do. He tried to adjust his eyes to the light, peering at the huddled figure.

He saw her arm raise, something in her outstretched hand. Then he heard the click of a gun being cocked.

"Jenny, put the gun down." This can't be happening, he thought.

"You killed him," she said. Her voice was scratchy, trying to hold back tears.

He only sighed, the energy leaving him. She was right, he knew. Sure, he hadn't shot the gun that ended her father's life, but he'd set into action a course of events that led to the inevitable result.

"Say something," she screamed, waving the gun. "Beg for your life. Say you're sorry. Anything. Something."

He was going to die, of that he was sure. And for once, he thought, I'm not going to try weaseling my way out of it.

"Are you okay?" he said.

"What the fuck do you think?" she cried. "I'm a fuckin' orphan. Twenty years old, and they're both gone now. There's no one else for me. I'm all alone now." Her crying got louder.

Tim said nothing, just stood there and watched her as his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness. Her face was a mess of puffy red eyes, running mascara streaking her face black, her hair a tangled thatch of black. He saw her arm lower the gun, its weight drawing her hand to the seat of the chair between her legs.

"I hate you," she said. There was no energy behind it, though.

Tim walked over and sat on the couch facing her. The gun was still in her hands, now only four feet from him.

"Say something," she whispered.

Then it all came to him. He'd done it all, from beginning to end. He'd nearly ruined God knows how many marriages, including his own. Then, when his wife finally found someone who loved her properly, his actions had almost gotten him killed, along with her attorney. And, worst of all, he'd gotten George Silverman killed. Granted, Silverman had tried to kill him, but Tim knew his actions would lead to it. In short, he realized, I've fucked it all up for everyone. Me, just me and no one else. And now was the first time I even thought about the impact Silverman's death had wrought on Jenny.

The guilt was overwhelming, leaving him numb and bone tired.

"Please," she said, nearly inaudible now, "say something."

He looked up and into her eyes. "Shoot me," he said. She cocked her head to the side, surprised at his response. "Please," he insisted, "shoot me. I mean it." Still she didn't move, and he pressed on. "You're right: I'm an asshole. A selfish, stupid fucking asshole, and I've fucked up everything I've ever touched. Including you, the best thing that's happened to me in . . . well . . . ever, really. He's dead because of me. So go ahead, put me–put everyone, for that matter–out of their misery and shoot me." He tapped his finger in the middle of his forehead.

Still she looked at him, frozen in place.

Then he thought of something. "No, wait," he said, trying to chuckle and holding his hand out toward her. "Don't you do it. They'll charge you with murder. Give it to me. I'll do it myself."

He leaned in to take the gun from her, but she moved backward and pressed it in tight to her stomach, covering it with her arms.

"Don't," she screamed, then crawled over the chair and around him. "I don't want you to, Tim."

He was confused by her response. This is what she wanted, wasn't it? Him dead? The fatigue continued washing over him, and he knew now more than ever that it was what he wanted.

"I won't hurt you," he whispered. "I promise. Just me. One shot, done."

She was at the door now, her cell phone in her hand.

"Who are you calling?" he said. He couldn't move, though. He was rooted in the chair, and he realized he didn't care.

"Yes," he heard her say into the phone. "I'm at 1243 Meadows Lane, Apartment Four. Please hurry, I think he's going to try to kill himself." There was a pause, then she said, "Jennifer Silverman. Yes, I'll wait here."

He heard the phone click shut and turned to look at her. She was looking around, her head spinning as she scanned the apartment. Then she saw his holster slung over the back of the chair where he'd laid it when he had entered. He watched her grab it and hold it tight to her. He wanted to do something, to take it from her, but he couldn't. His mind was a blank, and his body sagged as the waves of exhaustion swept through his brain and limbs.

The last thing he remembered was a loud knock on the door and Jenny saying something. "He's over there."

* * *

The psychologist was surprisingly young, Aimee thought. About her age, long brown hair, Hawaiian shirt and chinos under a white lab coat. He was pushing Sean's wheelchair and speaking to both of them as they walked down the long, tiled hallway.

"Clinical depression, best we can figure," he said. "Says he's ruined a lot of lives and wants to make amends. He's insisting, actually, and won't cooperate with us until he sees you two."

Aimee bit back her response. Go ahead and kill your sorry ass self, she thought. She saw Sean look up at her and spot the look in her eyes. He giggled.

Dr. Andrewski mistook Sean's response. "Oh no," he said, "it's common in these cases. Something pushes them to the edge, then they need to put it all right–at least in their own minds–before they can move on and start the healing."

Aimee didn't care if he started the healing. It was Sean who insisted they answer the doctor's call and show up as requested. If it had been up to Aimee, Tim could rot in this dank mental ward.

"Here we are," Dr. Andrewski said, stopping the wheelchair and spinning it, opening the door with his hip and pulling Sean in behind him. "Tim, you have some visitors."

Aimee saw Tim sitting in a chair in the corner, looking out the window. He didn't react to their presence, just sat frozen in place. Jenny Silverman was standing behind him, her lips whispering into his ear while her hands stroked his back.

Aimee was stunned to speechlessness. Tim was a wreck. Big, vibrant, boisterous Tim, the swaggering copper who had done as he pleased, always full of confidence and bravado, sat before her a rumpled shell of his former self. His eyes were vacant and glassy with large, dark pouches of skin sagging beneath them; his hair was a tangled, greasy mess; and his skin pallor was near white. She knew he'd been here less than a week, but he looked like he'd been indoors for months.

She watched Sean take over the wheelchair from the psychologist and draw himself near to Tim. "Hey, Boyo," he said. "Pretty nice day to be pissing off in here, eh?"

Tim's body jumped as if jolted, but he said nothing and his eyes remained staring at the window.

Jenny turned at them, trying to smile but only managing to look nervous. Aimee thought she looked nearly as bad as Tim. Tired, bedraggled, red-rimmed eyes showing she'd done her fair share of crying.

Aimee was frozen in place. Here was her husban–who had repeatedly done all in his power to ruin her life–sitting before her a vision of death. And next to him, looking like a frightened kitten, was one of the women–little more than a girl, really–who had banged him behind her back. She should have hated them, should leave them here together to their own mutual miseries and self-destruction.

Something in Jenny's eyes stopped these feelings cold, though. Terror, she realized. Terror that everything was gone. A terror far worse than Aimee had suffered.

Against her own conscious thoughts, Aimee walked to Jenny and took her in her arms. She felt the girl stiffen in her arms, a bundle of bone and sinew tightening. After a few seconds, Jenny's arms encircled Aimee's waist and she felt the hug tighten further. Then Jenny's face went to the base of Aimee's neck and she felt dampness on her skin.

Jenny wasn't that much younger than her, but Aimee held her as she would a small child. She was a lost little girl, and the events had clearly overwhelmed her. Aimee started stroking her hair and whispering into her ear that it would all be fine while watching Sean's approach to Tim.

"Y'know," Sean said to Tim, "it's all going to be fine." He placed his hand on Tim's forearm. "Really, a few more weeks of this and I'll be good as new."

Tim turned for the first time, looking at the hand on his forearm before turning to Sean. His lips moved, but nothing came out.

Sean squeezed the forearm. "Nah," he said, waving a hand at Tim, "no need to get all worked up about it. Just a wee bit of lead poisoning. But hey, I'm Irish. Takes a bit more than that to get me down, huh?"

Tim's head turned and took in Aimee holding Jenny. He stared into Aimee's eyes, pressing his lips together, and Aimee tried to smile at him. "She's a pretty girl," Aimee said. "But she needs some support now, don't you think?"

Tim said nothing, but she thought she detected a small nod.

"That's a yes, then?" Sean said, slapping Tim on the back. Tim turned back to him and nodded visibly. Sean beamed.

Sean turned and looked at Aimee, his eyes darting from her to Jenny squeezed in her arms. He rose his eyebrows at her, and Aimee understood. She hesitated, then nodded.

"Good, then," Sean said, turning his attention back to Tim. "It's settled. She'll come stay with us for awhile, until you get it back together. Sound good?"

Aimee heard Jenny choke back a sob, then felt the squeeze tighten around her waist.

"Now, Tim, why don't you say something?" Sean continued. "You dragged me away from the telly and all the way down here to talk to us, so let's not make this a complete waste, okay?"

Tears began welling in Tim's eyes, and Aimee watched them start trailing down his sunken cheeks. His mouth moved, but only croaks came out.

Aimee was transfixed. It was like that Munsch painting. Scream. The look of anguish on his face was stark.

Sean turned back to Aimee. "Why don't you go get her a spot of tea," he suggested. "Leave us alone for a few."

Aimee nodded, pulling Jenny toward the door.

She heard Sean speaking softly to Tim as she and Jenny left to find the cafeteria.

* * *

Elizabeth sat in the chair, her legs thrown over the arms, and watched Aimee sketching in the outlines.

"No, really, he's getting better," Aimee said, looking at the figure crouched in the corner of the sofa ten feet in front of her.

"Yeah," Elizabeth said, "Will, too. Way better, as a matter of fact."

She saw Aimee's eyebrows lift at that. "I can't wait 'til Sean's that much better."

The figure on the sofa sniffled.

"Relax, dear," Aimee said to the girl.

Jenny jerked her head up and down, trying to nod.

"C'mon, Jenny," Elizabeth said, her mind getting back to the matter at hand, "tell us how you're feeling." Elizabeth had been on that sofa many times, being interrogated by Sean for weeks on end. Strangely, she'd always felt better when it was done, as if weights were gradually being lifted from her.

Jenny only stared, though. Her mouth moved, but no words emanated, and her arms pulled her legs tighter to her chest.

Elizabeth watched Sean walk into the room. It was slow going, and he was obviously stiff and sore, but he kept the lopsided grin on his face the entire distance from the doorway to the sofa.

He ran his fingers through Jenny's hair before gingerly settling on the couch next to her.

"Hey little girl," he said.

"Hi," Jenny responded, her voice barely a whisper. Her eyes locked on his, though, and held there as her body gradually loosened.

"You doing okay now?"

She nodded.

Elizabeth saw Aimee tear the sketch from her pad before starting on a new one. The sofa was quickly drawn in before she started on the outlines of the two figures before her.

"Go ahead," Sean continued after a moment. "Tell us what's wrong."

Tears welled in her eyes, but she seemed not to notice. Instead, her gaze remained riveted to Sean.

"Go ahead," he urged.

"I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"I'm alone now. My parents are dead, Tim's . . . well, Tim's not there. No one's there."

"We're here," he said, placing his hand over hers and squeezing. "All of us. We're here for you." He turned to Aimee, and Elizabeth saw her face tighten before softening. She nodded.

"We're all here for you," Elizabeth said.

Jenny turned to Elizabeth before looking at Aimee. "But after all I've done, Tim's done. You know . . . ."

Aimee forced a smile, then put her pencil down.

"That's all past," she said to Jenny. "And that was Tim, not you." She paused. "Well, I guess it was you, too. But you didn't owe me, didn't even know me. So I'm not angry with you. Tim hurt me, Jenny, not you."

Jenny nodded, sniffling and reaching up to brush away the tears spilling down her face. She turned back to Sean. "And now you're all being so nice to me," she continued. "And I'm afraid about . . . I don't know . . . about what comes next, I suppose. When you guys get tired of me."

Sean reached up and brushed the tears from her cheeks. "We're not going to get tired of you," he said. "I promise."

He turned and looked at Elizabeth and Aimee. "Me, too," Elizabeth said. "I'll be there for you, okay?"

Jenny turned to her and nodded, a smile trying to form on her lips.

Elizabeth turned to Aimee and saw the conflict in her face. She knew Jenny saw the same conflict, and her smile disappeared as she shrunk back into herself.

Seeing this, Aimee put her pencil down and tried to gather herself. She relaxed, and Elizabeth watched her walk to the sofa and kneel in front of Jenny, stroking her hair as she spoke.

"Jenny, I can't promise it'll be easy, okay?"

Jenny was unable to look at her as she spoke, so Aimee continued. "I admit there's a lot I still have to work out. But it's not you, honey. Just know that, okay?"

Jenny nodded, her eyes still avoiding Aimee.

"And no matter what, you'll be welcome here as long as you need to be, okay?"

Jenny now turned and looked at Aimee. Elizabeth watched her body tense and her head lean into Aimee's stroking hand.

"Now come on, let's seal the deal," Aimee said. She put her arms around Jenny and pulled her tight, hugging her against her chest.

Jenny tightened at first, but then Elizabeth saw her body relax and her arms go around Aimee. Then she heard the quiet crying muffled in Aimee's neck.

* * *

Will walked in the door and threw his jacket over the chair.

"I'm home," he called out.

"Will," said Brandon, tearing out of the back hallway and running into his outstretched arms.

"Hey, Tiger," he said, picking the little boy up and giving him a hug.

"Brandon," Elizabeth chastized before glaring at Will. "Put him down before you hurt yourself."

"I'm fine," he replied, hugging Brandon to his hip and walking into the kitchen. "Want a pop or something?"

He reached into the refrigerator and retrieved a Diet Pepsi, then turned to face Elizabeth.

"Really, baby, I'm fine. The stitches have been out for weeks now, and the doctor said I'm okay. Just some more exercise needed to get the muscles back to where they were."

Still she said nothing. Knowing he was beat, Will put Brandon down. "Go outside and play for a few minutes, will you?"

Brandon nodded. "Sorry for getting you in trouble again," he whispered loud enough for all to hear.

Will smiled and tousled his hair. "Don't worry about it, Tiger."

Brandon ran to the door and was outside before Elizabeth spoke.

"Goddamnit, Will, you can't keep doing that. You're going to–"

"Nothing. I'm going to nothing. The doctor said I'm fine, no restrictions."