+18 eps. 12-16 - Gillian and Brock face huge changes in their lives after she leaves the PD and he moves back to DC. But no matter what, looks like they just can't help coming across each other.
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Brock worked for an hour straight, looking up from the folders only to take some notes. Until he heard Gillian's door open. Then he did look up, scowling at his closed door. He heard her muffled voice, yet clear enough for him to pick her words.
"Wilson, I'm on my way down."
She walked away, still speaking. Down the hall: she was going out.
He glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty. So she was meeting pretty Wilson. Good for them. Actually perfect, since they were doing it on their free time, as they should.
Brock went back to his files.
When had they traded numbers? After he'd left the station, of course.
To the files.
He heard the elevator jingling open. Gillian was on her way to meet Wilson.
Back to the files, please.
The department store Christie Reynolds worked at was (a quick drink at some bar nearby) only half a mile away.
Back. To. The. Files. Brockner.
And Rose Coleridge was a secretary at (she's gonna smile at him and he's done) a legal firm, downtown as well.
They should also look into her contacts to try to (then go to some cheap, discrete, no-questions-asked motel )...Whose contacts?
Brock knew when to call it a day. And that was it. He needed to go to sleep as of ten minutes (before she walked right by his door). He breathed deep and forced himself to methodically order the reports, take them all to the table and leave them—not drop them—in a neat pile. Then he got in bed and turned off the nightstand lamp.
It was the worst thing he could've done.
In a heartbeat, the shadows around him melted into that no-questions-asked motel room. Gillian and Wilson were there, kissing, giggling as they stripped each other down. They were about to dive together on bed right by his side. He almost expected to feel his own mattress dip under their bodies.
Brock knew he needed to divert his mind somehow, cheat it into letting go of that mental picture of Gillian that was making him clench his teeth. Viv. Right. That was a good idea. Since his brain felt like being overactive despite how tired he was, and it'd taken down that road, thinking of Viv would help. So he tried to relax and recalled one particular night at Viv's, when she had him sit on the living couch with a neat whiskey and performed a lap dance just for him, getting rid of her clothes with a delicious lack of rush. Determined to recall it to the last tiny detail, he fell asleep before Viv even unzipped her dress in his memory—which was good, else he wouldn't have been able to sleep at all.
But his mind didn't fall for such a cheap trick. At all. As soon as he loosened his iron grip on it, his dreams kept playing the scene for him. The motel scene, of course. His subconscious wasn't the least bit interested in Viv. And there she was, Gillian at the motel room, and a man was undoing her shirt down button by button. But they were not Wilson's hands. They were Brock's. In his dream, he felt the tingling of anticipation when he softly brushed her skin along her collar bone, smelling her floral scent.
And as he kept undoing her shirt, sitting at the edge of the bed, she entwined her fingers deep in his hair when his mouth met her skin—pale, soft, warm—and slid down. And he forgot about the last buttons to brush the straps over her shoulder and pull down her tank top and her bra, while his lips came down from her neck. And her breast was the perfect size for his hand to cup, pulling a husky sigh from her when his tongue met his fingers to tease her nipple, and his free hand slid around her hip to cup her butt over her trademark jeans.
The lamp roughly turned on blinded him for a moment. But the blur and the sparks were way better than what he'd just seen in his dream. Anything was better than that. He noticed he was breathing heavily and focused on making his lungs get a full refill, hold it for a couple of seconds and only then let go, dragging his heart down to a slower rate.
He thought a drink could help fight the ludicrous, annoying whims of his mind. Then he realized that the minibar was right by the full-length mirror. That completely ruled out the drink option. There was no way he was going to stand before that mirror. Because he wasn't about to face himself aroused by his dream. Feeling it was already bad enough.
He closed his eyes again. Bad idea. He opened them up again. Turning off the light was out of the question. So he focused again on breathing deep and slow, hands crossed tightly over his chest, stubborn eyes fixed on the ceiling, scowling as to bring the hotel down out of his glare. And he waited for sleep to come back. Actually, to fall down on him like a hammer and knock him out hard.
