+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.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
It was rough, it was fast, it was easy. And most of all, clear. Just sex, nothing more to it. Plain, vulgar, casual sex. But she needed it.
Gillian forced herself to keep her eyes open all the time, because she knew that if she ever closed them for longer than a blink, Wilson's face would melt into Brock's in her mind. And that was exactly what she was there to prevent.
She was back to the hotel before one a.m., and managed a smile at Wilson as she waved goodbye from the hotel entrance. Then she dragged her feet to the elevator, and out of the booth on the third floor, toward the end of the hall.
She halted sharp three steps before her door, spotting the soft glow under Brock's.
She froze right there, for so long that the lights went automatically off along the hall. She stood in the dark, her eyes captive of the golden line of light beneath his door.
Brock was still awake, right behind that door. She pictured him sitting on the edge of his bed, maybe even with his tie still fastened in the Knot of the Year. Going back and forth through the case file, looking for anything that could lead them to identify the subject. He wore a mild scowl in her mind, his focused scowl. And his piercing, amazing green eyes moved left to right, line after line. Reading, looking, seeking.
She could knock on his door, quietly not to tip the lads off, and join him. She could sit some cautious steps away from him and just watch him work, maybe even ask a few questions. Listen to his low, controlled voice as he answered her. And feel mesmerized again at his mind of cogs and wheels, and his perfect wording, and how much he knew, and how far he saw.
But she knew that at some point her eyes would slip down from his eyes to his thin, tight lips. His words would become a meaningless whisper, and she would try something really bold and really stupid once more. Something as stupid as trying to caress his face—slide her fingers down his cheek, feel his skin one more time. Or something way, way worse: telling him how much she cared.
Then things would get ugly, of course. Because there was no taking somebody like Brock by surprise twice and getting away with it. If she ever dared to do something like that again, he wouldn't freeze. He would back away and ask her to leave. Calm and polite, of course. But he would openly reject her. And that would be just too much for her to handle.
That was why she'd accepted to meeting Wilson and played along his clumsy courting. To try to purge the unsettling awareness of Brock so close to her. But it was useless. She couldn't wash off her skin what was so deep beneath. What she'd never wanted to feel. That stupid thing stirring inside of her, that hideous mix of admiration and need she just couldn't manage whenever he was around.
Gillian didn't need to deal with it. She didn't need to cope. She'd been there a thousand times ever since the hostage crisis at Orlando's. By then she knew, she understood. And most important: she had somehow accepted she couldn't fight it.
She had even accepted he would never like her. She couldn't force it onto him. She'd never been blind. She wasn't even young, to at least harbor any naïve hope about him. She'd learned long ago to be honest with herself and live with it. And the bottom line was that they were just too different about all the things that mattered.
But she anyway wished she could find a way not to annoy him. Be able not to piss him off like she did. Yet something inside of her always screwed up before she even noticed. Like that morning, at Rose Coleridge's house. He'd gotten to her so deep, she couldn't help all of her defensive mechanisms setting off at the way he always pushed her away. He knew her so well, that she needed to be her most despicable self, and do all the things she knew he hated. As if that would keep him from getting deeper under her skin. As if he couldn't see the way she felt about him. If she could only get a grip on herself, she might be able to be around without getting on his nerves every damn time.
All of a sudden she realized she'd taken three wrong steps down the dark hall and her hand was in the air. Right about to knock on his door. Maybe only for a simple go to sleep, stupid bitter man. You're not a boy anymore, you know, and we need you fresh and sharp in a few hours.
She stopped herself just before knocking and rested her hand flat against his door.
"It's late, Brock, get some rest," she whispered. Then she spun on her heels and hurried to her room.
.
.
Keep reading on the next episode: BLACKBIRD 16 - the bruise
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
