Obsession
Disclaimer: As usual, they belong to Dick Wolf.
Warnings: Femslash. Story will deal with sexual violence and it's aftermath in later chapters.
Author's Notes: Well, as you all know, this is a repost of an old story, but I've had quite a few requests to put them back up . . . so here it is. I've also compiled some of the chapters to make it easier to post.
Chapter 1
I sit in my darkened apartment, illuminated only by the cheap scented candle on the coffee table, and contemplate my existence. It sounds ridiculous really. Contemplating your existence? What does that really mean? I've never been sure, but it sounds good. The faint sounds of Sarah McLachlan drift from my cd player. Her soft voice and tortured prose only serve to depress me more. If there were a soundtrack for suicide, surely this would be it. I sigh as I take another drink of coffee that has long since gone cold. It's Friday night, I really should have something better to do. But I don't, so I sit and wallow in my self-pity.
I lost today. It wasn't the first time and I'm sure it won't be the last, but I still feel like I should have won. Alex Cabot would have pulled some obscure case precedent out of her ass and saved the day. I'm not Alex, so I just sat there dumbfounded as the case exploded in my face. I think Olivia believes I should of won too. I saw a flash of disappointment in those liquid brown eyes before she recovered and told me that it wasn't my fault. She threw her arm around my shoulders as we walked from the court room and gave me one of those blinding Benson smiles. I loathe myself for disappointing her. No one else's opinion matters quite as much as hers.
I get up to refill my mug and glance at the bottle of Bailey's Irish Creme sitting on my counter. I'm tempted, but that's the last thing I need right now. Returning to my previous spot with my newly warmed coffee I glance at the clock. It's only eight o'clock. Time flies when you're having fun.
My cell phone rings from its position on my coffee table. I glare at it. How dare it interrupt my pity party. I consider not answering it, but then I think that it may be work related, so I relent. I glance at the number and feel an instant surge of excitement, it's Olivia. Taking a breath, I open the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hey Casey, how are you?"
I feel myself smile at the concerned tone of her voice.
"Depressed and wallowing in self-pity, you?"
Olivia's laugh comes across the line and I melt into a puddle of goo.
"A few drinks away from not caring. Wanna join me?"
"Just name the place."
"I'm at O'Malley's. I'll be waiting."
I close the cell phone and look down at my faded jeans and white button up shirt. I suppose they will do. They will have to, I don't feel much like changing. My mood has improved greatly in the last five minutes and I find my self marveling at Olivia's ability to affect me. No one, man or woman, has ever been able to do that quite like her. I know I should take the time to figure out what that means, but I'm afraid. If I admit it, then it will be real and I know I couldn't take the rejection that would inevitably follow. So I make myself believe that I'm not falling in love with Olivia Benson. Some days I almost believe it.
Carrying my coffee to the small kitchen, I methodically go through the motions of washing the mug and placing it on the rack to dry. I turn while drying my hands and stare at the half empty coffee pot for a beat. After a moment of indecision, I sigh and wash that too. My almost obsessive neatness has been the source of many jokes throughout my life. Most people think that it's a product of being a army brat, growing up with an obsessively neat and very military father. It's really not about that. I find the almost military order of my apartment comforting in some strange way. Perhaps it's my way of balancing the chaotic clamber of my mind.
On my way out, I pause at the small coat closet to grab my favorite leather jacket. Sliding my arms into the well worn garment, I inhale the rich scent of the leather. There really is no smell quite like leather. Straitening my collar and running my hands through my hair, I stop to stare at myself in the mirror hanging beside my door. Not too bad Novak, a little on the pasty side but overall . . . not too bad. Giving my reflection a final smile, I exit the apartment and make my way down to the street below. I spot an empty cab sitting a few car lengths away. Maybe my day is improving after all.
Thirty minutes later I find myself standing in front of O'Malley's after a harrowing cab ride with a non-English speaking cabby named Ravi. One day, I swear I'm going to buy a car. Pulling the coat tighter around my body in an effort to block out the cool, damp fall air I approach the well lit pub. The sounds of laughter and music envelop me as I open the door and I can't stop the smile that forms on my face. O'Malley's is a traditional Irish pub in every way, from the dark wood bars to the Irish flags and soccer posters decorating the walls. I scan the small room and find you sitting at the bar sipping a tall glass of beer.
My breath hitches as I am once again floored by your beauty. You sit there so unaware of the stares of lust aimed your way. In my mind, that makes you so much more beautiful. You have absolutely no idea that when you walk into a room, all eyes are on you. I see the bartender tap the bar in front of you and then point my way. Upon spotting me, you let loose a smile that threatens to return me to the state of goo from earlier. Returning your smile I make my way to the bar and take up residence on the empty stool beside you.
"Drinking all alone detective?"
"Not anymore."
The bartender makes his way back to us and asks for my drink order. I really don't like beer, not for lack of trying mind you. I just can't develop a taste for the bitter liquid. I order an Irish Coffee and turn back to face you.
"I didn't know you drank Olivia."
I watch you smile self-consciously as a hint of something much darker and deeper flashes in your eyes.
"I don't . . . not much anyway." You fidget uncomfortably.
I take the hint and change the subject seamlessly as the bartender sits a steaming cup of sugary alcoholic goodness in front of me. Smiling my thanks, I turn to an easier subject . . . for you at least.
"Tough day in court. I really didn't think Judge Terhune would throw out the murder weapon."
Relief floods your eyes as the subject of your past is abandoned. The confident NYPD Detective persona clicks into place like a well worn suit of armor.
"None of us did, Casey. Uniforms screwed up, simple as that. Terhune's always been tough on search and seizure issues." You take another sip of beer.
"I know. I still think that there was something I missed, something I should have done."
You roll your eyes at me. Not in a bad way. It was more like the way you would roll your eyes at a child that you've told the same thing over and over. I can't help but feel a little hurt even though I know you don't mean anything by it.
"Case, there was nothing anyone could have done. There are just some mistakes in procedure that can't be overlooked. It's a tragedy for the victim's family and it makes me physically sick to know that the bastard is a free man tonight . . . but you can't win them all."
I take a deep breath and pick up my coffee. Letting the hot liquid slide down my throat I use the time to formulate a response.
"It doesn't make it any easier to accept." There, that's a nice safe answer.
"No . . . no, it doesn't counselor," you say as you lift your glass once more.
An awkward moment of silence falls between us as we both occupy ourselves with our drinks. I hear you take a breath, as if to speak, and I turn to look at you. Whatever you were going to say, you stop yourself and return your attention to the almost empty beer. My curiosity gets the best of me, as usual.
"What were you going to say?" I look at you expectantly.
"I was just going to ask what your story was. I realized today that I really don't know that much about you."
I feel a surge of excitement mixed with nervousness. It excites me that you want to know, but at the same time a part of me thinks that you're just being polite.
"Well, there's not a lot to tell. My dad was in the army. I was born on an army base in Germany, but we moved around a lot. When I graduated I got a full softball scholarship to Harvard. From there, I went on to Harvard law and then came straight to New York."
"Wow, never pictured you as an army brat Novak," you say, your eyes sparkling. I'm not sure if it's from genuine amusement or alcohol consumption.
"Yeah well, trust me, it's not as exciting as you might think." In fact it sucked. I learned very quickly not to try and make friends. It only took being devastated a couple of times when I had to leave my friends before I stopped trying. From that point on my only priorities were softball and academics . . . in that order.
"What rank is your dad?"
"Oh, he's retired now. But, um, he was a one star."
I laugh as you choke on your beer and turn to stare at me with wide eyes.
"One star? As in one star general?"
"Yeah."
Your trademark wicked grin replaces the look of shock. Uh oh, here it comes.
"I always wondered why you were so bossy Casey," you say before bursting into laughter.
Your laugh is so infectious I can't even work up enough annoyance to be offended.
"What can I say? Must be in the genes."
We lapse into easy conversation about work and current events for the next hour or so. Both of us had switched to plain coffee after a couple of drinks. It wouldn't do for an ADA and a respected detective to get arrested for being drunk in public.
Your cell phone rings and I notice your frown as you see the number. Must be work.
"It's Elliot. I'll be right back okay?"
"No problem." As I watch you exit the bar, I notice a patron staring at your retreating backside. A flare of protectiveness comes out of nowhere and I glare at the drunken man icily. It must have done the trick because he held his hands up in surrender and went back to his whiskey. I swear I hear the term 'dyke' float my way, but I could be imagining it.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and my heart rate triples. Not in fear, I knew it was you. I would recognize your perfume anywhere. The apologetic look on your face tells me what the call was before you even speak.
"They found a body in Tribeca. Looks like she was raped. Elliot and I caught the case, I have to go."
Disappointment floods in and I struggle to keep my face neutral.
"Sure, no problem. Work calls, you gotta go."
"Why don't you ride with me?"
I nearly fall off my bar stool in shock. Olivia Benson is actually voluntarily inviting me to a crime scene. You hate it when I show up at the crime scenes. I'm beginning to think that somehow Olivia's been kidnapped and replaced with a pod person.
"Um yeah . . . okay. I can do that." I'm impressed at how normal my voice sounds.
After paying our tabs, I follow you out onto the street. A light rain had started to fall while we were inside. I look around for a cab, but there are none to be seen.
"Did you call a cab?"
"Don't need one. Here comes our ride." You point to the marked patrol car approaching our position. It pulls to the curb and you open the back door before looking to me.
"Your ride ADA Novak." I grin at you before sliding into the dingy back seat of the cruiser.
"Gee, thanks Liv."
You get in and the uniformed officer behind the wheel flips the lights and siren on before pulling out into traffic.
Watching you from a darkened corner of the bar I fight to keep my anger in check. Why are you talking to that slut? You belong to me, yet here you are whoring around yet again. You'll soon find the gift I left for you. Maybe then you'll learn to behave. I'd hate to have to punish you, but I will if you leave me no other choice. I don't want to hurt you, I really don't. I hate to see you hurt. Sooner or later, you will realize that we belong together. Hopefully it will be sooner . . . for your sake.
Chapter 2
Tribeca is mostly a neighborhood of wealthy young professionals and trendy Hollywood transplants. Overpriced lofts and designer shops predominate here. I once looked at a loft not far from here and loved it. Then they told me the price and I decided that I valued eating much more than having a loft with exposed brick and a skylight. Imagine that. If there's one thing that being intimately involved with the NYPD teaches you, it's that crime touches everything and everyone. Murderers and rapists rarely look at your bank account before they decide to target you.
The crime scene is tucked into an alley between two rather posh buildings on Franklin St. The light rain has subsided and now an almost imperceptible mist falls from the sky. As we walk into the alley I see the victim laying on her stomach, head turned towards the back of the alley, and hatred surges through my chest. I will never understand what motivates someone to take another's life in cold blood. That's why I know I could never be a criminal defense attorney. In my mind there are no excuses that even come close to being good enough.
Elliot spots us from his position by the body and gives me a strange look before starting our way.
"What have we got?" I am slightly startled by your abrupt speech. You were silent for most of the trip here.
Elliot flips open his notepad and flips through the worn, damp pages.
"Female vic, no ID, strangled. Pretty sure she was raped, but we'll have to wait on the kit to be positive."
"Get any trace evidence off the body?" You pull on latex gloves that seem to have appeared from nowhere.
"Nada. Rain took care of that," Elliot said, his voice thick with disgust. He turns to pin me with a questioning gaze as you wander off towards the body.
"What the hell are you doing here Casey?"
The blunt question takes me by surprise and I stand staring at the man, my mouth opening and closing in a fish-like gesture that must be hilarious to watch. Fighting the annoyance that threatens to spill forth into any one of a string of acid comments that come to mind, I take the time to construct a more diplomatic response.
"I was out with Olivia, I'm not here to step on your toes Detective Stabler."
His face softens as he catches my deliberate use of his title. I really thought we were over all of this 'my space, your space' crap, I guess I was wrong.
"Look, I'm sorry. It's been a long night," Elliot looks down at the ground as he stuffs his hands in his pockets.
My annoyance evaporates and I can't help but think that he resembles a little boy who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"It's okay, Elliot. You're forgiven." I give him a genuine smile as we turn to walk towards Olivia and the vic.
As I get closer to the body a disturbing since of familiarity strikes me square in the chest. I can't really place it, I just feel like I know this woman. Ignoring the strange looks from the police, I push myself to walk closer. The women's clothing is soaked from the evening's rain and her skirt has been pushed up around her waist. The irrational urge to cover her up, protect what's left of her modesty, surges through my mind. Ignoring it I push myself to walk closer. I get my first look at her face and my world implodes. I know her.
You must have noticed something because the next thing I know you're by my side asking me what's wrong.
"I know her Olivia. Oh God, I know her." I bring my hands to my face in an effort to stifle the tears that threaten to spill at any moment.
I barely register the look that passes between you and your partner before I allow you to lead me out of the alley and away from her body. It's not until you have me tucked into the front seat of Elliot's unmarked car that you speak again.
"Who is she Casey?"
You crouch in front of me and take my hands. I wish I could tell you how comforting such a simple touch from you is.
"Her name is . . . was . . . Elli Richter. She used to be an ad exec at a firm downtown, Lawson Associates I think."
"I'm going to take you home okay? Just let me go tell Elliot."
Your voice is soft and even, the voice you use to talk to victims and family members. I hate that you are talking to me in that tone but I force myself to offer you a small smile. You reciprocate with a smile of your own before you leave to find Elliot.
It shames me to admit that part of the reason I'm upset is purely selfish. There are going to be questions about my involvement with Elli. If I tell you how I know her, then I have to out myself and that is not a prospect that I find attractive. The scenario plays out in my mind again and again. It terrifies me that you will recoil in disgust like my sister. I haven't spoken to her in five years, not since the day I told her I was gay. I can't lose you like that. I try to ignore you when you slide behind the wheel a few moments later. Maybe you won't ask, please God don't ask.
"How did you know her?" Shit.
"Promise me that this will stay between us?" I don't look at you. Instead, I stare steadily out the passenger window as you pull away from the scene.
"Casey, you know I can't promise that but I'll try okay? That's the best I can do."
I continue to stare out the window, terrified of facing you.
"We dated," I say, my voice soft and distant. Mentally I prepare myself to receive the backlash I was sure would come. Barely reacting, you just keep driving, concentrating on weaving in and out of Friday night traffic. I look at your face, searching it for any trace of shock or disgust. There is none.
"What? Did you expect me to scream girlishly and run away?" You look at me, amusement playing in your eyes.
"Well . . . sort of." I have the good sense to look chagrined.
"Casey, we're friends. Whatever makes you happy, makes me happy." Your smile is barely visible in the dim light.
Friends? Is that all we are Olivia? I want so much more from you. Looking at my lap to hide the tears that once again threaten to spill from my eyes, I try to force myself to believe that I can be happy as your friend. A single tear escapes my closed eyes and I wipe it away.
"How long did you date?" I feel like you're interviewing me.
"Um, a couple of months. It wasn't anything serious," I say as I drag my hands through my damp hair.
"Why did you think I would react badly to you dating a woman?" You gaze at me steadily, eyes alert and curious. I resist the urge to tell you to watch the road.
"My sister hasn't spoken to me since I told her five years ago." The tears flow freely now.
I've spent the last five years trying to tell myself that I don't care. More people than I can count have told me that it's her loss. Even my mother and father, who are strangely accepting of my lifestyle. But, in the end, it doesn't matter how many people try to comfort me. I still feel her loss like a gaping hole that will never be filled. You never really get over rejection from a family member, especially one as close as a sister. I suppose it has made me a bit gun shy.
"I'm sorry Casey," you say as you lay your hand on my knee in a reassuring gesture.
I give you a small smile and lie through my teeth, "it's okay."
"Obviously it's not or you wouldn't be crying." Damn you for being so perceptive Olivia Benson.
"It's still a difficult subject," I say as I self-consciously wipe away the wetness that decorates my cheeks.
"If you ever need to talk, I'm here."
"I know."
I think you sense my desire for silence because you don't say anything else for the rest of the trip to my apartment. In the silence my thoughts turn to Elli. I really wish I hadn't seen her like that. I would much rather remember the vibrant blond haired, blue eyed beauty that I knew. Instead, I will forever be tormented with the image of what she looked like in death. Yet another image to add to my directory of nightmares.
My thoughts are interrupted as you maneuver the car into a tight parking spot in front of my building. Putting the car in park, you turn to look at me. I get the uneasy feeling that you're studying me. Your eyes are probing and I feel like running from the car to escape your scrutiny.
"Do you want me to come up for a while?"
You have no idea how much I want that. But your mixed signals are killing me and I don't think I can deal with much more tonight. I smile at you to let you know that I'm alright. I'm fairly sure that you're not convinced.
"It's okay Olivia, go home and get some rest," I say as I open the door and extricate myself from what has become an uncomfortable situation.
"You sure?" You're eyes are searching my face again.
"Yes, go home Liv." Keeping the turmoil I feel off of my face is a constant struggle.
"I'll see you soon Casey. Call me if you need anything." For a split second I think I see disappointment flash in your eyes. I'm sure it's just wishful thinking.
"I will. Thanks Olivia."
I shut the car door and start off towards my building. As Jacob, my building's elderly doorman, opens the door I glance back to see you still sitting at the curb watching me. Ever the protector aren't you Olivia?
"Good evening Ms. Novak," Jacob greets, his gray eyes sparkling in kindness.
I can't help but smile at the man. His perpetual good mood is infectious.
"Hi Jacob."
He takes in my rumpled appearance and his face takes on a look of polite concern.
"Rough night," he asks.
"Aren't they all?" I smile sadly at him.
Looking out the door, I notice that you are gone. You'd made sure I was tucked safe and sound in my building before you left. Regret floods in as I remember that you could be walking up with me right now. If only I'd said yes.
I bid goodnight to Jacob before starting off towards the stairs that will lead to my fourth floor apartment. Fatigue sets in and I crave the warmth of my king sized bed. Despite the fatigue, I know that it will be a long time before sleep comes tonight.
Chapter 3
Crack!
The impact of the softball hitting the bat reverberates through my arms. Without thinking about it I readjust my stance and face the machine, awaiting the next ball.
Crack!
My shoulders already burn from my time in the cages but I'm beyond caring today. Today I just want to let go and lose myself in the mindless action.
As I suspected, sleep did not come easily last night. I lay in my bed tossing and turning and trying every trick I'd ever heard of to fall asleep. None of them worked. My mind raced, images of Elli fresh in my memory. Nights like those I wish I had an internal on/off switch for my brain. What sweet release it would be to cease my mind's sometimes frantic pace, if only for a while.
Crack!
This is the closest I've ever come to that peace, here in the cages. I gave up on sleep at about 4 AM this morning. When the cages opened at 7, I was the first one standing in line. Now two hours later, I'm still here, my arm muscles close to muscle failure and my mind nowhere near that peace I seek.
"Nice form, little short on the follow through though."
I turn towards the voice with an acid retort on the tip of my tongue, but when I see the owner of the voice the sarcastic response dies away in an instant. I stand facing a person I haven't seen since college. My ex-fiancé smiles at the shock evident on my face.
"Long time, no see Casey."
"Stephen? I thought you, I mean . . . how have you been?" I know it sounds stupid as it leaves my mouth but I can honestly think of nothing better to say. Stephen Murphy was the one person I never thought I'd see again. Yet, here he stands before me, same spiked blonde hair and boyish good looks that I remember.
"Oh you mean since I went crazy in college and my fiance left me to fend for myself?"
The hurt and anger conveyed in that statement strikes me like a punch and I fight to keep myself from backing away.
"Stephen, I don't know what to say. I tried to help you." I tighten my grip on the bat in my hand and send up a silent prayer of thanks to whom ever's listening for the thin metal fence between us.
"I know you did, that's not why I'm here Red." His old nickname for me brings up happier memories from before he got sick.
I never loved Stephen like a fiance should, he was my last ditch effort at heterosexuality, but I did love him in my own way. Then, during our senior year, he started to change. My Stephen disappeared and a unpredictable and scary stranger took his place. The erratic behavior continued deteriorating and finally, I'd had enough. I believed I couldn't help someone who didn't want it. Now standing here facing this man I'd given up on, I wonder if I made the right decision.
"Then why are you here," I ask warily, not sure I want an answer. Honestly, I have enough complications in my life right now.
"I wanted to tell you that I was on medication, two years now, and mend some fences so to speak," he says as he removes the dark sunglasses covering his gray eyes.
I'm not sure what he wants from me or why he's come back. The confusion must have been evident on my face.
"I'm not here to pick up where we left off Casey, I know you never loved me like that."
Confusion is replaced with shock as I openly gape at him.
"You knew?" I'm quickly leaving emotional shock and approaching medical shock as my brain tries to process the information overload of the last two days. I want my nice, quiet, semi-normal life back.
He laughs, a deep baritone sound that I find completely inappropriate for the moment. I shoot him a look of annoyance. This is not funny.
"Everyone knew Casey, I mean come on . . . softball and straight just don't go together," he says, still chuckling.
My annoyance triples at the cliched belief that all women who play softball are lesbians. Okay, so it just happens to be true in my case, but not always.
"Circumstantial evidence, Stephen."
He rolls his eyes at me in an endearingly familiar fashion.
"Case, I just knew okay? Give me some credit, we did sleep together, I think I can tell the difference."
I soften a bit, consciously beating down the defense mechanisms that are so prevalent when I feel uncomfortable.
"Then why did you stay with me?"
"Because I loved you." He smiles as if that explains everything. I want to ask more questions, but I stop myself. I know that I will end up questioning him in the same rapid-fire manor I cross examine a witness and he doesn't deserve that. Instead I steer away from the subject to a less volatile one.
"How did you find me?"
"Your doorman Jacob is very easily persuaded, he told me you'd be here."
I make a mental note to talk to Jacob about that as I finally exit the cage.
"That doesn't explain how you knew where I lived," I say as I place my helmet and bat in my gym bag.
"Casey, you're registered with the Harvard Alumni . . . address and all." He smirks at me a bit condescendingly.
Damn, forgot about that. Guess I need to change that. Making yet another mental note, I look down in an attempt to hide the redness that has spread across my cheeks.
"You should fix that, could be dangerous for a woman in your position."
"I'll be fine, Stephen," I say offhandedly. I am not in the mood to be lectured by someone who just walked back into my life 30 minutes ago.
He crouches down next to me and forces me to look at him.
"You almost weren't. I saw it in the paper when that bastard attacked you."
A million emotions rage in my mind and I'm sure each and every one of them flash across my face. I still can't remember what happened that night, the doctors say I probably never will. All I know is that I woke up with a concussion, three broken ribs, and a fractured hip. For the first few months I had nightmares, disjointed images and sensations that changed each time. Those are gone now, all that remains is the anger.
"Hey look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up what's obviously a difficult subject."
"Yeah it is and I don't really want to talk about it," I say, pushing the unpleasant emotions back into the locked box in my mind where they belong. An awkward silence falls between us as we stand up.
"Do you want to go grab some coffee?"
At first, I'm hesitant to accept his offer. I'm still not sure I buy the 'I just want to be friends' speech.
"Please Casey," he says, giving me the same puppy dog eyes he used on me in college. Never could resist those.
"Okay, okay. I'll go," I say as I roll my eyes at him in mock annoyance. I pick up my bag and return his smile with one of my own.
As we begin to walk away he turns to me with a serious look and says, "I've just got one question for you Red."
I raise an eyebrow and look at him expectantly awaiting his question.
"What in the hell did you do to your hair?"
I playfully punch his shoulder as my other hand goes to my sweat-dampened blonde hair. I've been meaning to get an appointment to have my hair returned to its previous state of red, but I've just been too busy with work lately. I'm still not sure why I bleached my hair this hideous shade of blonde. It was one of those spur of the moment decisions that you regret almost immediately.
"I wanted something different I suppose." I turn to look at his still smiling face and in that moment I decide that Stephen coming back into my life is a good thing. We were friends once, before we were lovers, before he got sick. I know we can be friends again and lets be honest, you can never have too many friends.
Several hours later I stand in front of my apartment door searching my gym bag for my keys. My coffee date with Stephen went wonderful and for the first time in a couple of days I find myself in a good mood. We spent hours catching up and quickly fell back into a comfortable rhythm of friendship so familiar to both of us. I even told him about Olivia. Of course, he proceeded to tell me that I needed to be honest with her and tell her about my feelings. I steadfastly refused and he simply smiled enigmatically, indicating that the discussion was not over by a long shot. I came away from the whole thing with a lunch date for next week and a reconnection with an old friend that I've dearly missed. I just didn't realize how much until now.
Finally locating my keys, I unlock the door and head into my apartment. Locking the door securely behind me, I toss my gym bag in the coat closet and grab a bottle of water on my way to my bedroom. I twist off the cap and take a long drink of water before setting it on the bedside table.
I can't help but smile as I flip through my CD case looking for something to listen too. Finally deciding on The Rolling Stones Greatest Hits, I put it into the stereo and turn the volume up. As the first strains of 'Sympathy For the Devil' roll from the expensive surround sound system I close my eyes and concentrate on the gritty sound of Mick Jagger's voice. This stereo system cost me a fortune, but it was worth it. A girl's gotta have some fun.
Dancing, something I only do at home alone, I strip my clothes off and toss them in the dirty clothes hamper before heading to the bathroom to start my shower. I turn on the tap, adjusting the water to just this side of boiling before stepping in.
Under the pulsating heat my mind turns again to Olivia. Perhaps Stephen is right. Maybe I should tell her how I feel. The rewards could be great if she feels the same way. But if not, our working relationship will be ruined, not to mention our personal friendship. It's a gamble and I've never been much of a gambler. I like sure things, not maybes.
Arguing with myself about Olivia for the next twenty minutes is going to do me absolutely no good. There is no simple solution to this. I'm falling in love with a woman that I'm not even sure is gay. I'm sure a therapist would have something to say about that. Probably something about falling for unattainable people, that way I know I won't get hurt. Because when it comes down to it Olivia Benson, you're pretty damn unattainable.
Leaning my head back I allow the rapidly cooling water to cascade over my face. Wiping my eyes, I lean down and grab the shower gel and wash my body quickly. By the time I'm finished shampooing my hair the shower has gone cold and I step out onto the bathroom rug shivering. Damn small water heaters. I wrap my oversized bath towel around myself in an effort to stop the chills racking my body.
After a few minutes, they subside and I slip into my silk robe. The black form-fitting robe falls just to my thighs and is most definitely meant to be seen by someone. It was another gift to myself from Victoria's Secret. Too bad there's no one to see it but me. Leaving the bathroom, still towel drying my hair, I'm struck by a chill that has nothing to do with the cold.
On my bed, there is a single red rose laying on top of some kind of card. It had not been there before my shower, that I'm sure of. My heart pounds in my chest as I pick up the card. It's plain white with a decorative border. In the center, one word is written in black ink . . . Soon. Somewhere in the back of my panicking mind I realize that I shouldn't have touched the card, but that is the least of my worries. Someone has been in my apartment while I was here. That terrifies me more than Milan Zergin's attack ever will.
My mouth is deathly dry as I realize that the person could still be here. I rush to my bedside table and pull open the drawer. Tucked inside, in the back, is the small handgun Olivia gave me after Zergin attacked me. She spent hours teaching me to shoot it. I grab the gun and the cordless phone resting on my table and run back to the bathroom. I lock the door behind me and sit down on the toilet, frantic at the thought that the person could still be in my apartment. I dial Olivia's number and pray that she answers.
On the second ring, you pick up, "hello?"
"Olivia, I need you to come over, please." My voice sounds small and scared and I hate it.
"Casey, what's wrong? Are you okay," you ask, your voice taking on a slight edge of panic.
"Someone broke into my apartment while I was in the shower, I don't know if they're still here. I locked myself in the bathroom."
I hear your sharp intake of breath and it almost makes me smile to know you care. I know that's twisted, but what can I say.
"Don't move, I'll be right there Casey. Do you have the gun?" The panic present before has been replaced with your cop voice.
"Yes," I say while tightening my grip on the object in question. My hand is shaking so badly that I doubt I could hit the side of a skyscraper right now, much less a person. But it does give me a small amount of comfort to feel the weight in my palm.
"Don't be afraid to use it. I'm on my way."
TBC