Disclaimer: All characters and settings for CSI:NY are the intellectual property of Bruckheimer and the network. Honestly, would I have written this season's storylines? I don't think so.

A/N: Not a pleasant piece. But I am in the middle of a self-inflicted life upheaval – I'm not feeling pleasant.

Anki – this perverted laundry tale is for you.

Nighterrors

He went for girls with long honey-brown curls sweeping down to their shoulders, brown eyes warm and a little shy.

He used to go for buxom blondes, but not any longer.

When he saw one on the street, in a store, his heart would thump into his throat for a moment; then, with his customary predatory smile firmly in place, he would stalk and trap his victim, capturing first her attention, then her attraction, and finally – usually – her willing seduction.

Six and counting.

One in a movie theatre: first she dropped her popcorn on him, then later dropped to her knees and sucked him into a vortex.

One in a park: he bought her a coffee and threw a ball for her dog before backing her up against a tree only yards from a busy biking path.

One in a grocery store: they ended up fucking in her van, a child's car seat staring accusingly from the back seat.

Two in a bar: same night, same dilapidated bathroom stall, different song being played by the band, a faux country group that sang about cheating hearts and broken dreams.

And tonight it was midnight in a small neighbourhood laundromat with only two working dryers and only one other person in the place, folding up sheets and towels and lacy underthings designed to drive a man wild.

A short conversation, a weak moment, a devastating kiss, and she was on top of the violently spinning washing machine, him caught between her thighs thrusting and cursing and coming as she convulsed around him, panting and laughing.

Thump! Thump! THUMP!

Lindsay woke with a sob caught in her throat and a violent pounding in her head, falling off the couch and sprinting to the demented washing machine which had spun off its bearings and was merrily waltzing across the floor.

She went to the refrigerator and pulled the orange juice out, draining it straight from the container. But no matter how much she swallowed, she could not dislodge the stone in her throat, the bitterness in her mouth, the raw images that haunted her night after restless night.

Images of him with other women, his eyes, mocking and a little sad, staring over their shoulders into hers. Images of him caressing them, seducing them, filling them. Images of him every night with a different woman.

All of whom looked like her.