Morty Fleener looked at his watch. One night in lockup wasn't so bad—as usual, Tony had assured him it was for a good cause. If there was ever someone that needed their help, it was that Hutchinson lad and his equally dim partner, Starsky.
Oh, well, it wasn't the first time—and it probably wouldn't be the last, not if Tony had anything to say about it. He was such a romantic.
"Excuse me."
I looked up from the third copy of the eighth report I'd had to type that morning to see a dapper little man, about a hundred and fifty years old, beaming down at me like I was his long lost son. An interruption was the last thing I needed—my head had been pounding all day and these damn reports weren't helping.
"Can I help you?"
"You are Kenneth Hutchinson, are you not?" His purple bow tie and rusty black suit were clean and neatly creased and there wasn't that sour smell of a longtime drunk hanging around him. As he smiled at me, his shaggy white eyebrows bobbing, I found myself responding with a grin of my own.
"Yeah, that's me. Can I help you, Mr.—?"
"Fleener. Mortimer Fleener. And yes, you can. You see, I committed a crime, and I'd like to turn myself in."
I stifled a groan—we got loonies into the station every once in a while, and for some reason they always found me or my partner, who was conveniently missing right now.
"Look, Mr.—Fleener, is it? I appreciate good citizenship as much as the next cop, but whatever you did, I'm sure you don't need to—"
"Oh, but I do. They're looking for me, you know."
"They are? Who are? I mean—who is?"
He straightened proudly. "The federal prosecutor of Santa Barbara County."
I leaned back in my chair, trying not to let the skepticism show on my face. This old guy didn't look like he'd jaywalk, let alone do anything to garner that kind of attention.
"All right, what for?"
"I robbed a bank."
My jaw dropped—I wasn't expecting that at all. A lapsed dog license, maybe, but—bank robbery?
My partner decided to show up at that moment, carrying our lunch. He shot me an impartial but amused look as he maneuvered around Fleener. Lunch smelled good but Starsky looked better—and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about.
It was my fault we weren't lovers. We'd come so close—and then I'd blown it.
Predictably, the night that changed our lives had started with a fight, a huge one, over something dumb. No, maybe it started long before that. We'd been sniping at each other since Starsky's return to duty and I hate to admit it, but our bickering had taken on an uncomfortable edge. Neither of us could do anything right in the eyes of his partner and having Starsky back at my side was both heaven and hell for me. Heaven, because I loved him like crazy, and hell, because I figured there was no way he could feel the same way. So I pushed him away with cutting words and pretty soon, he was matching me hurt for hurt.
It was a simple disagreement over procedure that escalated into a full blown argument at Starsky's place. We were getting nowhere and I knew I was about to say something I'd regret, something that had nothing to do with our stupid quarrel, so I tried to push past a red-faced Starsky on my way out the door. He blocked my way and got in my face, still trying to make some point that I would never concede. I stuck out an arm to move him aside—he grabbed it and swung me around until my back connected painfully with the edge of the kitchen counter.
Unreasonable fury burst inside me and I clutched at his shirt, thinking to shake some sense into him. He had the same idea and the next thing I knew we were wrestling in earnest, only I was handicapped by not wanting to bruise him.
He had no such restraint and I thought he was going to hit me—but instead his hand connected in a completely different way. Anticipating a sock to the jaw, I froze when his fingers slid around my neck to cup the back of my head. The anger in his eyes faded to a wide-eyed sorrow and I felt my heart shatter with the most wonderful, painful realization of my life.
My rage had fled at the first touch of Starsky's hand to my neck and as I stared into his eyes, I was shocked to realize that Starsky wasn't any more angry than I was. All the furious passion between us had nothing to do with work—this was strictly personal. I tried to say something, anything, grabbing for words that wouldn't betray me—but instead I found my world turned upside down.
Starsky kissed me.
There was no time to think about the consequences. His mouth on mine was a connection so powerful we both started to shake. He pressed his tongue inside and tangled with mine and I don't know who was making the little grunting noises that pulsed with the too-quick beating of my heart. We fit together perfectly in a desperate embrace that spanned every emotion from surprise to fear—and fear won out.
His grip on my arms was so strong that I had to wrench my body away. He tried to follow but I held him off with a stiff arm, much like the one I'd used only seconds before. Confused hurt was evident on his face and I looked away, unable to meet his gaze as I struggled to come to terms with what had just happened. It was what I'd wanted for too long and it had happened so quickly that I was adrift—but that moment was long enough to cost me almost everything.
"Go home." It was a weary command as Starsky walked away and opened the apartment door.
"Starsk—" I croaked, sick to my soul with the knowledge of what I'd done.
"Later, Hutch." He left the door open and walked past me. I touched his hand and withdrew quickly when he looked at me. Sadly, knowingly, he placed his hand on my shoulder. "S'okay. Go home, get some sleep. Forget this ever happened."
"I can't." My jaw was trembling with unfocused pain. "I don't want to."
His hand fell away. "Then you're on your own, partner. I know what I want. You figure out your end, you let me know."
I left, not knowing what Starsky meant and too much of a coward to ask. For one of the few times of my life, I couldn't read him, didn't know what he wanted. Did that kiss mean to him what it meant to me? Or was it a fluke that he wanted to pretend never happened? I wanted to believe in the one but was terrified of the other, and that had to change. I had to be sure—or I had to walk away.
"Starsky," I said as he sat across from me, "this is Mr. Fleener. He says he robbed a bank."
Starsky paused in the middle of pulling our sandwiches out of the bag.
"Yeah? Which one?" He almost winked at me before remembrance set in, so he turned to Fleener, who was still standing patiently next to my desk. "You in on the First Guaranteed job? Maybe bagman for the Federal United robbery couple a weeks ago?"
"Oh, no," Fleener said. "I committed my misdeed—let's see, almost eighteen years ago. Bank robbery, to be exact."
Oh, boy. I rubbed my hand over my eyes, wishing I'd lost the toss and been the one to go get lunch.
"Um, that's great, and, uh, thank you, but I believe the statute of limitations has run out on your crime."
Fleener gave me a disapproving frown. "You need to check your regulations, young man. I was charged with that crime and the statue of limitations hasn't elapsed for that."
Damn, he was right. If charges had been filed, he was still on the hook for it.
"So you're saying there's a warrant out for your arrest?"
"Oh, yes. Look it up—you'll find one issued for me for robbing the First National Bank of Lompoc."
Starsky's eyebrows flew upward. "Lompoc? That's a little out of our jurisdiction, Mr., uh, Fleener—maybe you should turn yourself in up there."
Fleener smiled at him beatifically. "That's exactly what I'd like to do, young man. That's why I came here—so you could give me a ride."
"Mr. Fleener," I said gently, "we're not in the habit of transporting folks who've confessed to a felony—not unless we're sure they've committed one."
Fleener nodded and pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket. He unfolded it and pointed to a phone number written in pencil. "Of course. Here, why don't you just call the prosecutor's office in Santa Barbara. This is a direct line to Anthony Carpeaux." He sat down in the empty chair beside me. "I'll wait."
I shared another glance with Starsky, who shrugged and started eating his sandwich. I figured the only way to get the old gentleman on his way was to indulge him. It was my lunch hour, so Dobey couldn't complain I was wasting city time.
"Sure," I said. "Why not."
Five minutes later, I was staring at a wide-eyed Starsky as I hung up the phone.
"He's legit?" he asked incredulously.
"Yeah. This guy Carpeaux says Mr. Fleener's a wanted man, needs us to take him up there." I managed a lopsided grin. "He's gonna arrange it with Dobey. Sounds like we're going on a road trip tomorrow."
Starsky's eyes lit up, then became shadowed. I knew what he was thinking—normally we'd be thrilled to get out of town, but right now, I think the last thing Starsky wanted was to be cooped up in a car with me all day—and I couldn't blame him. I wasn't that thrilled with me, either.
However, Fleener clapped his hands like a kid getting a Popsicle. "Lovely. I adore the coast this time of year. Oh, I almost forgot," He slipped his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a small brass key. "Here. This belongs to the safe deposit box where the money has been kept all these years."
"You gotta be kiddin' me." I glanced at Starsky, who looked equally stunned.
"Oh no, not at all. There's—hmm, let me see—yes, forty three thousand, seven hundred and two dollars in there."
"Forty three thousand, seven hundred and two dollars," I repeated weakly. "And—um, what bank is this safety deposit box in?"
The old man heaved a patient sigh. "The First National Bank of Lompoc. Dear me, haven't you boys been listening?"
Starsky stared at him. "You mean you kept the money you stole in the bank you stole it from?"
Fleener smiled impartially at us both. "Of course. Safest place in the world, a newly robbed bank."
"Of course." I rubbed at the headache roaring behind my eyes. "Mr. Fleener—why now? You'd gotten away with it—why are you turning yourself in?"
To my dismay, Fleener's eyes misted over. "There are more important things in life than money, young man. Money will corrupt your soul—but it's fear that will destroy your happiness."
He reached across the desk and briefly touched my forehead, his dry fingers powdery and soft against my skin. "Remember that, Detective. That's the key."
I found myself staring into his watery hazel eyes, strangely drawn to the old guy. My headache seemed to fade as the seconds ticked away, then Fleener stood up and held out his hands, wrists together.
"All right, young man, let's get on with it."
Although it was procedure, one glance at Starsky confirmed my own opinion on using cuffs on the old guy.
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Fleener," I said as I rose from my chair. "Let's get you down to booking."
"Starsk, can you turn that down?"
"What? Why? I like this song."
And, Starsky being Starsky, he had to start singing, knowing it would irritate me further.
"If you ever change your mind, about leavin', leavin' me behind
Oh, oh, bring it to me, bring your sweet lovin'
Bring it on home to me, oh yeah..."
I winced and reached for the tuner. "Can't you find something else? Something recorded in this century?"
He slapped my hand away. "That's the problem with you, Hutch—you don't appreciate the classics."
He was annoyed and I was too dispirited to argue with him, so I let him have his oldies station—anything to keep him from dwelling on how bad this road trip had turned out. It didn't work—beside me in the car, he kept his body turned away and his arms crossed over his chest as looked out the window.
Classics? Yeah, classic sulking partner.
"We're lost, aren't we."
"No, we are not—okay, I'm not sure. Check the map again."
"Hutch, it's dark—I can barely see my hand in front of my face."
I sighed. We needed to get back to the interstate and I had no idea where it was. Starsky heard me and snapped on the overhead light before pulling out the map one more time as I squinted into the darkness ahead.
"I see a sign over there. Is that the turnoff?"
"Says so on the map."
"Starsk, you and map reading aren't a great combination. Let me see it."
"No, I'm tellin' ya—the map says—"
"Starsk, just let me see—"
"No—no, wait, Hutch—you're gonna run us off the road! Hutch!"
"Hello? Is anyone here?"
A hand scrabbled at my shirttail. "Hutch, I don't like this place. Let's go back to the car, okay?"
I reached back and shoved the hand away. "Starsk, it's the middle of the night and this motel is the only building for miles. Let's get some sleep and call a tow truck in the morning."
"Yeah, okay."
I wasn't thrilled about staying in this place either—it was an old motor lodge called The Red Clay Inn, probably the kind built after the war. Unfortunately, this one looked as though it'd been abandoned before the Beatles landed. Not my first choice of accommodations, but I'd banged my head against the driver's side window when I'd swerved into the ditch; laying down somewhere soon sounded like a great idea.
I pressed the office buzzer again. There was a neon red Vacancy sign buzzing in the window and a porch light on near the screened door, but those were the only signs of life. There were no other cars parked in front of any of the cabins that stretched toward the woods behind the little office.
All I'd wanted to do was drop off Fleener and then have a nice day with my partner and hopefully work on this new thing between us. I'd had it all planned—we'd get an early start and after handing Fleener over to the authorities in Santa Barbara, we'd have the rest of the day together, just the two of us. Enjoying each other's company never used to be a problem but Starsky had seemed less than excited about the idea. There was a sickening awkwardness between us that I wanted to get rid of—we'd never been so clumsy around each other. This trip was for us to get back to what we knew best—us.
For his part, Fleener remained unflappable. He acted like he was on a Sunday drive, not a man who could spend the rest of his life in prison. On the way, he told us about the robbery and everything else he'd been doing since 1962—which included a lot of minor transgressions, but nothing on the level of a bank job. It passed the time and kept us amused and it was with real regret that we'd turned him over to the DA, who looked to be at least as old as Fleener. They greeted each other like old friends and while I thought it was a little odd that there weren't any federal agents in the nondescript waiting room where we handed Fleener over. I figured he couldn't get too far if he decided to make a run for it.
Besides, now he was Santa Barbara's problem. Carpeaux thanked us and Fleener shook our hands and wished us luck. Not sure what he meant by that, but if he was referring to the ride home, it didn't do us a hell of a lot of good.
Job done, we had a long drive back and I suggested we take a scenic route that Fleener had described that morning. It'd take longer, but we didn't have to be back to work for two days. Starsky disagreed—he wanted to go straight home, claiming he was tired and wanted his first good night's rest in a week.
What that told me was that he couldn't stand to say in the same room with me.
Then everything else went wrong. The car had a flat that took us over two hours to fix. The beautiful day turned muggy and warm and the diner where we'd had lunch wasn't more than a greasy spoon in a hick town miles away from anything anyone could call scenic.
And now it was after dark and we were stranded on a seldom-used highway; my car was stuck in some off-road mud and we'd had to hike a mile to get to this place that looked like something out of "Psycho". The last shreds of Starsky's good mood disappeared when I dropped my car keys in the dark and couldn't find them; now I was beginning to think I'd ruined everything. Not just the day—everything.
But there was no place else to go, so I pounded on the doorframe and raised my voice.
"Hello! Anyone in there? Hello?"
My answer was nothing but the chirrup of a manic cricket and Starsky's unintelligible grumbling as he paced away from me toward the one pale street light illuminating the dark highway.
Faced with the possibility of sleeping in my car with a pissed-off partner, I moved the screen door out of the way and grabbed the door handle, giving it a twist. To my surprise it turned and the door opened silently and smoothly on obviously well-oiled hinges.
"Hello?" I said again, pushing the door open. It was dark but I slapped the wall to my left and found a switch that lit a lamp on the tiny counter across from the door. There was still no signs of life—in fact, the room looked as though no one had been there since the Eisenhower administration. As I stepped further inside, I could see a wall rack of maps covered in dust and beside it, a wire holder full of old-fashioned postcards, the kind that looked hand-tinged. A rotary phone sat next to a thick ledger that lay open on the counter with a pen laying crossways on one of the pages. I flipped the ledger around—and froze.
"Hey, Starsky."
He hadn't followed me in but he heard me and stuck his head in the door.
"Yeah?"
"Come look at this."
Starsky joined me and looked down where I was tapping my finger.
He let out a low whistle. "Man, 1962? That's gotta be an antique they have layin' around for the tourists. Some coincidence, hunh?"
"Yeah. Speaking of 'they', wonder where 'they' are."
"Don't care. Look, leave a note, grab a couple of keys and let's get some shuteye so we can get outta here first thing in the morning, okay?" He stomped out and my eyes drifted shut.
Keys. Great.
My head began pounding harder and I felt a little sick to my stomach, but I wasn't about to confess any of that to Starsky. Things were bad enough as it was without me complaining about my head. Starsky would only fuss over me half-heartedly and that would be the perfect touch to a perfectly lousy day. I looked across the counter to where the keys were lined up on hooks—or where they should've been. Out of a row of nine or so hooks, only the last one held a key.
One shiny, newly cut key.
I reached over the counter and grabbed it, too defeated to try and work out the puzzles this place presented. I scribbled a note on the register and left the office to find Starsky waiting impatiently in front of the first little cabin.
"Think this place'll have TV?" he said with a tired attempt at levity. "It's Mexican wrestling night."
"I'm just hoping for indoor plumbing." I returned his smile, glad to see he wasn't beyond cracking a lame joke. I held out my hand and there was just enough moonlight for him to see the lone key resting in my palm. "Bad news, though—this was the only key I could find. The sticker on it says 'nine'."
Starsky looked at the key, then gave me an enigmatic glance from beneath his lashes. "One key, hunh? Well, try this one anyway—maybe it's a master."
It wasn't. We tried every cabin door, but the only one it opened was the last cabin in the row—Number Nine.
"Looks like we're bunking together, partner." I said it as lightly as I could, given the circumstances and the throbbing of my skull. Starsky just nodded and pushed through the door I'd just unlocked. With a frustrated sigh, I followed him inside.
Finally, something went right. Starsky had turned on the light and the room was a lot bigger than it looked on the outside; while not exactly modern, it seemed clean and neat. There was no TV, just a small radio on the bureau across from the bed. Starsky had disappeared into the bathroom beyond and now reappeared, a satisfied look on his face.
"Hutch, I think we got us the honeymoon suite. They got a tub back there big enough for you, me, and half the first shift—and there'd still be room for my rubber duck."
"Thanks for that picture," I mumbled. Actually, the idea of sharing a bath with my troublesome partner sounded good, but right now all I could see was the one big bed that would have to serve us both.
Thankfully, my headache seemed to be fading, along with the queasiness, so I looked around for a phone as Starsky reached for the radio. I figured if I could find a phone book too, I'd have us set for a tow first thing in the morning—whenever that was. I wasn't wearing a watch and I couldn't find one in the room.
Couldn't find a phone, either. I searched both night stands and the drawers of the bureau, looking for anything to help us out, but all I found was a green-bound Gideon's Bible and a book of matches from some bar called the Party Lights.
"Hey, think I got that oldies station." Starsky set the radio down and turned up the volume.
"I know something about love, you've gotta want it bad
If that guy's got into your blood, go out and get him
If you want him to be—the very heart of you
Make you want to breathe—here's the thing to do"
Starsky started unbuttoning his shirt, wiggling his hips as he picked up the chorus.
"Tell him that you're never gonna leave him, tell him that you're always gonna love him,
Tell him, tell him, tell him, tell him right now."
"That's a stupid song," I muttered, sitting down on the edge of the bed and reaching for the laces on my sneakers.
"I like it." Starsky yanked off his shirt, revealing his holster and the dark blue tee shirt he wore beneath. He stuck his nose in his armpit and sniffed, pulling his face away with a grimace. "Think we should make use of that huge tub before callin' it a night."
I lowered my head into my hands. A night spent in the same bed with an angry Starsky was going to be purgatory—but it looked as though I had no choice. "Don't use all the hot water."
I knew he watched me for a few seconds before walking away but I didn't look up. All I could think of as I unbuckled my holster was that it was going to be one long, lonely night.
My feet still firmly planted on the floor, I laid back on the bed and threw my arm across my eyes. Expecting to hear the rush of water coming from the bathroom, I jumped a little when I felt a brief touch on my knee. I looked up to see Starsky standing beside me in his tee shirt and underwear, staring down at me without a smile.
"You joinin' me or what?"
I jerked forward and gaped at him, expecting to see Starsky's trademark smartass grin telling me he was just yanking my chain. It never showed up. In fact, I'd never seen that expression on Starsky—at least not directed at me. No, check that—not at anyone. I've seen Starsky in love, so in love you'd think he was about to come apart—but that was nothing compared to what was shining out at me from those deep blue eyes.
"Starsk?" I didn't know what else to say. From grumpy partner to the answer of every prayer in five minutes—my head was spinning. My eyes squeezed shut, the moment stretching as Starsky's hand drifted across my cheek, the radio playing softly in the background.
"I'm givin' you one more chance, for you to do right
If you'll only straighten up, we'll have a good life
Cause if you should lose me, oh yeah, you'll lose a good thing."
"C'mon, Hutch." Starsky tapped my knees and I spread them automatically, then he knelt down between them on the worn carpet. "I'm only gonna give you about another thousand chances to get this right. Now, I know today ain't been your best day, but the night's not over, right?"
I was floundering, caught between a surge of unbelievable happiness and total confusion. Starsky had circled his fingers around my ankle and was tickling upward, dragging down my sock to stroke the small patch of skin he'd uncovered.
"But you seemed so pissed off at me earlier—"
He touched his fingers to my lips and gave me rueful grin. "Yeah, sorry about that. See, I had some plans of my own, you know? But then you seemed all excited about delivering Fleener—I thought you were trying to avoid bein' alone with me."
"Aw, Starsk—it wasn't like that."
"Shh, I know. I figured that out so I was gonna take you back to my place tonight, make things good for us." His grin widened. "Least until you ran us off into a ditch."
I could feel my cheeks flush. "Yeah? What did you have planned?"
"Aw, you know, a little of this, a little of that." He ran his fingers through my hair and I bit back a low moan. "Maybe a little more of that," he finished playfully.
I swallowed to work some moisture into my dry throat. "Starsk, about that night—you know I didn't want to leave."
Strong fingers were working loose the untied laces of my shoes. "Yeah, I know. Figured you'd bolted because you hadn't a chance to think it to death."
That made me smile a little—Starsky knew me too damn well. "Yeah?" I countered. "How do you know I just didn't like you kissing me?"
The shoe and sock on my right foot were removed with one sharp tug as Starsky shook his head. "Nah, that wasn't it." He moved to my other foot. "You had no problem with that kiss—it was all the years leading up to it that had you makin' tracks."
He tossed the shoes and socks aside. As he looked at me, hands resting lightly on my knees, I felt the tight knot in my belly begin to loosen.
"What about those years?" I asked quietly. "You ready to risk all that?"
Starsky shrugged. "Too late. Sleep with me or don't—either way, this is where I am. Meanwhile, you haven't answered my question—are you gonna join me?"
In answer, I slid my hands over his shoulders and down to his sides, pulling him up as I leaned down. Our lips met in an open-mouthed kiss with amazing ease, as if all those years behind us were intimate ones. There was no teasing, no small touches to test the waters—these kisses started out deep and moved on to slow and wet. I hauled Starsky up onto the bed beside me and we parted but remained nose to nose, breathing rapidly.
"Wanna hear something funny?" I whispered.
"Sure."
"I, uh, I'm a little nervous."
"About what?" He tucked his hand into the collar of my shirt. "About this?"
"Yeah."
The hand at my neck drifted down the top button of my shirt and slipped it loose.
"Why? I know you know what to do with a woman—is this so different?"
I ran my thumb over the small mole near his eye, then leaned over and kissed it. "You mean aside from the factory installed equipment? Nah, I guess not."
Starsky tugged on his lower lip with his teeth. "Okay. So pretend I'm a woman."
My eyebrows rose at that. "Uh, Starsk, that's a bit of a—"
A soft cuff to my ear shut me up. "Not like that, you dope." He leaned up on one elbow. "I mean, you got your moves, right?"
"Sure, but—"
"So use 'em on me."
I still wasn't convinced. "I don't think I can."
"Sure you can. Like now, for instance. Here I am, half undressed on your bed. What do you do next?"
There was something about Starsky's suggestion that made my body sit up and take notice—at least it was trying to, but my jeans weren't making it easy. I cleared my throat and shifted a little, drawing a smug grin from Starsky.
"Well, I guess we'd be kissing, right? And then I'd—uh, I'd—ah, hell. I'd do this."
I slipped one arm beneath him and pulled him on top of me. He came easily and our mouths fit together like they were made for nothing else. At this point, I realized I'd be working hard to feel a little skin, so I burrowed my hands beneath his tee shirt and ran them up the strong muscles of his back, drawing a growl of approval from my partner.
"Girls don't sound like that," I laughed against his ear. In retaliation, he yanked aside the collar of my shirt to bite down softly on the vulnerable skin of my throat.
"Guess you been with the wrong girls," he said, his voice hoarse. "What's next?"
"Sit up. Take off your shirt."
Starsky didn't hesitate; he rocked back on his thighs and straddled me, bringing delicious pressure against my groin. With a wicked gleam in his eye, he grabbed the bottom of his tee shirt and slowly dragged it off, giving me a long, teasing reveal of flat, furry abdomen that widened into broad shoulders. He threw the shirt over the side of the bed and reached for my hands, bringing them to his hips. I cradled them, sliding my fingers beneath the waistband of his shorts.
His eyes slitted as my fingers dipped lower. "You got too many clothes on."
"So do something about it."
Soon I was down to nothing but my underwear and the bed was getting wrecked. It was a hell of a turn on, having someone as strong as me matching me move for move, even touch for touch. And damn, did Starsky like to kiss. Not just my mouth, which was pretty happy about that, but every part of me he could reach as we lay side by side on the lumpy chenille spread. I thought we'd abandoned the need to imagine anyone else in this bed until Starsky maneuvered himself beneath me and recaptured my mouth with a fierce kiss.
"So what's the next patented Hutchinson move?" he panted against my cheek.
"Oh, that's easy," I murmured. "I like to do this."
I scattered deceptively gentle kisses over his shoulders, discovering the distinct textures of his body. He wasn't smooth or sweet to the taste—tight muscles bunched just beneath skin that flooded my senses with its scent of sweat and leather. Starsky's fingers tangled in my hair as I moved downward to press my tongue flat against the small nub of his nipple. The grunts and moans I heard told me that was a good move, so I did it to the other one—and I don't know who was more turned on by it. I did it on women because they liked it—with Starsky, it felt like the beginning of a lifelong obsession.
The sharp bones of his pelvis were my next destination. Starsky's hips and ass had always been a surreptitious source of pleasure for me—hell, you'd have to be dead not to admire what he packed into those tight Levi's. I peeled down his waistband until they were exposed, along with a thick patch of tightly curled hair.
"The next thing I'd do—" I raised my head from the small hickey I was creating on his hip—"is check things out, you know what I mean?"
Starsky nodded frantically. "Yeah, you gotta make sure—make sure—oh, God—"
I pulled at the elastic of his shorts, finally revealing his erection as I slid them off his legs. "Gotta make sure you're ready," I murmured. I looked up at him once more. "Damn, you look pretty ready to me."
"Hutch..."
I grinned at the desperate whine in his voice but my amusement faded as I contemplated my next action.
It wasn't like I didn't want to, but up until now the territory had been familiar—only the topography was a little changed. At this point, I was lost. Starsky must've sensed my distress—I felt the soft brush of his fingers against my hair and I looked up
into his heat-flushed face.
"Whatsa matter?" he teased. "Lose your place?"
"Just trying make this good for you. I—uh, I never—" I captured his hand and sucked his thumb into my mouth, running my tongue around its tip.
Lust flared in his eyes and he hauled in a shaky breath. "Yeah, okay. Um, look, if I were a girl—"
"You're not. Starsk, believe me, I got all the proof I need right here."
"But if I were, and you were gonna go down on me, how'd you do it?"
My head was hazy with lust for a man—this man—and that made it difficult to concentrate on what he was asking. But I finally figured it out and I did something I didn't think possible at that point—I felt myself getting harder at the thought of what I was about to do.
"I'd use my mouth," I whispered. "Make you wet."
Starsky's body convulsed beneath my hands. "Then do it," he begged. "C'mon, Hutch—do it."
So I did it—the most intimate act of my life, more intimate than any sex I'd ever had with anyone.
The taste was a flavor so uniquely Starsky that I felt I'd known it all my life, and I let that hot, vulnerable flesh fill my mouth as I pinned his hips firmly to the bed. The small strokes of my tongue that drove women crazy were having the same effect on Starsky, so I was surprised when I felt him tugging frantically at my wrists.
"Get up here."
Something in his tone made me do what he said, despite not having finished what I'd started. I'd been determined to take him all the way, but any coherent thought fled when he fastened his mouth on mine as his hands burrowed beneath my underwear to cup my ass.
"Nobody else, Hutch—nobody but me." He muttered it like a vow before hitching me higher against his body to resume suddenly possessive kisses that stole away what little breath I had left. I wrenched my mouth away and Starsky latched onto my throat, his hands stripping down the white cotton until I could hook a toe and take them off the rest of the way.
Hunger-driven and frantic, we pushed against each other, our loud moans drowning out the radio. When Starsky wiggled a hand between us to take me in a firm grasp, I rolled us on our sides and returned the favor. He was still slick from my mouth, and his own sweat-coated palm proved to be enough for a couple of guys with a lot more enthusiasm than skill. For the first time in my life I came without a sound, captured by the devotion in Starsky's eyes, watching the same sensations rock him that were rolling through me. One last tug, one final twist of hips and we fell together, sticky, sweaty and blown away by the knowledge of newfound, long-familiar love.
Heaving a deep breath, I buried my nose beneath Starsky's ear before letting out a chuckle that was thinned by unexpected tears that crackled at the back of my throat. I swallowed twice and managed to get my voice under control.
"How about we put that tub to use, hunh?" I whispered.
"Not just yet, okay?" Starsky's voice was sleepy but his arms tightened around my waist.
"Okay."
And it was okay—I really didn't want to get out of bed just yet, either. There would never be another moment like this and as I rolled onto my back, pulling a near-comatose Starsky with me, I had to admit that all the technique in the world wouldn't have made this any better.
After all—now we had all the time in the world to get it right.
What kind of love is this, that makes me wanna jump and shout
I wanna know what kind of love is this, that turns my heart inside out
It's that itchy-twitchy feelin', that I have inside...
We'd left the radio on all night, through another, slower bout of lovemaking and a shared bath afterward. Starsky was still asleep as I rolled out of bed—I had no idea what time it was since the curtains were drawn tight and I'd yet to hear anything other than music from the radio.
I turned on the light, stretched and scratched—and frowned, thinking of all the obstacles ahead of us before we'd be able to get home. After giving Starsky a wake-up nudge in the butt, I looked around for my clothes, finding them tangled with his all over the room. Starsky, never a morning person, growled at me when I tossed his jeans his way, but I was distracted by something that slid out of one of the pockets.
"Hey Starsk?"
"Hmm?" Starsky slowly sat up, rubbing his already tousled hair.
I picked up the object; it was the little envelope we'd used for the safety deposit key—the same one I'd seen Starsky hand over to Carpeaux.
"Hey, I gave that to that D.A."
"I know you did. I wonder what—"
I was interrupted by the unmistakable blare of a truck horn. It was the first sound we'd heard in this backwater and leaving behind the momentary mystery of the key, I pulled on my jeans and walked to the door, opening it slowly.
"Starsk?"
"Yeah?"
"Get your pants on and get over here."
I opened the door wider when he joined me—and although his look of astonishment was priceless, it was no less intense than my own.
The once deserted parking lot was bustling with activity. A semi was parked near the entrance and as we watched, a young family was packing up a station wagon two doors down from us. What had looked decrepit and spooky in the middle of the night now looked charming, even prosperous.
Then there was the biggest surprise of all—my car, covered in mud up to its wheel wells, was parked in front of our cabin.
"Uh, Hutch?"
"Yeah?"
"Weren't there nine keys hanging on the hooks last night?"
I stared at him. "No. Just the one for this cabin. I told you that—why?"
He shook his head. "I coulda swore I saw—"
"Don't go there, Starsk."
There was a little pause as we watched the comings and goings.
"Uh, Hutch?"
"Yeah?"
"You wanna—"
"Nope."
"Okay. Me neither."
I looked at him as he closed the door, shutting out the world one last time.
"But you and me, we're still—"
I reached out and ran my fingers over his bed-wild hair, then hauled him in close.
"Damn right we are."
"Forever, right?" was muffled against my shoulder.
"Yeah, Starsk. Forever."
We checked out of The Red Clay Inn and paid both the room rental and the towing fee—lucky for us, the same family owned both companies. The next order of business was breakfast and a call to the Santa Barbara prosecutor's office. Starsky offered to make the call while I finished my coffee—but when he came back from the payphone by the bathrooms with a white face, I knew we weren't home free.
He slid into the booth across from me, waving off a coffee-toting waitress. "Anthony Carpeaux?"
"Yeah?"
Starsky shook his head. "Nobody's ever heard of him."
I scrubbed my hands over my face—why was I not surprised?
"And the bank robbery?" I asked wearily, although I was afraid I already knew the answer.
"Oh yeah, it happened, in 1962. Remains unsolved to this day."
"Wait a minute," I said slowly. "Starsky, what do you suppose is in that safety deposit box?"
There was one quick glance between us and then we both stood up at the same time.
"I'll get the bill," he said, reaching into his back pocket. "You go start the car."
There was no money. Not a dime of the forty three thousand, seven hundred and two dollars was found in the little metal box. But it was far from empty.
It was Starsky who removed the old newspaper from the box and spread it carefully on the table in the little room the bank used to give customers some privacy. Dated June 15th, 1962, the front page story was the daring daylight robbery of the First National Bank. The police were scouring the countryside and the FBI had been called in, but in the Lompoc Record, the Chief of Police was reluctantly quoted as being "stymied".
"Gotta be something else," Starsky muttered. His brow creased in thought, he began turning the pages of the newspaper, running his fingers along each column.
"What are you looking for?"
Another page was carefully turned. "Dunno yet."
I paced behind him in the small room, trying to put the pieces together and failing. I was so distracted that I jumped when Starsky shouted and rapped his knuckles against the paper.
"There," he said triumphantly. "See it?"
I couldn't miss it. On the very last page where all the light news usually ended up was a picture of our own Mortimer Fleener and beside him, also smiling into the camera, was Anthony Carpeaux—looking exactly the same as we'd left them the day before in Santa Barbara.
Even Morty's suit looked identical.
Quickly scanning the three lines of text beneath the photo, my heart began beating double time.
"Starsk, this—this can't be, right?"
"I know. Strange, hunh?"
I stared at the picture again. It was a good picture of both of them, exactly how a couple of retiring guys should look after selling the popular motor lodge they'd run together for twenty years.
"Strange doesn't begin to describe it."
"So what do we do now?"
I looked at him across the table and the answer came to me clear as a bell. With reverent fingers, I refolded the newspaper and placed it back in the box.
"I'll tell you what we're gonna do," I said to the man who held my life—and now my heart—in the callused palms of his hands, "we'll come back here next year and visit."
Starsky's eyes began to sparkle. "We're gonna pay a visit to an old newspaper?" he asked with a wink. I slung my arm over his shoulders and gave him a squeeze.
"Yep. Right after we celebrate our anniversary at the Red Clay Inn."
Mortimer accepted the small glass of sherry with a grateful nod. Beside him, Anthony held his own glass to his lips and sipped delicately, his handsome, crinkled face bathed in sunset colors.
"What a nice pair of boys," Morty sighed.
"Hmm," Tony concurred. "We'll check in on them when we get back."
Morty sighed. "I'm going to miss California. So sunny, so bright."
"Dear Mortimer. I promise you will adore London—and there's a lot of work to do there, too."
Morty smiled. "Stubborn, are they?"
Tony laughed lightly, resting his hand on Morty's shoulder. "Stubborn does not begin to describe it, old friend."
"Professional partners?"
Tony nodded. "And so much more, if they'll just overcome their fear."
"Ah, fear, our old nemesis."
The hand on his shoulder tightened. "Ah, but we have the key to defeat fear, don't we?"
"We do," Mortimer covered Tony's hand with his own. "We have love."
Only love can break a heart
Only love can mend it again...
This story was written for the LJ Starsky and Hutch Slashfest. There was a minimum requirement of 1000 words. Oops.
All the songs quoted were from the Top 100 Hit Songs of 1962, including the title.
Thanks and virtual stinky bread salad to Aithine, who taught me many years ago that straight quotes are good and squiggly quotes are evil.
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