Kathleen O'Reilly - Midnight Resolutions

Foolishly he followed her over scuffed, golden oak floors, followed her into the dark recesses of her bedroom. She had five seasons of Family Guy on her dresser for late-night watching. He kept rolling over that mundane fact in his mind, but when she began to strip off her clothes, suddenly he was obsessed.

He wanted to touch her. Badly. His blood burned with it, but his brain—the part that was still functioning—held him back.

The sweater came off, exposing a sheer bra and the dark nipples underneath. The air smelled of pine cleaner, burned soup and Beckett’s lust. His breathing grew ragged as he watched her shed her shoes, her jeans. The glasses were removed, dropped on the nightstand near the bed.

Through the window, the Upper East Side slept quietly in their beds, a ship’s horn bleating, a truck honking and somewhere a siren screamed.

Beckett didn’t care. Tonight, the entire East River could burn and he wouldn’t budge from this place.

In his mind, he’d never considered a naked Phoebe. Yet there she was. The half-opened slats of the blinds pushed light into the darkness of her bedroom, her skin flashing gold, then shadows as she moved.

She walked forward, bare feet padding on the thick rug, and from the living room he could hear the crazed cackle of her parrot, scolding him. Still, his eyes didn’t stray. She was…not exactly beautiful, but something that fascinated him even more. The long, lean curve of her that ran from the high breast to the arch of her hips. His gaze drifted lower to the sleek muscles of her thighs. The dark shadow between.

When they were a whisper apart, Phoebe raised her head and stared, and those normally shielded, practical gray eyes were blurred with confusion. Beckett hated confusion, but his mind wasn’t thinking, or more likely, he didn’t want his mind to think. Furious, with her, with himself.

Complications and emotions. He could feel them swirling in the air, smelled it, stronger and more potent than the musky scent of desire. If they did this, they could never go back.

Complications and emotions.

There was a clanging in his brain. A bell. A foghorn.

A phone.

“Do you want me to answer that?”

NO! “You should,” he stammered. “Get that. Now.”

“Whatever you want, whatever you say,” she muttered. “Get the phone, Phoebe. I’ll get the phone, Phoebe.” As she walked, he watched the miraculous perfection that was her bare ass, until she selfishly wrapped herself in the duvet covers and picked up her phone. “WHAT?”

He nearly laughed, but then she would glare, so he kept quiet. Beckett needed the break. He was nervous and desperate—never a good combination. Fate had thrown a kink in their plans. Why the kink? Was fate trying to tell him that this was a bad idea? It hadn’t seemed like a bad idea earlier.

“Who wrote you?” Phoebe was talking into the phone. Without her glasses, she looked so different, so unsure. Okay, this was a bad idea. The duvet cover slipped, his eyes tracked the movement…

“Why didn’t she tell you her name?” Phoebe glanced at him, mouthed the word, Ian.

She was talking to Ian. Naked. She was naked, talking to Ian. Beckett tried to follow the conversation but naked kept getting in the way. He turned, futzed with the Family Guy DVDs on the dresser, doggedly studying the nefarious face of Stewie, knowing that behind every innocent expression lurked the mind of evil. Beckett looked at her reflection in the mirror, now doggedly studying the V between her breasts, and felt his tongue start to swell.

Her eyes met his, but she wasn’t wearing her glasses. She wouldn’t notice. Her brows furrowed. She noticed. Quickly he refocused on Stewie, because somewhere in the world, the Fates were laughing.

And if he didn’t get it, her parrot started cackling, as well.

She put her glasses on, her eyes magnified, the confusion magnified, his guilt magnified. Damn it.

No, he was above all this. Carefully he moved toward the bed, step by step, inch by inch, and then balanced precariously on the very edge. “What he’s saying?” he whispered.

Phoebe hit the mute button. “She e-mailed.”

“She didn’t give her name?” he asked, his mind resuming function.

“No name, no number, but he still set up the date. Jane Doe agreed.” Her voice was brisk, businesslike, as if nothing had ever happened. As if she wasn’t sitting there bare…

“No good,” he cut in. “What if some other strange woman saw the listing and decided that Ian sounds like an easy mark? Or worse yet, what if he shows up and she’s a serial killer, or like, a cow?”

Phoebe glared, and he sighed with relief. Okay, this felt normal. This felt right. She unmuted the phone. “Ian, listen. What if some other strange woman saw the listing and decided you sounded like an easy mark? Or worse yet, what if you show up, and she’s a serial killer, or umm…mean?” There was a pause. “No. I’m not channeling Beckett, thank you very much. I’m just concerned.”

Beckett beamed at her. Silently she shot him the finger.

“No, I don’t think she’s trying to protect herself. You’re not a serial killer.”

She sighed, bosom heaving. Beckett sighed, too, then looked away. “No, you couldn’t be a serial killer, Ian.”

Beckett snickered.

“I’m not trying to mother you. I give you my word.” She stared at Beckett pointedly. “Yes, if you wanted a brutal evisceration of reality, you would have called Beckett.”

Insulted, he stood up and went back to studying the DVD. Mostly.

“I’ll try to be positive. How about this? It’s a huge sign and you’re right to be over the moon.” Ew. Beckett frowned. Really, she needed to come up with better lines than that.

“Yes, I firmly believe it’s the same hottie who kissed you and the two of you are going to live happily ever after.

“No. I’m not just saying that to make you feel better.

“Ian,” she warned.

“You’re not needy. Okay, you’re needy. Good night, Ian.”

With a click she hung up, and they were back to being alone. Beckett held the DVD to his chest like a shield. “I have to go. Can I borrow this?”

“Do you want to find out about Ian, about his date, about how excited he is?” She sounded ticked; he knew she’d be ticked, and it was better this way. Safer. No complications. No emotions. If only she’d get…dressed. Until then, he was screwed. Metaphorically, not literally. If he meant literally, he wouldn’t be having this stupid conversation with his brain.

Manning up, he met Phoebe’s eyes squarely, prepared to set things straight between them. “He’s screwed. It won’t be the same chick, or if it is, he’ll get punked on some reality prank show. Life doesn’t work out that good. Nothing works out the way you want it to.” He held up the DVD. “Mind if I borrow this?”

Okay, he’d settled nothing, but she wasn’t looking at him all soft and confused anymore. Now she looked pissed. “Just go, Beckett.”

She was proving his point. Beckett ran for the door, clutching the DVD, her parrot’s crazed cackle echoing behind him.

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