Title: GOOD SPORTS

Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)

Pairing: Donald and Timothy

Rating: NC-17 

Word Count: 10,853

References/Spoilers: Mentions of Don's past that's discussed in STTS.

Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin with thanks to the men who created them and the actors who brought them to life.

Summary: Finances are tight, and Don takes action to bring in some extra money. Things get more complicated than he expects. Sequel to "Party Lines" in the One Night Series.

******************************************************************************

GOOD SPORTS

by

Candy Apple

"You want to fly solo on this one?" Tiffany asked. She was a cute little blonde, a high school senior, the one who drew the short straw of showing the new guy how to run the register. The only positive about this mess was that at least it was a sporting goods store, so I was selling things I knew something about and not the bubble bath and hand lotion in the store across the hall. Still, the shopping mall at the holidays is enough make me slit my wrists when Timothy's dragging me around, making me pretend to care what we buy for the seemingly endless list of family and friends he thinks we need to include. Seems like the gifts don't roll in for us in that volume, so we could do some trimming.

That year, we did.

But put me behind a counter and make me wait on Christmas shoppers? I'm not sure what I did, but I was paying for it now.

"Sure, I think I've got it," I said, and smiled at the guy standing there with two dozen golf balls. Ah, Christmas shopping. It's 40 degrees outside with a brisk wind, and people are buying golf balls. "Did you find everything all right?" I asked him, remembering the spiel from the training session that had eaten up half the afternoon. I almost asked, Can I bag your balls for you? but I had a feeling that wouldn't be the best way to launch my career at Good Sports. Catchy name, huh?

Fuck, I wished someone would just walk in and shoot me. If an armed robber showed up, I planned to resist. Vocally and self-destructively. That wasn't living. (And they covered that in training - don't resist, just give them the money. Well, I suppose most of the high school and college kids who work there aren't ex-military combat trained pissed off frustrated private investigators, either.)

"Yeah, those were all I needed."

"Will that be on your Good Sports charge?" How do these people do this eight hours a day?

"No, on my Visa."

"If you'd like to open a charge account with us, I can give you ten dollars off your balls tonight." Tiffany put her hand over her mouth and turned pink. I kept a straight face. What? He was buying balls, wasn't he? If you're ashamed of your purchase, don't buy it. Like buying $200 worth of groceries so the cashier won't notice the lube and condoms.

"No, thanks, let's stick with the Visa," he said, looking a little uncertain of how to deal with what I'd said. I finished totaling up his sale on the cash register and told him to swipe his card, and then sign on the little screen. I tore off the receipt, stuck it in his ball sack, and sent him on his way with a sunny "thank you."

I wished my gun was there so I could blow my brains out on the spot.

"You did great," Tiffany said, apparently deciding it would be creepy to talk about balls with an old guy like me. I mean, at the time, I was almost 30 - halfway to Social Security and a pension from Good Sports. "Shane will probably have you out on the sales floor in no time."

"That's good to hear," I said, trying to pretend I was happy about that, or any part of this nightmare. Shane was one of the veterans - he was 21. I'd overheard painstaking detail about his 21^st birthday and how drunk he'd gotten. He was a manager.

My business had slowed to a near halt, my lease payment was due on the office, my business account was...well, let's just say I was flat-ass broke and leave it at that. There was no way I could dip into our joint savings to bail myself out, because if Timothy was out of work for a while, we'd be living on that. Not to mention the fact I realized it took a bite out of his soul every time we dipped into what was supposed to be our house fund.

I didn't tell him about the job I'd signed up for. My hours were mostly daytime shifts, since I needed to work nights for the business. I was one of the few applicants they got who was old enough to work as many hours as they could give me, who didn't have a school or college schedule, and who didn't have to work something out with his parents to get a ride at ten at night if I had to close.

It's not right to feel old when you're the age I was then, but my co-workers made me feel like I should be dating Cora instead of Fred.

I suppose it wasn't right to keep the whole thing from Timmy, but I knew he'd object to my working two jobs while he was working one. And, that was going to wrap up just before Christmas, since he wasn't staying on to work for Harrison Grant. Once he was out of work, I didn't want him to have to don an apron and ask "do you want fries with that?" fifty times a day. If I wanted to support him while he was out of work, I had to make more than I was making in the PI business. Of course, Good Sports didn't pay $75 an hour, either, but then, when you have no clients, neither does the PI business. Little did I know that several years later, I'd be demanding $100 an hour, plus expenses, and getting it.

Lots of people get Christmas jobs for some extra money. At least, that's what I told myself as I spent my first full four-hour shift there ringing things up on the register. I prayed silently the gym I'd applied to would find a spot for me. They weren't technically hiring, but the manager liked me, was interested in how I could help out clients with the weights and some of the machines for body building and strength training. I figured I could make enough at this job to pay the lease payment, and hopefully the gym would come through before Shane promoted me to doing displays.

If I was industrious enough, and business was bad enough, I could probably do both. Meanwhile, I could just cut my nuts off and mail them to Timmy with a red bow on them for Christmas, since I'd never be home long enough to make use of them.

And, you know, lying always fucking backfires, because all the hours I was away from home, he thought business was doing well. Which meant he didn't worry about spending the usual money on frivolous things like groceries and paying bills on time that you could probably fudge a while. Well, I vowed to take care of him, to support and protect him if he ever needed me to, so I spent the next few hours ringing up sales and talking poor schmucks into opening charge accounts at 25% interest so they could save ten bucks. Tiffany said I did "awesome" with talking people into the credit cards. A few guys got a laugh out of the ball joke, and I sold one guy a weight bench on the credit card, even though I was technically not supposed to be let out from behind the register. I guess I was the only one there with visible biceps showing under my cheery red polo shirt, so he figured I'd know what I was talking about.

I worked there from 3-8 o'clock the first day, so my shift overlapped Tiffany's so she could train me. The sales part of it wasn't too bad, but whatever retail people get paid, it's not enough. In your spare time, you're supposed to unpack stock, tidy up the store, watch for shoplifters, and while you're relaxing, you can take your turn at cleaning the storage room and the employee bathroom.

Every now and then I'd take out my wallet and look at the picture I kept in there of Timmy and me in our tuxes, on our wedding day. For him, anything was doable.

From the store, I went to do surveillance on the one cheating husband I was tailing, and hit the jackpot when I found him at his business partner's house. I felt a little slimy doing it, because they were guys. He was cheating on his wife with a guy. That shouldn't matter. Cheating was cheating. Just because he was doing it with another guy didn't make him any less guilty than guys who do it with other women. These were middle aged professional guys, and I couldn't help but think how far in the closet they were, and then I got thinking about Kyle, and how the pressure to hide who and what he was fucking killed him and came close to mangling my life in the process...

I never gave the client her photos, and I told her I hadn't been able to catch them on film doing anything. Truthfully, all they did was spend the night together, so for all I know they were playing poker in there. Of course, they did kiss each other hello when the subject of my surveillance arrived at his partner's house. I've had poker buddies, and I promise you, I never kissed any of them. She was furious, implied I was incompetent (she didn't know I was gay or she probably would have, rightfully, thought I was sympathetic to her husband and his business partner), but at least she paid me. It wasn't the payoff the pictures would have gotten me, but it was money.

By the time I got home, it was after midnight, I was morbidly depressed and exhausted. My day started at seven, since I drove Timmy to work because he was snorting and sneezing and coughing and insisting it was only allergies but I knew better. I didn't want him standing out in the cold waiting for a bus getting sicker than he already was. Then I went to my office and ran some background checks for a company that was paying me to do that. Then I went to Good Sports by noon for their three-hour orientation torture session, and then worked there for five hours, and then followed a guy around, caught him in the act, and didn't take the payoff for some warped personal reasons of my own.

It's not like I could bring Kyle back because I let that guy off the hook. But at least if he offed himself, his suicide wouldn't be on me this time.

I expected to come home to a dark, quiet apartment, but instead, I came home to the sounds of Timothy coughing up a lung in the bedroom. I'd risk malaria to hold him and take care of him, but I tried to picture the day I'd just put in with a bad cold thrown in for good measure. I couldn't think about that.

"You don't sound so hot, honey," I said, entering the bedroom, where he still had the lights on and was propped up. He smelled like cough drops and his eyes were all puffy.

"I can't believe this. I can't be sick. I don't have time."

I know how you feel.

"I don't think you get a vote in that," I said, sitting on the bed.

"Don't touch me or you'll catch the plague."

"In sickness and in health," I said, smiling at him. God, I love him so much. I pulled him into my arms and just held him a few seconds until he pulled back and sneezed into his handful of tissues.

"Shit," he groaned, and fell back on the pillows.

"You're warm," I said, feeling his forehead.

"99.6. I'll live. I have a meeting tomorrow morning with - "

"Sweetheart, that job's going to be over in a few weeks. What're they gonna do, fire you for calling in sick?"

He looked at me a moment, and then he chuckled feebly. "I suppose there's truth in that."

"Are you drinking enough?"

"I had some ice water."

"How about orange juice?"

"We're out," he replied, then sneezed again, squinting. I could see it hurt his sinuses. I hate it when he's sick. I can't stand to see him suffer, even a little.

"I can fix that." I stood up, but he grabbed my wrist.

"It's after midnight."

"7-Eleven's open."

He evaluated my appearance. "How come I'm sick and you look worse than I do? You look exhausted."

"Long day," I said. "Another half hour isn't going make that much of a difference, and you can't tell me a nice cold glass of orange juice with all that vitamin C in it doesn't sound good."

"It kind of does," he admitted. He looked so miserable. I kissed his warm forehead and touched his hair.

"Be back before you know it."

Off I went to the convenience store, where I picked up a big jug of orange juice, more cough drops in case he was running low, and a box of tissues for three times what the grocery store would have charged. I went back to the apartment, poured Timmy a nice big glass of juice, and took it to him. He looked at me with grateful, bloodshot eyes.

"You're too good to me," he said, taking a drink.

"I couldn't be good enough to you for what you deserve," I said, stretching out on the bed, laying my head in his lap. I just wanted to be with him, and I knew he'd touch my hair, and listen to me, and I'd forget why I'd felt stressed out about anything.

"What's bothering you, baby?" he asked softly.

"I fucked up a case. On purpose." I don't know why I spilled it, but I hated keeping the whole job thing from him, and not telling him this seemed to just make it feel more and more like I was deceiving him.

"What happened?"

"My client's husband was cheating on her with another guy. I don't know why that should matter."

"But it does?"

"Yeah, it does. That's wrong, isn't it? Like people who are biased against gays, it's like I have no problem trashing some straight guy's life, but I couldn't stick it to these guys."

"Sometimes men who are living double lives...it's more complicated than just infidelity." The way he knows me, knows how my mind works...it's unsettling. Some absurd part of me thought I should stop thinking about Kyle because he'd read my mind.

"Something like that."

"You should sleep on the couch, or I will. I'm contagious."

"Yeah, that's gonna happen." I yawned and stayed there while he just stroked my hair and let me be for a few minutes. "I'm gonna grab a shower. You need anything?"

"Your gun, so I can kill myself." He tried to inhale, and nothing but a sickly crackling noise resulted.

"Never." I sat up and took his hand. I didn't care if I caught the plague. "If I lost you..." I don't know why I was getting choked up.

"I was only kidding, honey," he said gently, leaning over and kissing the top of my head. "I'd never give up a minute of being with you. Now, if you're going to risk the germ fest, go have your shower and get back here. You need some rest."

I kissed his warm cheek and then I kissed his ear, the one that had been injured a few months back.

"You're being careful when you blow your nose?" I didn't want to think of his healed eardrum being re-injured.

"Yes, Doctor Strachey, I'm being careful. Now, if you're good, I'll give you a back rub after your shower."

"You're sick."

"I don't have a broken arm."

"You're the best."

Timmy's warm hands on me eased all the tension of the day. When he just rubs my back like that, slow and gentle, it's the best feeling in the world. It's not a really aggressive massage, but it relaxes me and it just feels good. My emotions were close to the surface, partly because I'd gotten into a funk thinking about Kyle, and partly because I was a little frantic about how I was going to make ends meet and juggle all the stuff I was trying to do, and if he'd be mad at me when he found out I hadn't been completely truthful with him. Timothy's always been so good to me about my moods, and so willing to just give me what I need without making me justify why I need it. He let me crawl into his arms and put my head on his shoulder and just lie there while one of his hands kept up a gentle motion on my back. He didn't make me talk and he didn't keep pushing me, even though he had to know I was out of sorts over more than just the case. There was no fooling him about that, but he let me be and just held me close so I felt safe and loved and like I could handle anything. I know if a day comes that he's not there, that I can't go home to him and feel his arms around me, I won't make it. I won't even try.

The job at Good Sports actually got better after I was there a while. Shane turned out to be a halfway decent manager, and he wasn't threatened by someone who worked for him knowing more about some of the equipment than he did. He unchained me from the register, since I seemed to have a knack for selling stuff to customers. Being a PI is a people business - sizing up people and figuring out how to get them to tell you what you want to know. Figuring out how to make them buy something was apparently not that different.

I did end up with Timmy's cold, but I didn't mind sneezing and sniffling my way through a few days. After all, I was paying the price for staying snuggled up with Timmy on cold November nights, even if he was sick. A cold was minimal.

********

Donald prides himself in keeping up a brave front with me, but I knew he was worried about money. While the flow of cash is irregular, typically there is one. There was a little nugget from the case he'd intentionally not taken the big payoff for, and a trickle here and there, but I knew he was strapped. He'd missed a lot of work when he was hurt, and the lease payments and Cora's salary and the utilities and all the other costs of running a business don't stop because you do, or because your client flow dries up.

I want his world to be good and safe and happy. My sweet, loving husband who will go out after midnight when he's exhausted and buy me orange juice when I'm sick deserves to have things go well for him.

Fortunately, I threw off the cold rather quickly, and only missed one day in the office. I was still hacking and sniffling a bit, but a lot of things remained to be done before we shut down Sean's office for the last time. My top priority was maintaining his policy of quick and helpful replies to inquiries and requests from his constituency. People keep having questions, issues, and problems even if their legislator dies. I was spending a good portion of my time trying to help an elderly couple sift through the red tape their bank was strangling them with in order to foreclose on their house. I suppose if I could have dropped Harrison Grant's name, it would have moved the bankers along more quickly. Still, persistence, and dropping my father's name in a couple key places was working pretty well. My father might be a little snooty in ways, but he's a stickler for fair play and good business practices, and I had no doubt he'd bring the full wrath of his buddies in DC on their heads if I made the right phone call.

I figured Don's money problems were temporary, since he was working almost around the clock. He often dropped me off at work in the morning, because he seemed to be starting out earlier himself most days, and I rarely saw him until late at night. There were times I couldn't reach him on his cell, but he'd always tell me he was tailing someone or somewhere that he couldn't have his phone on safely. I assumed business was booming again. He started depositing money into our checking account more regularly again, thought he amounts were a bit slim. Still, I chalked that up to him catching up on debts for his business. I still had a paycheck rolling in for another few weeks.

I tried not to linger on that thought. I was already sending resumes everywhere I thought they could do some good. My mother was urging me to move closer to DC, to live there in Virginia near them, and smooth things out with my father so he'd get me a cushy job somewhere. It wasn't that things weren't smooth with him from my perspective. I just wasn't about to change my politics and apologize for not agreeing with him anytime soon.

Oddly enough, my being gay didn't seem to rattle him that much. After all, there are gay Republicans out there. More than once, he'd ask me something like, "What the hell is wrong with the Log Cabin Republicans, then?" And hey, I admire those folks for what they're trying to accomplish - being gay and being a Republican at the same time - but to me, supporting a party that largely opposes my right to be married to Donald doesn't work. If you're gay, you're going to be a poor relation in a party that opposes gay rights. No matter how many fundraisers you hold and how many votes you can bring in.

I figured my impending unemployment was why my mother worked him over enough that Don and I were invited there for Thanksgiving. She denied it, and said that the only reason we weren't invited the year before was because they went to this other big fancy dinner party and couldn't have taken guests. Still, I had to admit I was looking forward to sitting around the family dinner table, even if we had some tension. I was glad to see Don when he came in around dinner time. It seemed like he'd been working around the clock lately, and him being home for dinner was a rarity.

"Hey, honey," he said, going through the living room, straight toward the bedroom, not even removing his coat. I was standing in the kitchen, and I couldn't get my mouth open fast enough to answer him before he was in the bedroom, with the door closed around. It's not that I begrudged him privacy, but we rarely closed the bedroom door on each other, mainly because we didn't really care about privacy from each other.

I went to the door and tapped on it, then pushed it open. I'm not sure what I expected to see, but Don standing there in a red polo shirt with a cheery "Good Sports" logo on it wasn't it.

"Don, are you okay?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, sighing, his shoulders slumping a bit.

"Undercover at the sporting goods store?" I asked, smiling. I actually thought that was what he was doing until I really looked him in the eyes. There was a moment where I could tell he was weighing using that excuse, but he's never outright lied to me, and this was no exception.

"I'm working there part-time," he said.

"Excuse me?" I was stunned. Since when did one of us get another job and not mention it to the other one? "Donald, what's going on?"

"I've got some bills piled up for the business, and I don't have much for clients, so..."

"So you got another job and didn't say anything? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want you to worry. I told you we'd be fine if you were out of work for a while, and we will be. I've got a lead on another job at a gym, and it would pay better than this one. If I can manage both, and still do a few PI jobs here and there, I can get current on the bills again and keep us going."

"If you work three jobs, two of them you weren't going to tell me about, you can keep us going?"

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't say anything. I should have."

"Yes, you should have." I sat on the foot of the bed. I was angry, and I was scared. Don thought if he worked three jobs he could keep us going. "Just because I lose this job doesn't mean I'm going to sit at home unemployed and not get another one."

"I know that, and I know you'll get another job, honey. I just don't know how fast that'll happen. We could live off our savings for a while, but I can't keep the business afloat right now. I think it's a temporary dip, because I was laid up for a while, but I need to cover it."

"So we use the money we set aside in the house fund."

"I know how much that money means to you," he said, sitting next to me on the bed. "I thought if I could bring in some extra money, it would get us over the hump, and keep our house fund intact."

"You think I want you to work three jobs, nearly around the clock, while I don't work at all? That isn't happening," I said. "If I get another job in the meantime, just something to help pay the bills, and your business picks up, we'll make it."

"I don't want you working in some fast food joint."

"Hopefully I can find something else before I'm out of work for long, but if not, I'm not above getting the same kind of job you're doing."

"You're in a high profile line of work. How's it going to look to your colleagues if you're behind the counter at Starbuck's blending their lattes? I don't want you to have to do that."

"I admit I probably wouldn't apply to coffee shops around the capitol, but there are other jobs." I was quiet a few minutes.

"Are you mad at me?"

"I'm disappointed that you thought you had to handle this alone. We're a team, Donald. That's what being married is about. Facing this stuff together."

"I hated keeping it from you, but I thought if I could get through this rough spot, you wouldn't have to know about it, and you wouldn't have to worry, or sign up for some crummy job when you ought to be somebody's chief of staff."

"And you ought to be a private investigator, or whatever else your sharp mind and talents are suited for. Sometimes life doesn't work out that way."

"I want to take care of you," he said. He sounded so tired and defeated. He'd been working these crazy hours for over two weeks, so I figured that's how long the charade had been going on.

"You know, Freud would probably say you subconsciously wanted to get caught, wearing this home," I said, tugging on his sleeve lightly.

"Shows what he knows. My shift ended at five, and I wanted to eat dinner with you for a change, since I don't have anything to do tonight for a client. I figured I could get out of the shirt before I got busted."

"Now that you're busted, you can quit that job, and we'll use what we need out of the house fund." I ran my hand across the back of his shoulders, rubbing lightly.

"The job's not so bad. The money isn't great, but it's getting me out of the hole." He leaned into my hand. "How far in the hole am I with you?" he asked, looking into my eyes. I was a little disillusioned that he'd kept all this from me. This, and the life insurance policy. Still, it's not like I'd found out he had a lover on the side, or a gambling addiction. He was guilty of working an extra job so I didn't have to do something he thought was beneath me, and so he could keep his word and take care of me while I was out of work. He was protecting our nest egg, and me.

And he looked so worried that I was going to come down on him hard for that. I stopped rubbing his shoulders and caressed his head gently.

"If you promise me you're not going to keep things like this from me anymore, I think I can probably forgive you," I said. He put his head on my shoulder and I could see his whole body relax in a way a full body massage wouldn't have worked. "Getting through times like these is part of the whole 'for richer or for poorer' thing. We're in this together, honey."

"I'm sorry."

"I know, baby. It's okay." I kissed his temple. "What do you say we go out on a date?"

"We're on the verge of financial ruin, and you think we should go out for dinner?"

"And dancing, or a movie." I kissed his cheek. "And then we're coming home and making love until dawn." It was Friday night, and I couldn't think of a better way to spend it.

"I have to be at work at ten tomorrow."

"Okay, we'll make love until two or three, so you can get some sleep."

"Or four. I can get by on five hours," he said, grinning.

"Be honest with me. How much do you hate this job you're doing?"

"I hated it the first few days, but it's not all that bad. I know the stuff pretty well, so they mostly have me out on the floor working with customers. I don't want to do it forever, but it's okay for second job."

"Because if you hate it, I don't want you to stay there. We'll get through this, and if we have to use the savings, I'd rather do that than see you work around the clock." I put my arm around his shoulders. "You're worth more to me than any house fund, you know that, right?"

"Yeah," he said, his voice quiet and kind of tight, as if that choked him up a little.

"When I married you, I hit the jackpot. The rest of it is just extra profit," I said, hugging him. He held onto me longer than I expected. "I mean it, honey. The only thing I can't handle losing is you."

We went out for a nice dinner at an Italian restaurant, and since Don seemed a little tired, I chose a movie over dancing. We sat in the back row with a bucket of popcorn and cuddled up close. It was a thriller, and it kept our interest. The leading man wasn't as hot as Don, in my expert opinion, so I was looking forward to the final phase of our date night back home.

Once we were back home, we didn't waste much time heading for bed. Clothes went in a couple of piles on the bedroom floor, and I quickly divested the bed of its spread and tossed the covers back. It had been a while since we made love, and I admit I wanted to dive into him like Blanche Hudson dug into Baby Jane's chocolates - well, if you haven't seen the movie, you just don't have the image, but suffice it to say, like a starving man digs into his first decent meal in days.

Despite our haste in getting there, I took my time kissing every beautiful part of him, rubbing my cheek against the soft gold hair on his legs, kissing and licking the curves of his perfect chest, liking the way he moaned and shifted under me while my mouth was on him. I teased his balls and spent a little time sucking him, just to get him hard. I was kind of thinking he'd be inside me, but he turned on his side instead, giving me the signal he wanted me in him, slow and easy. I slid down in the bed and gently parted his cheeks, kissing and licking him there.

"Oh, God, Timmy...I'm gonna come if you do that," he gasped, though the words weren't nearly that articulate and enunciated.

"No, you're not. You're going to come when I'm inside you," I told him, and he shivered a bit. I know it makes him kind of crazy when I take charge of things, or give him an order in the heat of passion. So I licked and sucked on the tender skin of his perineum until I'm sure I left my mark there, until he was whimpering and gripping the sheets. Then I tongued him properly until he was writhing and moaning, fighting the urge to come and getting harder and more excited with every motion.

I knew I couldn't spend long preparing him or I'd be in this thing alone, so I got some lube inside him, and some on me, and eased into him, letting him adjust, since I didn't have much time to stretch him first. I was all wrapped around him, inside him, his body fitting perfectly into the curve of mine. I moved my hips enough to give his prostate just the right strokes it needed to push him over the edge, and before long, he was coming hard, his body shuddering with the power of the orgasm that was even sweeter for its delay. Seeing, hearing, and feeling him coming in my arms brought me to my own climax, and I filled him, claimed him, and then kept him wrapped up in my arms, kissing the soft, dewy skin of his shoulder and neck. I longed to have him inside me, so I told him that.

"After we take a little nap, I want you inside me," I said against his ear. I could feel him stir a bit at that.

After we'd napped a while, I turned on my back, he urged my legs up, and after getting me ready, he made love to me like we hadn't made love in years. I wrapped my legs around him, wanted him in as deep as he could get, and he wouldn't let me touch myself, and he didn't touch me, either - he told me I was going to come from just him taking me. Him telling me that almost made me come, so it didn't take long for the sex to work.

Sweaty and spent, we lay there breathing hard, in each other's arms. And, if only to myself, I had to admit that his instinct to protect me and take care of me was kind of a turn-on.

********

There's not much I can think of that would spoil a morning after with Timmy. Not much, except for finding out we were being summoned to the Callahan camp for Thanksgiving. I love Anne like a second mother, and his family is great - but the thought of making nice with his asshole father made my toenails curl. The other problem was that we'd already gotten the edict at Good Sports that everyone was going to be scheduled to work the Friday after Thanksgiving. I mean, the job wasn't something I wanted to make a lifetime commitment to, but it wasn't bad, and I was getting a lot of hours there. They stopped short of full-time, since they were avoiding paying me benefits, but the money was coming in handy. And most places had done their holiday hiring already, so if I quit there, I'd be sunk to get another similar job.

Still, with a naked Timothy nibbling my earlobe and rubbing up against me, what the hell was I gonna say? No? It didn't take him long to have me agreeing to try to negotiate with Shane to take me off the Friday schedule.

"Man, I can't do that, Don," Shane said, sighing, looking at the schedule. "It's a company policy thing, about the Black Friday sale. Everybody has to work. My DM would be all over that if I took somebody off the schedule," he said, referring to his district manager.

"I've never met my partner's dad. I can't tell you how far in the dog house I'm gonna be if I can't make this work."

Shane ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair and chewed his lip, looking at the schedule. "I could put you on later, like...six maybe? The store's open 'til midnight, so I could put you on a six to twelve shift. That's the best I can do."

"I'll see if we can get a flight back early Friday. That could work. Unless we hit a delay."

"You can't do anything about a flight delay, so I could smooth that over with Tony," he said, talking about the district manager. "But you'll honestly try to get back in time for your shift?"

"Yeah, definitely. I really appreciate it."

"Just don't tell Jack I flipped you two, and he gets the five a.m. opening shift," he said, snickering as he made a couple notes on the schedule grid.

"My lips are sealed," I agreed. "Really, thanks. This is a big help."

"No problem. We're having dinner at my girlfriend's parents' house this year. She'd kill me if I missed that."

"He probably wouldn't kill me, but let's just say it could be a long, cold winter."

"I hear you there, man," he agreed.

I called Timmy that evening on my break to ask him to check with his mother to see if she could get us on a flight either late Thursday night or early Friday morning. She had already insisted on buying our tickets, and while I didn't like freeloading, I wasn't in much of a position to object to that. While Timmy wasn't thrilled with having our visit cut so short, he was satisfied with leaving on a late flight Tuesday, and coming home early Friday.

I was scheduled to close that night, and the store was open until eleven, which meant I wouldn't get home until after midnight. The store was usually pretty trashed after the Christmas shoppers had their way with it all day, and getting time to tidy things up during business hours was pretty dicey. Ordinarily, I didn't work that late since my PI work, what little I had at the moment, usually meant nighttime surveillance. One of the other guys had called my cell that morning and asked if he could work my day shift and if I'd take his night shift, since he wanted Saturday night off. That worked for me, since I'd still been rolling around in the sack with Timothy when he called, and that allowed me time to stay there a while longer, and to have breakfast in bed.

That night, four guys came into the store over a course of ten minutes, about 10:45. They didn't seem to be together, but it wasn't long before I could see they were casing the store, giving each other looks. All I could think of was Dirty Harry, doing surveillance on this drug store they expected to get robbed, and spotting three "salty looking dudes" approaching. I didn't like their looks. They were all probably mid- to late-twenties, kind of rough-looking. What bothered me most was the long, loose coats two of them had on. I couldn't swear to it at the moment, but I thought I saw a flash of something shiny under one of those coats, and that probably meant a shotgun.

There were only three of us still working. Tiffany was near the front, crouched low near the floor, helping a customer check the fit on a pair of running shoes. I could see her from where I was on the slightly elevated platform behind the register, but I didn't think they'd seen her yet. Shane was in the middle of the clothing area, trying to make sense of a tangle of sweatshirts on hangers, attempting to restore order before closing.

I didn't like Tiffany's odds of being the only woman in the middle of something like this, so I casually strolled toward where she was, straightening something here and there, checking on a couple customers. Then I approached the customer she was helping, a guy about my age who was standing there while she was checking the fit on his running shoes.

"I need your help," I said to him quietly, a big, Good Sports customer service smile plastered on my face.

"Excuse me?"

"Don, what's up?" Tiffany asked.

"I need you to let her put on your jacket, and walk out of here with you like she's your girlfriend," I told him. He had a satin jacket on the bench where he'd been sitting to try on shoes. It had some kind of company logo on it. My main goal was to cover up her red polo shirt so she could leave with him safely. "Please stay calm and quiet, but we're going to get robbed as soon as we put the gate down," I said, referring to the metal gate that locked off the store from the mall hallway.

Tiffany's eyes became saucers, but she didn't say a word, and didn't move. The customer was cooler than I expected.

"Yeah, sure, put on the jacket," he whispered, picking up a display shoe and looking it over, looking at me while he talked, as if he was asking me about it. Tiffany put on the jacket and stood.

"Call the police after you leave, tell them there are four men about to hold up the store, at least one is armed for sure, most likely with a shotgun, and I think a second one is probably armed, too. Give them my PI information, tell them I'm ex-military intelligence, so I know what I'm talking about, and it's not a joke, and no sirens," I said, handing her my card. "Tell them I'm going to try to leave the inside gate and at least one outside door unlocked, but I don't know if that'll work."

They both nodded.

"Smile," I said. "And get the hell out of here."

They did, and walked calmly out of the store, right past one of the guys wearing a long coat. That chalupa I had on my break flipped over once. That was too fucking close. There was only one other customer in the store, and he was waiting impatiently by the register to pay for his tennis racquet. It was a couple minutes past eleven.

"Can I help you find something?" I asked Mr. Trench Coat.

"No, just lookin'," he said. "You closed now?"

Fuck, I hope he doesn't blow my head off right here, and Timmy gets that call about midnight.

"Yeah, we close at eleven," I said.

"Okay, I just wanna check out the caps, and I'm outta here."

"Have a nice night, sir," I said, watching him amble over to the display of caps. The other three had disappeared somewhere. I could pretty well figure they were behind displays, shelves, or in the tent in the camping display. I knew they hadn't left.

Shane hurried up to the cash register, looking irritated that I was wandering around aimlessly (or so it looked), and a customer was waiting, and I hadn't made the announcement over the PA that we were closed.

"Attention Good Sports customers, the store is now closed. Please bring your final purchases to the cash wrap. Thank you and happy holidays," he concluded as he rang up the customer's purchase. "Don, can you get the gate and the doors?" he asked. "You can lock the gate," he added. Apparently, the customer had told him he was using the outside doors to the parking lot, not back into the mall.

I put the gate down, and fumbled around with the lock. I didn't lock it. I hoped our four guests didn't notice there was a one-inch gap between the bottom of the gate and the floor. From there, I walked through the store, noticing that Mr. Trench Coat was no longer visible near the caps. Something moved in the tent. Fuckers. I knew it.

As the last customer was walking away from the register, I walked up behind Shane. "There are four guys in the store, and they're going to rob us. I sent Tiffany for help, so just play along with whatever they tell you."

"How do you know?" he asked as he turned to look at me.

"Trust me. I know. They don't know we know, so just play it cool."

"What do I do?" he asked.

"Just go ahead and get the cash out like you normally would. When they make their move, give them anything they want and don't argue or try to go for an alarm. We're gonna get help. We should be okay."

"Okay."

I felt sorry for the kid. I've been shot before, looked death in the eyes, and waited out a life and death threat in a trench covered in branches. I've seen action in the army, and I've seen someone I loved with his brains on the wall. There wasn't a lot new these guys could come up with that was going to shock me. But this kid? He was a 21-year-old college boy who still lived in his parents' basement. I doubt he'd ever seen a real weapon except for the hunting rifles we had locked up in the store. My gun was locked in the glove compartment of my car (my glove compartment still locked back then). Fat lot of good it would do us there.

Shane took out one cash drawer, I took out the other, and we started counting, though I seriously doubt either one of us was focused on that. Mr. Trench Coat appeared, and his buddy, the other one in the long coat, popped out from behind a rack of jackets. Both of them aimed sawed off shotguns in our direction.

"Go for an alarm and you're dead," one of them said as they approached the counter. Heckle and Jeckyl, who'd been hiding in the tent, came up behind us with handguns.

"Put the money in a bag, now," one of the guys behind us ordered. I got a bag out and held it open toward Shane. He nervously gathered all the money and threw it in there. Then he held it while I cleaned out my cash drawer. It bothered me that Mr. Trench Coat was looking at the gate. Hard. As I handed the bag of cash to one of the gunmen with us behind the counter, I tried not to look at the gate, because it was up about a foot and a half from the floor. The dreaded words came out of Mr. Trench Coat's mouth.

"That gate's not locked, man," he said to the guy standing closest to me. That guy looked in the direction of the gate.

"Why is that gate unlocked?" He pushed the barrel of the gun against the base of my skull. "Answer me."

"I usually don't lock it until I'm sure everyone's out of the store. Your buddy over there was looking at the caps, or I thought he was. I didn't know which way he came in. I forgot to go back and lock it."

"We're gonna go lock it now. And you better not try anything clever."

No, I'll try something stupid and self-destructive. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Fuck the gate. We got the money. Let's just go." The other guy behind the counter had a good point. If they left now, they'd probably get out before the cops arrived. Assuming they arrived, and Tiffany and the customer who left with her convinced the cops they should take the whole thing seriously. I'd dealt with the police on a couple cases, but I didn't have the kind of relationship with the Albany PD back then I had once I'd met Bailey. Bailey might bitch about the paperwork and all the trouble I cause him, but he does trust my judgment, and he'd back me up if I needed him.

But that gate was up a lot higher from the floor than I'd left it. I wondered if the cops could possibly be smooth enough to have slipped in under the gate while the robbers and we were busy with the register.

"We gave you all the money," Shane said. Shit, kid, why didn't you just keep your mouth shut? I wasn't even surprised when the guy closest to him struck him on the back of the head with the gun, and he fell to the floor.

Two cops popped up behind the guys with the trench coats on, and cops came in through the outside entrance.

"Drop your weapons!" I was surprised to see Detective Archer there, having entered with the contingent of four uniforms who came in from outside. There was a second plainclothes guy with them, too but I didn't recognize him. "Come on, hands on your heads, do it now! You're not going anywhere. It's over," he stated firmly.

The two guys in trench coats dropped the guns and put their hands on their heads. The guy who'd clobbered Shane with the gun dropped it now, raising his hands as well. Leave it to me to draw the one who thought he was going to get away with a hostage.

"You better back off, or I'll kill him!" he shouted at the cops, jamming the gun more firmly into the back of my head. Timmy, if this crazy son of a bitch kills me, I'm so sorry. Believe me, I didn't plan it this way. But then, I've never been big on long-term planning. Until I met you.

"There are a lot more cops outside, both in the parking lot and in the mall. Where is it you think you're gonna go with him?" The other plainclothes cop was an older man, stocky with a receding hairline. I hoped that meant he had some experience at this, that he knew how to handle something like this without killing off the hostage. I couldn't make much of a move with any degree of certainty that I wouldn't get my head blown off, because of how the guy had the gun pressed to the back of my head.

"I'm walkin' outta here with him, or I'm gonna kill him right here!" he shouted. Then he backed up a little, pulling me with him. That gave me an idea. A few more paces back was a single step that you went up to get on the platform with the cash registers and the counter. It wasn't a big step, but it was high enough that if you were going backwards and didn't have a chance to step down intentionally, missing it would cause a nice fall. The asshole who was holding that gun to my head deserved a nice fall. He moved a little farther back. Then I decided to help him along. I threw my full weight back against him, hoping we were close enough to the edge of the step.

We were, and he fell back, taking me with him. When we hit the floor, the gun went off, but by then it wasn't pressed to my head anymore. I wrestled with him, pinned his arm down and started banging it on the floor until he let go of the gun. The cops were on him, and I got out of the tangle, feeling a little weak in the knees with relief. Up to then, I didn't much care if someone blew my head off. Since I married Timmy, it's been kind of disconcerting to be as afraid of death as everyone else is. Not so much because of myself, but all I could think of was someone notifying him, of him having to bury me, of him grieving and missing me and my not being there when he needed me most. Kind of funny to think about being sorry you couldn't comfort someone over your own death, but that's what scared me. Not being there for him.

I checked on Shane as soon as I was out of danger. His pulse was strong, and he was already groaning and moving around, so I helped him stand as the sound of the ambulance siren approached.

"What happened?"

"You got clobbered," I said, my hand still on his shoulder as he leaned heavily on the counter, blinking.

"Fuck, my head's killing me."

"How many of me are you seeing?" I asked him, and he smiled, then squinted.

"Just one."

"Am I blurry?"

"No, not really."

"What's your name?"

"Shane," he said, gingerly touching the back of his head.

"You'll be fine, kiddo. You'll just feel like you've got a hell of a hangover for a few days."

"Great," he said. I figured that analogy would hit home. "Would you call Jack and ask him to open tomorrow?" he asked me, and I nodded.

"Sure." Employee cell numbers were on the bulletin board in the office in back, so I'd get that and give him a call. Jack was the assistant manager, so he could handle things while Shane was out of commission.

The police questioned us, Shane was taken to the hospital, and Detective Archer took me aside.

"You're kind of a trouble magnet, Strachey."

"So I've been told," I replied, shaking my head. "Trust me, I could have done without this."

"Nice move getting the girl out of the store."

"I didn't like her odds with four of those jokers, being the only girl."

"How'd you know they were gonna try this?"

"They came in separately, but they were giving each other looks and little signals a few minutes after they were all in here. It just smelled wrong."

"They've successfully knocked over a few stores in about a hundred mile radius. They hit smaller malls without top notch security, like this one. No fatalities yet, but that was a matter of time."

"The cops didn't think that's something the folks working in these stores should know about?"

"Look, most of the people running these stores are kids like your friend, Shane, there. They're better off not panicking, and following their store policies for how to handle a hold up. You put the word out on something like this, and either they start seeing bad guys behind every display, or some Einstein brings a weapon to work... It's a balance what you tell the public."

"I suppose. You need me for anything else? I'd kind of like to get home."

"Not right now. We'll be in touch, though."

"I'll be around," I said. "Your guys did a great job." I held out my hand, and he shook it.

"Always nice to be appreciated," he replied, chuckling.

********

My cell phone rang as I was getting in the car to head home. It was Timmy. I looked at my watch. It was after one. He was probably worried.

"Hey, beautiful," I said. I couldn't even tell anyone how glad I was to talk to him, how glad I was to be alive to answer his call, to go home and crawl into bed with him. To see his beautiful smile and hold him and still have our life together.

"Don, where are you? It's after one. Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine, sweetheart. I'll be home in about twenty minutes."

"Is everything all right?" he asked. I wasn't about to keep something from him again, but I also didn't want to freak him out on the phone. Until he could take inventory of me himself and see that all my movable parts were still in working order, I opted not to go into details.

"Just got held up at the store, that's all," I replied. Fuck. Freudian slip, anyone?

"Are you hungry? I can fix you something."

Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, I could have eaten a horse.

"Actually, I'm starving. I can drive through somewhere on the way home. You want me to get you something?"

"No, I'm up anyway. I can reheat some of the chili, if that sounds good."

Great, but I don't know what you're gonna eat.

"That sounds fine, honey. See you in a few minutes."

********

Don was out a lot of late nights, so it wasn't so much that keeping me awake. I was just worried about everything, and even though he has a wonderful calming effect on me, even Don couldn't keep me completely relaxed at the thought of our impending financial doom. I had to admit he was right - I didn't relish getting an hourly job and having my colleagues see me in that situation. Who was I to think I was better than Don, of all people? If he could put on one of those gaudy red polo shirts with the little basketballs and footballs on the logo and hawk sporting goods, ring up sales, and work for not too much above minimum wage, I could certainly learn to mix lattes or sell office supplies or something.

According to Don, I make outstanding sandwiches, so maybe Subway was in my future.

I heated up the chili and made him a sandwich. My stomach was a little knotted up, so I made myself a sandwich and figured he could eat the chili if he wanted it all. It was a little spicy for me when I was stressed out anyway. When I heard his key in the front door, I headed right for it, and grabbed him up in a big hug when he walked in. Then I kissed him as if he'd been out of town for a week, not just at work.

"Remind me to work late every night," he said, laughing. "Everything okay?"

"It is now," I said honestly. He closed the door and locked it for the night. There's something about that moment when we lock the door and we're in for the night, just the two of us, the rest of the world and its issues held at bay until morning.

"Timmy, I need to tell you something, but I don't want you to flip out."

"That's never a good way to lead into a conversation, Donald," I said, my stomach going the rest of the way to a nice tight knot that would probably bounce back anything I tried to eat.

"I'm fine, nobody got seriously hurt -"

"What?" I demanded. I was in no mood for head games.

"There was an attempted robbery at the store. The cops showed up, the bad guys are in custody, as you can see, I have no holes in me, and Shane just got a bump on the head, but he's doing all right."

"Robbery? Armed robbery? With guns?"

"Well, yeah, but they didn't shoot anyone."

"But they could have."

"Yes, they could have, but they didn't. Timothy, please, calm down. I'm fine."

"I'm sure you were right in the middle of disarming that situation. Probably literally," I said. I don't know why I was mad at him. It wasn't his fault someone robbed the store. I should have been satisfied to rejoice that he wasn't dead or maimed. Somehow, I was on a roll overreacting, and I wasn't about to be shut down. "Why do you always have to be the one in harm's way?"

"Honey, I didn't take any stupid chances. I was just there when it happened. I sent Tiffany out with a customer to get help when I noticed the guys in the store, because the whole thing didn't smell right. I didn't do anything reckless."

"Why am I finding that hard to believe?"

"Okay, I did disarm the guy who had the gun on me, but he was a fruitcake, so letting him keep me as a hostage wasn't a plan I liked the odds for. Timothy, I'm trained for stuff like this. I know how to disarm someone, I know how to fight, and I know when not to do something that could kill me or someone else. I'm not saying I can't make a mistake, but I'm saying that I know what I'm doing. And I'm not suicidal." He took my hands, and looked me right in the eyes. "At least, not anymore. Because I wouldn't do that to you."

I felt like an ass. I didn't even know what happened and I'd jumped him for taking stupid risks. Of course, he knew what he was doing. I shouldn't have assumed otherwise. I just love him so much, and I'm always afraid his line of work, or his courage and confidence, are going to catch up to him. Then I'd be alone, and losing him would destroy my soul, even if my body kept living against my will.

I pulled him into my arms and just held on. He returned the hug. I never have to worry about that. Donald always has plenty of hugs for me. And kisses, and smiles, and butt-pats when he thinks he can get away with them.

"I'm sorry."

"For what? Loving me? It's kind of nice having someone worry about me, even though I don't want you to. I kind of like that you do."

Pure Donald logic. God, I love him, more today than then, probably more in a few years than now, if that's possible.

"I know you're smart and capable and know what you're doing."

"Most of the time," he joked. He pulled back and framed my face with his hands. "For what it's worth, you're my reason for being careful."

"It's worth everything," I said, holding onto his wrists, my throat feeling tight, "just like you."

We shared our little meal of chili and sandwiches, and I did my best not to flip out while he told me the details about the robbery. I have a feeling he left a few gory details out of it, but if he felt better shielding me a little, that was okay. I knew his life had been in danger, I didn't need a precise mental image to keep me up even more nights. He seemed okay, in good spirits, and when we got undressed and got into bed, I surreptitiously checked him for marks. I'm sure he knew what I was up to, but he didn't call me on it.

Part of me wanted to make love, but another part just wanted to hold him and feel him breathe and know he was safe there, with me. He's like a human sleeping pill for me when I'm restless. Having him in my arms makes my world okay, and I could feel myself dozing off, spooned around him. Still, I felt uneasy. I didn't want him to go back there.

"I hate to think of you ever going back there."

"That robbery was a fluke. It's almost unheard of for stores like those to get held up, but it happens once in a great while. It's not likely to happen again, and really unlikely to happen again while I'm still working there."

"I know. I can still hate it."

"Yes, you can," he said, a smile in his voice as he covered my hand with his.

I felt myself dozing, thinking about being with family over Thanksgiving, having Donald by my side as my husband at the family dinner table. The house would be filled with the smells I remember from my childhood - my mother's recipes and my grandmother's specialties. If it was a big gathering, there would be a couple long-suffering kitchen helpers hired for the occasion. My mother is a sweet, good woman, but she will tolerate no deviation from her culinary standards, or her standards of hospitality and perfect service to her guests.

I went to sleep with my arms around Don, his soft hair tickling my nose, picturing a holiday surrounded by everything, and everyone, I loved most.

********