R. Griffin - Seamless

“I’m sure we can figure something out,” she retorted, separating herself from him and walking toward the door, his hand holding her wrist possessively. She waved at Agent Morris as they climbed onto George’s bike and took off toward DC.

George and Stella walked into the Tabard Inn holding hands. Stella was excited; she’d heard great things about the restaurant and George had bragged about the homemade doughnuts many times. It was also nice to be doing something as normal as a date.

George cleared his throat and squeezed Stella’s hand when the hostess asked for the name. “I reserved Room 51.”

The hostess smiled. “Oh yes, Finnegan. Come with me.”

“George, what did you do?”

They followed the hostess into the restaurant and walked through the entire dining area and into a private room. The Inn was old and all of the decorations were very traditional, all dark colors and heavy draperies. Room 51 was painted red and big enough for 12 people to sit, but had two place settings with candlelight at the far end of the table. A grin spread across her face.

“I got us a private dinner.” George smiled proudly and motioned around the room. “This way we can have a date without people staring at you.”

Stella was impressed. George was beyond considerate and she really appreciated it. She hoped he knew how much. “I love you,” she said as she walked to the table and sat down.

“You should.” He laughed and sat next to her, pulling her hand from her lap under the table and kissing her knuckles reverently, one by one.

They smiled at each other like love struck idiots until the first course was served.

She smiled as baked oysters were set in front of them. “Oysters? You know you don’t need that to get me naked.”

“Oh, I know,” he answered with an exaggerated wink, then devoured one of the oysters.

She kicked him under the table.

“Ow!” He reached down and rubbed his shin. “Shit. Those fucking shoes.”

She laughed, which turned to a snort. “Sorry, babe. I forgot about the spikes.”

The main course was placed in front of them and she smiled again. “Do they not let you order here?”

“They change their menu daily. I selected the dishes I thought you’d like.”

“You ordered for me?” She put the first bite of snapper in her mouth and it melted. She groaned. “You know I fucking hate that.”

“It sounds like you hate what I ordered for you,” he retorted.

“Not to change the subject, but Millie invited us over for dinner and drinking for the Penn State/Michigan game. She’s still kinda pissy with me about not telling her everything and she still thinks I’m hiding that Patrick and I were together.” She made a circle with one hand and lewdly stuck her index finger in and out a couple times to signify sex.

George laughed and shook his head. “You’re an idiot. I knew what ‘together’ meant without the hand motions.”

“Just thought it might help.” She shrugged and took another bite of her dinner.

“Well, that’s fine with me. We haven’t seen them in a while. I still think it’s crazy she thinks that about you and Patrick.”

“Well, she thinks something’s up because I won’t tell her everything and it’s completely obvious Patrick’s keeping my secrets. I just have to figure out if I should tell her or not.”

“You’d break the law?” George asked, his mouth full.

“I’m so past breaking the law at this point,” Stella answered, “I don’t think it really matters.” Telling Millie about Jamie was nothing compared to what she was planning.

George just nodded in understanding, not wanting to push her.

Dinner was fantastic. And quiet. The peace was amazing to both of them—it had been so long since they’d been able to go out in public for any sort of intimate anything. They talked about politics, movies and work. She loved to hear him talk about his work; his face positively lit up. Ever since he’d helped with the article on her, he was writing stories for the Associated Press on a regular basis. He did seem happier, but he was stretched thin with writing and managing Finnegan’s. Stella was a little worried that he was overdoing it.

Stella sighed. God, it was glorious to sit and talk about normal shit for once. She cleared her throat. She hated to bring up this shit, but it was their life.

“So, I talked to Agent Harris today. The protective detail is going to stay on the house for a while longer. They still haven’t located Jamie, but when they do they want me to wear a wire and get him to admit to what he did.”

“Big surprise. Jesse and I haven’t been able to find him either.” George took a nonchalant sip of his Jameson and scowled at her scowl.

“George!” she reprimanded, attempting another kick under the table. “I don’t want you getting deeper into this clusterfuck and getting hurt. We’ve talked about this.”

Was that a whine? She didn’t whine.

She had to admit that she knew George and Jesse were looking for Jamie, and had been since the Keys; maybe she just didn’t want to hear about their progress or lack thereof. The thought of George and Jesse going after Jamie made her more anxious than ever, almost as anxious as she was knowing that Jamie had been in their house, just waiting for her. Or Millie. Christ, what if he went after Millie? Patrick was looking for him too, and while she was worried about Patrick, it was a different type of worry. Patrick, at least, knew Jamie well enough to have some insight into his thought process, however deranged it might be. Her money was on Patrick finding the bastard.

“El!” George interrupted her racing thoughts with a swift squeeze on the thigh. “Back off with the shoes, Love. Try not to worry about me and Jesse.” His face softened and he stroked her leg under the table. “I do feel better with the security detail on the house, though, don’t you? And the press hasn’t been as bad.”

“Fucking press. Everyone feels very sorry for me. Again,” she commented, putting the last bite of snapper in her mouth. “How do people cook like this? I want to be able to cook you meals. I’m a horrible cook,” she rambled.

“You’re not that bad. You have five, wait—six—things you can cook well. Just stick with those.”

“You’re okay with me not being a good cook?” Stella asked.

“I’m okay with just about anything as long as you get naked at the end of the night.” George’s dimples danced in the candlelight.

“Well, that’s true.” She giggled. “Sex makes everything okay for you.”

He smirked as he finished his shrimp and grits. “As a matter of fact, yes it does.”

#whentheshitgoesdownyoubetterbeready

Stella climbed on the back of George’s bike and gave him a squeeze with her thighs to let him know she was ready to go, but it just made his dick hard. He backed them out of the garage slowly, then threw the bike in gear and headed toward Patrick and Millie’s for the game and dinner. He felt Stella lay her chin on his shoulder and snake her right hand underneath his t-shirt and around his waist. He sighed, wishing it was a longer drive. Within a few minutes, they had driven the three miles between the houses and he pulled onto the tree-lined street.

The last few weeks had been insane and they were in need of fun. A BBQ with Stella’s former roommates and best friend was the perfect distraction, not to mention Penn State football was on the agenda. George slowed his bike and pulled up to the curb in front of Stella’s old house. Patrick’s car was gone and there was a different car in the driveway. He cut the engine and Stella leaned closer, kissing his neck.

“Love?” he asked in response to her public display.

Her tender kisses continued down his neck, then he felt her tongue run up the back of his neck and graze his hairline before he twisted sideways and pulled himself off, careful to balance the bike. She cocked her head at him.

“If I stayed on that bike any longer I was just going to drive back home,” he admitted with a grin.

She smiled and pulled at the neckline of her very low, very tight tank top. They were having an extremely warm fall; it was late September and the leaves hadn’t even started to turn yet. As much as George appreciated the view her tank top afforded, he couldn’t wait for sweater weather. Every time he saw her scars it pissed him off—what that fucker had done to her. He’d never tell her that, though.

“We could be a little late,” she suggested and gave him a real smile. He’d missed those lately. “I bet no one here would give a shit.” Stella patted the seat in front of her and George was just about to get back on when the front door opened.

Millie smiled uncomfortably at them. “Hey guys!” Her eyes looked around wildly, clearly confused about something. “Patrick and Billy are grabbing a few last minute things.”

“Hey, Mil. What’s up?” Stella pulled off her helmet and climbed off the bike with George holding her hand for balance. She started smoothing her hand over her hair without much improvement. After she took off her motorcycle helmet, her hair always looked like she’d just been fucked.

His heart felt full, like all was right in the world even though he knew it wasn’t. They’d left the FBI detail and media in front of their house and were having a normal cookout with friends. Normal was possible.

“So, undoubtedly, Patrick invited one of his co-workers over without telling me,” Millie said as she rushed down the stairs toward them. “He’s already here,” she whispered.