191Gillian Foster hated Vegas.
She hated the noise. She hated the smog. She hated its flashy lights and cheap thrills. She hated the lies, the irresponsibility, and the lack of common decency within its borders.
But most of all, she hated the change it brought about in her partner. Cal was drawn in, too easily seduced by a former life. His past bubbled to the surface, threatening his judgment, his character, and the life he had worked to build—a life that she was very much a part of, and becoming more so with the passage of time.
She knew him inside and out. Gillian knew the Cal Lightman that the world would never see. She'd even be willing to bet that she knew him better than any person alive, including Emily. She could sense his mood with one glance, knew what motivated him, what he was passionate about, and could predict fairly accurately how he would respond to any given situation. He trusted her implicitly, unconditionally, and on occasion, let his guard down completely in her presence.
And as ridiculous as it sounded, Cal was a constant in her life. A reliable presence. Sure, Cal was disagreeable, impatient, and sometimes a complete ass, but she knew that beneath the surface was a warm heart, a loyal friend. She couldn't imagine a life without him in it.
And so, here she was, sitting on the edge of a hotel bed beside a very drunk Cal Lightman. He'd disappeared after losing one million dollars in roulette, and she had searched for nearly an hour before finding him slumped in a corner, sporting a bruised eye and cut to the head.
"Oi, Fosterrr," he slurred, grinningly stupidly as she came into view. "Oh Cal," she sighed, a mixture of relief, anger, and pity. She helped him up, swaying under his weight, and they ambled awkwardly to a waiting cab.
She took him to her room, not wanting him to be near any reminders of the night before. She knew that, very likely, there were empty bottles of scotch, discarded hands of cards, and perhaps even a stray piece of lingerie from his night with Poppy. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. They were most definitely staying away from that room.
By the time she'd gotten him settled into her bed, he was too far gone to protest. Which was probably a good thing, now that she considered it. She was loathe to be accused of "smothering" him again. Dipping a washcloth in cool water, she gently cleaned the cut on his head—running her fingers through his hair to check for any further damage. She brought the cloth down to the bruised area under his eye, letting it rest on the tender, broken skin. Cal grimaced, squeezing her hand, and she relented, releasing some of the pressure she had been putting on the cloth.
Moments later, Gillian felt the grip on her hand relax—he was finally asleep. She looked at his face in all of its raw vulnerability. There were no guards put up, no worries that creased his brow. He looked peaceful, almost childlike. Gillian leaned over, cupping his face in her hands, and planted a quiet kiss on his forehead. She couldn't help herself.
"Goodnight Cal," she whispered.
She changed into her favorite flannel pajamas, and climbed into the far side of the bed, completely exhausted.
It couldn't have been more than two hours before Gillian awoke, freezing. She groped around, squinting in the darkness for her now non-existent comforter. She felt a slight movement beside her, and sat up to find Cal wrapped in the covers, shivering in a state of half-consciousness. She remembered seeing a spare blanket in the closet, and got up to retrieve it. She stretched it out over Cal and accidently brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. It was warm—a little too warm. She sighed—he probably had a low fever, but not enough to warrant serious attention. She climbed back into bed.
Gillian couldn't sleep.
She still felt the faint shivering of her partner. He tossed and turned, never seeming to get comfortable, all the while pulling the comforter back around him—and consequently off Gillian.
She finally relented, giving in to what she knew would be the only way either of them would be able to sleep. She scooted over, closing the space between them and draping her arm across his waist, pulling his back closer to the warmth of her body.
She marveled at how comfortable this felt—them together. Her heart beat a little faster, and her breathing sped up. Being this close, this intimate, this vulnerable with Cal made her head swim. She lay there, feeling a little out of control, yet inexplicably happy—the warm fuzzies had taken over and were spreading from head to toe. She hugged him closer, inhaling his sweet scent, finally drifting off to sleep.