Warren Blackwood threw his heavy aviator jacket over the armchair in his Toronto motel room, the keys jingling in the pocket. It had been a long day of flying- no, don't kid yourself, Warren. That's not why you're tired. Exhausted, actually. He sat down on the sagging mattress and stared out the window at the wintry gray city.
He didn't think of Liz as a common tease. Sure, they didn't meet in person often, and she never made an effort to come see him, but she was a busy woman, and she kept writing him these sweet soul-baring emails. "I've missed seeing you. Every time I hear a plane overhead I look up, imagining it's your helicopter! But it never is..." Photographs of her falling down on her snowshoes. He thought it was inevitable. The flirting would continue, warmer and warmer, until one day she'd want to get serious. "Just friends" was a stalling tactic- or so he thought, until he saw her arriving to their planned rendez-vous arm in arm (and mouth in mouth) with some tall, dark, and handsome type. He should have realized that Liz's reluctance to meet in person wasn't just shyness and chastity. He should have realized that the lengthening gap between emails wasn't just her busy northern lifestyle. It was Constable Paul Wright.
He pulled the blankets up over his head, but he already knew that it was useless to try to sleep. What else has Liz, that oh-so-innocent flirt, been hiding? She had sent a few photos of her messy apartment up in Mtigwaki, and it was painfully easy to imagine the scene. "Oh, Paul!" she'd titter, letting him sweep her up in those hard-muscled arms. And maybe she'd press her breasts up against that broad chest, proud against the taut police uniform. He can envision it in sickening detail- later that night, keeping out the northern cold with his firm body, surrounding her with warm, brown skin and bold, eager lips chapped from the winter...
No, Warren was definitely not getting any sleep tonight.