Kristen Ashley: Creed

Then he drove.

He entered from the south side and parked where his research told him it would be.

He shut down the ignition and sat in the car.

“Understand why I gotta do this,” he said into the car.

As ever, over the years when Creed spoke to his father, Brand Creed didn’t reply. And as ever, over the years when Creed spoke to his father, he hoped like Christ his father heard.

And this time understood.

Creed got out, turned on the flashlight and illuminated the headstones as he walked until he found it.

Bissenette.

He turned off the light, shoved it in the back pocket of his jeans, ripped open the envelope and sprinkled the grass with its contents.

Jesse’s hair. Not the first that had been clipped, that was pressed in a frame that sat on Sylvie’s nightstand.

But it was his.

Jesse’s.

A Jesse made by Sylvie and Creed.

Once the hair was out, Creed rumpled the envelope and, for the first time in his life, he littered by throwing it at the base of the headstone.

He stared at the grave.

Sylvie’s father had died of a heart attack at an age too young for a good man to leave this world but way too late for the man he was.

“I win, asshole,” Creed whispered.

Not surprisingly, there was no reply.

Creed didn’t need one nor did he wait for one.

He turned on his boot and went back to his family.

Two years and four months later…

“It’s good you have a big table,” Knight muttered and Creed looked from the stove to the man standing, hips to the counter, bottle of beer in hand, surveying the scene.

He looked over his shoulder.

Outside he could see Brand and Adam with Charlene’s new man. God only knew what they were doing but, not surprisingly, whatever it was, Adam was smiling and Brand’s mouth was moving.

Inside, Anya was chasing after Theo, Leslie, Kat, Jesse and Rayleigh, Creed and Sylvie’s petite, wild, curly blonde-haired daughter and Kasha, Knight and Anya’s second girl.

Anya had company. Sylvie’s white, west highland terrier was jumping around, panting and barking at Anya and the kids.

Kara was sitting in an armchair, phone glued to her ear, talking either to a girlfriend or one of her, God help him, boyfriends.

Yes, he said one of.

Jesus.

Charlene and Sylvie were on the couch, gabbing.

He looked at Knight who was still looking through the full house, his expression not giving anything away.

“Sylvie says you’re not big on holidays,” Creed muttered as his eyes went back to the stove.

“Wasn’t.”

Creed looked back to Knight at his answer.

“Wasn’t?” he prompted.

“Got three women in my house who go wild for every holiday. Swear to Christ, Creed, even when the red, white and blue M&Ms make their appearance for the Fourth of July, they act like Uncle Sam swooped in and personally asked them to watch the fireworks at the White House with the President. It’s impossible not to be big on holidays with those three dragging me in their wake.”

Creed grinned back down at the stove.

Knight was totally fucking full of shit.

Not about the part where he didn’t give a shit about holidays. He probably didn’t.

He gave a shit about his girls and he’d do anything that would make them happy. Even eat red, white and blue M&Ms and take them to see fireworks.

“Kara!” he called. “You wanna give your Dad a hand?”

“Be right there, Dad!” she called back.

Translation: She’d get off the phone when the turkey was on the table.

He turned his head and pinned his eyes on Sylvie.

“Baby? Preparations are coming to a head. You gonna help out?”

She had her hand on her enormous, again pregnant belly and her eyes on him.

When he stopped speaking, her mouth moved to say, “Who did you marry?”

No help there.

“I’ll help, Tucker,” Anya offered.

“Me too,” Charlene pushed up from the couch.

Creed looked back at Sylvie and lifted his brows.

She grinned and leaned down to snatch Kasha up in her arms and give her a snuggle.

Right.

Again.

No help there.

Knight moved out of the room and as he did, he tagged Rayleigh, swung her up in the air and made her laugh.

No help there either.

A miracle occurred when, fifteen minutes before the food would be set on the table, Kara got off the phone and joined them in the kitchen.

Seventeen minutes after that, the table was covered in food and surrounded by people, some of the kids were sitting on stools at the bar, others were in highchairs.

It was not surprising when Brand piped up and asked for a chance to run his mouth.

“Dad, can I say the blessing?”

Creed jerked up his chin. “Have at it, son.”

Brand, Anya and Charlene all looked to their laps.

Sylvie’s eyes went to Creed.

“Dear God,” Brand started. “Thanks for health and food and family and friends. Oh, and love, I guess. Amen.”

Creed’s firstborn son lifted his head and reached immediately for the potatoes.

Creed watched Sylvie’s shoulders start shaking.

He grinned at his wife.

“Mommy! I wanna sit by Adam!” Jesse shrieked.

Sylvie shot out of her seat.

His wife spoiled the dog and her son.

Creed spoiled the cat and his sweet little Ray.

Both of them, in different ways, spoiled Kara and Brand.

Kara and Brand spoiled all of them.

The perfect family.

Finally.

Creed drew in a breath and grabbed the platter of meat.

One year and nine months later…

Creed sat at the end of their pier, jeans rolled up, feet in the water and he stared at the moonlight glinting on the lake as Sylvie burrowed her shoulder into his side.

He wrapped his arm around her.

When he did, Creed remembered the first time she did that, in the woods when he told her he intended to be Creed.

He felt his lips tip up slightly and curled his wife closer.

She didn’t put her feet in the water. She curved them under her. Since he’d just finished making love to her, she was wearing nothing but her panties and his tee and he remembered the last time he had that, too.

Vividly.

Years, the memory of his Sylvie finally becoming all his at the age of eighteen had been bittersweet.

Now it was just sweet.

She snaked an arm around his gut and shoved closer even as she asked, “Do you think we should get back to the hotel?”

“Kara’s got ‘em, baby,” Creed muttered and he was right. His girl would look after the kids. All of them, even Brand, were with her in their adjoining suite.

“You wanna stay,” she murmured.

Yeah, he did. He always did. Every year, when they came back and he brought his Sylvie out here in the moonlight, he wanted to stay as long as they could.

So they did.

“Yeah,” he answered softly and she snuggled closer.

His Sylvie.

Their spot.

Their lake.

Their pier.

No more bitter, just sweet.

Yeah, his Sylvie, weaving dreams.

He drew in a deep breath and felt every millisecond of its release as he stared at the water, holding his woman pressed close.

He did this a while.

Then he was done doing it and he turned into her. She knew his intent and she tipped her head back to prepare.

Creed took her mouth.

Then he moved her to the blanket he spread on the pier.

There, again, he made love to her.

And when he did, Tucker Creed finally gave Sylvie Creed everything she wanted.

Because when they made love in the moonlight on their pier, he planted inside his wife, his Sylvie, baby number four.

Thus proving, yet again, Tucker Creed could also weave dreams.