Kristen Ashley - Creed

“Yes,” I returned instantly.

“Then that tells me that hard shell with sharp edges you grew isn’t about life but about protecting yourself,” he shot back. “Which means you won’t let me in because of the shit we share. That means it’s between us. And that means, we need to take each other’s back, with that shit between us, we’re fucked. And that… partner, means, if that shit’s between us, you aren’t lookin’ forward. That’s bullshit. You got your eyes trained way the fuck back.”

Fucking fuck, fuck, fuck.

I held his gaze.

Then I told him, “Full can. Wet food. Cat bowls in the cupboard by the stove. She likes a clean one every day. And, by the way, I get out of the shower, before we hit the road, toast would be good. Don’t skimp on the butter and ignore the grape jelly. The kids eat that. I like orange marmalade and don’t skimp on that either.”

His head jerked to the side. “The kids?”

“Don’t fuck with me, partner, you know exactly who I’m talking about.”

“Adam, Leslie and Theo. Neighbor’s kids,” he stated immediately. “Then there’s Josh and Dora, your dead partner’s kids.”

Oh yeah. He’d looked into me but he was still fishing.

I didn’t know what to make of that so I didn’t make anything of it.

“You get more visitors than the Pope,” he remarked.

Yeah, he’d looked into me.

My eyes went down to see Gun slink into the room, rubbing her fluffy side against Creed’s jeans-covered ankle.

Damn cat. Figured. She only liked me and Adam and now, apparently, Creed. She didn’t give the side-rub to anyone she didn’t like.

Shit.

I got rid of this asshole, me and my cat were having a chat.

I looked back up at Creed.

“Cat’s hungry,” I reminded him then I put my hands in my panties and yanked them down.

By the time I straightened, Creed was gone and I just caught Gun’s hind end rounding the door.

I didn’t bother closing the bathroom door to take my shower. He’d seen it before. It’d been years but he’d seen it. So had a number of other men.

Anyway, if he had a mind to my privacy, he’d keep well away and I needed that right about then.

Before I stepped in, I shouted, “Don’t forget the coffee! Strong!”

“Strong!” Tucker Fucking Creed shouted back.

Tucker Fucking Creed making coffee in my kitchen.

Jesus.

I got in the shower and kept it buried where it should be. No tequila. No bourbon. Nothing would work it out.

The job would get done then we would be done.

Then he would be gone and I would move on.

Again.

We stood in my front yard, me in a tight, ribbed, grass green tank, low rider jeans, wide brown belt, gun at the back and brown cowboy boots with a piece of toast in one hand, a travel mug of coffee in the other, Creed carrying another one of my mugs.

My mug in Creed’s long-fingered, veined hand with the stark, pale nicks of scars around his knuckles. Strong hands. Capable hands. Experienced hands.

Christ.

“Uh… no,” I told him. “I drive. You ride.”

“No offense, Sylvie, but you drive like a lunatic and the interior of your car was made for people like you, small who like to make a lot of noise. I’m not folding into that death trap. I drive. You ride.”

I stared at him. “That is not gonna happen.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Not me that’s got shit to do,” he reminded me.

Fuck!

“Seein’ as you’re part Grandpa, I’ll check my foot,” I allowed.

“And you’ll stop at stop signs.”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

“That would be, come to a complete halt.”

Fuck!

“God granted me peripheral vision, Creed. I can see someone coming. I’ll slow and roll through like normal. You’ll be fine.”

“Jesus, Sylvie, the slow and roll doesn’t work. A stop sign is put up for a reason.”

I cocked my head to the side and narrowed my eyes. “When did you get a stick planted up your ass?”

He cocked his head to the side and regarded me closely. “We talkin’ about our pasts now?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“Okay, I’ll stop at stop signs,” I gave in.

“And you won’t turn on red if there’s a sign that says you can’t turn on red,” he kept pushing.

He so totally followed me.

Often.

Shit.

My stare turned to a glare, I bit off a huge chunk of buttery, marmalade coated toast and said sharply through it, “Fine.”

“Speed limit, as in, you’ll go the.”

I chewed, swallowed and asked through slitted eyes, “Jesus, are you a Grandpa?”

“Daughter’s twelve, son’s ten so no, not yet, thank fuck.”

I didn’t even blink. It cost me but I didn’t even blink.

Fuck, he had kids.

Fuck, that killed.

“Ten miles over,” I offered.

“Five miles,” he countered.

“Seven.”

He grinned and I didn’t blink again but that killed too. With me, he used to grin a lot, smile a lot, laugh a lot. Even so, each one was precious. He’d been beautiful. All of those transformed his features so he was magnificent.

Age and scars hadn’t changed that. Not even a little bit. He still had great, even, strong white teeth. Fantastic lips. Strong, expressive features.

Magnificent.

“Deal,” he grunted and moved to my girl.

I moved to her too and juggled my breakfast (even though it was past noon) in order to get in. With the coffee between my thighs and the toast between my teeth, I started her up and pulled out maybe a hair faster than was needed.

That said, that was how I usually pulled out.

“Jesus,” Creed muttered.

I bit back a smile, changed gears, shot forward on a screech of tires then took a bite out of my toast and drove one handed.

“Right, catch me up,” I ordered.

“You first,” he replied.

I glanced to the side.

Shit, Tucker Creed was sitting beside me in my car.

Shit!

I buried that and asked, “Me first, what?”

“You first. I’m ride-along, maybe it would be good to know what I’m ridin’ into.”

“Hit The Retreat. Check in at the office. If there’s time, check in on Serena. After that, Knight,” I told him.

“You still on The Retreat job?” he asked, exposing just how much he’d looked into me which meant just how often he’d followed me.

I’d never tagged a tail.

Damn.

“Man, I’m always on The Retreat job,” I informed him. “Every third asshole who cheats on his wife takes his bitch to The Retreat. My ass is in the parking lot there so often, management suggested they paint my name in a parking spot so it’ll be reserved.”

“Not good for business, a PI’s name in a parking spot,” Creed muttered.

“That’s why I declined. That’s me, looking out for the local adult resort.”

I heard his chuckle and it was different than I remembered too. Not just deep and smooth, the rough was in it. It made it sexier. A lot fucking sexier.

Shit.

“You ever been there?” he asked.

“Where?” I asked back.

“The Retreat,” he answered.

“Partner, were you talking in your sleep thirty seconds ago?”

“I meant as a client, not an investigator.”

Oh yeah, I had. Rubber mattresses. Fake silk sheets. Velvet comforters. Mirrors on the ceiling. Hot tubs in every room. “Environment chambers” where you could fuck in a gentle rain, breeze or both. Swings. Love machines. Steam rooms. Twelve channels of porn. Rooms available at matinee rates.

I’d so totally been there.

“So we are talking about our pasts?” I asked and he was silent. “Advice,” I went on. “You feel like an adventure, call the top in the environment chamber. Seems like it’d be awesome but that water hitting your face all the time is distracting.”