Текст книги "Hold On"

Автор книги: Kristen Ashley

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

Nothing but awe at what he saw in her eyes.

So much awe, his body went solid experiencing it, like he was locking it in so he’d never lose it.

“Thank you.”

She was still whispering.

“For what, Cherie?” he whispered back.

“For making me happy.”

Fuck.

His brown-eyed girl.

He slid his fingers back into her hair, grunting, “You’re killin’ me, baby.”

“I’ll stop,” she returned instantly. “If I kill you, you can’t bang me again.”

He smiled as he rolled into her, giving her his weight, moving his hands on her, and gave it to her straight. “Makes me happy to make you happy.”

“Good.”

Since she deserved it and he needed to let it loose, he kept giving it to her straight. “And it scares the fuckin’ shit outta me.”

She slid her hands along his sides, to his back and down to curl her fingers in his ass, all as she held his eyes.

“I’m holdin’ on.”

He felt his mouth quirk. “Yeah. To my ass.”

He watched her eyes heat even as her lips curved up, and she did both as she opened her legs, his hips fell through, and she wound her calves around his thighs.

“Better?” she asked.

“Oh yeah,” he murmured, his attention shifting to her mouth.

She dug the fingers of one hand in his ass as she moved the other, gliding it up his spine, asking, “You gonna do me or what?”

Garrett dropped his head, trailing his lips from the corner of hers across her cheek to her ear.

“Yeah, I’m gonna do you,” he whispered there.

“Well, get on with it, boss.”

He slid a hand over her hip, along her thigh, and hitched her leg up so it was curled around his ass, instructing, “You better hold on tighter, Cherie.”

“Goodie,” she breathed, running her nose along his jaw.

Garrett grinned.

Then he commenced in giving his girl reason to hold on.

And do it tight.

* * * * *

Very Late Saturday Night

Cher was up against the wall, her face filled with fear, the gun pointed an inch from her nose.

The blast made everything go black.

There wasn’t even a scream.

Garrett opened his eyes to the dark. The length of his body stretched taut, he could feel the sheen of sweat on his chest, the wet gathering in his groin.

He blinked at the ceiling.

It was then he felt Cher curled into him, calf thrown over his thigh, cheek to his chest, arm around his gut.

He drew in a deep breath and concentrated on relaxing his muscles on the exhale.

It took him four breaths.

Then he moved and he moved his woman as he did. Shifting her around so he had her back to his front, he curled into her and wrapped his arm around her belly, drawing her close.

“Merry,” she mumbled.

“Here, Cherie.”

She said no more.

She was out.

Garrett stared into the dark.

Terrified.

* * * * *

Sunday Morning

Garrett sat at a stool at his bar, watching Cher shuffle around his kitchen in one of his tees, opening and closing cupboards, having announced she was making him breakfast. As he did this, he was also sifting through the Sunday paper and clicking through his laptop.

“Most of my kitchen is garage sale, and still, my shit is better than yours,” she grumbled, straightening from a base cupboard while closing its door.

He looked from the listing his real estate agent had sent to him that he’d been considering to her. “I’m a bachelor. I don’t need good shit in my kitchen.”

She turned to him, skillet up and pointing his way. “Half the Teflon is scratched off this.”

“So use oil,” he returned.

“Merry, this is actually a health hazard,” she informed him.

He burst out laughing.

As he did, he heard the skillet hit the stove and she said, “No. Seriously.”

“Bullshit,” he replied. When her face screwed up with mild irritation, he gave her a white lie. “Been usin’ that skillet awhile, and as you can see, I’m fine.”

She pointed to the skillet. “You use that skillet?”

“Yep.”

“How often do you cook?”

He grinned.

She had him.

“You got me.”

She turned to the stove. “Gonna hit some garage sales next weekend. Get you a decent skillet. And if it’s Teflon, get you some plastic utensils so you don’t scratch it to shit.”

“Cherie, waste of time and effort. That skillet is just for show in order to get Rocky off my ass after she gave me this same lecture about havin’ shit in my kitchen seein’ as then, I didn’t have anything in my kitchen. But it was a waste of money, even if the shit I got is shit. I don’t cook.”

She turned back to him. “You get a wild hair to fry a burger, you’re covered, and it’ll only cost a dollar or two.”

“Babe, I don’t cook,” he repeated.

“Then, right now, you gonna take me to Frank’s for breakfast?” She pointed to the stove. “Because I’m not cookin’ eggs in that skillet.”

“You want eggs, then yeah, I’m takin’ you to Frank’s,” he returned. “Seein’ as you don’t like my skillet, not mention the fact I don’t actually have eggs since I don’t cook.”

She put her hands on her hips, the mild irritation no longer mild.

“We go to Frank’s, I gotta get dressed. Then we gotta head out, drive there, park, order, wait, and eat, and I’ll have to pick up Ethan right after. And that would mean I can’t make breakfast for you, amazing you with my culinary brilliance, which you have yet to experience, after which you’ll have plenty of time to bang my brains out again and then I can go get my kid.”

Garrett grinned at her. “Okay, then I’ll toast you a bagel since I got those, cream cheese, and a toaster that works. We make a deal that our next sleepover happens at your place and you can amaze me with your culinary brilliance then. But now, while I’m toasting, you look at this listing I got up on my computer. After we eat, I’ll bang your brains out, then we’ll go get your kid. That a plan?”

Her eyes dropped to his laptop and she didn’t confirm she was down with his plan.

She asked, “Listing?”

He slid off the stool, ordering, “Come here. Look. I’ll toast bagels.”

She headed his way as he headed hers.

And he knew he had better, even if it was not lost on him that he already had seriously fucking good, when she copped a feel at the same time he copped a feel when they passed each other.

He grabbed the bagels right when he heard her soft gasp.

He turned to her.

She was staring at the computer, eyes wide, a look of wonder on her face the likes he’d never seen anything close to before from Cher.

That was also cute.

Cher Rivers had never been cute.

But now she was giving him that.

He liked it.

“I take it you like it,” he noted.

“I…are…” She lifted her gaze to his. “Are you seriously thinking about gettin’ this place?”

“Yeah. Though I haven’t viewed it yet, it’s still a front-runner.”

She looked down, reached out, and he heard her clicking.

He turned to the toaster.

He put a bagel in, and turned back to her, leaning his hips against the counter and seeing she was now bent, her face closer to the screen, her finger still clicking.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

She lifted slightly up, again giving him her gaze.

“This price can’t be right,” she told him.

“You saw the bathrooms,” he told her.

Her eyes flicked down then back to him.

“Yeah, they suck. But Merry, that price? This is a lake house.” She straightened entirely. “Okay, so maybe it’s a really big pond, but that pond is big and it’s still waterfront property. The kitchen is amazing. The floors are incredible. And it’s a lake house. The views are…” she trailed off.

“Needs a new roof,” he shared when she said no more. “A new furnace. New windows. It’s got no air conditioning, so the summer is gonna suck if that isn’t put in with the heating. And, babe, everything they did was cosmetic—that kitchen, the floors, paint. They didn’t get to the bathrooms. There’re two and a half of them, they’re fuckin’ ugly, and gotta go and those’ll cost a whack. They’ve had four offers fall through after inspection. In the shape it’s in, it’s been on the market nine months and they’ve dumped the price twice. Now they’re gettin’ smart with a new price. But still, they gotta dump it even more for me to be able to cover the mortgage and do the work needs to be done.”

“It’d be worth it,” she stated immediately.

He again grinned. “You’re that sure?”

She looked at him, looked to his laptop, reached out, clicked, picked up his laptop, and turned it to him.

On the screen was a picture of the property, a view from the porch that pointed lakeside. In the shot, there were the edges of the arms and seats of two Adirondack chairs, the white wood planks of the porch floor, the vibrant green of healthy grass, and the calm, deep blue of a small lake.

Listing pictures usually sucked, but that one could be on a postcard.

“I’m that sure,” Cher confirmed.

He looked from the laptop to her and grinned again.

“It has three bedrooms,” she told him something he knew. “And a study. And I can see you with a kickass grill on that porch. You got a kickass grill and you wanna fry a burger, you don’t need a skillet.”

She shut up, turned the laptop her way, and again started clicking.

After a couple of seconds, she muttered, “I like thinking of you here.”

Garrett stopped grinning.

“This place isn’t home,” she went on, attention still to the computer. “It isn’t you. This…” She lifted her eyes to him, turning the computer back his way. “This is you, baby.”

On the screen now was the living room. It was huge. Beamed ceilings. Big TV mounted over a gray stone fireplace. Wood floors. Thick rugs. Leather furniture.

His mind’s eye conjured visions of her curled in the couch and Ethan with a controller in hand, sitting in the armchair.

And his gut got warm just as it went sour.

He liked the vision.

But it activated and he saw Ethan’s head turning to the door. Cher getting up from the couch and walking that way.

There were uniforms outside, waiting to give the news, create the hole that’d never be filled, lay down the hurt that’d never go away.

The vision blurred and focused.

The door opened and uniforms were outside.

But it was Garrett getting the news. Garrett and Ethan.

“Merry?”

He focused on her.

The bagels popped up.

He turned to the toaster, grabbed a plate, opened a drawer, and looked inside.

None of his silverware matched. He didn’t even remember where he got it. He left everything they’d had in the home he’d shared with Mia. When he rebuilt his life after Mia, he’d picked up whatever to make-do.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t cook. He didn’t hang out at his place unless it was to watch TV, and all he needed was beer and chips to do that.

He had his Harley.

He had his boat.

He had his truck and a life with no strings, so if he wanted out, a break to take off, to live life, he did it.

And came home feeling empty.

Hell, he was already empty.

The fuck of it was, he had no clue if it was better to stay empty or get filled up, get used to that feeling and endure losing it. Losing it to a fight that leads to a breakup. To stupid shit that leads to a breakup. To something tragic that leads to heartbreak…and more empty.

He knew the answer to that getting shot of Mia.

It felt worse being empty. Having no one to be with. No one to share with.

Nothing to live for.

Still, the thought of the loss paralyzed him because he’d felt it before.

He put these thoughts aside, nabbed a knife, and was about to turn to the fridge to get the cream cheese when he saw Cher’s hand setting it on the counter by the plate.

Then she fit her front to his back, wrapped her arms around his stomach, and pressed her cheek to his lat.

She said nothing.

She just held on.

He opened the cream cheese, dug in with the knife, and started spreading.

“This place sucks,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” she whispered, holding on.

“A mortgage might suck more,” he told her.

“Don’t know, never had one,” she replied and pressed closer, held on tighter. “Just know you’re too good of a guy and you work too hard to live in a place like this. You deserve more, Merry. You deserve to go home to a place that kicks ass. That’s all I know. It might not be that house. It might be another condo but a better one. It might be somewhere else. It’s just not here.”

He made the decision to lighten the mood, stopped smearing, put the knife on the plate, and turned in her arms.

He took her in his.

“I’m gettin’ from this you don’t like my pad,” he teased.

She grinned up at him, rolled up on her toes, and slid her arms from around him to his front, gliding them up his chest to hold on to his shoulders as she leaned her weight into him and he leaned his to the counter.

But even through her grin, her eyes were serious.

So were her words.

“You deserve better.”

Her words aimed true, like an antidote to fight the poison congealing in his gut.

It was fast-acting.

Instant.

And losing that sick just because she gave him three words, Garrett decided the bagels could wait.

He was making love to her now.

Which was what he did, dipping his head and taking her mouth before he took her back to his bed.

He didn’t bang her.

He took his time. He concentrated solely on giving it to Cher, building it for her, stopping her when she tried to give back, giving her more to turn her attention, only going along for the ride.

It was lazy. It was slow. It was tender.

And when they were done, everything she had wrapped tight around him, she gave him that look she’d given him the night before—soft, sweet, warm, cute…loving.

He locked it inside again.

They got dressed and had to hurry to go pick up Ethan on time.

So they ate their bagels in his truck.

* * * * *

Sunday Afternoon

Garrett stood at the window by Raquel and Tanner’s dining room table.

His eyes were aimed outside.

Tanner was standing out there on their porch. The underground pool that took up most of the yard he’d put in for his wife was covered for the winter. His daughter was at his hip. His yellow lab, Blondie, was bouncing around three feet away from his legs, her eyes glued to CeeCee.

This was because CeeCee had Blondie’s tennis ball.

She threw it, which meant she mostly dropped it. It bounced on the cement a couple of inches from Tanner’s feet.

But Blondie, being a great dog, bounded toward it and made a show of grabbing it like CeeCee threw it thirty feet.

Cecelia watched this and Garrett heard his niece’s peal of laughter.

Blondie dropped the ball in Tanner’s hand. When he got it, with a sharp sidearm throw, he quickly sent the ball sailing thirty feet.

Blondie took off after it.

CeeCee let out another peal of laughter.

“It get better?” he asked the window.

“It gets better, Merry.”

At his sister’s answer, he turned his head to see her sitting at the dining room table, her eyes on him.

“It go away?” he asked.

She held his gaze a moment before she nodded.

“Yeah, honey. It goes away,” she said softly.

“Totally?” he asked.

Her gaze was soft. There was pain.

There was also hope.

“Not totally,” she whispered. “But it’s just a sting, Merry. You get it. You feel it. The big thing is, you understand it. Just what it is. And since you do, you can move on.”

“I’m fallin’ in love with her, Rocky,” he whispered back.

Slowly, his sister’s lips curled up in a smile as her eyes got bright.

“I can’t turn this to shit,” he told her.

“You won’t,” she replied.

“It’s her. She deserves to be happy. She hasn’t had that and she deserves it. I’m givin’ that to her and it feels great. But it’s also her kid. Ethan’s fuckin’ amazing, Raquel. He wants good for his mom, but he deserves good in his life too. For both of them…I cannot turn this to shit.”

“You won’t,” his sister repeated.

He looked back out the window.

CeeCee had the ball again. And again, she threw it right at her father’s feet.

Blondie retrieved it.

Tanner took it and let it fly.

Blondie chased after it.

“How?” he asked.

“How what?” his sister asked back.

“How’s it go away?”

She didn’t answer, and he was about to look at her again when he felt her fingers sliding into his as she got close to his side.

She held his hand and they watched what was happening on the porch. Blondie in the yard, retrieving the ball. Tanner looking down at his baby girl. CeeCee’s blue eyes tipped up to her daddy, her mouth moving. She had only a few words in her arsenal, so that meant she was mostly babbling at him. But it was clear Tanner didn’t mind by the way he was smiling down at his little girl.

“I’m pregnant again, Merry.”

Garrett’s head snapped around as he looked to his sister.

“That…” She tipped her head to the window. “And this…” She put her hand to her belly. “That’s how it works.”

“Cher wants kids,” he told her.

“You both get to that place, give them to her,” she returned.

He shook his head as he looked back out the window and pulled his hand out of her hold. He lifted his arm, catching his sister around the neck and tugging her to his side.

He kept his eyes aimed out the window as he turned his head and kissed the top of her hair.

For Rocky’s part, she’d wrapped both arms around his middle.

“Pleased as fuck for you, babe,” he muttered.

“Me too,” she replied.

They held on and watched the antidote to Raquel’s poison hold his daughter and play with their dog.

“Falling in love should be good,” she said gently. “It should make you happy. It should make you hopeful. It should make you look forward to the future and savor what’s happening in the now. I want that for you, Garrett, but it’s not only that. It’s the way it should be.”

“I hear that. But bein’ fucked up, destroying havin’ that with Mia, on edge that I’ll do that shit again, that’s just not where I can be with Cher.”

She gave him a squeeze. “Nothing’s going to happen to Layne. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Nothing’s going to happen to me.” He looked down at her. “But even if it does, Merry, I have this. This moment with you. What’s happening outside. The baby girl I gave my husband. The baby he gave me that’s growing inside of me. We can’t live crippled by what we’re scared might happen. We have to live in the moment, happy with what we have.”

“I hear that too,” he told her. “I just got no clue how to get there.”

“Your problem, honey,” she started softly, “is that you aren’t recognizing you’re already there. You just won’t let yourself be there.”

Garrett stared down at his sister, his throat starting to burn.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

Rocky smiled. “Be in the now, Merry. The now would make you happy if you just let it be.”

He tightened his arm around her neck. “Sucks, but you were always smarter than me.”

“Yes, but you were never afraid of spiders.”

A sharp chuckle bolted out of him.

Fuck, his sister was crazy.

“I see I got the upper hand here—you’re smart as a whip, but I can kill spiders without freakin’ out,” he remarked.

“You live a life in Indiana terrified of daddy longlegs, then we’ll discuss it.”

He had to admit, she had a point there.

He grinned at her.

She gave him a squeeze.

They both looked back out the window.

Blondie was running.

CeeCee was babbling.

Tanner was smiling.

His sister was pregnant.

He felt it.

He held on to it.

Because, in the now, all was just as it should be.

It was happy.

Chapter Seventeen

Tough Chick

Cher

Monday Evening

Mom was in my house, kicked back and watching TV with Ethan.

I was in the Equinox, backing it out in order to head to work but wishing I was going to Merry’s.

We’d had our awesome Saturday night and Sunday morning, and Merry had hung with me and Ethan before he’d taken off to spend some time with his sister.

And as we’d rushed toasting some bagels before getting my kid, we’d agreed that we’d find time to meet for lunch that week and I’d arrange it so one of my nights off, it was just him and me; the other one¸ it was family time.

Family time.

Merry hadn’t used those words. I hadn’t either.

But I liked thinking of it that way just as much as it freaked me out.

It was all going good.

No, it was going great.

I hadn’t fucked anything up yet, not a thing.

I was happy. Merry was happy. Ethan was happy.

It was a miracle.

That freaked me out too.

Even so, there were bummer parts to it.

Specifically not seeing Merry more often. A lunch here, a night there, lots of sex when we could squeeze it in.

As great as it was, it wasn’t working for me.

I wanted more.

There was no denying it.

I wanted more. And I didn’t know how that had happened. How I went from being a woman who’d lived a life never having what she wanted, now having what I wanted, and still wanting more.

I should be happy with what I had.

Now I had the feeling that being happy just made you jones for more happy and that was where you fucked up. A new kind of fuckup. Not being content with what you had.

I needed just to let myself be happy without freaking out about it and not fuck shit up.

(I still wanted more.)

I hit the street and shifted to drive. I started motoring when I caught something in the light of my headlights off to the left.

I kept driving but did it staring.

Then I did it glaring, anger flaring fast and rocketing straight to fury.

He gave me big eyes. Then he gave me hand gestures.

I ignored both, kept driving, stopped at the stop sign at the end of the road, made my turn when it was clear, and drove two blocks before I pulled over and yanked my phone out of my purse.

I jabbed at the screen and put it to my ear.

My friend Ryan, who right then was sitting in a car across the street from my dickhead neighbor’s house, answered on one ring.

“Cher—”

“Do not speak,” I hissed. “Meet me at the bar…now.”

“I kinda can’t leave my—”

“Ryan, what’d I say about speaking? Get your ass to the bar.”

“But the guy who hired me for this job is kinda scary.”

Oh yeah.

I was ticked.

“Trust me, right now, Ryan, I’m scarier.”

Ryan said nothing.

“You gonna meet me at the bar, like, in two seconds?”

“I’ll meet you at the bar, Cher,” he muttered.

I disconnected.

Then I jabbed at my screen again.

After I did that, I put my phone to my ear.

It rang a long time, then I got Ryker’s voicemail.

“Your surveillance guy just quit. And you’re off my Christmas card list. And if you come into J&J’s and I’m the only bartender on, you aren’t gonna get a drink. And if I didn’t totally dig your missus, I’d never fucking speak to you again.”

After I said all that, I hung up and drove to J&J’s.

I stormed in, and being me, I didn’t bother hiding how pissed I was.

This made Feb, who was standing at Colt’s side of the bar seeing as her husband had his ass planted on a stool there, widen her eyes at me.

Colt saw his wife’s face and twisted on his stool.

He got one look at me and let out an audible sigh before begging, “Please, fuck, tell me Merry isn’t the asshole who’s makin’ you look like that.”

“No, Merry isn’t the asshole who’s making me look like this,” I returned, stomping toward the office.

“Who’s the asshole makin’ you look like that?” Feb called as I opened the door to the office.

I turned to them. “Ryker,” I spat.

Neither of them looked surprised.

This was likely because Ryker didn’t have a habit of making people look pissed off.

He’d made it an art.

I went into the office and stowed my purse, slamming drawers as I did it, this not making me feel any better.

Me slamming the office door when I left also didn’t help.

Further not cooling me down, I felt something coming off Colt as I tramped his way.

I looked at him and stopped when I caught the expression on his face.

“You wanna tell me why Ryan just slunk in here, lookin’ like a whipped dog, and made his way right to the back where I can’t see him or whatever the fuck that moron’s got goin’ down?” he asked.

Colt knew Ryan. Back during the manhunt for Denny Lowe, Ryan had led them to me, and both Ryan and I had given them lots of information to figure out just how many screws Lowe had loose (in other words, all of them). That information might have even helped them (a little bit) to track him down.

Unfortunately, Denny had managed to wound three men, one woman, and murder three more victims before they stopped him.

But we’d helped (maybe…and not altogether willingly, but the last part only because Ryan was tweaked and I was pissed off I was fucking an ax murderer).

I knew Ryan because he was a regular at the strip club.

He was a nice kid, geeky, not real good at being social, and unbelievably smart. But smart in that bad way that made him geeky and not real good at being social.

He’d had a crush on me. He’d made it clear. It was sad and cute at the same time.

He also gave me money. It wasn’t a lot, but back then, when Ethan was much younger and every time I turned around he needed something—new clothes because he was growing, medicine because he got an ear infection, food because he was human and had to eat—I needed all the money I could get.

It didn’t feel good taking Ryan’s money, but I consoled myself (poorly) by being his friend.

One of the only ones he had.

Sadly, this led to Denny meeting him, learning Ryan might work at Radio Shack but had many other skills, and Denny put him to work, spying on Colt and Feb. This meant he’d gotten Ryan to plant cameras everywhere—in Feb’s house, on Colt’s street—and Ryan had taught Denny how to do it, so Denny planted cameras in J&J’s.

Ryan then kept an eye on the feeds because Denny was paying him.

And because of me.

This meant it was me who got Ryan caught up with a serial killer, hauled in, questioned, and scared out of his mind.

I held guilt about this, obviously. In the end, I’d wanted to give Ryan a bunch of the money Lowe had left me to pay him back for all his kindness and then never see him again.

But Ryan had told me that would hurt worse than any of the other shit that befell him because he’d been unlucky enough to cross paths with me.

So I paid him back the way he wanted me to.

By continuing to be his friend.

This was not a hardship. He wasn’t real good at being social, but he was a good guy, he could be funny, and he’d always been a good friend.

Eventually, I got over what I did to him and the reminder he always was of what Denny did to both of us.

I did this because I cared about him a lot.

However, even with all that had happened, Ryan had not learned not to be stupid regardless of how smart he was.

Which meant Colt had had occasion to brush up with him, and not just when Ryan came to Ethan’s birthday parties or when I had everyone over to watch a game.

To Colt’s question about Ryan being there, I jerked an agitated finger to my face and asked, “Pissed off look?” Then I answered myself, “Ryker and also Ryan.”

Colt sighed audibly again.

“I’m handlin’ it,” I declared.

Colt’s attention on me deepened even as his mouth warned, “This better be shit you can handle without Merry gettin’ a pissed off look, Cher. ’Cause you pissed off gives me a quiver. Merry pissed off might mean I’m in the dark with a shovel and a flashlight, coverin’ a brother’s ass by buryin’ bodies.”

That gave me a quiver.

I ignored the quiver, nodded to Colt, and called to Feb, “Got somethin’ to sort. Be right back.”

“We’re slow. Take your time,” Feb returned.

I didn’t take my time.

I marched quickly to the pool table area where, as Colt said, Ryan was around the wall, sitting at a back corner table that was not even close to being visible from the bar.

I went right to him, stopped, and planted my hands on my hips, glaring down at his pale face, which had luckily lost the pimples he used to have when I’d met him, though some of them had left marks.

“Have you lost your mind?” I hissed.

He leaned toward me but kept his seat, “Cher, it’s a big job and the guy who hired me trusts me to do it right.”

I.

Was.

Gonna.

Kill.

Ryker!

“Is the guy who hired you gonna console your momma when you get dead doin’ this big job for him?” I asked.

His face got even paler, but he didn’t answer.

I read this to mean he knew the danger.

I didn’t know the danger.

But I knew it was significant.

And I knew that if Lissa and Alexis wouldn’t be upset that daddy didn’t come home, I’d go to the nearest gun store, buy a baton, find Ryker, and beat him unconscious.

I threw out my hands, leaned toward him, and repeated, “Ryan, have you lost your mind?”

Suddenly, his head twitched and his brows shot together. “Do you know what the job is?”

“I know I don’t want you doin’ it,” I returned.

He seemed to relax before he replied, “I’m a big boy, Cher.”

“You’re my friend, Ryan. You’ve had my back a lot over a lotta years. It’s not about you bein’ a big boy. It’s about me givin’ a shit about you. And part of that givin’ a shit about you is wantin’ you to be safely sellin’ extension cords at Radio Shack and not sittin’ in your car outside a house two doors down from mine where I know a dickhead lives and is likely into dickhead shit that makes you unsafe. And part of this unsafe is that you’re surveilling a house two doors down from mine, doin’ it stupid by,” I leaned deeper, “sitting in your car outside that house.”

Ryan sat back hard in his chair when I leaned into him. “It’s my job to keep an eye out.”

“I got that,” I returned. “And even though that job is over, heads up, you don’t do that sitting right outside a house you’re staking out.”

“I got ears in that house, and when I put them in, I didn’t have time to use the good stuff. The feeds don’t range too far. I gotta be close.”

At the news Ryan had actually broke into my dickhead neighbor’s house and planted bugs, I rolled my eyes to the ceiling, wondering if it was possible to feel your blood pressure spike since I was pretty sure I was experiencing that.

I rolled my eyes back just in time to see Ryan’s gaze shoot over my shoulder. He jolted in his chair before he froze, his eyes wild, his body strung tight.

This would lead me to believe Colt had joined our huddle.

However, I knew the feel of the man who had entered our space while I was too busy reading the riot act to Ryan to notice.

And that feel was not Colt.

Shit.

“Ryan’s surveilling a house two doors down from yours?”

Merry asked that question and he did it in a voice that was low and tense, an indication that he was about to go apeshit crazy.

Slowly, I straightened, and even more slowly, I turned to my man.

I looked into the blue shards of his glittering, pissed off eyes.

Yep.

This close to apeshit crazy.

Needless to say, Ryan doing stupid shit (repeatedly), not to mention being a friend of mine, he was well-known by the entirety of the BPD.

“Merry—” I started.

I didn’t finish because he moved and he did it fast.

Lunging toward Ryan’s table, he slammed a fist down on it so hard the table jumped. Ryan also jumped. But Ryan didn’t otherwise move because Merry was still moving, this time so he had Ryan’s sweater in his fist and his face in Ryan’s.