“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, f**k, f**k!
“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.