Creed
Page 7
This scared me so much I didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just looked at the heavy plaid shirt in front of me, knowing Daddy would find me. Knowing whoever caught me would call him. Knowing, when they did, Daddy would be mad.
“Quiet, dog,” I heard a firm, low, boy’s voice say and my head tipped back.
Then I didn’t move or speak for another reason.
This was because, right in front of me, his hands still on my sides, was Tucker Creed.
Tucker Creed.
The cutest boy in town.
Chapter Three
Pretty Cat
Present day…
I opened my eyes and felt it.
Shit.
Fuck.
Shit.
Someone was in the room with me and that someone was not Gun.
I rolled quickly over the bed, angling my h*ps so I didn’t roll right over Gun as my hand went to the weapon still holstered on my belt at the small of my back.
I fell over the side of the bed, getting my feet under me and coming up in a crouch immediately, hands up, arms resting on the bed, gun pointed across the room.
I saw him and froze solid.
No f**king way.
No f**king way.
Jesus, I was dreaming.
Fuck, I had to be dreaming.
His eyes on me, he was unarmed, his back to the wall, one knee bent, the sole of his boot also to the wall, arms crossed on his chest, he held my gaze steady, direct, intense and whispered, “Sylvie.”
At the sound of my name coming from his lips, raw washed through me, a feeling I last felt drunk on my couch in Charlene’s arms on my birthday last year.
A feeling I’d felt time and again before I learned how not to feel it anymore.
A feeling that threatened to shred me now.
A feeling that with lots of practice I buried.
“Tucker Creed?” I asked.
His arms came uncrossed only so he could lift his hands in the air which I was guessing was his confirmation that he was, indeed, Tucker Creed. My first love, my protector, my savior.
My betrayer.
He crossed his arms again and requested, “You wanna stop aiming your weapon at me?”
Actually, no. I didn’t. I wanted to keep aiming my gun at him and I might also want to pull the trigger.
I was not wrong last night. That was him in the Expedition.
And I knew it was him watching me at the hotel. It was also his eyes I felt for the last month.
I knew it.
I f**king knew it.
And I didn’t get it.
Even though I preferred to aim my gun at him, I still stood. As I did I reached behind me to re-holster my gun at the same time keeping my eyes on him and asking, “What the f**k?”
He looked to the bed then back to me before he shared, “Pretty cat.”
I looked to the bed to see Gun sitting on her ass, tail sweeping the covers, curious eyes on Tucker Creed. It was the first time since I got her that I lamented my choice of cat over Rottweiler.
I looked back to Creed and when I did it hit me that this f**king ass**le had accepted all I had to give him, everything that was me, he took it then took off and left me to the wolves and pretty much the first thing he said to me was I had a pretty cat.
“Are you shitting me?” I asked.
His face changed and his mouth moved.
“We gotta talk.”
We had to talk?
Sixteen years, out-of-the-blue he’s in my bedroom and he tells me I have a pretty cat and we had to talk.
Oh yeah, he was totally f**king shitting me.
I studied him.
The last time I saw him he was twenty-three. Now, he was thirty-nine. One look and I saw either life had not been kind or it had been full of adventure of the dangerous variety.
He’d always been tall, even as a little kid. Back in the day, when he was mine, or I thought he was mine, I’d loved that. He grew to be six foot one. He towered over me. He had broad shoulders, a wide chest, narrow hips, thick thighs. I loved that too. The power of his body. Growing up with him, watching him hone it and learn how to use it.
He’d had a rough life, like I did, since he was born. So rough, we used to discuss in a way that was a joke but also wasn’t but it was a release which one of us had it rougher. We never came to a conclusion. He’d learned to take care of himself. I’d got him early so I learned he’d take care of me. Being big, learning fast, he was good at both, taking care of himself and me.
Or, I thought that too.
In the end, I’d been wrong.
Now, he was still tall but he was broader, wider, he’d bulked out and not a little bit. He wasn’t a behemoth but one look at him, simply his size would make some men ill-at-ease and most would leave a wide berth.
But there was more.
His skin was tanned, leathery, creases fanned from the sides of his eyes worn there not through smiling. There were more at the sides of his mouth, along his forehead.
He had a scar that scored through his upper lip, mid right side. He had another one that slashed over his cheekbone, up his temple and disappeared into his hair but you could see it didn’t end there. This was because his brown hair was white in a thin stripe along the side of his head leading from the scar at his temple and stopping where his skull curved to the back. It wasn’t gray with age. In fact, he had no gray in his hair even at his age. Someone had got him good with a knife, meant harm and got interrupted in their endeavor of attempting to kill him.
No, life had not been kind to Tucker Creed.
I didn’t know what to think of this. The only thought that came to mind was good.
He had on a plaid shirt in light blues, grays and greens mixed with white over a white t-shirt, faded jeans and light brown boots that had an almost yellowish tinge to the suede. His clothes were clean, they hung on him well but they were not new or fashionable. He bought them for the purposes of covering his body, comfort and nothing else.
His hair was a mess and I felt a sting looking at it because it always was a mess, even back in the day. He rarely got it cut, it hung well past his collar and was always flopping in his eyes. That was no different now, except it wasn’t flopping in his eyes. Though I knew, if he bent his neck forward even a fraction of an inch, it would.
Although he wore the years that passed from top to toe, his eyes had not changed. Sky blue, bright, the color so stark in his tan, rugged face that it seemed to glimmer.
Eyes I saw in my dreams, even now, if I admitted it to myself.
Eyes I saw in my head on the rare occasion I let my mind wander and it went there, to the glory days tarnished with betrayal.
Eyes that I remembered trusting as he looked down at me and moved inside me. The first man I took and when I did I was sure he’d be the last.
He was not.
Not by a long shot.
“Quiet, dog,” I heard a firm, low, boy’s voice say and my head tipped back.
Then I didn’t move or speak for another reason.
This was because, right in front of me, his hands still on my sides, was Tucker Creed.
Tucker Creed.
The cutest boy in town.
Chapter Three
Pretty Cat
Present day…
I opened my eyes and felt it.
Shit.
Fuck.
Shit.
Someone was in the room with me and that someone was not Gun.
I rolled quickly over the bed, angling my h*ps so I didn’t roll right over Gun as my hand went to the weapon still holstered on my belt at the small of my back.
I fell over the side of the bed, getting my feet under me and coming up in a crouch immediately, hands up, arms resting on the bed, gun pointed across the room.
I saw him and froze solid.
No f**king way.
No f**king way.
Jesus, I was dreaming.
Fuck, I had to be dreaming.
His eyes on me, he was unarmed, his back to the wall, one knee bent, the sole of his boot also to the wall, arms crossed on his chest, he held my gaze steady, direct, intense and whispered, “Sylvie.”
At the sound of my name coming from his lips, raw washed through me, a feeling I last felt drunk on my couch in Charlene’s arms on my birthday last year.
A feeling I’d felt time and again before I learned how not to feel it anymore.
A feeling that threatened to shred me now.
A feeling that with lots of practice I buried.
“Tucker Creed?” I asked.
His arms came uncrossed only so he could lift his hands in the air which I was guessing was his confirmation that he was, indeed, Tucker Creed. My first love, my protector, my savior.
My betrayer.
He crossed his arms again and requested, “You wanna stop aiming your weapon at me?”
Actually, no. I didn’t. I wanted to keep aiming my gun at him and I might also want to pull the trigger.
I was not wrong last night. That was him in the Expedition.
And I knew it was him watching me at the hotel. It was also his eyes I felt for the last month.
I knew it.
I f**king knew it.
And I didn’t get it.
Even though I preferred to aim my gun at him, I still stood. As I did I reached behind me to re-holster my gun at the same time keeping my eyes on him and asking, “What the f**k?”
He looked to the bed then back to me before he shared, “Pretty cat.”
I looked to the bed to see Gun sitting on her ass, tail sweeping the covers, curious eyes on Tucker Creed. It was the first time since I got her that I lamented my choice of cat over Rottweiler.
I looked back to Creed and when I did it hit me that this f**king ass**le had accepted all I had to give him, everything that was me, he took it then took off and left me to the wolves and pretty much the first thing he said to me was I had a pretty cat.
“Are you shitting me?” I asked.
His face changed and his mouth moved.
“We gotta talk.”
We had to talk?
Sixteen years, out-of-the-blue he’s in my bedroom and he tells me I have a pretty cat and we had to talk.
Oh yeah, he was totally f**king shitting me.
I studied him.
The last time I saw him he was twenty-three. Now, he was thirty-nine. One look and I saw either life had not been kind or it had been full of adventure of the dangerous variety.
He’d always been tall, even as a little kid. Back in the day, when he was mine, or I thought he was mine, I’d loved that. He grew to be six foot one. He towered over me. He had broad shoulders, a wide chest, narrow hips, thick thighs. I loved that too. The power of his body. Growing up with him, watching him hone it and learn how to use it.
He’d had a rough life, like I did, since he was born. So rough, we used to discuss in a way that was a joke but also wasn’t but it was a release which one of us had it rougher. We never came to a conclusion. He’d learned to take care of himself. I’d got him early so I learned he’d take care of me. Being big, learning fast, he was good at both, taking care of himself and me.
Or, I thought that too.
In the end, I’d been wrong.
Now, he was still tall but he was broader, wider, he’d bulked out and not a little bit. He wasn’t a behemoth but one look at him, simply his size would make some men ill-at-ease and most would leave a wide berth.
But there was more.
His skin was tanned, leathery, creases fanned from the sides of his eyes worn there not through smiling. There were more at the sides of his mouth, along his forehead.
He had a scar that scored through his upper lip, mid right side. He had another one that slashed over his cheekbone, up his temple and disappeared into his hair but you could see it didn’t end there. This was because his brown hair was white in a thin stripe along the side of his head leading from the scar at his temple and stopping where his skull curved to the back. It wasn’t gray with age. In fact, he had no gray in his hair even at his age. Someone had got him good with a knife, meant harm and got interrupted in their endeavor of attempting to kill him.
No, life had not been kind to Tucker Creed.
I didn’t know what to think of this. The only thought that came to mind was good.
He had on a plaid shirt in light blues, grays and greens mixed with white over a white t-shirt, faded jeans and light brown boots that had an almost yellowish tinge to the suede. His clothes were clean, they hung on him well but they were not new or fashionable. He bought them for the purposes of covering his body, comfort and nothing else.
His hair was a mess and I felt a sting looking at it because it always was a mess, even back in the day. He rarely got it cut, it hung well past his collar and was always flopping in his eyes. That was no different now, except it wasn’t flopping in his eyes. Though I knew, if he bent his neck forward even a fraction of an inch, it would.
Although he wore the years that passed from top to toe, his eyes had not changed. Sky blue, bright, the color so stark in his tan, rugged face that it seemed to glimmer.
Eyes I saw in my dreams, even now, if I admitted it to myself.
Eyes I saw in my head on the rare occasion I let my mind wander and it went there, to the glory days tarnished with betrayal.
Eyes that I remembered trusting as he looked down at me and moved inside me. The first man I took and when I did I was sure he’d be the last.
He was not.
Not by a long shot.
