Sustained
Page 21
“Thanks, Becker—I’ll call the aunt, have her come get the kid.”
It’s late—after midnight. But I’m not going to think about how Chelsea will have to get all those other kids out of bed, including the baby and the little two-year-old. Put their coats on, buckle them in the car. In the dark.
All by herself.
That’s not my fucking problem. My problem is the rock-hard dick between my legs that will probably strangle me in my sleep if I don’t get him some action soon.
I hang up the phone and lean back on the couch beside Lisa. She grins, slightly buzzed. “Work stuff?”
“Yeah—nothing important.”
She palms my junk. “Not like this—this is really important.”
I thrust against her hand and lean over. “I do like a woman who has her priorities straight.”
Then we’re kissing again. And it’s nice.
But . . . I still can’t shake the image of Chelsea and the kids. The tiny blonde with the big blue eyes, Raymond squinting wearily as he puts his glasses on. I imagine them down at the precinct—it’s not the safest area to be in, especially after midnight. I imagine them driving, Chelsea yawning, possibly not noticing an oncoming car that’s swerved into her lane, not until—
“Shit!” I pull back, breathing hard. “I have to go.”
“What?” Lisa whines. “No . . . no, stay. Important things, remember? All the fabulous fucking we were going to do. Important.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” And I mean I’m really, really fucking sorry. “There’s a thing and I have to handle it myself.”
Lisa flops backward, resting her head on the arm of the couch, still hot and bothered. “You’re killing me, Becker.”
I stand up, rebuttoning my shirt. And my cock is furious. “Rain check?”
“Sure.” Lisa sighs. Then she smirks flippantly. “At least you got me all warmed up for Mr. Pink. I’ll be thinking of your gorgeous tattoos when I play with him.”
“Mr. Pink?”
“He’s my most favorite vibrator.”
I groan at the mental image. “Now you’re killing me.”
She winks. “That was my evil plan.” Then she stretches up and kisses my cheek. “Call me.”
“Will do.”
Outside Lisa’s apartment, I pull out my phone as I walk to my car and dial Chelsea’s number.
She answers on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Chelsea, it’s Jake.”
“Hi.” Her voice is hushed but alert, and I deduce that the kids are still sleeping—and somewhere close by.
“Did Officer Noblecky call you about Riley?”
“Yes. I’m just giving Ronan a bottle, then I’m going to get the kids up and in the car and—”
“Don’t bother. I’m on my way there now. They’ll let me sign Riley out as her legal counsel.”
For a moment, the only response on the other end is the soft sound of Chelsea’s breath. Christ—even her breathing is sexy. If I wasn’t still hard, I sure as shit would be now.
“You don’t have to do that, Jake.”
“Yeah, I know I don’t have to, but I am,” I bite out—harsher than I mean to. “So just say thanks and hang up the phone.”
“O-kay. Well . . . thanks. And even though you bit my head off for no reason, I’m gonna let it slide since you’re doing me a humongous favor.”
I chuckle. “It’s been a . . . frustrating evening.”
“Ah—now, that I can relate to.”
I bet she can.
“I’ll see you soon, Chelsea.”
“All right. Drive safe.”
• • •
I arrive at the precinct, sign some quick paperwork, and wait at the front desk for them to bring Riley out. Noblecky’s there—he makes a few stupid comments about my babysitting career, and I don’t really listen. But his jokes do get me thinking. What the hell am I doing here? I don’t do complicated, I avoid distractions, and up until this point, that strategy has served me well.
Chelsea McQuaid is a fine piece of ass—but her nieces and nephews are turning out to be more distraction than she’s worth.
Riley is escorted out from the back room. She’s as white as a ghost and unsteady on her feet. Her hair is stringy—wet—and I vaguely wonder if she got puke in it. Dark bruises of mascara shadow bloodshot eyes. She grips a bottle of Gatorade and a paper upchuck bag like the ones so thoughtfully tucked into the seat backs on airplanes.
“Hi,” she rasps in a scratchy voice. “Thank you for coming to get me.”
The first stirrings of pity echo in my chest. Not only do I remember how it feels to be sick drunk—easily the most miserable experience ever—I also remember what it was like to be fourteen.
It sucked.
“Come on, Smiley, let’s go.”
She doesn’t even have the energy to roll her eyes at me.
I guide her to the car, warning her just before I close the door, “You puke in my car, you’ll be walking home.”
I slide into the driver’s side and the engine roars. Riley squeezes her eyes closed, like the car’s vibrations are making her queasy.
“Why didn’t you give them your aunt’s number?” I ask to distract her.
“Aunt Chelsea already has so much to deal with. I didn’t want to bother her.”
It’s late—after midnight. But I’m not going to think about how Chelsea will have to get all those other kids out of bed, including the baby and the little two-year-old. Put their coats on, buckle them in the car. In the dark.
All by herself.
That’s not my fucking problem. My problem is the rock-hard dick between my legs that will probably strangle me in my sleep if I don’t get him some action soon.
I hang up the phone and lean back on the couch beside Lisa. She grins, slightly buzzed. “Work stuff?”
“Yeah—nothing important.”
She palms my junk. “Not like this—this is really important.”
I thrust against her hand and lean over. “I do like a woman who has her priorities straight.”
Then we’re kissing again. And it’s nice.
But . . . I still can’t shake the image of Chelsea and the kids. The tiny blonde with the big blue eyes, Raymond squinting wearily as he puts his glasses on. I imagine them down at the precinct—it’s not the safest area to be in, especially after midnight. I imagine them driving, Chelsea yawning, possibly not noticing an oncoming car that’s swerved into her lane, not until—
“Shit!” I pull back, breathing hard. “I have to go.”
“What?” Lisa whines. “No . . . no, stay. Important things, remember? All the fabulous fucking we were going to do. Important.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” And I mean I’m really, really fucking sorry. “There’s a thing and I have to handle it myself.”
Lisa flops backward, resting her head on the arm of the couch, still hot and bothered. “You’re killing me, Becker.”
I stand up, rebuttoning my shirt. And my cock is furious. “Rain check?”
“Sure.” Lisa sighs. Then she smirks flippantly. “At least you got me all warmed up for Mr. Pink. I’ll be thinking of your gorgeous tattoos when I play with him.”
“Mr. Pink?”
“He’s my most favorite vibrator.”
I groan at the mental image. “Now you’re killing me.”
She winks. “That was my evil plan.” Then she stretches up and kisses my cheek. “Call me.”
“Will do.”
Outside Lisa’s apartment, I pull out my phone as I walk to my car and dial Chelsea’s number.
She answers on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Chelsea, it’s Jake.”
“Hi.” Her voice is hushed but alert, and I deduce that the kids are still sleeping—and somewhere close by.
“Did Officer Noblecky call you about Riley?”
“Yes. I’m just giving Ronan a bottle, then I’m going to get the kids up and in the car and—”
“Don’t bother. I’m on my way there now. They’ll let me sign Riley out as her legal counsel.”
For a moment, the only response on the other end is the soft sound of Chelsea’s breath. Christ—even her breathing is sexy. If I wasn’t still hard, I sure as shit would be now.
“You don’t have to do that, Jake.”
“Yeah, I know I don’t have to, but I am,” I bite out—harsher than I mean to. “So just say thanks and hang up the phone.”
“O-kay. Well . . . thanks. And even though you bit my head off for no reason, I’m gonna let it slide since you’re doing me a humongous favor.”
I chuckle. “It’s been a . . . frustrating evening.”
“Ah—now, that I can relate to.”
I bet she can.
“I’ll see you soon, Chelsea.”
“All right. Drive safe.”
• • •
I arrive at the precinct, sign some quick paperwork, and wait at the front desk for them to bring Riley out. Noblecky’s there—he makes a few stupid comments about my babysitting career, and I don’t really listen. But his jokes do get me thinking. What the hell am I doing here? I don’t do complicated, I avoid distractions, and up until this point, that strategy has served me well.
Chelsea McQuaid is a fine piece of ass—but her nieces and nephews are turning out to be more distraction than she’s worth.
Riley is escorted out from the back room. She’s as white as a ghost and unsteady on her feet. Her hair is stringy—wet—and I vaguely wonder if she got puke in it. Dark bruises of mascara shadow bloodshot eyes. She grips a bottle of Gatorade and a paper upchuck bag like the ones so thoughtfully tucked into the seat backs on airplanes.
“Hi,” she rasps in a scratchy voice. “Thank you for coming to get me.”
The first stirrings of pity echo in my chest. Not only do I remember how it feels to be sick drunk—easily the most miserable experience ever—I also remember what it was like to be fourteen.
It sucked.
“Come on, Smiley, let’s go.”
She doesn’t even have the energy to roll her eyes at me.
I guide her to the car, warning her just before I close the door, “You puke in my car, you’ll be walking home.”
I slide into the driver’s side and the engine roars. Riley squeezes her eyes closed, like the car’s vibrations are making her queasy.
“Why didn’t you give them your aunt’s number?” I ask to distract her.
“Aunt Chelsea already has so much to deal with. I didn’t want to bother her.”
