Mutual Possession (Nine Tenths of the Law #1)

4. Spencer

Chapter four

Spencer

When I wake, Kendrick’s side of the bed is cold, and he’s not in the room. Did he even sleep? A quick check of my phone says I have about three minutes before the alarm’s due to go off. An hour power nap before we have to keep going. I can’t remember the last time Kendrick’s slept all the way through the night, but I didn’t think it’d gotten so bad that he struggles with an hour at a time.

I don’t like it.

Not bothering to do more than tug on a pair of Kendrick’s pants and tying them so they don’t fall down, I go in search of the man in question. He’s easy to find since he’s in the kitchen, only wearing low-slung sweatpants and frying—damn, are those pancakes?

“Have I told you lately how much I love you?” There’s a plate of them, still steaming, just waiting for me. Picking one up, I take a bite quickly before he can take it off me, already anticipating the grab he tries.

“They’re not ready, put it down.”

“Tastes pretty cooked to me,” I say through my mouthful. Definitely cooked. And delicious. Though it needs some toppings to really make it shine.

He moves the plate out of my reach, keeping aggressive eye contact as if that’s any kind of deterrent. Unfortunately for him, I have legs, I know how to use them, and those pancakes are mine.

“Make yourself useful and get the lemon juice out of the fridge.” He lifts his arm, twisting his wrist to look at his watch. “We have to go soon.”

“If you’d let me eat the pancakes right now, we could leave sooner.”

“The fridge, Spence.”

The pancakes are right there in my path, so naturally, I have to grab another one. He gives me a look but doesn’t attempt another theft. Good, because I’m not above shoving the whole thing in my mouth. Snagging the canister of sugar on my way back, I set both beside the plate of pancakes.

We eat standing up, shoulders pressed together, sharing the same plate, occasionally feeding each other.

Despite the early hour, I can hear his neighbour shuffling around their place, the walls too thin for any real privacy. I bet if I kicked hard enough, I could put my foot through it. I hate this place. It’s not a terrible place to live, exactly, and the neighbourhood is relatively okay. I still like my place better. My furniture matches, my bed is bigger, and I paid a small fortune for my oven so that Kendrick can cook to his heart’s content there. Purely selfish reasons, of course, because I need his food in my life. Most of all, there’s actual privacy, where we can’t hear everyone around us like we’re in a shared house.

Also, my fish are there. My fish team, each one named after the team, get lonely if I spend too many nights here. The only solution is to have Kendrick at mine, permanently.

“I want you to move in with me.”

His fork freezes halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“Move in with me.” It’s a half question, half statement. I’m not really asking. Now that I’ve said it, I have no idea why we haven’t done it before now. We barely spend more than a half hour away from each other. The nights apart are few and far between, and I hate them. Paying rent on two places makes no sense. My plan’s genius.

“I don’t know if that’s—”

“Ken.” I’m not asking. I know he can see it on my face. He can argue if he feels like it, but he’ll give in. He always does.

He sighs and puts his fork down, neglecting the piece he’d been about to eat. What poor form. “Into your place?”

“Something wrong with it?” It’s bigger than his. Closer to HQ. The point is that we wouldn’t be here , and we’d be together. Otherwise, I don’t give a fuck. We’re stuck in this forever, and neither of us gets to leave. “We can get a new place if you want. Or we can look around and buy a house.” I like my apartment, but if he wants somewhere else, then I’ll make it happen.

“Buy a house,” he repeats.

“It’s more maintenance, but whatever floats your boat.”

“My lease isn’t up for another six months.”

“I’m sure we can arrange something.” We have enough people in our back pockets; we can get him out of it in days.

He licks his lips and stares down at our plate, like it’s going to give him some kind of coherent answer. If our crockery starts talking to us, they’re going in the bin, and we’re getting new ones.

“Your place is fine,” Kendrick says. “We can get some boxes after work tonight and start packing.”

Good. Now that we’ve worked that out— “Are you done eating?” I ask, pointing at the last two pancakes. Poor neglected, flat deliciousness, just waiting for me to eat them.

“No.”

“How about we share, one each?” I’m not much into sharing, but I can make an exception for him. What’s mine is his, and all that.

“You already had eight.”

“But I could have nine.” It’s basically a snack. My ability to put away food is only eclipsed by Kendrick’s ability to make five-star food. Match made in heaven. He cooks; I eat. What better arrangement is there than that?

“That’s an uneven number.”

I’m not the one that has to have the stereo on even numbers—or a five, apparently, which makes no sense. “The easiest solution here is giving them both to me. It’d make an even ten.”

He kisses my forehead, lingering, and then pushes the plate my way, and I happily make my way through the last two. Sugar and lemon on pancakes: the best flavour combination in the world. Who needs fancy when simple is best?

Kendrick runs a hand through his curls, fingers snagging on the ringlets, his gaze glancing down my front. I love the way he looks at me, like he’s thirsty as fuck, and I’m the only acceptable beverage to quench it. I want to make him feel good even if I can’t give him everything he needs. I get as close as I can and overcompensate in other areas in order to keep him close. Selfishly dangle enough incentive so he stays. I need him, and I need him to need me too.

When he takes the empty plate and cutlery over to the sink, I crowd behind him, hands settling on his hips, my forehead resting against the warmth of his spine. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

He stiffens, and the plate clatters on the stainless steel. “I am sleeping.”

“Not enough.”

He doesn’t answer, bracing himself against the bench, back bowing and head dropping forward. It gives me more room to touch.

“Talk to me,” I whisper, lips glancing over the taut muscles of his back. A shudder rolls over him, and I apply pressure, kissing him properly. Peppering them along his spine and across his shoulder blade. “Kendrick.”

He reaches back, holding the back of my thigh and keeping me in place. “I get nightmares. It’s not a big deal.”

It is to me. “About what?”

“About—” He cuts off and then turns in my arms so he’s facing me. His dark, closed-off face reveals nothing. He doesn’t get to do that, to hide from me. Not me . That’s not who we are, not to each other. There are no secrets.

“About what, Ken?”

“It’s time to go,” he says abruptly, pushing himself out of my hold and stalking off toward his room.

I take up his vacated position, palm curled around the edge of the counter hard enough to hurt. “ Fuck .”

The look on his face when he returns dares me to say anything. His pristine charcoal-grey suit’s almost like a shield, blocking me from him, and I want to tear every stitch of clothing off him until he’s naked and bared to me. Remove all the barriers he’s putting up between us. They don’t belong here.

A twist of hurt sits heavy in my chest when he turns away from me, not allowing a touch as I pass him on the way to his room to find my clothes. By the time I come back out, he’s gone, and my phone and keys are waiting beside the door.

If he’s left without me, we’re going to have unpleasant words. We don’t run from each other.

He’s been drifting from me from the moment last year when he was crushed between two cars, and I got ripped away from him with a blow to the head. I don’t know how to make it stop, to help him. Help us . Holding tighter isn’t working, and all I can do is continue to squeeze until we both suffocate from it. I refuse to let go even if it kills us.

He’s waiting in the quietly idling car, phone in hand. I get in without a word, and he doesn’t so much as look my way as he reverses and heads out.

An ugly thought suddenly occurs to me, and I can’t contain it. “Are you dreaming about someone else?” The thought of it turns my stomach, roiling jealousy consuming me until I want to commit murder. Even his dreams belong to me, and no one gets to invade them or take up any space.

Kendrick does look at me then. There’s confusion and something darker, an answering call that feeds my own possessiveness. He owns me just as much as I own him. There’s nothing one-sided about the crazed need we both have. “I said nightmare, not sex dream.”

Hearing the words sex dream from those lips does nothing to abate the green monster twining in my chest like vines attempting to strangle me. “It’s my nightmare,” I mutter in response. I want to be the only thought he has. For him to wake up sticky and wanting from thoughts of me.

“I have them about you.”

“Nightmares or sex dreams?”

“Both.”

Silence descends for the rest of the car ride, a strange discomfort to it that makes me itchy. He stops at the small coffee shop he likes, a few blocks from work, the same way he does every morning. Normally I’d go in with him, but not today. I’m liable to do something unforgiveable to the man behind the bar that always flirts with Kendrick. He’s fucking lucky I haven’t already. It’d be all too easy to spill his blood across the counters and get away with it.

Our fingers brush when he hands me my decaf latte, and our eyes meet, staying there for a timeless moment. His hazel green is more familiar to me than my own, a gorgeous blend with the green winning out.

Whatever’s wrong, I’m going to fix it.