Chapter 63 #2
Between Sawyer’s Redleg buddies and a pair of Reed’s fellow agents, Luke’s pick-up and the trailer hitched behind it are loaded in an embarrassingly short amount of time. My car is stuffed, and so is the back of Sawyer’s SUV.
I return to the apartment to sweep for any remaining items I can shove onto the floorboard of my car before we journey across town.
After wiping my feet one final time on the welcome mat, I survey the boxless, furniture-free space. And instantly wish I didn’t. Sheesh.
You know how in movies, when someone moves out, they have that moment of reflection while standing in the middle of a sparkling-clean room? Did those filmmakers never move out of a home or apartment?
This place is one step away from a crime scene, which I can attest to firsthand.
On cue, a parade of hairballs blows through the living room while someone whistles an ominous tune in the background. Probably Sawyer.
I stroll deeper into the apartment I used to share with my former best friend. Instead of battling nostalgia and longing for the good times, I’m fighting nausea.
I swear I’ve cleaned before. Honest.
Based on the amount of fur lining the corners of the living room, Kenzie smuggled a pet in here at some point. Random bits of paper and envelopes defy all rational explanation, making it seem as if we were running a side business in the lucrative paper-shredding industry.
Shockingly, the random candy wrappers didn’t attract bugs. And why, oh why, is there a pile of uncooked macaroni noodles on the carpet where the couch once stood? Was someone doing noodle art?
I’m disgusted. And frankly, mortified that my volunteer movers, most of whom barely know me, had to see my squalor. They said they’d help me move my crap. Not get an allergy flare-up from ingesting untold levels of dust.
Unfortunately, I’m soon-to-be far too broke to sacrifice my deposit. I’ll need to return tomorrow to clean this dump before I turn in the keys. Hopefully, I’ll do a better job than I did when the furniture concealed our filth.
Kenzie’s crap is stacked neatly in her bedroom, waiting for someone to retrieve it. Reed said he’d handle it if she doesn’t show. Most likely, in a bonfire. Shep said he’d bring the marshmallows and laughed about it like it held some deeper meaning.
My one last act of service to the sham of a friendship I had with Kenzie was packing her belongings. In the worst boxes I could find. Stuffed until they bulge. Sealed with the cheapest painter’s tape on the market. And without any packing cushion.
It’s entirely possible I spilled some of her shampoo and shower wash gel onto her electronics.
Allegedly, I emptied the meat and cheese drawer from the fridge into one box for some razzle-dazzle.
With any luck, it’ll be a good long time before she gets around to opening it, thus it’ll be filled with more than rotten food.
I wish I could take a picture of her face when she cuts through the tape and unleashes those little trash bugs or maggots.
Ick.
Couldn’t happen to a more deserving soul.
“Ready to go, cookie?” Reed shouts from the front room.
I grab the last item worth taking from my bathroom—which honestly should have been the first. “Yep. Coming.”
For the record, this hallway was not this dirty before the boxes started getting hauled off.
“I’ll get that for you,” he says, already swiping my towel warmer.
“Be careful with her,” I tease. “She’s my preciousss.”
Snickering, he presses a tiny kiss on the tip of my nose. “And you’re my precious.”
Walking to my car, a lone peacock squawks with an almost mournful tone. Or maybe it only sounds sad to me.
Matt.
The lone survivor that my neighbor was never able to capture.
I whip my head toward the source of the sound, hoping to see him one last time. No dice. Even at his size, he’s not always easy to spot.
I’m finally walloped with that sorrowful nostalgia I expected to find inside the apartment.
It was never in there, though.
What I’ll miss most about living here are my feathered friends. The evening strolls I made through the complex with a bag of seeds, chasing off the squirrels until the birds had a go at my offerings.
I’ll miss the annoyingly sweet peahen screeches in the early morning hours. The bizarre honking sound they’d make outside my window when they wanted to be fed.
Somehow, they always knew which bedroom was mine.
A gust of wind rustles through the trees, shaking loose a bevy of leaves. They flutter around me, dancing in the lingering wind before landing on the concrete. I’ll pretend that’s nature’s way of wishing me a fond farewell.
My new home isn’t surrounded by trees. In fact, the few I recall seeing are in tiny patches along the sidewalk, surrounded by tacky metal fences. I might need to take up rat feeding for my evening walks through the city.
Shudder.
On second thought, I’ll find a park near downtown. Being a bird lady is one thing. A rat lady is grounds for mental health intervention.
I finally abandon the hope of one last peacock sighting, finding Reed leaning against the side of my car. All the other vehicles loaded with my stuff have vanished. I guess the others got tired of waiting and drove ahead.
“You’re riding with me?” I ask him.
He opens the driver’s door for me, flashing double dimples without a permit. “Of course.”
My smile snaps into place on its own volition, a familiar mask I’m sure he’ll see through if he looks closely. I guess I’m still bummed out about not seeing my big, beautiful boy.
“What’s wrong?” He blocks the open car door. “Don’t give me one of those fake smiles.”
Dang it.
I don’t want him to think I’m not excited to move in with him. I’m over the moon about that. It’s the dang birds, which, as much as he tries, he probably won’t ever fully relate to this part of me.
So I resort to my old tricks. “Do you still spit on your hot dog before eating it?”
His eyes shimmer with mirth, and the edge of his mouth curves upward. “No, but I do make very intense eye contact with strangers in elevators.”
Suddenly, my smile is far less plastic. “For twenty-two bonus points, you should moan when you press the button to select your floor.”
“Thanks for the tip. I’ve been biting my lip when I do that. I like your suggestion better.”
“Kiss me if I’m wrong, but we’re due for yet another winter blizzard tonight, right?”
He gives my bad joke a pity laugh. “My sweaty pits say otherwise. So pucker up.”
Reed knows there’s no chance of me rejecting his kiss, regardless of how odoriferous we may be. He grabs my cheeks in that doting way of his. I rise to my tiptoes, chin tilting upward eagerly. Our lips converge, driving away my residual peacock melancholy.
My lips part instinctually, granting him access. He’s always welcome to any part of my body he wants—mouth, vagina, heart. Reed has an all-access VIP pass to Lila Land.
With the first swipe of his tongue against mine, an unexpected sultry whimper shimmies up my throat. He drinks it down like a shot of whiskey and uses his groan as the chaser. Pinning me to my car, he pulses his rapidly stiffening cock against me.
Well, this escalated quickly.
His heated reaction to my slutty little sounds never fails to surprise me. You’d think I’d be well-aware of how my whimpers affect him after that night in the tub with his hand over my mouth.
As that memory flutters through me, his kiss grows more passionate. A surprising feat. Perhaps he’s also remembering that sudsy night.
Right before I drag him into my apartment so he can bang me on my dirty floor, he breaks the kiss. His shaky breaths fan over my lips, which he keeps flush against mine.
“Let’s take a bubble bath tonight,” I pant out.
His smile glides over mine. “Oh, you were thinking of that too, huh?”
“A lady never discusses tawdry fantasies.”
He extracts himself from me. Sadly.
“Speaking of which . . .” he starts, pausing to catch his breath.
“Yes?”
“We still have some fantasies to fulfill.”
“How does tonight sound?” I feign checking an invisible watch. “Will eight work for you?”
He takes my hand, kisses my knuckles, and chivalrously helps me lower into the driver’s seat. “It’s a date, cookie. I’ll bring the cuffs.”
Now that I’m fully trained in the art of fellatio—giggle—I finally confessed what my naughtier fantasy was. The rough version.
Reed was immediately on board. He even provided sexy suggestions, which made me salivate.
When he slides into the passenger seat, I ask, “Why are you riding with me? I don’t mind, but I figured you’d drive with Sawyer. Did you need a break from him?”
His returning laugh is rich and velvety, causing my toes to twitch with an urge to curl. “Maybe a little.”
When I reach for the gear shifter, he encircles my wrist to stop me. “Gimme your phone.”
“Get your own,” I snark.
I’m rewarded with another decadent laugh. This time it does curl my toes.
“Phone,” he insists, open hand extended.
Whatever.
I give him my cell, unlocking it first. He probably knows my passcode from his FBI hack job, but I don’t care. I have no more secrets to keep from him.
“We don’t need to connect our phones in order to speak. This isn’t your motorcycle.” I dare to reach for the shifter again, while peeking at what he’s up to with my phone. “Can I drive now?”
He enters an address into my GPS, then snaps my phone onto the holder. “Please proceed.”
“I get why you think I might not know the route to the condo, but I’m concerned you don’t trust your own memory.” Grinning like a devil, I tap the green GO button on my phone. “Old age catching up to you?”
His response is cut off when the voice of my GPS blasts through my car speakers.
Let’s go on an adventure. Proceed to the highlighted route. Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Reed face palms, his shoulders shaking with raucous laughter. I drive out of my parking space, oscillating between mortification and pride over my choice of GPS voice.
Here we go. You keep eyes on road. I’ll keep eyes on cookies.
Ten minutes into the drive, I begin to wonder if Cookie Monster is having a stroke. Downtown is in the other direction. And much shorter than the forty-five-minute journey we’re taking.
I glance at the phone screen to double-check I haven’t strayed. Nope. I’m following the blue line like a good little monster.
At the next red light, I cock a brow at my navigator. The real one, not the fake puppet voice. “Dimples, where are we going?”
Reed’s knowing smile shines so vibrantly it’s a road hazard, much like those blinding LED headlights all cars seem to have these days. “You’ll see.”
“Is that all you’re telling me?”
Channeling his twin, he slips seamlessly into a vocal impression of my beloved patron saint. “Just do as I say, and you get all the cookies. Yum, yum, yum.”
Thank goodness I’m stopped at a light. We crack up. Guffaws and all. I laugh so much my eyes spring twin leaks.
Once I’m able to formulate words, I toss, “Cookie Monster has never let me down. I refuse to believe he’d fail me now.”