45. Tee
Tee
I ’m pretty damn certain that everyone who’s anyone knows about the bizarre shoot-out at the MC bar.
Being an active crime scene, nobody should be aware of the details, but as things often do in places like Pigeon Creek, news has spread worse than measles in a town full of anti-vaxxers.
Which, of course, makes me wonder why I’m bothering to keep my relationship with Cody under the radar.
But that’s a quandary for another time because right now, I need to make sure my man’s actually alive so that I can call him that to his face.
When I burst through the detachment’s doors, I quickly scan the station’s occupants and come up blank.
“What are you doing here?” Dion Berrien demands, spying me straining on tiptoe.
“I’m looking for Cody.”
“Why?”
“Because he was at an active-shooting situation, moron. I left New York City. I don’t need this kind of stress here. You’d think in the world’s smallest town with the biggest police presence, you’d be able to keep shit in line.”
Dion snorts. “The world still revolves around you, huh, Tee?”
“Says someone who thinks the Milky Way pivots on his next breath. Don’t give me any sass, Dion, just because I broke up with you to go to college and your idea of a glow-up is black pants with a green stripe.”
He sniffs, but it’s Martin Poitras who cares to share, “Cody’s still at the bar.”
“I heard two people were shot; one of them was killed. That’s not… him. Right?”
“I don’t know why we bother having secure channels,” Dion grouses. “Your intel is right. And Cody is safe. Maybe you could give us a witness statement while you’re at it.”
I smirk. “Nah. I’m not that deep into the loop. Someone told someone who told someone who told Nonna. Plus, I’m about to go back to the ranch, so the last thing I want is them worrying.”
Marty grimaces. “It was fucking scary, I can tell you that. Cody was the only one who didn’t shit his pants.”
Dion sniffs. “I was fine!”
“You were busy puking next to me,” he argues.
“Always knew you were a cock, Dion. All mouth and no action. There you go, proving it to me over and over.”
“A cock?” Dion asks, brow furrowed.
“Yep, because pussies take a pounding and cocks can’t see someone get their head shot off without puking.”
“Don’t forget, I puked too,” Marty confesses sheepishly.
“You’re not professing to be a hard man. At least, you weren’t a douche when we were in school together.” I squint at him. “Has that changed?”
“I’d like to think not. Anyway, how many dead people have you seen?”
I study my nails. “A few.”
“What?!”
“I lived in a terrible area of New York,” I reason with a shrug. “Junkies were shooting up left, right, and center, and I had to walk over some of them to get to my doorway.”
“Nice to see that you gave up something real between us to move to that hellhole.”
I narrow my eyes at Dion. “If you want to take this outside, I’m more than willing.”
“Woah, children!” Marty barks when Dion scrapes up his sleeves over his forearms and shoots me a ‘gimme’ motion.
Once upon a time, I’d slobbered over those forearms. Had thought they were sexy as fuck. Now, nah . They’ve got nothing on Cody’s.
“I can so take you, Dion.”
“Had police training, have you?”
“Nope, but we did self-defense classes so I can totally hand you your ass?—”
“Who’s handing my deputy his ass?”
I peek at him, well aware that my shoulders sag in relief to see Cody striding in, Brogan by his side on a leash.
The blood on his uniform has me biting my lip, though. “None of that’s yours, right?”
He shakes his head, but his gaze is soft as it settles on me.
I release a deep sigh then answer, “I’m handing Dion his ass because he’s a douche canoe who can’t hold his lunch.”
“Not sure that’s how the law works,” Cody retorts.
“You name a time, dude,” I aim at my one-time ex.
“I heard that,” Cody grumbles.
“You can watch me hand him his ass,” I counter, keeping my voice as low as his.
“That shouldn’t be a turn-on, but it is.”
“It’s my mystique. Consider yourself a fly and me shit.”
He pulls a face. “Nice. Can’t I be a bee and you’re my honey?”
“Mine’s more poetic.”
His eyes bug. “ Right .” To Dion, who’s trying to listen into our conversation, he shoots, “Put Brogan in my office?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Brogan isn’t happy until Cody passes Dion a sandwich alongside the dog’s leash. “He’ll accept the reward and hopefully will nap.”
Once Brogan’s more interested in what looks like Mrs. Abelman’s corned beef, Cody places a hand on my shoulder and steers me down the outer corridor.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere private.”
I whistle. “You have time for a?—”
“No, Tee, I don’t,” he says dryly. “But I’m trying to remember that you don’t want us going public yet until I’ve proven that I’m not a jackass like, I’ll assume, Dion?”
My nose wrinkles. “Dude didn’t want to tell his friends about me then went caterwauling to them when I dumped him and left for New York. Suddenly, I’m a slut. His mom’s related to Harry—bakery Harry? I swear he spits on my butter tarts when I buy them. There are always a few bubbles extra on top.”
“There’s too much to unpack in that statement.” He proves he’s my ideal man by sighing and picking it apart. “So, firstly, I’m not Dion. Although, this probably explains why you have trust issues. Secondly, note to self—I’ll buy the butter tarts on our behalf. Thirdly, that breaks so many health and safety regulations—are you certain Harry gives enough of a shit to get into trouble with the health department?”
“Proof. Got it.” I wag a finger at him. “I’ll buy a butter tart so you can see the bubbles for yourself.”
“Why did he blame you?”
“Because he has small penis syndrome. The only reason that isn’t in the DSM? * is because we live in a patriarchy.”
“Small—” He huffs. “I didn’t need to know that about one of my men.”
“Don’t you shower together?”
“Do you think this is Marshals Do Munch?”
I burst out laughing. “I’d watch it.”
“Knowing you, you probably would.”
“Aside from a severe case of SPS, he didn’t like being left behind.”
“Can’t blame him. You’re hot.”
“Why, thank you. With the way he’d whined, you’d think Charlize Theron dumped him, and I’m not her.”
“Well aware. You have better tits than her,” he says dismissively.
Internally, I freeze, but then he shoves me into a small office so I can demand, “You think I have better tits than the Charlize Theron?”
“Sure do.”
With a syndrome of my own (one-tit-bigger-than-the-other syndrome), I leap at him and pepper kisses all over his face in thanks.
He laughs as I do. “I really love this, but I don’t have time—there are criminals in need of booking.”
I smack a bunch more on his cheeks for good measure before planting a final one on his mouth. “Maybe you are a keeper after all.”
His lips quirk to the side as he leans back on a desk. Then, he grabs my hips and draws me between his thighs.
My hands settle on his chest, but that’s when I see the blood dotting his shirt, some of it having splashed so far as his throat. The close contact has any lingering amusement fading.
“You nearly died!”
“I didn’t. I’d tell you if it was that bad.”
I peep up at him. “You would?”
His gaze turns softer than melted butter. “I promise.”
“I can handle the truth.”
“I know.”
“Zee can’t. She’d shit herself. But I’m tough.”
“Hard as nails, that’s you.”
Nodding, I whisper, “Did you kill someone?”
“No.”
I sag into him. “I’m glad. Not because I’m sure the person who died didn’t deserve it, but because I don’t think you could deal with that.”
“You’re probably right. Though, I’m not sure anyone deserves a bullet through the brain.”
“He was in an MC, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.” He pauses. “Zee works for an MC.”
“No. She works for the lawyer who represents an MC. And everyone knows that MCs in Canada are horrible, whereas in the US, they’re nice.”
His brows lift. “You’ll have to tell me the logic behind that another time.”
“Sure thing.” I let my fingers rub over his jaw. “I was really worried.”
“I don’t want you to worry, but I’m glad you care.”
“You know I do. We did that yesterday.”
He cups my cheeks and draws me nearer, only stopping when his lips brush mine.
I’ll admit to kissing a lot of frogs in my time—Dion being the douchiest of them all—but there’s something about Cody’s kisses. They’re better than tequila, stronger than caffeine, sweeter than Harry’s butter tarts ( sans spit), and more addictive than nicotine.
Channel Pigeonberry energy drink but make it intravenous and you’re not even close to describing the effects his lips have on me.
With a deep sigh, I slide my arms around his waist and hold him tight.
Despite his assurance that he was telling me the truth about the dangers he just faced, I don’t hold much stock in his reaction. The man watched his best friend explode in an aircraft—what the hell is some shootout in the back end of nowhere?
Marty and Dion puked, so the scene was grizzly enough to trigger a heavy response in someone who hadn’t already dealt with so much worse.
My heart hurts for him—that he’s so desensitized. What do we do to our people? Sending them off to warzones, expecting them to come back normal, and not giving them the help they deserve after the sacrifices they made?
My thoughts disintegrate when he spears his tongue into my mouth, stroking it along mine until we’re doing that thing he taught me—a mutual stroking.
So hot.
It’s like when his dick’s inside me, only not as good.
But still yum.
Better than another guy’s fingers on my clit.
When he twists us around so that I’m the one leaning against the desk, I groan as he yanks me higher, until I’m sitting on the edge.
When he rejoins me, I can’t stop myself from reaching between us to stroke his cock through his pants.
“Fuck, what you do to me, Tee!” he hisses, dropping the kiss for a scant handful of seconds.
But he doesn’t let me answer. He’s too busy showing me what I do to him.
As he fucks my mouth, I keen, starved for him even as he’s here, his hands on me, his body towering over mine.
I rock back on the table, relieved when he follows. As his weight settles above me, his dick finds its home with perfect accuracy. One second, my clit has no contact, the next it’s got everything it needs to go off like a rocket.
He grinds into me, rocking harder and faster, thrusting. The friction and the pressure and the heat has me grabbing a hold of his head and yanking at his hair as he swallows my cries.
One second, I’m inches away from coming, far enough over the brink that my heart’s about to burst, the next he’s off me, tugging my perplexed self upright, and he’s shoving me away from the desk.
Before I can so much as blink in bewilderment (grrr, I was so frickin’ close too), he’s yelling hoarsely, “Come in.”
“Boss,” Dion grumbles. “Reilly wants to talk to you in his office.”
It’s a testament to how much I piss Dion off by breathing that he doesn’t even glance my way.
And he proves how much of a crappy cop he is because he doesn’t even check out Cody’s wild hair or kiss-sore lips. If anything, he looks like he needs to take a shit.
(Constipated much?)
“Tell the old bastard I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Cody snipes.
Dion smirks. “Can I use those words?”
That earns him a grin, but Cody flicks his hand, and Dion takes it for the dismissal it is.
As soon as the door shuts, he turns on me and drags me against him, tightening his arms around my waist.
“That was close,” I rasp, realizing that I didn’t care if we were caught.
That I didn’t even care if it was Dion who found us.
As that revelation blows my mind, his eyes darken, but he sets his lips to mine again. The kiss is softer. Filled with heat, yes, but gentler. Like he’s soothing me after riling me up.
This man .
When he pulls back, minutes or hours later, he whispers, “God, I needed that.”
“You did?” I mewl.
“Yeah. I don’t even care we were interrupted. I just needed you .” He pushes his forehead onto mine. “It was a fucking mess from start to finish and I went into it blind.”
I run my fingers through his hair. “If you need to talk...”
“I know. But I don’t need to. Honest.”
I nod my understanding.
“Seriously, it wasn’t that bad.”
(Liar, liar, marshal badge on fire.)
“I guess I’d better let you arrest people.”
“The arresting has been done. Were you with your nonna?”
“How did you know?”
“You taste like tiramisu.”
“You detective, you. Nonna got a text from someone and it inferred you were in danger.” I clear my throat. “I didn’t say anything, but Nonna probably knows about us.”
His lips twitch. “Fine.”
“I didn’t say anything!” I reiterate.
“I’m sure you didn’t.”
I huff. “She knows everything. But she also knows my mom and dad are Stepford pains in the butts.”
“I’m not upset that she knows, Tee,” he assures me as he straightens up, taking me with him. A final kiss to my temple is his parting farewell. “You’re okay getting home?”
“Yep. I stole a truck.”
“Another one?” I shiver when he strokes his fingers over my cheek and down my throat.
That’s not supposed to make me melt.
“Maybe. I’ll give this one back.” I peer up at him. “Zee has an interview at the house today.”
He chokes out a laugh. “Bet she’s excited about that.”
“Yeah. In the... furor of last night, almost everyone forgot until the PR people sent Colton an email with the reminder.”
“What kind of interview?”
“An architect one.”
“An architect?” he sputters.
“Apparently, they’re going to discuss how nice your house is. Which is hilarious because Zee didn’t change much in her own bedroom, never mind style the rest of the property, and she had nothing to do with its construction.”
“None of us did,” he drawls. “Hell, it was built at least four generations ago.”
I tap a finger to my chin. “Mrs. Abelman’s going crazy cleaning, and Zee’s trying to memorize this bullshit Callan concocted about the style of the house. So if I were you, I’d stay out until at least five.”
“Probably won’t be done until then, anyway.”
I hum. “Want to meet at the lake?”
“Can do. Maybe we could catch the sunset?”
“I’d like that.” I let my hand sit on top of his heart. “Text me if you think you’re going to be late. I get that some days will be busier than others. After the architect people have left, I need to work, so it’s not a problem if you can’t make it today.”
He drops a kiss to my lips. “Thank you for being so understanding. Oh… here.”
I frown when he taps his screen then shows me a picture.
(This man!! I WANT TO DEVOUR HIM. Then be devoured. Is that physically possible?)
My eyes widen at the gorgeous shot of an owl taking flight. “Is that a great horned owl?”
His lips kick up. “Yeah. He was sitting on one of the fences. Figured you’d like it.”
(I shouldn’t squeal. [Fuck it.])
I squeal. “I love it so much. Thank you for thinking of me.”
His cheeks are burnished with color. “You wanted to see more pictures from me.”
(Excuse me while I swoon.)
“I did.”
“I didn’t forget about eating with Nonna either… Sometime this week?”
“I said at some point. She’s not allowed to die so you’re good for at least a decade. Until this situation’s over at least.”
He snickers but snatches the kiss I blow at him before I slip out of the office first with a flicker of my fingers in farewell.
By the time I’m outside, I’m sucking in a deeper breath, one that I couldn’t really take when I was in anyone’s presence. Not even his.
When I scuttle behind the wheel, I manage to hold it until I reach the road that leads to the Seven Cs.
Spying zero traffic, I pull onto the shoulder and break down.
Covering my eyes with my hands, I sob into the steering wheel.
The blood on his throat—so close.
God, so close .
Shuddering, I let it all out because this does no one any good, but at least I have confirmation that I’d have been a terrible Air Force wife. The question is, of course, can I deal with being a marshal’s fake un-girlfriend?
* ? Diagnostic and Statistical Manual