Chapter 32
RIGGS
Now
The smell of fresh cinnamon rolls and freshly brewed coffee pulls me awake.
As soon as my brain comes online, static begins to pop and fizz down the length of my legs—my brain, alert and ready, connecting to the relay chips grafted to my spine.
It’s an odd feeling. Like a billion needles undulating against my muscles.
Not poking. Not stabbing. Just… moving. A manufactured neuro-response I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to.
Opening my eyes, I’m just in time to watch the sun rise over the river. The misty condensation that coats the wall of windows in front of me begins to shimmer, the golden orange glow of it tightening the back of my throat for some reason.
Home.
Laying here, listening to Gemma quietly argue with her cat, the smell of baked cinnamon and brown sugar, wafting through the open door, I watch the sun push its way through the trees, and that’s all I can think.
Home.
I’ve been back for nearly a month now. Sitting in the back seat of Reese’s car, listening to her and my mother chatter at each other like a couple of blue jays, using the three hour drive from Dallas to the hospital to catch up, I felt nothing.
No relief. No joy. No homecoming. Being back in this place, I didn’t feel any of it.
Not until I saw her.
And that makes me the biggest prick on planet earth because I can’t stay.
“You’re awake.”
Turning my head on the pillow, I look away from the window to find Gemma standing in the doorway that leads to the kitchen.
Goddamn, she’s beautiful.
And basically naked.
Not really naked—but the cropped tank top and soft sleep shorts she’s wearing aren’t leaving much to my very active, very dirty imagination.
Her hips are wider than I remember. Her breasts fuller. I can see the muscle definition in her thighs that she was bragging about last night while she helped me into bed. The long, lean line of them makes me wonder what the squeeze of them would feel like around my hips while I fucked her.
Fuck.
“How the hell am I supposed to sleep when your cat won’t shut the fuck up?” I grumble while I start to struggle to sit up. When she reads my intentions, Gemma moves toward me, intent on doing her job. “I got it,” I growl at her, nailing her in place with a quick, hard look.
Giving me a long, quiet look, that makes me feel like shit, she lets out a tired sigh. “Honeymoon’s over, I guess.”
Fuck.
“Gem—”
“You never were a morning person,” she says, turning away from me to make her way to the low chest of drawers, squatting next to the bathroom door.
Pulling one of them open, she starts to rummage around.
“Which always made me wonder…” Laughing, she pulls a pair of sweats and a T-shirt from the belly of the drawer before slamming it shut.
Turning toward me, she carries my change of clothes to the bed, tossing them onto the mattress beside me before stacking her hands on her hips.
“Why the hell did you always get up so early when you slept over?”
Because you were awake and I couldn’t wait to see you.
Because in those moments, it was just you and me, and I didn’t have to pretend.
“Do you own clothes, Gemma?” I look at her, glare stuck to her face because things are gonna get dicey if I let myself look any lower.
Looking down at herself like she might be naked, she pulls my gaze along for the ride. “I’m wearing clothes, Riggs.”
Shit.
“Real clothes that actually cover your body,” I clarify, taking in the low-cut neckline of the tank she’s wearing, the tight hug of it making it obvious she’s not wearing a bra.
Forcing my gaze up to meet hers, I’m thankful for the sheets pooled around my waist because what’s going on under them makes last night’s hard-on seem laughable.
“Pants. T-shirts. Whole T-shirts, with sleeves.”
“Sorry.” Her mouth twitches. “My snowsuit’s at the cleaners.”
Before I can call her a liar because she’s obviously not sorry for shit, or quite possibly drag her into bed with me, I hear the front door open.
“It’s me,” a male voice call out.
This motherfucker.
From the kitchen, Janet the asshole starts up with her bullshit.
Colt.
Colt.
Colt… Gemma… friend
Straightening herself, Gemma takes a step back and raises her voice. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
“What the fuck is he doing here?” I growl at her, the heavy clip of his boots, drawing closer, making me irrationally angry. “It’s barely 0600.” And you’re practically naked.
“He’s my neighbor, Riggs,” she tells me, her eyes widening slightly like I asked the dumbest question she’s ever heard. “He’s obviously here to fuck me.”
The sound that comes out of me barely qualifies at human.
“You want to be a dick?” Stepping back before I grab her, Gemma gives me a bland smile. “Go ahead, dick away—I’m more than willing to match energy, Wheeler.”
Before I can answer her, Gemma walks away, pulling the pocket door between the kitchen and the sunroom closed, cutting me off from her completely.
Fifteen very sketchy minutes later, I’m dressed and, after managing to get into my chair on my own, wheeling myself over to the door Gemma closed on her way out. Stopping, heart hammering in my chest, I listen intently for… something.
I don’t know what.
Fucking liar. You know exactly what you’re listening for because even though you know Gemma was just fucking with you, there’s a part of you—an ugly, black, fucked-up part of you—that believed her when she told you that Colt swung by at 6AM for a quick fuck before work and the thought of it makes you so fucking mad you can’t even see straight.
Because you’re jealous. Because once and again, it’s not you, Wheeler.
It’s not fucking you and it’s never going to be.
Grabbing the latch to the pocket door, I slide it open, the lump in my throat so thick I can barely breathe.
Colt doesn’t have Gemma bent over the table we used to eat Saturday morning pancakes at. Matter of fact, Gemma’s nowhere to be found.
“She’s upstairs,” Colt offers me from his long-legged lean against the kitchen sink.
He’s dressed for work—starched khaki shirt with his shiny sheriff’s badge pinned to the front of it.
Janet’s perched on his shoulder, turned toward the set of cabinets above the sink and batting at the padlock keeping it closed with a paw that’s nearly as big as mine. “Getting dressed.”
I’ve always been a fighter. I’ll go fists up for just about any reason I can find and I’ve never met a problem that a little bloodshed couldn’t fix.
Right now, Colt Montgomery is a problem, just begging to be solved.
I wheel myself over to the row of lower cabinets Gemma indicated last night. Opening it, I find an assortment of coffee cups, some I recognize as ones belonging to Dent from when we were kids. Pulling one out, I give him a quick, nasty look. “Your coffee maker broke?”
“Nope.” He shoots me a grin. “Works fine. I like Gemma’s coffee better and since June fired her, this is the only place I can get it... ” Dropping his gaze to the cup in my hand, he lets out a low chuckle. “I’d check that if I were you—Janet likes to pull pranks.”
Stopping her incessant batting, Janet turns to leap off his shoulder, her considerable weight shaking the floorboards when she lands. Sauntering past me, to her row of infernal buttons, she stops and slaps one.
Rude
“Yeah?” Colt lets out a laugh. “What do you call putting dead mice in the coffee cups, then?”
Dead mice pulls my gaze down to the cup in my hand, which is blessedly empty.
Fun
“Fun for you,” he says into his cup before he takes another drink. Setting it down, he lifts a cinnamon roll from the counter beside him and takes a bite while I stare at the coffee pot, trying to figure out how it works.
“There’s no carafe,” Colt tells me around his mouthful of cinnamon roll. “Gemma bought it for Dent after his last stroke—it works like a soda fountain. Just stick your cup under the dispenser and use it to push the button.”
Stiff-jawed, I follow his directions and watch while coffee fills my cup.
Sad… bitch
“Fuck you, Janet.” I growl, shooting Gemma’s cat a death glare before I look up at the man standing in front of me.
”Don’t you have a town to serve and protect, Sheriff?
” My tone is easy enough but the look on my face must shout get the fuck out, loud and clear, because Colt’s jaw goes stiff when I say it.
Before he can tell me to get fucked, there’s a commotion on the stairs, a second before Gemma rounds the switchback and lands in the kitchen.
Like Colt said, she’s dressed and while I’m sure she’d argue that her outfit choice meets my real clothes standards, the skin-tight leggings and hand-cropped T-shirt that gives me and anyone else who cares to look, a breathtaking view of her perfectly shaped ass and her bare mid-drift, are hardly an improvement.
Face it—Gemma could be wearing a 50 gallon trash bag and it wouldn’t matter.
You’d still be turned on and you’d still be snarling and snapping at every guy who looked at her, because eleven years later, nothing has changed.
Not a goddamned thing except for the fact that you’re not in a position to threaten anyone and everyone who looks at her.
“Pants.” Sensing my inspection and obvious disapproval, she lifts her shoulder, turning it my direction. “And sleeves.” Not giving me a chance to answer her, she frowns. “You’re supposed to wait for me to?—”
“I told you last night,” I say before she can finish. “I don’t need your help.”
“That’s not what you said,” Gemma answers back, challenge snapping in her gaze. “You said that you could feel my?—”
Sad… bitch… rude
For a moment, Gemma doesn’t say anything. Just stands there and looks at me like she’s trying to decide if she’s going to finish her sentence and out me for being a dirty-mouthed pervert last night while Colt stands in the space between us, watching the fireworks and eating his cinnamon roll.
“You’re right, Janet.” Instead of outing me, Gemma answers her cat with a sunny smile. “Riggs is a sad, rude bitch. Such an astute observation deserves a reward.”
Churu
“Jesus.” Choking back a laugh and a fair amount of pastry, Colt stands up straight.
Draining what’s left in his cup, he rinses it in the sink before giving his hands a quick wash while Gemma and I glare at each other.
Wiping his hands on the towel slung over the side of the sink, Colt shoots me a quick look on his way across the kitchen.
Stopping in front of Gemma he drops his hands on her shoulders and turns her toward him. “I’m gonna go—you gonna be okay here?”
With him.
He doesn’t say the rest of it, but he doesn’t have to. I heard him loud and clear. How fucked up am I that the fact that Colt Montgomery sees me as a threat makes me happy?
“I’ll be fine.” She says it to his shoulder, a flat smile plastered across her face while behind me, her cat slaps the same button over and over.
Churu
Churu
Churu
Tucking a crooked finger under her chin, Colt lifts her gaze to meet his. “You want me to come back and take you to work? I can call Cade and?—”
“No.” Still giving him that same, flat smile, Gemma shakes her head. “Don’t worry about me. Cade’ll do.”
Colt laughs. “It’s not you I’m worried about,” he tells her before dropping his hand away from her face.
“Go easy on him.” When he says it, I feel the back of my neck go tight because I’m suddenly not feeling like a threat.
I’m feeling like the sad little bitch that I am because it’s not his brother Colt is telling Gemma to go easy on.
It’s me.
Leaning into the space between them, Colt drops a quick kiss on top of her head.
“I’ll swing by the Mill tonight, after my shift,” he tells her before he starts moving for the door.
“See you around, Wheeler,” he calls out to me over his shoulder, a moment before he disappears through the doorway, leaving us alone.