Chapter one
Kendrick
Spencer’s late.
He said thirty minutes, and it’s now thirty-four minutes since he hung up. It’s fucking cold out here on the sidewalk; where the hell is he? I could have waited upstairs a little longer.
Finally, a familiar black SUV turns the corner and comes to a stop in front of me. The window lowers, and Spencer—my work partner, life partner, colossal pain in my ass, and the love of my life—rests his arm on the opening and leans his head out, glancing up and down the road. “You shouldn’t be waiting outside; you’re a sitting duck out here.”
“You shouldn’t be late.” The only sitting duck is him, with his bright blond hair poking out of the black car. My dark-brown curls blend in a lot better in the dark.
“I stopped to get coffee and food: you’re welcome.”
“It’s four in the morning; where did you get them?” Nowhere acceptable. “If you were hungry, you should have told me, andI would have made you something.” He usually would have, but he was too busy being in a snit over the phone. Something’s up his ass.
Spencer curses under his breath and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even further. “Why didn’t you say anything? Do you reckon we have time to go upstairs so you can make—”
“No, I’ll make something when we’re done.” We’re not called out at this time of day if it’s not urgent, and he took long enough to get here. He all but shut me out last night and wasn’t there when I got home; he can wait. It’s rare for us to spend a night apart, and I don’t know why he put distance between us, which pisses me off. If he’s got a bone to pick, it’s better to get it out in the open so I can deal with it.
He barely waits for me to secure my seat belt before he swerves back onto the road. At least the car is warm, and my frozen fingers can thaw.
Spencer sighs heavily and leans over me, flicking open the glove box and pulling out a pair of black leather gloves. “Put these on.”
I don’t bother arguing; he’s got his murderous face on, and it’s way too fucking early in the morning to directly deal with that. Not like it ever takes long for him to burst. We’re gonna have this out way before we get to our destination. Good.
“Which drink is mine?” I grunt, pointing at the takeout coffee cups after I slip the gloves on. My fingers tingle uncomfortably in that cold-hot in-between. The holders are vertical, so there’s no obvious “left and right” scenario. And Spencer’s will be decaf. If mine is decaf, I’ll murder someone. He knows better than that. Though in his current mood, I wouldn’t put it past him to do it just to piss me off.
“Front one.”
He turns the heater up and rolls up the sleeves of his long dark-green sweater, revealing his thick black watch. A ridiculoushabit he’s carried for years; he’ll turn the temperature up to six hundred and then walk around in shorts and a T-shirt before he’ll put on layers of clothing. Not to mention the fact he wears clothes that have holes in them.
“Your knee is showing.” Peeking out between the rip in his jeans, in fact. Why anyone pays extra for damaged clothes, I have no idea. My suits may cost more than ten pairs of those jeans, but at least they’re impeccably designed, they fit me properly, and they don’t come damaged.
“Imagine if you could see my ankle too,” Spencer says, shooting me a sly smile. “You want to touch it? It’s okay if you do.”
He sounds like he’s joking, but I know he isn’t. He gets antsy if I’m not in contact with him, and he’s already on edge as it is. I lean over and rest my hand just above his knee, thumb brushing the exposed section. While I can’t feel the warmth of his skin through the leather glove, it’s enough to be touching him. For both of us. He’s not the only one that needs this.
“Do you know what this is about?” I ask. Considering our job description, it could almost literally be anything, and our boss, Hunter, didn’t give details in his message. Simply an address in Parramatta with “meet me there now.”
“No idea.” Curt and to the point. Is that how we’re doing this?
Spencer irritably taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he drives like he’s in a street race.
“Spencer.” It’s a clear warning. If he doesn’t tell me what’s going on, I’m about to start the conversation in a much-less-pleasant manner.
“How was your playdate last night?” Spencer blurts out. His hands twist around, gripping the wheel tight, his knuckles turning white.
“My what?”
“Well, it wasn’t a date, and you’re too old for ‘hanging out’ like a teenager. What do you want me to call it?”
What the hell is he—Oh. Christ, I should have worked this one out myself. Everything suddenly makes sense. The cold shoulder, the barely disguised anger. And thejealousy. How did I miss that?
“Dinner with a friend,” I say firmly. “And I don’t think the words ‘hanging out’ are exclusively cornered by the teenage population. I asked you if you wanted to go.” Would have preferred if he had. Does he think I like being apart any more than he does?
“I didn’t want to.”
I didn’t want you to eitheris heavily implied. I can hear it loud and clear, and he knows it because he did it deliberately.
