“Beach Boys?”
His eyebrows jump up. “I’m surprised you know that.”
“Jimmy doesn’t listen to anything written after the turn of the century. And I’ve spent a lot of time in his garage. There’s no arguing with the man. His garage, his music.”
“I officially have a newfound respect for your father.”
The smile stays on his face as he drives. He’s relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the centre console, his attention on the road, sleeves of his white henley bunched up just below his elbows.
I study him too long. Taking in the angles of his face, the dip of his brow line, the way his shoulder muscles flex as he adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. My own little private showing. Decker up close and personal. Where I can watch him unabashedly. Stare at the face I like to think about too often. And his hands. I like thinking about those too.
He slows the truck, and when he comes to a stop, he throws the gearshift into park and faces me. He gives me another one of those long looks, and I think it might be the tequila, but I almost lean over and kiss him. Because god. That fucking kiss. I shouldn’t have done it, because now I’m desperate to feel that again. Just one more time. Just for tonight.
Thinking better of it, I unbuckle my seat belt and open the door. “Thanks for the ride h?—”
The house before me registers, and I pull up short. There’s no bright red door or Harley in the driveway. This isn’t the pretty upper-middle class neighbourhood Triss and Jack live in. Instead, I’m met with a perfect green lawn, a weathered wooden porch, an A-line roof, green painted siding.
Decker’s house.
“What the hell are we doing here?”
He grins. “I told you I was taking you home.”
“Yeah.” I whip around. “Home. Like Jack and Triss’s place.”
“Mmm. No. I never said I was taking you there.” He jumps from the truck and slams the door.
I’m out moments later, cursing as I stumble up his driveway.
Fucking. Tequila.
“I’m not staying here.” I plant my feet on his front lawn, arms crossed. “I’m walking home.”
“Only place you’re walking is inside. So let’s go. Or do you need me to carry you again?”
Asshole.
Gritting my teeth, I follow him into the house, muttering curses under my breath.
“Couch sucks,” he says, nodding to the living room. “It used to be pretty comfy, but some crazy bitch broke into my house and cut open all my cushions.”
Like the first time I was here, the place is immaculate. Gone are the broken dishes and the feathers from the pillows I destroyed. The pictures are back on the walls. Everything in its place.
Stepping into him, I say, “That crazy bitch wouldn’t have fucked up your house if you’d followed through with your end of the deal and had given her what she asked for.”
“If I remember right, Gracie, you didn’taskfor anything. You threatened me.”
“I didn’t have a choice. If I’d asked you for help?—”
“I’d have done it.”
I shake my head. “Oh please. ‘Hey, Linc, I know you’re a cop and we haven’t seen each other in ten years and I punched you in the face last night, but could you please help me retrieve the drugs and money I’ve got hidden in my impounded bike?’ Right. That would have gone over real well.”
“Me being a cop doesn’t mean much these days. Your brother made sure of that.” He clenches his fists, his amber eyes darkening.
The urge to back away slices through me, and unease curls in my stomach. The kind that hits me when a man gets angry, when it looks like he might lose his temper. I can’t help it. Rick McKenna bred that into me. The urge to flinch, to take cover.
“And yeah, Grace. I’d have helped.”
