Hold On (The 'Burg #6)(24)

He had crappy-ass balcony furniture.

The furniture inside was only a shade above crappy-ass, but it was still shit.

Immediately, his mind filled with what he’d seen of Cher’s place.

He was not surprised that she lived in a house that looked like it was decorated by Janis Joplin’s slightly more together sister. Stuffed full, dark at the same time bright with color, it had personality. It was unique. It held warmth that hit you the second you stepped foot over the threshold.

It was Cher.

The living room was good; her bedroom was better.

Her bedroom said anything goes. Her bedroom said your wildest fantasy could come true. Her bedroom said you were safe to be what you were, think what you want, do what you like, eat like a pig, drink like a fish, f*ck like an animal, sleep like the dead, no worries, leave life at the door and just be.

And she’d delivered. They’d only had hours in that room, so she didn’t deliver on it all, but the instant they fell to her bed, tearing at each other’s clothes, she’d more than delivered.

On this thought, Garrett moved to his refrigerator, pulled out a beer, twisted off the cap, and turned to rest his hips against the counter, looking into his shitty condo, the eclectic warmth of Cher’s pad not layering over what his eyes saw.

The feel of her, the smell of her, the memory of being with her in her bed was what filled his mind.

For years, he had stupidly tried to f*ck Mia out of his head and his heart, knowing he was doing it and completely unable to stop himself.

And to make that shit even shittier, he’d done it by actually f*cking Mia any time after their divorce that she came around to get a dose of his cock.

More often than not, though, when he sunk his dick into a woman who was not his ex-wife, Mia filled his head. Drunk or sober, it happened. It made him feel like an *. But he kept doing it.

With Cher, it did not.

With Cher, he was with Cher.

On a night when he was trashed and that shit was sure to happen, it didn’t.

On a night where he never expected he could do it, he’d laughed. Not a little, a lot. His gut clenching with it. His eyes watering with it.

And he did that with Cher.

No, he didn’t just do it with her, she gave him that.

You came here to get me to go to Frank’s so you could tell me what went down with us was just a drunken f*ck, no more. We don’t change. Am I right?

She’d been right.

Garrett looked to the clock on his microwave.

It was just before nine thirty. Her shift that day was noon to eight thirty.

She’d be home.

He engaged his phone, opened his texts, and shot her one.

Ethan got a sleepover this weekend?

He took another pull from his beer, thinking Cher’s early shift was noon to eight thirty and her late shift was eight to three thirty. He knew that because he was a cop and he paid attention to everything, an occupational hazard, so he’d noted it just from being a regular at her place of business.

Those shifts meant, either way, on school days, she didn’t have to rush Ethan to get ready. Even if she’d only had a few hours of sleep, she could make him breakfast, take him to school, not have to be anywhere but with him. Late shift, she could also go get him, get him home, make sure his schoolwork got done, make him dinner.

But even if they had time together, either way, that time was still f*cked.

People did that kind of thing all the time, shift work that meant they had to get creative about who looked after their kids.

But those people didn’t have Cher’s history and a kid with a stick-up-their-ass stepmom who decided the way of the world and that her way was the only way. Garrett knew that was the way Peggy whoever-she-was was the minute he saw the bitch. Cher didn’t need to lay that out. He knew she was trouble of one variety or the other before she opened her mouth.

Before he knew she was bringing Cher trouble.

Fuck, he hoped the junkie ex was dirty.

He pushed away from the counter, took his beer to the couch, and grabbed the remote.

He found a show right when his phone sounded.

He grabbed it off his coffee table and his mouth curled up when he read, Kiss my ass, Merry.

Using his thumb, he returned, You want that, brown eyes, I’ll work it in.

She didn’t make him wait and shot back, Go f*ck yourself.

Now, sweetheart, you know that’s not the way it works.

Then came, We’re done.

He ignored that and sent, Sleep tight. See you tomorrow.

Tomorrow? she returned.

Have good dreams.

Tomorrow?

Garrett didn’t reply.

Merry? Tomorrow?

Garrett again didn’t reply.

Don’t f*ck with me, Merry. I don’t need your shit.

Garrett grinned, but he didn’t reply, and at that, Cher let it go.

He trained his eyes to the TV, not watching it.

He was thinking that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

The only thing he knew was that he was going to do it. And right then, as much of a dick as it made him, it was because Cher Rivers was the best f*ck he’d ever had, bar none, including Mia.

After their showdown, where Cher showed him a different kind of fire than her normal—a fire he liked—and a vulnerability she’d never shown before—the kind as a cop and as a Merrick he couldn’t ignore—he wanted more.