Rock Chick Redemption (Rock Chick #3)(115)

you, they think of speakin’ to you that way, I want it known, they should think again.”

“Hank, someone finds out, you could lose your badge.”

“Then I’l work with Lee.”

“Hank!”

“I’m only tel in’ you so you’l understand. I’m not askin’ for permission and I’m not lookin’ for discussion.” Holy cow, cow, cow.

“Wel , we are going to discuss it because I’m not going to permit it!” I snapped with a stomp of my foot. “You said earlier you never wanted to be anything but a cop. Now you’re saying you’re going to put that in jeopardy for me.

And you think I’m nuts?”

His face changed, the stil ness of anger went out of it, something else came over him, something I was a lot more familiar with.

He started walking me backwards to the bed. “So, you’re staying?” he asked.

I shook my head like I was clearing it. “Excuse me?”

“Denver. You’re staying?”

My eyes narrowed.

“Do not even think of trying to change the subject, Hank Nightingale.”

My legs hit the bed and I went down. He came down on top of me.

“Are you movin’ to Denver?” Hank asked patiently, then, before I could answer, his lips went to my neck.

“We were talking about you putting your career on the line due to some macho idea of revenge.”

“We’re done talkin’ about that. Now we’re talkin’ about you movin’ to Denver.”

you movin’ to Denver.”

His tongue touched the back of my ear.

My body did a quiver.

I jerked my head and neck away from him.

“Hank, look at me, we need to finish talking about –” His head came around and he kissed me.

Then I forgot what we needed to finish talking about.

A little later, I’d gotten his jeans off him, managed to get my mouth on him (for a while, it must be said, Hank did like his control, not that I was complaining), he had his hand between my legs and his lips were against mine, when he asked softly, “Are you movin’ to Denver?”

Then his finger slid inside and his thumb did a swirl.

My neck arched.

“Yes,” I breathed.

When I looked at him, he was grinning at me.

Fucking Hank.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Buttermilk

Hank’s phone rang.

I opened my eyes and it was dark.

Hank was on his back, I was pressed to his side, my head on his shoulder, my thigh thrown over one of his, half my leg had fal en between his and my hand was resting on his chest.

Shamus had his back pressed to mine.

I’d been fast asleep, my body relaxed but it went tense instantly at the sound of the phone.

Hank grabbed it and flipped it open one-handed, not disturbing me, but his arm around my waist got tight.

“Yeah?” he said into the phone.

He listened.

I waited.

“Tel me you’re f**king joking,” he growled, his voice vibrating with anger.

Shit.

Bil y had gotten away.

I twisted my neck and pressed my forehead into his shoulder. My arm went around his waist and I held tight.

“Find him,” Hank said and flipped the phone shut.

“Whisky,” I whispered and even I could hear my voice held a tremor of fear.

“He’l get him,” Hank replied.

“Is Vance okay?” I asked.

“Flynn was gone when he got there. Trail’s hot though.

Vance is on it. Roxie, he’l get him.”

I swal owed.

He tossed the phone on the nightstand and both of his arms came around me.

“Relax, sweetheart. He’s not gonna hurt you,” Hank murmured.

I nodded and forced the tension from my body. I was able to do this mainly because I had help from Hank’s hand stroking my back.

After awhile, I fel asleep.

* * * * *

“He has no buttermilk.” My eyes slowly opened and I could see Hank’s throat in the dawn’s early light.

We were front-to-front, my thigh thrown over his hip, one of his arms resting lightly on my waist and mine was doing the same on his.

“Of course he doesn’t have buttermilk. Who has buttermilk?”

I blinked.

Mom and Dad were in the kitchen and I could hear them talking as if they were in the bedroom.

Hank’s house didn’t have thin wal s, it was just that my parents talked loudly.

“Wel , if he doesn’t have buttermilk, how’m I gonna make buttermilk pancakes?” Mom asked. “Sweet Jesus!” she cried. “He doesn’t have flour either!”

She said this as if it was a criminal offense.

“Of course he doesn’t have flour! Does he look like a man who bakes?” Dad said in a loud(er) voice.

I looked up Hank’s throat just as he tipped down his chin.

His eyes were open.

Damn.

He was awake.

I closed my eyes and shoved my face into his throat.

“No, he doesn’t look like a man who bakes, but Roxie’s been here and she bakes,” Mom said.

“Yeah, like Roxie’s been floatin’ around makin’ cookies while that sum a’ bitch has been after her. Jesus, Trish.” I heard slamming cupboards