Page 75 of Creed

Fuck my fucking life.

Shaking my head, I get back to the matter at hand; a belated birthday gift for Collins. I wave the clerk over and point to the framed tee hanging on the wall. “How much for the Bowie shirt, my guy?”

“Uh-uhh,” he stammers, pushing his glasses farther up his nose, glancing at the shirt and back to me. “I-it’s not for sale. It’s just decoration Mister Saint James, sir.” He stutters out, “It-it belongs to the owner of the.. store.”

I furrow my brows. “Is the owner here today? Everything has a price, and my girl would really love that shirt.”

Aaaand here I go again with that fucking title.

I sigh internally, berating myself for being so fucking dumb. She’s nine years younger than me, but with her maturity mixed with her stunning body, you’d never guess that she’s only twenty to my twenty-nine years. My fingers twitch as I remember the feel of her body against mine while she writhed in my lap. Goddamnit.

“Um, yeah, let me go get her, Mister Saint James.” He scurries away. I roll my eyes but smirk at the repeated formal title use. Mister Saint James. It sounds sophisticated. An adjective I’d never use to describe myself. I look down at the tattoos that cover my arms, hands, and knuckles. I snort. So fucking sophisticated.

A minute later, Riley walks up next to me with an arm full of vintage records and some cassette tapes, as well as a vintage portable Walkman with some old school looking headphones. He just looks at me and shrugs with a shy smile on his face.

“I heard she had a birthday not too long ago and wanted to get her a present.” Apparently we had the same idea. His grin spreads even wider, his dark eyes full of playful innocence. “I noticed how she loves vintage and up-cycled things.” He lays the stuff on the counter carefully and neatly stacks it. “You think she’ll like it?”

I wait for the feeling of rage or jealousy to fill me at Riley being able to read her so well so fast, or that he feels enough affection for her to get her a gift for her birthday as well, but that feeling never comes. Riley came from a shitty home life and deserves the friendship he’s developed with Collins more than anyone I know. He’s a sucker for her already and he’s done everything in his power in just four short days to make her feel welcome to our tiny family unit. I can also tell he’s crushing on her hard by the way he looks at her like a lost puppy who’s finally found his owner.

Again I reach for that feeling of jealousy but weirdly enough, it’s nowhere to be found. So I just shrug it off and look at my best friend who’s practically bouncing on his toes with excitement, his headphones bouncing off of his shoulders with how much he’s moving.

I nudge him with my elbow, and nod towards the loot of records he found—including a record that matches the band tee on the wall. “She’s going to fucking love it. You did good, Ri.”

“Thanks,” he says, still grinning, and his face flushes a little. “Did you?—”

“Hey, sorry, I was going over paperwork in the back.” A soft voice cuts him off as a woman rounds the corner. She looks like she could be best friends with Collins, based on her fashion choice. She’s about the same height but with fuller curves, and is dressed in those fishnets that Collins loves so much, leather shorts, and a fucking Dark Sins band tee—of all the shirts she could’ve worn today—tucked in. She’s got long dark hair with bright purple strands poking from the bottom. She smiles wide and holds her hand out for us to shake, “You’re Creed Saint James and Riley Graves.” She says with mild excitement as we each nod and shake her hand, but a level of professionalism overpowers it. I appreciate that. “I’m Genevieve McTavish, the owner here. Tucker said you’ve got a question about a shirt?”

Riley raises a brow at me as he takes in all the shirts that are out and hanging loosely on display. But then he spots the Bowie shirt on the wall and he shakes his head, knowing there’s no way I’m leaving here without that shirt. It’s about principle now, and I’m too fucking stubborn to walk away from something I want.

Except for Collins, apparently.

I offer Genevieve a smile and nod toward the Bowie shirt. “That one,” she turns to see which one I’m talking about. “How much for the Bowie Tour tee?”

She turns back to me and narrows her eyes. “It’s not for sale.”

“Everything has a price.” I repeat my words from earlier.

“Sometimes.” She says quietly, but then she asks, “You a Ziggy Stardust fan or something?”

Riley chuckles next to me and I smirk, thinking about a certain freckle faced, green-eyed, white-blonde haired beauty. “Yeah, or something.”

Her eyes narrow further, really scrutinizing me. Her blue eyes are so analytical it almost makes me squirm. Almost. She’s not flat out telling me no, so that’s a good thing, I guess. She pops a hand on her hip and flips her hair over her shoulder and leans forward. “What’s her name?”

“How do you know it’s for a girl?” I ask, feigning ignorance. “Maybe I just really like David Bowie.”

“Perhaps,” she muses, but then she smirks like she’s got it all figured out. “Though the look in your eyes is telling me that you’ve got someone special, someone who’s not you, in mind for a gift like that.” She nods back toward the shirt proudly displayed on the wall.

“I don’t have a look in my eyes.” I deadpan, denying the shit out of her very correct assumption.

“You do.” She smiles reverently. “You do, because it’s the same look that was on my husband’s face when he gave it to me.”

Shit. Well fuck. I was prepared to fight for it, but I don’t think I can now. She must see the defeat in my face because she laughs. Fucking laughs at me. Yep, she’d definitely be best friends with Collins. "This thing?” She gestures to the shirt behind her, “is just one of the freaking thousands of gifts my husband insists on giving me for this store, despite my telling him I’m busting at the seams here.” She gestures vaguely around the store to all the décor and memorabilia displayed on walls and shelves. She rolls her eyes playfully, “The man is a Scottish lunatic who—no matter how many gifts he buys—always has that same look on his face.”

Scottish? “Wait, you said your last name is McTavish?”

“Yeah?” She lifts a brow in question.

“He wouldn’t by chance be one of the McTavish brothers who owns a club a little farther north, would he?”

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