Page 78 of Garrison's Creed

Rocco choked on something and coughed for the next thirty seconds. Someone in the background asked him if he was dying. After a pop and fizz, Roc gulped into the phone, then hacked out, “Come again?”

Yeah, that was about what he should’ve expected. Cash bobbed and weaved through traffic, wanting like hell to get back home. “Like if you felt all happy ever after about someone once, but it didn’t end up like that. Do you think if the chance came up again, it’d happen fast?”

“Fuck me. Are you serious?”

Maybe calling Rocco was as good an idea as leaving Nic and Sugar alone. “I’m having freakin’ issues, man. I need some kind of advice to move me from the Hugh Hefner side of the game to… like… see, I don’t even know an example. Someone who doesn’t have a cell phone full of names like Blondie-Bartender and Purple-Car-Pink-Thong.”

With a full mouth, Rocco garbled, “There should be more stable men with families on television than Bruce Jenner. He shouldn’t be the poster child. Nothing about that Kardashian clan should be the gold standard.”

“Spare me the social commentary, Roc.”

“So what do you want from me? Could you love her? Well, shit. From what I’ve seen—”

“I didn’t say a thing about being in love.” Cash blew out a breath. “Christ, man.”

“Listen, asshole. You said happy ever after. Like Disney fairy tale bullshit. That means the L-bomb. All those Tinkerbells and mermaids end up in a castle with a prince. It’s the same fucking thing. Right?”

Nic’s still in love with me. Cash’s stomach was on the spin cycle. He checked his rear view mirror and saw that he was smiling. He didn’t want to, but a huge grin was plastered across his goddamn face.Oh, hell.He hit the gas and passed a couple of cars over a double yellow line.

“Roc, if you breathe a word about this to Roman, I’ll—”

A cell phone rang. He checked his. Nope. Rocco was still on the line. Another ring. Cash looked toward the noise. Down on the floorboard, Nicola’s cell lay face down. He tried to grab it and watch the road.

“Gotta go,” Cash said.

“You’re welcome, dick.”

Click. End call. He pulled hard into a parking lot and clipped the corner curb. The cell continued to ring. He grabbed it and looked at the caller ID. Unknown Number. Of course. She needed this before leaving with the butler. She’d probably get a burner phone for the trip, but she probably needed this phone too. And if he brought it back to her, he could mention the whole one deadbolt didn’t do shit thing.

Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he decided to return the phone. Cash squealed tires and gunned it back to Nic’s apartment. It wasn’t like he could call her to say, “hey, I found your phone.” He wanted to look into her eyes and try to see into her brain. Check out that whole love-like conundrum.

What would it even mean if she did love him? His stomach flipped into his throat. His mouth felt dry and watery all at the same time, and that fucking smile tugging at his cheeks was enough to give him a headache. His head pounded like a freight train burning coal.

Like. Love. He felt like a lunatic.

What if he went down that road? It was all good and fine to grab her and say mine. And he’d loved her once.

Could he…

Or rather was he…

In a blink, Cash was in front of her apartment and uninterested in finding a parking spot. He parked in the fire lane, holding her phone in his hand like it was the only damn reason he’d flown back to her place. His lungs pumped in his chest, and his blood raced. Such a familiar feeling. Like high school, driving to her place before Homecoming or before their pool party for two.

He rapped on the door, his gut full of butterflies on crack, whirling in a tornado. Why? What was he even going to—?

A man in a towel opened the door. Wet hair. Damp chest. About to die.

“Who the fuck are you?” The bellowed question came from the bottom of his boots and burst from his mouth, as Cash stepped through the door. He heard a shower running.

“Hey! What the hell?”

Cash clearly had the advantage. Dude looked GQ, even in his towel. He’d kill the bastard. “Where’s Nic?”

“The goddamn shower. Who the fuck are—”

Bam. Cash cold-clocked the fucker and sent him flying across the living room and into a side table. It crashed over. A lamp and picture frames shattered on the tile floor.

Nicola rounded the corner in a towel, soap suds dripping from her hair and a gun in her wet hand. He marched toward the .357 pistol, daring her to put that dual action recoil to good use.

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