Page 89 of Paternal Instincts
Pink climbed Quaid’s neck and settled in his unshaven cheeks. He touched the front of his shirt self-consciously. “Shut up, both of you.” Then he stormed off toward the parking lot.
Chapter 20
Quaid
Aslan took us to Benedict and Bess Davis’s house while I did what I could to fix my hair in the vanity mirror. It was hopeless without water or gel. “You could have said something.”
“It was painfully cute watching you leave the house looking like that. I couldn’t.”
“It’s unprofessional. I didn’t shave, and look at these clothes. What was I thinking? No one will take me seriously like this.”
“You’re fine.”
“Az, I look like a biker with this shirt on.”
My irritating husband snorted. “You don’t. I assure you. You look like a California college student who stayed in his boyfriend’s dorm room last night, was fucked to within an inch of his life, and decided to borrow his clothes in the morning instead of going home to change before class because he had a test and was running short on time.”
“Great. That’s exactly what I was going for.”
“Look at the bright side. We didn’t get kinky last night, so you don’t smelllike my cum.”
“That’s all right. Tease away. We have a baby coming today, so you realize last night was the last night we could have had carefree, uninterrupted sex, and we didn’t.”
Aslan’s hand landed on my thigh and slipped to my groin, massaging my soft cock and making it twitch. “You will not be deprived, hot stuff. Stop acting like a baby will make us celibate.”
“Behave.” I swatted his hand, unable to contain a smile. “It’s bad enough that I look like a hungover teenager. I don’t need a hard-on as well.”
“I wouldn’t leave you like that. I’d find an alley or quiet side street and take care of you.”
“How romantic.”
Aslan chuckled but kept his hands to himself. Public indecency aside, if the clock wasn’t ticking and a boy wasn’t missing, I might have taken him up on it, but as it stood, we were on borrowed time.
The grandparents’ house was located near Woodbine Gardens. Aslan parked on the street, and we studied the single-story brick façade for a long time before approaching the house together. A man mowed his lawn a few houses down. Three girls, about ten years old, jumped rope on a driveway across the street. Paint fumes wafted from an open garage door where a woman touched up a cabinet.
I thumbed the credentials clipped to my belt. At least I’d had enough sense to grab them and holster my weapon that morning—although I barely remembered doing it. I didn’t know how Aslan sometimes went to work dressed in jeans and T-shirts. I was crawling out of my skin with discomfort as I stared at my running shoes.
Benedict answered when we rang the bell. The bright morning and shadowy hallway where he stood made him hard to see, but his firm glare and bulbous nose painted a picture of an irritated man.
Diane Walsh wasn’t the only person harassing Edwards for answers and complaining about the department’s incompetence. Apparently, Benedict had called numerous times, wanting to know what was being done about his missing grandson and raging about the bloody detectives not allowing him and his wife to be at Nixon and Imogen’s house during the crisis. Edwards told me to ignore it and do my job.
Benedict peered from behind the screen door, not seeming keen about admitting us into the house. He cradled a hand to his chest, and I noticed the appendage was wrapped in a dish towel.
“What do you need?”
“We have a few questions.” I motioned inside the house. “May we come in?”
Benedict’s nostrils flared, but his indecision lasted long enough that Aslan added, “We can either talk inside or out here on the front lawn where your neighbors might overhear us, Mr. Davis. Up to you. It’s a lovely day.” Being an ass, he waved at a dog walker, ensuring they saw his weapon-laden belt and badge, marking him as police.
“What else is there to talk about?” Benedict asked. “We’ve already spoken. You should be searching for my grandson. Bess is inconsolable, and you’ve kicked us out of my son’s house for no reason. The boy is probably with his whore of a mother. Mark my words. She cooked this up. That’s why she took off. I know it.” He winced, adjusting the towel on his hand.
Aslan seemed to notice it for the first time and frowned.
“Mr. Davis,” I said. “May we please come in?”
Conveying reluctance and irritation, Benedict held the door wide so we could enter. Aslan made a point of staring at the limb cradled to Benedict’s chest as he entered. The light-colored towel was stained with blood.
“I was fixing the garbage disposal and got it caught,” Benedict snapped. “Stop staring at me like I’m guilty of murder. Jesus Christ. Fucking no-good cops.”
