Page 33 of The B!tch is Bad

He did nothing to me. No grabbing, no mauling, no insertion of objects. Unwinding into the depths of solace, we soon breathed in tandem. I’d always admired other men in place of my father’s friendship and love, a substitute to avoid focusing on my losses, the endless modeling hours, my mother’s fake persona of concern. I now admired Creed with all my soul, but it was different from my devoted love of Ivan.

Loving Creed felt more mature. Like, this could be a real thing. Not something doomed to a dramatic death, like hauling ass across the prairie on Ivan’s ride. Ivan was spectacular, Ivan was extraordinary, but Ivan was fated to perish.

Now at the range, Lytton was done putting up new targets. He stood over by his brothers. Their conversation had turned to fate, too.

“I was listening to a TED talk,” said Duji, “about formulating your bucket list.”

“I do that every day,” said Lytton. “Next up is a photo safari in Botswana.”

“That’s on my bucket list, too!” cried Tuzigoot. “I want to wrestle with a Cape Buffalo.”

The other two men leaned back from him. “What?” declared Lytton. “No, more like take photos of a bat-eared fox.”

Creed and I shared an empathetic gaze. I wanted to look to the future, not lay my burden on this magnetic man. How overwhelmed must he be, hiring me, a basket case on the run from malicious men? He was putting himself in the firing line so to speak. It was pleasant if he wanted to learn to shoot for the fun of it, or to protect himself, but to ask him to walk his vineyard paranoid of a stalker?

No, this was asking too much of this tender, magnetic man. I’d never be a burden. “I feel much more empowered now I know how to shoot.”

Creed’s grin was enigmatic. “Where you going to keep your Springfield? You gonna pack?”

I’d thought about that. “Yeah, I should pack, if I’m worried about Fingerhut sending another person after me.” I mitigated the tension by adding, “Which I doubt he’ll do, once he sees Joe King’s fate.”

Creed chucked my chin, fatherly. “I don’t want you to spend one more second worrying, my kitten. I’ll increase the security around our houses, maybe pay one of the cellar rats or interns to monitor it 24/7.”

My kitten!I even had an amorous nickname, and it flooded me with satisfaction. I tiptoed to plant a tiny kiss on his luscious lips, and then Lytton called,

“The line is hot! Commence firing!!”

We shot for an hour more that day. Faux Pas, Tanner, and Gray Whaley stopped by separately. Creed was in evident deep conversation with Tanner for several minutes. I knew Tanner ran Hang Town Ranch for adoptable dogs, and his wife Unity owned Doggie Style Grooming in downtown P and E. I’d taken Monstro there several times for the spa treatment. I wondered what was up between Creed and Tanner. Maybe Tanner was investing in some wine.

When we were done with our shooting, I rode two up with Creed. The sun was setting, and the mesa shadows gleamed long and lean, like outlaws accosting each other, hands tensed to grab revolvers. I lamented not being able to talk to him when we rode, but plastering my cheek to his heated leather back made up for it. Like the Bare Bones, he’d obtained a black leather cut, but his had no back patches yet. I imagined how I might be gluing my cheek to a Bare Bones top rocker someday. The thought imbued me with a sense of security and comfort.

At my house, I changed into a short silken dress Creed seemed to prefer. We made it through our dinner this time without wasting food. He grilled artichokes in the courtyard while I baked salmon in the kitchen, sipping my go-to Pinot of course.

We hadn’t discussed guns since returning home, other than to say I need not pack while under his roof, because he’d lock his piece in the dining room sideboard. I memorized the combination, praying my erratic brain wouldn’t mix up the numbers. I also locked mine in a drawer in the dining room.

The outdoor fire pit illuminated the rows of barrel cacti, prickly pear, and agave planted in his garden, but I was riveted to Creed’s ass as he grilled. So shapely. And he’d donned one of my favorite white button-downs with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Grilling chokes just involved flipping a few times, so he seemed contemplative, not checking his texts or otherwise being distracted. I’d seen his concentration at work. He didn’t flit about from subject to subject like I did, doubting the signals my own brain sent me.

I put the lid on the lentil vinaigrette, set it on the lowest possible temp, and went to join Creed, bringing his bottle of Wildstar’s ’08 Cab that he seemed to like lately. The act of cooking for Creed was serious, so I wondered if I disturbed his trance. But he brightened up, seemingly at me, not the bottle.

“This is the slow time of year in the valley,” he said. “We’re holding that wine cave party before Christmas. But I thought you might like to get away for a few days. I was thinking Flagstaff. Do you ski?”

Asking me to get away with him? Did that mean we were a couple? “Oh wow, skiing,” I said, as though he were asking me to take a swim outside a deep-sea submarine. “No, I’ve never, if you can believe that.”

He shrugged, spatula in hand. “No big. Tim Woodstock owns a nice cabin up there we can rent. Maybe go to the Grand Canyon.”

“Elektra’s DNA business is up there. She probably knows where to stay.”

And I grinned, because we were both talking about Bare Bones club members as though they were family. Which they were, in a way. To change the slant of the conversation, I swiftly added, “The Racquet Club is up there.”

Was I testing him to see if he recognized the name? Indeed, he did. “The most notorious BDSM club in all of Flagstaff.”

Then I was resentful that he’d heard of it. I tried to sound casual. “Oh, you’ve been there?”

He put down the spatula. “No, no worries, Patience.” We’d agreed he’d call me Patience just to be on the safe side. “Just heard about it from that wicked Dom, Lytton.”

I stepped a foot closer to him. “Are you a Dom?”

His tone lowered. “I believe so, yeah. You called me daddy yesterday.”