Chapter Six
F*ck Buddies Give Christmas Presents?
Rock Chick Rewind
Christmas Eve …
Ren’s voice came in my ear me. “Jesus, you’re shitfaced at your brother’s wedding.”
I turned my eyes to see him close. So close, as I turned, he had to pull slightly away.
But he pulled away only slightly.
We were at Roxie and Hank’s wedding. Do not ask me why Roxie invited Ren to her wedding. Though, truth be told, even though it seemed to go against all the laws of the universe (or at least my universe, save, of course, being f*ck buddies with Ren), somehow along the way the Rock Chick tribe had gotten tight with all the Zanos. But I didn’t think they were that tight.
All I knew was that Tod said any wedding needed all the hot guys it could get because love was in the air during a wedding and the girl who caught the bouquet needed something to dream about. And Ren was undeniably a hot guy you could dream about.
By the way, when Roxie tossed her bouquet, I was doing tequila shooters at the bar.
Therefore I was feeling very happy and this didn’t only have to do with the tequila shooters. It had to do with the fact that my big brother and my good friend were all kinds of happy.
What I was not was shitfaced.
And I decided to inform Ren of this fact.
“I’m far from shitfaced, Zano.”
“You’re hammered,” he returned
Hammered was not shitfaced. I was a bartender and lived the life of a rock star, I would know. I had studied the levels of insobriety both practically and observationally. Hammered was three steps down from shitfaced. There was smashed, blotto, and wasted to get through. I had at least six tequila shooters to go before I got even close to shitfaced.
I did not take the time to educate Ren about this.
Instead, I decided to get annoyed (as was my wont around Ren) and narrowed my eyes at him.
As was his wont, that was to say totally oblivious to my dangerous eye narrowing, he stated, “We have to talk.”
We “had to talk” a lot. Ren’s Talks were becoming part of our everyday repertoire. Though it should be noted that talking with Ren and talking with Ren were two different things.
We talked when we ate together at his place, or takeout at mine, before we f*cked each other’s brains out. We also talked while I ate the breakfasts Ren cooked for me (his place) or he ate the toast I toasted for him (my place) before we both tackled our days.
We talked when Ren got whiff of some case I was on and didn’t like it. These Talks occurred after a fight about the same thing which led to no-holds-barred sex, sleeping tangled up in each other and after we woke up and were in bed.
But I could tell by the tone of his voice this was not a talk but a Talk.
I knew from details received from the Rock Chicks that they, too, had Talks with their badasses. Jet called them Eddie Chats. Roxie called the ones she had with Hank Conversations.
These talks always centered around the respective badass wanting his Rock Chick to bend to his will in some way. And they were usually successful in getting what they wanted though it wasn’t always the talking that got them what they wanted. They tended to shift tactics and the way they did got them what they wanted. It also gave the Rock Chick what she wanted so although she bitched, she didn’t quibble.
Ren’s Talks were different. He shifted tactics during the preceding fight to end it by initiating mind-blowing sex and could shift tactics during the Talk but only when the Talk degenerated into a Fight. And although Ren’s Talks happened frequently, they always happened at the same time in the same place and he never got what he wanted.
Partly because I was stubborn.
Okay, that was mostly why.
I was lucky Ren’s Talks were different. Jet’s Chats and Roxie’s Conversations could happen any time, willy-nilly, so they could be unprepared.
I always knew when it was coming.
So this suggested Talk was outside the norm and at my brother’s wedding. Therefore, in my opinion, I considered it a highly inappropriate sneak attack.
“We’re not talking now,” I denied.
He, as usual, ignored me.
“You’ve been hanging with Kevin James.”
This was true. I had.
Kevin “The Kevster” James was a pothead. He was hilarious. He was clueless. His favorite movie was The Big Lebowski which said it all about him and all that said was good. And he was a friend.
However, lately I had not been hanging with The Kevster as a friend, sitting around with bowls of munchies while The Kevster smoked a doobie and we watched Jeff Bridges floating over Los Angeles.
We were hanging with a purpose.
“The Kevster’s a friend,” I shared with Ren.
At my words, Ren’s brows shot together and he asked, “The Kevster?”
“His preferred handle,” I explained.
Ren looked to the ceiling. I figured he did this because Ren might be a member of a crime family but he reeked class. He likely had no friends with “handles.” Or that smoked doobies. And I didn’t ask because I was scared of the answer, but there was a high probability Ren would not like The Big Lebowski and that might mean I’d have to question his taste. Since he very much liked the taste of me, I didn’t want to do that.
“We’ve been friends ages,” I went on and Ren looked back to me, now with brows raised.
“So he’s not helping you find the grow house that friend of your other friend’s sister thinks her son has set up in Littleton?”
Jeez, how did he find out all this crap?
I decided I didn’t want to know and I also decided not to answer.
He got closer and reminded me, “Ally, we had a deal. You do this shit for people, you stay away from the drug trade.”
We did have that deal, kind of. The “kind of” part was that during a Talk, I’d agreed to that, but I was also lying when I agreed.
“Pot isn’t drugs,” I pointed out. “It’s flora. It’s natural. And it’s now legal.”
“This grow house you’re lookin’ for isn’t legal,” he shot back.
This was true.
I again didn’t reply.
He got even closer and ordered, “Baby, drop this case.”
Uh-oh.
He was getting bossy.
I wasn’t a big fan of bossy.
“Zano, I made a deal,” I returned. “I’m not dropping this case. Especially since we’re close to ending it.”
“Drop it,” he semi-repeated.
“I’m not dropping it,” I snapped.
“This kid you’re lookin’ for, he just sat down with some serious players to supply their demand. Takes him out of having to deal with dealing. He just gets to grow and rake in the cash. This is an escalation for him that at his age with his inexperience is all kinds of dangerous. You do not wanna get involved in that shit.”
That was not good news.
But as Darius told me (more than once), that was also not my problem
“You’re right. I don’t,” I agreed (to that part). “But getting involved in that is not part of the deal I made. He’s nineteen years old and his mother wants to know if he’s growing weed. I find out, get the proof, hand it over to her, she does with it what she will and I’m out.”
“And you think, she blows the whistle on her kid to teach him a lesson, his deal goes south, those players aren’t gonna look your way for being the instrument of that loss of income?”
“Shit happens in crime, Zano, and if they’re experienced players, they know to roll with the punches.”
His face set and his jaw got hard. “I’m sure they do. It’s just that I’d rather it wasn’t you who took those punches.”
I lost more of my patience.
“I’ll be fine,” I said for the ten gazillionth time.
“Yeah, because your brothers and their boys have labeled you untouchable. But there’s gonna be a time where you piss someone off who won’t give a shit what firepower you have at your back.”
This, I knew, was true. Darius told me.
It didn’t piss me off that Lee and the Hot Bunch made it clear on the streets I had their protection. This was mostly because they were staying distant and not getting in my business. It was also because it was sweet.
But I wasn’t stupid and this constant refrain from Ren was inference I was.
“Tell me, Zano, if Lee was nosing into this for a client, would you think it was reckless for him to do so?”
“I think you’re convinced you’re bulletproof like your brother and his boys but they’re not, Stark getting a gut shot proved that. You’re definitely not because I don’t care how often you’re target shooting at Zip’s, you got no play in the field.”
I knew this was going nowhere and it was making me beyond annoyed so I also knew it was time to shut it down.
“We’re not talking about this, Zano,” I declared.
“Ally, we’re talkin’ about it until you see reason.”
“I’m not being unreasonable.” My voice was getting higher and tighter. “It’s my life and what I like to do. And it’s none of your business.”
His eyes quickly skimmed my green velvet strapless dress-clad frame (Roxie, totally stylin’ with her bridesmaid dresses; they were the shit) then came back to my face and he started the shift into A*shole Speak.
“That body’s mine and I don’t want it filled with bullets and tossed in the Platte. So, for the hundredth f*ckin’ time, babe, it is my business.”
“My body isn’t yours,” I snapped.
“You could have fooled me, the way you went wild for me last night and let me do all I wanted to do to you, I got creative and the number of breathy Rens I got meant you seriously got off on it.”
Total A*shole Speak.
Nothing flipped my switch like A*shole Speak.
And having not a small amount of tequila in my system, even in my bridesmaid dress, at my brother’s wedding, I was not down with A*shole Speak and I was Ally Nightingale. So I was going to do something about it.
Therefore, I took a step back, cocked my arm and let ‘er rip, shouting, “Go to hell, Ren Zano!”
Unfortunately, Ren caught my fist, kept tight hold and twisted it behind my back. This had the further unfortunate result of my body slamming into his and Ren being close enough to put his mouth to my ear.
“Challenge accepted,” he whispered there.
Oh shit.
I struggled against his hold.
Seriously. When was I going to remember he was a macho alpha Italian hothead and I needed to be cunning, not reactive? Though, this would likely necessitate me laying off the tequila and I liked my tequila.
He moved to my side, keeping his and my arm behind my back and marched me out of the ballroom at the Denver Performing Arts Complex where Hank and Roxie’s reception was taking place.
“Let go of me, Zano,” I hissed, partly humiliated (with only myself to blame; still, I blamed Ren), mostly infuriated.
“Not a chance.”
I yanked at my arm to no avail as he pushed us outside into the cold air.
Once there and with no one around and therefore not able to make a (further) scene, I wrenched my arm to get free, shouting, “Let go!” and found myself shuffled down the wide walkway, pressed into the side of the building with Ren’s mouth on mine, his tongue in my mouth and both his hands at my ass.
Hell.
This meant Ren was done fighting and ready for other things.
And this also meant Ren could nonverbally talk me into being ready for those other things.
This, in the cold Colorado December air, he did with mouth, tongue and hands.
He spent some time doing this. I spent that time enjoying it. And when his mouth finally lifted from mine, I was enjoying it so much I went after it to keep it.
When I didn’t get it back, my eyes slowly opened and I found my hands were under his suit jacket. One was pressed tight to the muscle of his back. The other was pressed tight to his hard ass.
Nice.
I also found his lips were quirking.
Annoying.
“That body isn’t mine?” he whispered.
I made no response and not just because I was breathing too heavily to speak.
“Least that mouth is.” Ren kept whispering.
I found my voice then.
“Kiss my ass, Zano,” I whispered back.
That got me a smile which meant Ren got a squeeze.
His smile got bigger.
My heart lurched.
“I can do that,” he stated.
I rolled my eyes even as my happy place quivered because he could, he had and I liked it when he did.
Still smiling, he bent his head and kissed my neck. Sliding his lips up to my ear, he murmured, “Let’s go home.”
Before I could say anything, he grabbed my hand and walked me quickly to his Jaguar (seriously, he was a bossy jerk, but his ride was sah-weet).
You will note, I didn’t protest.
Because I might have been guarding my heart.
But I was absolutely not guarding my body.
* * * * *
Christmas Morning…
I woke, naked, tangled up with Ren in his bed.
I had my face stuffed in the side of Ren’s neck, an arm thrown over his stomach and a leg thrown over his thigh.
He had an arm around me and the instant I woke, it tightened and his deep voice rumbled, “Merry Christmas, baby.”
I closed my eyes hard.
What the hell was I doing?
Just as quickly as my mind asked it, I decided Christmas day was not the time to explore that question.
I opened my eyes, and being a holiday person, a family person, and a person who found every reason possible to party and/or celebrate, I didn’t have it in me to lay down the boundaries during the most joyous day of the year.
Not with Ren close and his voice warm and rumbly on Christmas morning.
Therefore, I lifted my head, looked into his beautiful eyes and replied quietly, “Merry Christmas, Ren.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth as his arm got even tighter and dragged me up his chest.
But once we were face to face, it was me that went in for the Christmas kiss. And it was a kiss that I wasn’t sure Jesus would approve of, but to me, it was heavenly.
When we broke the kiss, Ren lifted a hand to my jaw and said, “Let’s get this part over with, honey.”
Oh shit.
Before I could intervene in order to stop him from starting a joyous day in a non-joyous way, he went on.
“Before I give you your present and you take off to be with your family, promise me right now, and mean it, that you’ll stay away from dealers, growers, manufacturers, suppliers and transporters.”
Oh my God!
He got me a present?
“Ally,” he called and I focused on him.
I took in a breath, holding the Christmas spirit close.
In other words, I replied calmly, “Ren, when I promise to help, I have to do whatever it takes to do the job.”
He studied me. I waited for him to commence the Talk or go straight into the Fight.
Apparently Ren was feeling the Christmas spirit too as he didn’t do either.
Instead, he held me to him as he mumbled, “Not gonna get into this shit on Christmas,” and he twisted toward his nightstand.
He opened the drawer. I held my breath. Then he pulled out a small, jewelry-sized, exquisitely wrapped present, complete with bow.
Jewelry.
I was a Rock Chick. I accepted gifts of all forms.
I also gave them the same way.
But I never thought I’d be a girl who felt like I felt right then when a man was about to give her jewelry. And I didn’t even care what was in that wrapped package.
It was indeed the thought that mattered.
And jewelry from a man, that man being Ren, said a lot about what he thought of me.
I pressed my lips together.
Ren settled on his back and offered me the present.
“Open it, honey.”
I swallowed, looked into his eyes and took it.
As best I could still leaning into him, I pulled off the bow and wrap and unearthed a familiar blue box with a white ribbon.
Oh crap.
My throat got scratchy when I untied the ribbon and flipped open the box.
In it was a silver pendant on a chain.
The pendant was in the shape of a guitar.
Holy crap.
Tiffany’s didn’t only do elegant. It did cool.
Totally righteous.
“Ren,” I whispered.
“I’ll take that as you likin’ it.”
I didn’t like it.
I loved it. It was perfect for me.
My eyes moved from the pendant to him. “Thank you.”
His eyes were soft and sweet on me. “You’re welcome, baby.”
I pressed my lips together again then leaned in and pressed them to his mouth. Before I pulled away, he touched his tongue to my lower lip which made me shiver both internally and externally.
It was the kind of shiver Ren usually felt and did something about. But before he could, I pulled away, leaned into him to put the pendant on his nightstand then pushed further over him so my hips were at his gut and I was hanging over the side of the bed.
I reached under it to where I hid my present days ago (don’t get excited—I hadn’t since learned how to pick a lock—Ren had given me his key and his security code).
I pulled it out, pushed up and sat on the side of my hip as I set his present on his stomach.
“F*ck,” he murmured, eyes on his present.
“Well, that wasn’t the response expected,” I remarked.
He pushed up to rest against the headboard but did so looking at me, eyes warm but lips quirking, all the while asking, “So, f*ck buddies give Christmas presents?”
It was Christmas. I was not going to get annoyed.
I told myself this, smiled and said, “Shut up.”’
He smiled back. My heart squeezed and he opened his present.
Then he burst out laughing when he shook out what was inside.
“Do not take this as me supporting your Bears habit,” I warned and his warm dancing eyes came to me. “But Sweetness is Sweetness and everyone is allowed to worship at the shrine of Walter Payton.”
This I’d proved by giving him a number 34 Bears jersey.
Ren’s hand shot out, hooked around my neck, and he pulled me to him for a hard, closed-mouth kiss.
When he let me back an inch, he said softly, “Thank you, honey.”
The way he said that hit me someplace deep, where he lived in me, where I kept him and what I wished we could be.
I kept it there. I locked it there. And part of me hoped I’d have those slices of our times together for eternity.
“You’re welcome,” I mumbled.
Then the jersey was crushed between us because Ren was on me, his hands were all over me, and I was on my back in his bed.
“Christmas quickie,” he murmured into my neck.
Excellent.
My hands started moving on his skin.
His head came up and his eyes, lit with humor, caught mine.
“And, just sayin’, babe, you lock my pendant away ‘cause you don’t want the questions the Rock Chicks will fire at you when they see my present around your neck, that’s cool. I’ll wait ‘til you let me in for you to wear it.”
He so knew me.
Everything.
That was a bit scary.
What was scarier was that he knew me in all my stubborn crazy, and it seemed he found it amusing.
I reminded myself it was Christmas and I was not going to get annoyed.
But even if it was Christmas, I couldn’t allow myself to hope.
So I just rolled my eyes.
On the downward roll, he was kissing me. While doing that, an extremely proficient multi-tasker in bed, he commenced doing other things with me.
It was the best beginning of a Christmas ever.
Like a dream.
* * * * *
The rest of the day wouldn’t go so well as the Rock Chicks, Hot Bunch, Tex, Duke and a variety of other people witnessed my scene with Ren at Roxie and Hank’s wedding and they were in my business about it.
I’d had some experience staving off such enquiries so it wasn’t tough to keep the wolves at bay.
The problem was, after that scene, the Rock Chicks were on the scent. And this was not good.
But I couldn’t concentrate on that. So I put it off (and put it off and then more putting it off) and decided to face that particular music if and when the time came.
I had enough on my hands dealing with Ren and me being f*ck buddies.
Or, as Ren saw it, Ren and me being a Ren and me.
A game where I made my plays, Ren made his.
A game where our plays were the same even when I tried to convince myself they were different.
A game that would end on a morning in May in a moderately priced motel in a small Colorado Mountain town.
And it ended decisively.
Fast Forward—Hit Play