Dirty Together (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #3)

by Meghan March

  I’m ready to talk to Creighton, ready to lay out my cards and see if we can figure out where we go from here.

  My room is silent and empty when I push open the door. I hang my towel on the back of my chair, and dig some yoga pants and a T-shirt out of my bag. Listening for sounds of life in the house, I pad down the stairs.

  There’s more silence when I enter the kitchen. My stomach churns, although it was calm only a few minutes ago, and I think I’m going to be sick again.

  Creighton’s gone, and there’s no sign to suggest I didn’t just imagine his presence.

  With measured steps, I cross the room and peek out the lace curtains to the front yard and gravel drive.

  Empty.

  I don’t remember what Creighton drove last night due to the memory thief called tequila, but I know he must have a car. There’s no garage for it to hide in.

  Which means . . . he’s really gone.

  Gone.

  I stumble back from the window as the realization hits me.

  Gone. I slide into a chair at the kitchen table that takes up the center of the room. My elbow smacks into the edge, and I wince at the pain shooting up my arm. My eyes sting with tears when I see the note that says simply:

  Two words.

  “What the hell?” I say to the empty room. “What does that mean?” I don’t know why I ask the question, because the ivy-printed wallpaper isn’t going to answer me.

  Then it hits me. Two words. Each time I’ve left him, I left a note with two words: Good-bye, Creighton.

  Is this just him being an asshole and making a point? I blink back the tears. I don’t have time for tears.

  It’s then I see a guitar case leaning up against the wall in the corner, the same leather guitar case I left in the penthouse in New York. I push up from the table, my elbow still stinging, and take the few steps necessary to bring me to it. Crouching, I lay it flat on the floor, flick the latches, and lift the lid.

  Inside is the Gibson, looking just as beautiful as it did the day it was delivered. But that’s all that’s inside the velvet case. There’s no note or any other indication of what Creighton was thinking when he left it here.

  I drop to my butt, lean my back against the stove, and lift the guitar into my lap. After strumming a few chords to make sure it’s in tune, I begin to play.

  The song I sing? It’s the one I’ve poured all my insecurities into, the self-doubt that was temporarily beaten back when I was singing in the shower. “Lost on Fifth Avenue.”

  I slam my hand down on the strings midway through the second verse. Screw. This. I’m not going to sit in the corner and wallow in pity. I’m done throwing pity parties. Because what is that going to accomplish anyway? Not a thing. If I want to make something happen, I need to get off my butt and go do it.

  I slide the guitar back into the case and shut it. Creighton and I need to hash things out, if it’s not already too late. And damn it, if he left—really left—then it’s my turn to track him down.

  My purse is hanging off the back of the kitchen chair closest to me. I pull it down and dig around for my phone. It’s not dead, which is a win. Finding Creighton’s contact info, I hit Send. It rings twice and goes to voice mail.

  Did he seriously hit Ignore? On me? What the fuck?

  I call him again.

  Rings once. Voice mail.

  I text.

  ME: Two words? Seriously? Two words?

  I wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  And nothing.

  I’m being completely irrational; I know it. I have absolutely no right to be pissed about this. None. But knowing that doesn’t stop me from feeling this way.

  So I text him again.

  ME: I’ve got two words for you, Crey. Care to guess what they are?

  As soon as I hit SEND, I’m wishing I had an UNDO button. Chill out, Holly. But that doesn’t mean I’m any less pissed.

  A car door slams outside. Jumping up, I put down the phone and stalk to the door and yank it open. I freeze when it’s not Creighton.

  It’s Logan, and he wastes no time nodding in greeting. “Good to see that you’re alive and kickin’ this morning. Was a little worried about you last night.”

  “Maybe you should’ve cut me off before I drowned myself in tequila and regret.”

  He smiles, not looking apologetic in the least. “You’re a big girl. Figured you could make your own decision as to when you’d had enough.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “You made it this far. Didn’t think one drunk night back on your old stompin’ grounds would derail you too much. Besides, the pictures of you online look pretty damn good.”

  “Pictures?” My voice comes out a little screechy. “Shit. I didn’t even think . . .”

  “Don’t worry. The captions all say stuff about you having an impromptu concert in your hometown. Nothing scandalous.”

  My mind spins. “Since when do you google me and read all that stuff?”

  If I expected him to be embarrassed by my question, I would be wrong.

  His smile widens. “Since before you showed up at my shop in that piece-of-shit Pontiac.”

  Logan Brantley just admitted to stalking me online. I’ve entered the Twilight Zone.

  “How long before?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

  “On that one, I’m gonna have to plead the Fifth.” He leans against the big black truck. “Was surprised to see the Caddy in the parking lot of Piggly Wiggly this morning.”

  Caddy? Piggly Wiggly? Those seem like two things that don’t belong in the same sentence.

  My confusion must be obvious because Logan adds, “You don’t remember the Caddy? You damn near puked all over it. Barely got the door open in time. Karas’s rental bill would’ve been a little bit higher then, not that he would’ve probably cared.”

  The picture is starting to come together, and sweet relief is flooding me. “Are you telling me that Creighton is at Piggly Wiggly?”

  The mental image is comical. Creighton in a three-piece suit, pushing a shopping cart and picking up . . . what? Eggs and bacon?

  Then what was with the note? Was that just a taste of my own medicine?

  Logan shrugs. “That was my assumption, anyway.”

  I’m still trying to absorb this new development when the deep purr of an engine catches my attention, and a shiny black Cadillac crunches over the gravel drive, stopping next to Logan’s truck.

  The Caddy. Crey’s rental car.

  The man in question puts the car in PARK and opens the door. I can’t read his expression when he steps out.

  While we were on tour, I saw Creighton in jeans several times, but something about the denim clinging to his hips sucks IQ points straight out of my brain. The black thermal knit shirt hugging his broad shoulders and defined chest adds to the effect.

  His diligence in keeping fit surprised me as well on tour. He and Boone bonded over weight lifting stuff that meant nothing to me. I was happy he developed an easy camaraderie with BT. It was another way he fit into my world that I didn’t expect.

  He glances at Logan. “Brantley. You need something?”

  “Nothing at all. Just stopping in to see how Holly is feeling this morning.”

  Creighton nods and presses a button on the remote in his hand. The trunk lid pops open. “Might as well make yourself useful and carry in groceries before Holly tries to help.”

  Logan looks from me to Creighton and does exactly that. The men both carry in armfuls of grocery bags.

  “Damn, you planning to feed the whole neighborhood?” Logan asks before pausing and adding, “Or are you planning on staying a while?”

  “Staying as long as Holly wants.” Creighton’s response is matter-of-fact.

  I’m following them up the steps of the front porch and trip as the words come out of his mouth. I would have fallen on my face, but Crey drops an armload of bags and grabs me before my forehead co
nnects with the porch’s wood planks.

  “Shit, Holly. Are you okay?” he asks as he carefully spins me to face him.

  Stunned, I stare up into his dark brown eyes, wondering when everything changed. I expected him to still be furious, as furious as he looked this morning. But instead I’m caught up in the arms of a man who is looking at me like not letting me fall is the most important thing in his life.

  No man has ever dropped anything—literally or figuratively—to catch me from falling.

  So in that moment, my two options become very clear: continue to hold up my walls and be afraid to rest easy in the safety of his arms, or lean into him and let the walls crumble around me.

  Blind trust is a new concept for me. Actually, it never occurred to me to trust a man. They rotated in and out of my childhood, and except for Ben, no man has ever shown me that my trust would be safely placed with him. But Creighton might as well be a breed of his own.

  “Holly?” Crey asks again, and I realize I’ve totally checked out.

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Sorry. Just . . . missed a step.” Maybe missed a lot more than a step.

  Creighton’s stare intensifies. “I think we’ve both missed several steps. And that’s something we’re going to rectify.”

  He sets me on my feet and gathers up the bags. My gaze cuts to Logan, who is watching us both. His eyebrows are drawn together as if he’s trying to dissect what the heck is going on.

  I pull open the door, and the men both carry their bags inside. “You can just put them on the table.”

  Logan sets his down and looks to Creighton and then to me. “You need anything from me while you’re in town, just holler. You still want me to fix up the car? It’ll sell better if it runs.”

  “You can tow it to the junkyard. Holly will have a new car waiting for her in Nashville.”

  Okay, so maybe my trust is a gradual thing, and not so blind or immediate. Baby steps.

  “Whoa. No one is selling my car or towing it to a junkyard. I need it.”

  Logan is leaning against the cupboard, and Creighton is standing near the wall. Both men are looking at me with nearly identical expressions.

  “You can’t drive that piece of shit,” Logan says.

  “Says who?” I ask.

  “Says me,” Creighton replies.

  “Not your call.” My tone is adamant.

  Logan pushes off the cupboard. “This sounds like a domestic issue. I’ll let you two sort it out.” He touches the brim of his baseball cap. “Call me when you decide.”

  I open my mouth to tell him I’ve already decided, but Creighton moves to stand beside me and reaches down to thread his fingers through mine. When he squeezes lightly, the move silences me.

  “Thanks, Brantley. We’ll be in touch.”

  Logan crosses to the door, pulls it open, and gives us one last glance. He’s smirking, and I’m pretty sure he’s seeing something I’m not.

  “See you around, Karas.”

  When the door shuts behind Logan, I’m left in the kitchen with piles of Piggly Wiggly bags and my husband’s hand wrapped around mine.

  Creighton releases his hold on me slowly, but his eyes never leave mine. He’s daring me to ask him the question that’s burning on my tongue. So I do.

  “You’re staying?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, just continues to hold my gaze until the urge to fidget has me shifting where I stand.

  “We’re going to get one thing straight.”

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  “This whole disappearing act bullshit? It’s not so much fun to be on the other end, is it?”

  I knew there would be consequences for my actions. I break his stare¸ looking down at my feet. “No. It’s not.”

  He drops my hand and raises it to my jaw. Tilting my chin up, he forces me to meet his eyes. “No, it’s fucking not, Holly. And I’m done with it. No more running. This isn’t a game.”

  My stomach flops wildly, and I know he’s right. “Okay. No more running.”

  His grip on my chin tightens. “You have a problem, you feel the need to run, you come to me and we’ll figure it out.”

  I nod, but instantly know he’ll want the words. “Okay. I . . . I’ll come to you. I won’t run. I swear.”

  “Good girl.” His touch turns soft, his thumb smoothing across my cheek.

  “So you’re staying?” I ask again, needing to hear those words from him.

  “Yes, I’m staying.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He nods again, a smile tugging away the serious expression he had only moments ago. “Yes. Because you’re here.”

  “As simple as that?”

  “Not everything has to be complicated, Holly. We don’t have to be complicated.”

  Creighton releases his hold on me, but his eyes never leave mine. I’m processing what just passed between us. I open my mouth to say something, but words desert me completely. Instead I reach into a bag on the table and start removing the contents. I freeze when I pull out a box of Lucky Charms.

  Staring at the brightly colored cereal box, I mumble, “You bought Lucky Charms?”

  “I thought you liked them. You mentioned them in your first single.”

  This time my stomach flops again, but it’s a completely new emotion fueling it. My reference to the cereal was one fleeting mention in the second verse. Most people probably wouldn’t really notice.

  “You actually listened to the lyrics of my first single?”

  Creighton straightens. “Holly, I’ve seen you perform live almost a dozen times. I know every word of every song at this point.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh.” He turns, and instinctively I back up until my spine connects with the fridge.

  He doesn’t touch me, just presses a palm to the fridge on either side of my head.

  “Why does that surprise you? It shouldn’t.”

  “I just figured that . . .”

  “What?”

  “That you watch me but don’t really pay attention. You’ve got more important things to think about.”

  He shakes his head. “You don’t get it, Holly, and I’m not going anywhere until you do.”

  “Get what?”

  “That you’re the most important thing in my life now.”

  The box slips from my nerveless fingers and lands on the floor.

  He smiles, but it’s more predatory than anything else. “See? You don’t believe me. But you will.”

  My brain is trying to work. Trying—and failing.

  Lifting a hand to my chin, Creighton tilts it up before lowering his mouth nearly to my lips. My breasts rise and fall, pressing against his chest, and my heart hammers against my ribs.

  “Well, maybe your body believes me. I guess I’ll start there and work my way into convincing the rest of you.”

  I expect him to crush his lips to mine, but he doesn’t. He brushes them lightly over my lips, his tongue darting out, teasing, tasting . . . seducing.

  My hands find their way to his upper arms and curl into the soft cotton of his shirt, sliding upward and testing the thick muscles of his shoulders. The sweet, soft kiss is driving me out of my ever-loving mind, when all I really want to do is climb the man like a dang coconut tree.

  Not that I’ve ever climbed a coconut tree, but those guys on TV make it look so freaking easy and cool, and you get the prize when you get to the top, which in this case, would be my pussy against Crey’s mouth, so that’s pretty much the same thing, right?

  My mind spins, my inner thoughts turning into a crazy ramble.

  Screw it.

  I hop up and wrap my legs around Crey’s hips and practically attack him. I register the slight umph at the impact of my body slamming into his, and my legs attempt to squeeze the life out of him like some kind of anaconda, but I don’t care. I want him. Bad. Right now.

  Creighton’s head moves back an inch, but my hands are already tangling in his dark hair and fusing his lips to mine.
I’m on the offensive here. I’m the aggressor. And it’s glorious.

  Because I know, deep down, I’m only in charge because he lets me. Which gives me a thought. I release his hair and pull my mouth away from his.

  “How do you want to convince me? Because right now, I’d like you to convince me against the kitchen table.”

  Creighton’s whole chest rumbles with his chuckle. “Jesus, woman. I fucking love you.”

  We both freeze, and the words seem to hang in the air between us.

  “What did you say?” I whisper.

  His jaw tenses, his stare intensifying. “I said I fucking love you.”

  It’s not eloquent, it’s not elegant, and it’s definitely not fancy. It’s raw and real and spur of the moment.

  “Do you mean it?” I ask quietly.

  His dark eyes spear straight to the heart of me, and he lifts a hand to cup my cheek again. “Of course I mean it. I rarely say anything I don’t mean.”

  I open my mouth to say something . . . what, I’m not sure. But Creighton’s thumb slides over my lips and he shakes his head.

  “No. Don’t say anything. When you tell me how you feel, I don’t want there to be any hesitation, any question. I want the feeling to be burning through you so hot and fierce that you can’t hold it back, and you blurt it out at the most inopportune moment. That’s what I want from you, Holly. Until I can have that, I’ll settle for the rest of you. Because that’s a pretty fucking fabulous deal on my part too.”

  I’m pretty sure my insides just melted. Maybe my heart. Most definitely my panties.

  I love that he wants the same raw, real, and beautiful declaration from me—and he’s willing to wait for it.

  “You’re so getting laid right now.”

  His grin dang near stops my heart. “I know.”

  He turns and sits me on the kitchen table. Uncurling me from around his body, he scoops up all of the grocery bags, opens the fridge, and shoves them inside.

  “Really? They don’t all need to—”

  “Do you really care right now?” Crey asks.

  I shake my head. “Nope. Not even a little bit.”

  He slams the fridge door. “Good.”

  Only one step separates us, and I already have my shirt over my head and tossed to the floor by the time he closes that tiny distance.