The Complete P.S. Series

by Renshaw, Winter

  None of this will happen overnight and it’s going to cost me my life savings if this dipshit fights it (which he will), but if I can finally get my brother out of this shithole, it’ll be worth it.

  “You’re a pathetic coward,” I say through clenched teeth. “A joke of a father. Tucker deserves better than that.”

  “Guess it would hurt you to remember the good times, eh?” he asks with a sick chuckle as he rubs his belly.

  “Good times? What good times?” My voice booms, fists clenching. It takes all the self-restraint I have not to get in his face. “You mean before Mom left?”

  He doesn’t answer, only nods.

  “I don’t have a single good memory of you. You know who taught me how to swing a bat? Grandpa. You know who taught me how to change a tire? Joe Collins down the road. You know how I learned to—”

  “—enough, enough.” He lifts a hand before swatting it toward me, batting my words away because he doesn’t want to hear them.

  The truth hurts.

  “Anyway, I didn’t come here to rehash the past,” I say. “That shit’s dead and buried. Just wanted to give you a chance to be a man. Let Tucker live with me. Don’t put him through this messy custody shit. Because it will get messy. And it will get expensive. And I will win.”

  “Get the fuck outta here.” He leans to the side in his chair as if I’m blocking his view, eyes straining on the screen.

  My jaw tightens. “If you so much as attempt to retaliate on Tucker for any of this, I’ll fucking kill you.”

  And I mean it.

  I head down the hall, the floorboards sinking and creaking with each step, and I stop outside Tuck’s door, gathering myself so he doesn’t have to see me like this.

  I take three deep breaths, close my eyes, and paint a smile on my face before going in.

  “I’m taking off,” I sign.

  He pauses his video game and sits the controller down, and I take a seat beside him on the bed.

  Ruffling his hair, I give him a smile, a silent reassurance that everything’s going to be fine. And it will be if only because I’ll spend every last dime, every waking hour, my last damn breath if I have to … making sure of it.

  “Goodbye,” Tucker signs. His eyes contradict the smile on his face.

  I wish I could stay.

  I wish I could take him back home.

  Someday, buddy. Someday.

  Heading out to my truck, I start the engine and back out, letting the gravel pop beneath my tires. It hits me when I’m halfway home, that I’ve got this swell in my chest, this light sensation in my middle.

  Am I … am I excited? To go home?

  I refuse to believe it.

  And yet—I can’t deny it.

  Last night, I had every intention of having my way with her. Figured we could both use a release after everything that had happened that night, but Tuck came downstairs and I ended up talking to him at the kitchen table while he ate like a kid who hadn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks.

  By the time he went to bed and I got upstairs, she was already passed out in my bed.

  I crawled in beside her.

  I don’t remember the rest.

  I remember waking up to pancakes, waking up and looking at her prancing around my kitchen like we were some makeshift, happy little family.

  For the first time in years, as I stood there watching her, I let myself feel a little bit of something … and it wasn’t so bad, but then I thought, “Holy hell, I must be out of my goddamn mind."

  Veering onto my exit, I calculate another fifty minutes until I get home.

  Until I get to see her.

  25

  Melrose

  I’m elbows deep in dirty dishwater, my phone blasting Journey’s greatest hits, when I feel a set of hands skimming the sides of my hips. My heart plummets and a cool breath slicks my lungs.

  Turning, I find Sutter.

  And it’s great timing, actually, because I was just thinking about him, silently comparing the way I feel about him to the way I’ve always felt about Nick.

  Nick gives me butterflies and giddiness. Nick feels like home, warmth, and good times.

  But Sutter … Sutter makes me feel like a woman, fueling a physical desire so deep inside me it scares me. Sometimes, if I think about him for too long, I have to stop and find my breath.

  “You scared me,” I state the obvious because I have no idea what to say right now, and then I turn down the volume on my music. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

  Only hours ago, I was in head-to-toe loaned Prada and Cartier for Gram’s ceremony and now I’m in sweats, a loose ponytail, and I smell like caked-on grease and Dawn dish soap as I stand before a strapping Adonis who’s looking like he’s two seconds from making me his next meal.

  “What is th—” I try to ask a question, but he silences it with a kiss, which I suppose is an answer of sorts.

  His mouth is soft and his hand cups my face as his tongue slides between my lips. I’m pinned against the counter, a sinkful of dirty dishes behind me, but there’s nowhere else I'd rather be than right here, with Sutter Alcott’s perfect body, brave soul, and complicated heart pressed up against me.

  But Maritza’s words echo in my head, the way they have been all day, growing louder and louder, impossible to ignore.

  I slip my soapy hands around the back of his neck, relishing in his kiss, his masculine scent, his heat mixing with mine, and then I gently push him away.

  “I need to ask you something,” I say.

  His green-gold eyes hold mine.

  “You don’t like me, right?” I ask. I know in a court of law, a question like that would be worthy of an objection, but it’s a lot easier than straight up asking, “Do you like me?”

  Sutter doesn’t answer, but I need a firm yes or no from him. If he says no, if he elaborates about how he always “screws shit up” or that he “doesn’t like me like that,” then I’ll know with absolute certainty that Maritza was spot on about me wanting Sutter.

  And only wanting him because I can’t have him.

  Impatience eats at me. “We’re just having fun, right? This doesn’t mean anything to you?”

  Again, it's a lot easier than asking, “Are we having fun? Does this mean something to you?”

  “Where’s this coming from?” he asks, his honey stare searching mine.

  My fingertips begin to prune and wrinkle and steal what’s left of the sexiness out of this moment. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. With everything. I don’t want either of us getting hurt.”

  His eyes squint. “Why are you feeding me my own lines?”

  “So that’s a yes?” I ask.

  "Yeah,” he says. “I’m having fun with you.”

  I rise on my toes, grateful for some semblance of an answer so I can finally stop wondering, and I press my mouth against his again.

  There’s nothing wrong with having fun.

  Nothing at all.

  “We’d be the worst couple, right?” I ask between kisses, opting to avoid the question, “What kind of couple do you think we’d make?”

  His hands slide down my sides, cupping my ass, and then he lifts me to the counter, beside the sink of dirty dishwater. A moment later, his fingertips slip beneath the hem of my shirt, brushing against my stomach.

  Our eyes lock as he peels my shirt over my head and throws it to the side. Sutter’s mouth presses hard against the bend of my neck, and for a moment, I almost expect him to bite me.

  “The worst ...” I continue. “Can you even imagine?"

  Pressing his hips into me, I release an anticipatory sigh when I sense the hard outline of his cock.

  He’s hard. For me.

  He wants me.

  And I want him.

  Oh, god, do I want him …

  “Even if we did … you know ...” I start to say as his fingers tug at a bra strap. He lets it fall down my bare shoulder, kissing my hot flesh and leaving pricks of goosebumps everywhe
re he touches. “It would complicate things … being roommates and all.”

  I tilt my head back as he unfastens my bra and toys with my nipples. First his fingers and then his tongue, swirling, taking his time.

  “Melrose?” The way he says my name, low and gravelly in his throat, an implication of animalistic need, makes my sex pulse with a delicious ache.

  “Yeah?”

  “Stop talking.” With that, he scoops me into his arms, and I wrap my legs around him, holding on tight as he carries me to his bed caveman style.

  26

  Sutter

  Traffic is a crazy bitch this morning.

  I was going to tell Melrose how I felt last night … or at least start by dropping a hint or two. The opportunity was there. She was standing over the sink, doing the dorkiest dance to some stupid 80s music as she washed dishes, completely in her own little world. Her ponytail bobbed and her hips swayed and I found myself craving the sweet taste of her lips.

  So I kissed her.

  And she kissed me back, body melting against mine, soapy hands in my hair.

  And then all of a sudden she wouldn’t shut up about us just being friends and this not being anything, completely killing the opportunity. She kept asking questions and then adding, “right?” Almost as if she wanted me to say “yes.”

  It didn’t hit me until the drive to work this morning that there could be someone else. We’re having fun together, sure. But there’s got to be a damn good reason she’s suddenly wanting to ensure that this doesn’t go beyond the physical.

  Who else could it be?

  She doesn’t bring guys around, at least not after the Robert McCauley incident. She’s always going on auditions. The only guy I’ve ever seen her talk to regularly is Nick.

  The image of Melrose’s face lighting up when Nick called her a couple weeks back fills my head, and I almost run a red light.

  It’s him.

  It has to be.

  She’s holding out for Nick.

  I get that they’ve been best friends since they were kids and they have a history, but Nick doesn’t deserve her. And it’s not because I want her.

  Up until he got that tour gig, he’d never once mentioned her.

  Every girlfriend he’s ever had, he’s fucked around on. And I only know this because he brags about it every time he gets hammered on his Old Milwaukee piss water.

  His rent is almost always late—not because he doesn’t have the money, but because he’s too lazy to write a check or drive to the nearest ATM.

  Dude can’t do a load of laundry to save his life. I don’t know how many times I re-washed the musty clothes he’d leave sitting in the washer for days at a time. That sexy, grungy look he was always rocking? Wonder if the girls would be all over him if they knew he wears his shit at least five times before finally washing it.

  Sure, Nick’s a good-time guy. He’s a musical genius, can throw a hell of a party, and has never had to want for sex in his life, but that’s where his redeeming and impressive qualities end.

  By the time I arrive at the job site in Santa Monica, my crew is already there. Two of them look at me like I should have a box of Krispy Kremes or coffees in my hand as I head up the walkway to the ostentatious beachside mansion we’re wiring for some mega real estate developer based out of Orange County.

  “Traffic,” I say with a grumble as I fasten my belt around my waist.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, when I slide it out to check the screen, I find a text from Melrose.

  MELROSE: ARE YOU AT WORK YET?

  I tap out a quick “yes” before putting my phone back and getting to work.

  My phone buzzes again, but I’m busy. Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait.

  I grab a spool of wire and head to the kitchen, where another one of my guys has started on the central vac pre-wire. A woman in heels and jeans measures for appliances before scribbling numbers in her notebook, offering a quick smile and scampering out of the saw-dust-and-salt-air scented home.

  “You okay today?” Manny, my number one, asks.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” I sniff.

  “You seem … I don’t know … pissed off about something.”

  “Hey, hand me that conduit bender.” I change the subject because it’s none of his business, and talking about it is just going to piss me off even more.

  Manny hands it over, and I feel his stare, but I ignore it. I need to get through today without miswiring anything and costing my business a small fortune. These real estate mogul-types are always so quick to sue for “lost time” and stupid shit like that. They have teams of attorneys on retainer and speed dial. One misstep and that could be the end of Alcott Electric.

  I’m running conduit when my phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t stop because deadlines.

  But then it buzzes again.

  And again.

  Exhaling, I dig into my jeans and check the screen.

  MELROSE: OMG. MURPHY IS GONE.

  MELROSE: I THINK HE SLIPPED UNDER THE FENCE.

  MELROSE: I’M FREAKING OUT.

  “Everything okay?” Manny asks.

  I picture Melrose’s pretty face with tear-streaked cheeks. I picture her ocean eyes glassy and clouded, her trembling hands covering her heart.

  Before I get a chance to reply to her messages, she’s calling me.

  “Yeah, I have to run out and take care of something,” I say, silencing the call and shoving the phone back. I’ll call her when I’m in the truck.

  “Seriously? You’re just going to leave me hanging?” Manny asks, half pretending like he’s joking. Sometimes I think he forgets that I’m his fucking boss.

  “Don’t,” I say. I know we’re on a tight timeline. I know we have deadlines to hit. But I can’t leave Melrose hanging. I might be a dick, but I’m not a royal dick.

  Manny lifts his palms in the air, a silent apology.

  Placing the spool of conduit on the subfloor, I unfasten my belt and get the hell out of there.

  “You coming back?” he asks as I leave.

  “I hope so.”

  27

  Melrose

  "Murphy!” I scream my dog’s name for the millionth time. I’m sure I look like a crazy person, run-walking up and down the street crying and peering between bushes and jumping as high as I can to try and see over fences, all the while shaking a bag of his favorite bacon-flavored treats, but I’m desperate. “Murphy!”

  This morning we did our normal thing. I got up and let him outside and went to freshen up. But when I came back, I opened the slider to the back and called for him … and nothing. I stepped out on the patio and scanned the backyard, thinking he was hiding behind a tree or something … and then I saw the depression in the grass, leaving just enough room for his pudgy butt to squeeze under the fence.

  Drying my tears on the backs of my hands, I decide to start canvassing. I start at the white house on the corner, tromping up the front steps, clearing my throat, and ringing the doorbell.

  No answer.

  Of course.

  People are generally at work this time of morning.

  I’m on house number four with no luck when I see Sutter’s truck barreling down the street. He stops, not in front of our place, but in front of the house next door. I watch as he heads up the front walk and knocks on the door. A second later, a white-haired woman lets him in.

  And I wait.

  My heart thumps so hard in my throat, I feel like it could choke me at any minute, and my cheeks are flushed, hot red. Making my way back toward the house, I keep my focus trained on the neighbor lady’s blue front door.

  Time stops somehow.

  The world around me doesn’t exist.

  Nothing matters. Nothing except finding my dog.

  But then the blue door swings open and from where I’m standing, I can only see the back of Sutter’s t-shirt, though it appears as if he’s holding something in his arms.

  He turns a second later and I could kis
s him.

  I could kiss him so hard.

  “Oh my god,” I say as I sprint toward the superhero holding my dog. “How did you know where he was?”

  Sutter hands Murphy to me, who seems as chipper as always.

  “Mrs. Cooper has a fenced-in yard. I figured if he got out of our backyard and into hers, he might still be there,” he says. There’s no pride in his voice, no look in his eyes like he’s waiting for accolades and praise. “She didn’t even know he was back there until I asked her to check.”

  I kiss the top of Murphy’s head. While panic has left the building, adrenaline is still hanging around. My heart races, my breath still hasn't caught itself yet, and I’m pretty sure if I wasn’t squeezing Murphy for dear life, my hands would still be trembling.

  “Thank you so, so much,” I say. I step toward him, fully aware of how awkward I’m being, and I place one arm around his shoulder, giving him a half-hug.

  I doubt he has any idea what this means to me … that he dropped everything the minute I texted him and ran back home to help me find my dog.

  He didn’t have to do it, but he did.

  Sutter gives me a half-smile in return. “I know how much he means to you. Glad we were able to find him.”

  “We?” I lift a brow. “It was all you.”

  He backs away, giving me a small wave before climbing into his truck. I stand on the sidewalk, Murphy under my arm, and watch my knight in shining armor disappear over the horizon.

  Now I can’t help but wonder if he meant what he said the other night. I don’t know anyone else who would drop everything they’re doing to come help me find my dog. Not Aerin. Not Maritza. Not my parents.

  But he did.

  Sutter did.

  28

  Sutter

  The sound of ESPN blaring on the living room TV is the first thing I notice when I get out of the shower Monday night. With a towel wrapped securely around my hips, I make my way downstairs to see what’s going on, only to find Melrose exchanging cash for pizza at the front door and sports highlights playing in the next room.