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“You think my Audi drains me dry?” Garcia casually asks as he stands.
“I know they have higher repair costs – on average – than most other luxury vehicles,” Kipp snidely informs.
“That’s probably true for most people that drive them.” Our attorney slyly retrieves his keys from his pocket. “However, between free parts and free labor, I would like to argue that I’m an exception.” His smirk becomes almost wolfish. “To most things.” Without another word to the youngest person in the room, he calls to the oldest, “Walk?”
“Yup.” Both men take a step to follow Garcia, yet Nolan swiftly stops that from happening by firmly demanding, “Wait here.”
“But-”
“Wasn’t asking, Kipp.”
The cold clipped tone causes his entire frame to stiffen and glare to follow the other men out of the apartment. Once the door closes, he whips his head in my direction, “Why the fuck wouldn’t he let me walk out with them?!” His shoulders push back. Tighten. “What’s he fuckin’ hidin’ from me?! What’s he gonna fuckin’ do?! What’s he not want me to fuckin’ see?!”
“Or…” repositioning my figure to sit crossed leg is attached to my rebuttal, “maybe…it’s not about you?” I tuck my hands in my lap. “Maybe he’s worried that I’m still a high flight risk that shouldn’t be left unsupervised?”
A small cringe precedes his whisper, “Right…”
Offering him a sweet smile successfully separates his shoulders from his ears, and I inwardly sigh in gratitude.
At least I’ve momentarily calmed his rattled nerves.
Poor Kid might be wound up the tightest of us all.
From what I’ve learned during our time together…Kipp isn’t used to dealing with stress outside of the shop.
Damn sure not those that would come in a relationship.
Then again…I’m not sure any of us have many wins in that column.
It takes Nolan longer than our partner likes to return, a fact he vocalizes the instant the door is shut with him inside. “Your engine sure is runnin’ fucking slow for how much gas I put in it this morning.”
Mutt rolls his eyes in obvious irritation during his stroll over to the couch. “Fuck me for bein’ exhausted, Kid.”
“Oh now, I’m Kid again?” He huffs and steps closer to where Nolan is flopping down on the arm of the couch. “Now, you wanna use my nickname?!” There’s no pause for response. “Should we start usin’ your apparent nickname, too? Hm, Ace?”
“I prefer Mutt,” I good naturedly goad, getting a grin out of Nolan. “Ace makes him sound so much cooler than he is. Like a fighter pilot.”
“I could’ve been a fight pilot.”
“In your Top Gun fantasies only.”
“I would make a more believable one than Tom Cruise.”
“You would barely look hotter oiled up playing volleyball.”
“He would look a lot hotter,” Kipp interjects prior to reclaiming the conversation, “and more importantly, why does that asshole have a fuckin’ nickname for you?”
“He’s not an asshole,” Mutt effortlessly defends. “And you should probably show a little more respect to-”
“Your elders,” I sassily finish, receiving the smirks I hoped it would.
“To,” Nolan shoots me a playful glare, “the man who’s gonna do whatever he has to, to keep your ass out of fucking prison.”
“Is that how you know him?” Our boyfriend swiftly investigates. “Has he kept your ass out of prison?” He strains his crossed arms further. “How many times? And when?”
The sigh that leaves Nolan is so heavy it rattles the windows. “Stop roaring your fucking engine at the stoplight, Kid. I’m not street racin’.” He gives the side of his face an exhausted scrub. “You wanna fuckin’ ask if we’ve seen what’s under each other’s hoods…Just. Ask.” His frame crumples a little further in weariness. “I’m too tired and too old for these little tantrums.”
“I’m not…tantruming.”
