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"Holy fucking shit," I whisper, kissing the fuck out of her.
"You're stuck with me now, Riggsy," she whispers. She gently bites my cheek as I grind in soft movements since we're quite fucking locked together.
"Oh, sweet girl, I've never been happier in my entire life."
Chapter Fifty-One
Dexter Clark
"What the hell is this?" I ask, flopping down on the couch.
"This is my pops," Riggs says, oh he's quite pleased with himself.
"Nice to meet ya," the old man spits. "Really warm and welcoming. Everything I hoped for when I flew halfway across the damn country. You can call me Pops."
"Cool story, old dude." I laugh.
My eyes bounce between Riggs, Walker, and the old man.
Except not a single one of them is laughing.
He's got on khaki old man pants, a light green and white golf shirt, and I'm not even sure, but I think that's a newsboy hat. I don't think I've ever seen someone rock one of those in real life before.
"Did they try to force you into an old folks home? Are you making a break for it, Gramps?" I ask, smirking.
Pops flips up his middle finger in my direction. "This guy's got jokes."
Holy shit. He's like an older, grumpier version of Riggs. The mannerisms, the voice… It's all exactly like Vince Riggs. Holy fucking shit. We know exactly what that dude’s going to look like when he's, fuck if I know, eighty or eighty-five.
"I'm your new sponsor," Pops grumbles, flopping down on the couch. "Hope you drive, cuz I don't. These eyes failed me years ago."
"I don't think that's how it works," I say, leaning forward. My elbows rest on my knees. "I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to pick a sponsor I actually like. No offense, old timer, but I highly doubt you can keep up with me."
"I can more than keep up with you, ya little shit," he says, swiping an aged hand through the air. "My room has cable? I'm tired of watching this bullshit with the protests. Yeah, why not. Let's continue to tear our country apart from the inside out over something that's coming whether they want it or not."
"Yes, Pops. Your room has cable." Riggs rolls his eyes. Looking at me, he says, "Believe it or not, this is me trying to help you succeed."
"All right, I like to eat dinner early. Seven will be fine. I want to catch the Wheel reruns at seven-thirty," Pops says, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Is this a joke?" I ask, eyes bouncing between the three of them.
"If it is, you're the punchline," the old fucker says, snorting.
I blink. What the fuck is happening right now? Waving a hand through the air, I peace the fuck out. I need to find my woman.
Baby is lying down and Bellamy is asleep on her chest when I make it into the master bedroom. The TV is on in the background, but she's busy staring down at Bellamy's face. This is probably a good thing, considering her fucking piece of shit father is giving an interview on a national news broadcast. I sure fucking hope the voters are more intelligent than he gives them credit for.
I refocus my attention on what's actually important.
"She's absolute perfection," I say, climbing in next to Baby.
"Yeah, she's pretty great. Did you meet your new sponsor?" Baby asks, getting up and tucking Bellamy into her bassinet.
"You knew about that?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow.
"Yeah, come on. Pops is cool. What you got against Pops?" Baby smirks over at me.
It feels like there's a fist around my heart sometimes when I look at her. She's so damn beautiful, it takes my breath away.
