As we catch our breath, I realize that he’s right.
I am his.
Chapter Fifteen
The sound of my phone ringing on the floor beside the bed wakes me up the following morning. I roll over to grab it, groaning when I see that it’s another unknown caller. Even though I’m still livid with Lucas, I answer it immediately, almost expecting it to be his bank with another overdose of horrible news.
Instead, it’s an officer from Louisiana, a female this time, calling with a status report on my case against Shiner Bock. I can’t help but be impressed that someone is contacting me on a Saturday morning, even if her call did drag me out of bed an hour earlier than I intended.
According to the officer, Finn and his grope-happy friend, James, have been caught. I let my shoulders slump forward in relief. “So, are they in custody?” I ask.
“As of yesterday afternoon, yes.”
Even though I’m sure there’s a slim chance in hell, I can’t resist asking her whether or not any of my stuff was recovered.
“One moment, please,” she says. I can hear her leafing through a stack of paperwork. Using the silence to my advantage, I mute my phone and dash into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I have a mouthful of toothpaste when she speaks again, surprising me. “Based on the report you filed, a few of your belongings were found on Finn Graham’s person.”
Rinsing out my mouth quickly, I take my phone off of mute. “Can you tell me what all you found of ours?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not allowed to give you details about the belongings Ms. Wright’s reported missing due to our privacy policy, but I’d be happy to tell you which of your items were found.”
“Thanks, that would be great.”
I listen carefully as the officer reads through the list, which turns out to be a total of four things, about a quarter of my belongings that I reported stolen. The canceled credit cards and my driver’s license were nowhere to be found, but I didn’t exactly expect to get those back. I’m pretty sure they’re all in a dumpster somewhere by now, and I make a mental note to put some type of alert on my credit report.
“Are you going to call Heidi? Or should I tell her to get in contact with you?” I ask as I wipe my mouth with a warm washcloth.
“We’ve already contacted Ms. Wright, and she’s aware of the procedure to pick up her belongings.”
I examine my smile in the mirror before I flip off the light switch and return to bed. “So, how exactly do we go about doing that?” I ask. “Is there any way I can get it shipped to my home address?”
“Do you have something to write with?”
“Just a second.” Leaning over, I find the hotel’s complimentary stationery set, which is just a stack of promotional sticky notes and a pen, inside the nightstand drawer. I grab a phone book and place one of the Post-its on it. “Okay, I’m ready.”
As she speaks, I jot down a few things, but the gist of the whole recovery process is pretty simple. My belongings are in New Orleans, and they can’t be mailed to me in California, meaning I’ll have to physically go into their station with my ID—which I don’t currently have—and sign a form. Since going back to Louisiana isn’t in my plans for the near future, I ball up the note and toss it in the wastebasket as soon as the call ends. “Guess I won’t be getting that crap back for a few months,” I say under my breath.
“What crap?” Wyatt asks drowsily from beside me.
Placing the phone book back inside the nightstand drawer, I lean against the headboard and pull my knees to my chest. “The cops picked up the assholes who robbed my room.”
“Assholes?” He stares at me incredulously. “I thought there was only one guy.”
When I shake my head, holding up two fingers, he continues, “And I’m guessing they found your stuff?”
Massaging my temples, I shrug. “Some of it—a pair of shoes, a handbag, and my camera and its bag. Maybe they’ll find some of the other things in pawnshops, but I seriously doubt it.”
Wyatt yawns into his palm and then scratches his head. “At least they found the shitheads who did it,” he says, and I nod my head in agreement. He stretches his arms over his head but then winces and glances down at the bandage over the right side of his muscular chest. “God, this hurts.”
“Stop being such a baby, McCrae,” I say, sticking my ring finger up at him. “I don’t even feel a thing.” Of course, that’s a lie because as I move my finger around, pain shoots through my hand.
Snorting, Wyatt gives my thigh a squeeze, but I stop his fingers before he can go any further. “Really, Ky?” At first I think he’s referring to me not letting him touch me, but then he grins and dips his head toward my new tattoo. “That little thing took all of thirty minutes.”
It might have, but I can still tell from the look in his eyes how thrilled he is that I finally got Brad’s last name wiped away from my body for good.
As I slide out of bed, Wyatt gives me one of those lingering looks that just makes me want to crawl back in and bury myself under the covers with him for the rest of the day. Taking a deep breath, I move my head slowly from side to side. “Don’t you dare look at me like that,” I warn. “Phoenix, remember?” I bend over to grab a change of clothes from my bag, feeling his eyes skim up my bare legs.
“Oh, I didn’t forget about Phoenix. I’m just trying to figure out if you’re wearing panties right now.”
Tucking my clothes under my arm, I lift the hem of my oversized T-shirt to show him that I am, in fact, wearing underwear.
He flicks his tongue over his lip piercing as if I’m not. “We don’t have to be in Phoenix until—”
Since I’m already making my way into the bathroom, I wave him off. “Get the hell up already.”
He doesn’t actually get out of bed until I come out of the shower, and I’m not surprised when he corners me in the bathroom. Instead of trying to convince me to keep my clothes off, he comes up behind me to help snap the closures of my delicate pink bra.
“I fucking hate Victoria’s Secret,” he murmurs when he fastens the last hook. He walks around my body, his palm skimming around my waist as he does so. When he kneels down in front of me, my breath catches, but then he reaches past me to grab my underwear from near the sink.
“But they have such pretty things,” I tease.
“Yeah, but for me, it’s torture.” He strokes the outside of my foot, and I step into the pink panties he’s holding out for me. He glides them up my smooth legs carefully, stopping just once to touch his lips against the inside of my thigh. I gasp, and then he gently tugs the flimsy fabric into place. “The worst type of torture imaginable.”
“Sorry, I can’t just go commando all the time, babe.”
Examining me for a long time, he finally lets out a low noise. “Hurry up and finish getting dressed before I rip those off of you and fuck you right here.”
Cocking my eyebrow, I back away from him slowly, feeling the heat from his gaze as I grab my clothes from the hook behind the door. I shrug into them quickly, and he groans as I wiggle my hips a little to slide up my jeans.
“You’re fucking killing me, Bluebird,” he says, pulling me to him by my belt loops.
“You should get dressed.” Running my fingers along the elastic of his boxers, I slide my tongue over my lips. “By the way, you need to be more careful with all the ripping of the clothes. I’m starting to keep a mental note, and I’m billing your ass when we get to L.A.” When I let the elastic snap against his waist, he sucks in a breath through his teeth.
“Bill me all you want, as long as I get you in the dressing room.”
If he’s trying to make me blush, he succeeds. He grins as he turns on the faucet, and I leave the bathroom quickly before he has a chance to try and talk me into taking a shower with him. With all this talk about ripping underwear and banging in dressing rooms, chances are I’d take him up on it.