“Tatum,” he rasped, a plea in his voice that I’d never heard from him before. “You’re not like them.”
“Then why did you do it?” I whirled around to face him, ready to hit, fight, claw, but my breathing stuttered as I found him on his knees. Just a boy in the rain with his heart bleeding.
“Because I may punish the villains of this world, baby, but I’m the most heartless villain of them all. Saint, Blake and I were the first Unspeakables, we’ve all done things that would make you fear us more than death itself. And you may not be guilty, my sweet fucking wild girl, but you’re not innocent either. At least half your heart is black, and that half will always call for us. I dare you to deny it.”
I walked forward, my bare toes curling against the wet wood as I stood in front of him. I pushed my fingers into his sopping hair and blinked the droplets from my lashes.
“I don’t,” I whispered, then I walked past him, heading inside and realising I’d gotten a king to kneel for me as I’d always hoped. And it didn’t feel quite as good as I’d imagined.
I thought of my list of revenge and mentally crossed the Unspeakables off it. I wouldn’t be seeking vengeance in their names, not now that I knew what they truly were. It made me sick.
Kyan followed me inside and his arms closed around me from behind as I lingered in the room, not knowing what to do. It didn’t feel like an embrace, it felt like a reminder of who I belonged to. “I think I know something that will cheer you up.”
“Is it your dick? Because I’m really not in the mood, Ky,” I sighed, a headache starting to work its way behind my eyes.
He chuckled wickedly, placing his mouth to my ear, his heated breath sending warmth skittering across my flesh. “Not unless you want it to be.”
I shrugged out of his hold, turning to him with narrowed eyes, finding nothing but mischief there. It disarmed me. And I could feel myself giving into it, wanting to give into it. After everything he’d told me, I didn’t want to be angry at him. At least not for now.
“Let’s go then,” I said with a casual ass shrug and it was his turn to narrow his eyes at me.
“Just like that?” he questioned like I was a deadly bomb he needed to defuse.
“Just like that.” I headed away from him, grabbing my socks and stuffing them in my pocket before pushing on my shoes. Then I jogged downstairs and out through the boathouse. By the time Kyan appeared, I was sitting on his motorbike with his helmet on, patiently waiting to go. He was right, the truth did change things. It changed the whole damn world. And I wasn’t ready to face up to what that meant.
I shifted back on the seat as Kyan approached and he sat in front of me, making me wind my arms around his stomach as he kicked the bike into gear. He spun us around and took off down the path, my heart whizzing through my chest as exhilaration took hold of me. The rain was starting to ease and a glimmer of silver light shone beyond the clouds as the moon tried to break through. We stopped off at the library to grab my things and I was glad to find the Unspeakables had left – and cleaned up Kyan’s piss. I didn’t even feel bad about that now. When I saw Deepthroat again, I was pretty sure I was going to beat the living shit out of her for touching my man.
By the time we reached The Temple, moonlight was filtering down on us and the cold air made me shiver as I waited for Kyan to lock up his bike and return to where I stood under the shelter of the church porch.
“What now?” I asked and he caught my hand, opening the door and towing me inside.
“Now, we shower and get changed out of this wet shit,” he said, smirking as he pushed me in the direction of Saint’s room while he headed away toward his.
The place was quiet and I wondered where the other two were as I ran upstairs and was soon warming up under the flow of the shower. I got to choose my own clothes for once and pulled on a pair of yoga pants with criss-crossing cut outs down the thighs and calves and a fitted pale blue sweater.
When I stepped out of the closet, my heart lurched at the sight of Kyan standing there in nothing but a pair of dark red sweatpants, his hair damp and curling slightly around his cheeks. He looked young and playful and I wanted to dive into that look in his eyes and never return.
“Saint and Blake are out for a run,” he revealed as his eyes trailed over my body.
“And?” I cocked a brow.
“And I haven’t fucked with Saint for a while, wanna join?”
I laughed. “Hell yes.”
I moved forward and he grabbed my hand, his fingers threading through mine as he pulled me towards Saint’s console on the wall. I tried to ignore how heady his touch made me feel, but it was impossible.
“Pick a song, baby. I’ll upload it to his playlist for the morning.”
I snorted, taking out my phone and scrolling through some music as I tried to pick one. But then an idea came to me that was so brilliant, it made me burst out laughing.
Kyan squeezed my hand. “What?”
“So, I took a video of Blake a couple of weeks ago…any chance you can use the sound?” I scrolled through it, pressing play on the ending as Blake groaned and my breathy moans tangled with the sound from off camera.
Kyan snatched the phone to look at it, barking a laugh. “Yeah, I can do that. Just give me a minute.” He moved to Saint’s bed with my cellphone, throwing himself down on it and creasing the covers. Saint’s console made a jingling sound as Kyan connected my phone to it.
I watched him work, chewing my lip as my eyes roamed over his tattooed flesh, the trail of hair leading beneath his low waistband, the perfect V which tapered down to direct me right to his-
“All done,” he said brightly, sitting up just as the front door slammed downstairs.
My eyes widened and Kyan swore under his breath, jogging across the room to me.
“Barbie?” Saint called, his voice sharp and my heart thrashed with adrenaline.
Kyan picked me up, throwing me down in the place he’d just been in on the bed. Then he winked at me and moved to the far end of the balcony as Saint’s footsteps pounded up the stairs. Kyan swung his leg over the railing and I fought a laugh as he dropped down to hang from the other side just as Saint appeared upstairs.
Saint looked to me and I smiled innocently, rolling across his bed to capture more of his attention. A thump sounded as Kyan let go and hit the floor below and Blake started laughing. Saint glanced over his shoulder suspiciously, but I caught his hand, drawing his eyes back to me.
“Did you have a good run?” I asked sweetly. He wasn’t buying my act for one second, his gaze dragging over me like he was looking for sins. I almost felt bad for fucking with his music; he was going to freak in the morning.
“Take those clothes off, I’ll fetch you something appropriate,” he snapped, marching away into the closet and my smile fell into a scowl.
Enjoy your wake up call, assbag.
I withdrew to my room for most of the evening, my mind a whirling mixture of emotions which I didn’t know how best to process.
On the one hand, I was glad that Tatum knew the truth about the Unspeakables now, about Deepthroat and what she’d nearly done to me. But on the other, I knew that information had only hurt her again. And I was getting sick of hurting her all the fucking time. But that was who I was. And if I gave into my selfish desires to pursue her then I knew I’d only hurt her again. And again. And again.
That was what O’Briens did. And as much as I liked to pretend I wasn’t an O’Brien and cling to my Roscoe name like it was a lifeline, I knew it was bullshit. My father was calculating and shrewd and a coward. He was totally cowed by the family of the woman he’d married. He had no backbone, no mettle, no grit. Hell, the only thing I’d gotten from him genetically was his dark hair and height. Everything else in me was O’Brien, right down to my bloodthirsty nature and hunger for violence. As much as I wished it wasn’t so, the truth was the truth. And no one had ever gotten close to an O’Brien and come away unscathed.
It was my night
with Tatum in my room, but even after our little heart to heart, I wasn’t going to sleep in with her. Part of the reason was my hurt feelings and lingering anger over the things she’d said to me before. But it was more about me and her and all the things she was never going to be for me.
I had the TV on with re-runs of Fear The Walking Dead playing, but most of my attention was on the sketch I was drawing, capturing the way Tatum had looked with the rain pouring over her. That haunted look in her eyes which said she feared she really was alone here, the way her shirt had clung to her skin and raindrops had spilled from her hair. Fuck, that girl was on my mind way too much. Not that I was trying very hard to get her off of it. Sitting on my own and sketching her all the damn time wasn’t helping either. I was paying way too much attention to her mouth too, especially considering the fact that there was no way in hell that I was going to be kissing it.
A knock came at the door and I grunted as I kept my eyes on my work, shading around her eyes as the door swung open and the real deal cleared her throat.
I fell still, fighting against the urge to snap the sketchbook closed. I probably should have realised it would be her, but I’d been too focused on what I was doing to think on it.
“Hey,” Tatum said, hesitating in my doorway.
I usually hung out in the front room with everyone in the evenings so she hadn’t actually had to come and kick me out of bed on any of the nights where she was due to sleep in with me up until this point.
I lowered the sketch book into my lap, my thumb still wedging the page open as I looked at her.
“I won’t bite unless you ask me to, baby,” I teased. “You can come on in.”
She rolled her eyes at me and stepped inside, closing the door behind her. “Are you drawing?”
“Tattoo designs.” I shrugged nonchalantly and her eyes lit with curiosity.
“Can I see?”
Fuck, should have seen that coming.
“No,” I replied, falling back on my asshole reputation to save me from getting caught out. Tatum narrowed her eyes at me and I let out a huff of frustration. “Shit, if you’re gonna cry about it then come here,” I said, beckoning her over with a jerk of my chin as I turned the TV off.
She drew closer as I flicked the pages over until I wasn’t looking at an image based on her, settling on the eagle I’d been designing instead. I’d dedicated six pages to trying to capture the beast just right so it was a pretty safe bet to show her them.
I hadn’t bothered to pull a shirt on and my dark red sweatpants were riding low on my hips. I pressed my thumb to the corner of my mouth to hide my smirk as her gaze dipped down to my waistband.
I may have had my reasons to keep away from her, but when she looked at me like that, I couldn’t help but get the urge to reel her in.
“You know, it’s not actually necessary to be a douchebag all the damn time,” she muttered as she came to stand over me.
“That thought had never crossed my mind,” I teased. “What exactly would I do with the rest of my day if I didn’t though? My only real hobby is being an asshole.”
“You’re right, it would definitely be a struggle for you to fill all of that time doing something else. Perhaps you could take up knitting?” she suggested.
“Hmm, that’s not a bad idea,” I replied, running a hand over my jaw. “I never know what to get Saint for Christmas, but if I could knit I could just make him an assortment of cock socks to go with every outfit.”
She snorted a laugh and I smirked at her as those big blues drifted to the sketchbook in my hand which I’d let fall against my chest so that she still couldn’t see it.
I patted the spot beside me on the bed and she moved into it slowly, arranging herself beside me, careful not to touch as she curled her legs beneath her and leaned up against the headboard. Saint had gotten her changed into a little black sweater dress which rode up her thighs as she got herself comfortable and I let myself look even though I probably shouldn’t have.
I held the book out casually, keeping it open on the page with the first eagle and she took it with eager hands, her eyes lighting up as they fell on the sketch.
She didn’t say anything, her lips parting as she ran a finger down the page alongside the bird, almost like she wanted to touch it before her gaze shifted to the sketch on the next page which was slightly different. The faint scent of cigarettes clung to the pages and it wafted over me as she turned them, making my stomach knot with thoughts of my family.
“Kyan…” she breathed, her eyes glued to the sketches like she couldn’t help but drink in the subtle differences from one image to the next. “These are…I mean, they’re incredible.”
I grunted dismissively, reaching over her to point at the right wing of the eagle she was currently studying. “The angle is all wrong here, there’s something off with the shading – makes it look like the sunlight is hitting his underside or something.” I shifted my finger to the one below. “This one got closer to the mark, but that look on his face isn’t right, it’s too serene, too calm –”
“I think they’re all beautiful,” she murmured in disagreement and I paused in my criticism of my work as I just looked at her.
I hadn’t taken art class when choosing my timetable here, knowing my family would find out if I had and not wanting the headache of trying to defend myself over the choice. Blake and Saint had seen my work enough times to toss the odd compliment my way, but being told something was shit hot or that it would look sick branded onto my skin wasn’t exactly the same as the quiet, almost devout appreciation she was offering. Her gaze trailed over the pages like she wanted to crawl right into them and the way her fingers kept caressing the paper made me cut the self-deprecation and swallow back the dismissive comments I wanted to make.
“Thank you,” I muttered, not really sure what to do with myself as she turned the page again.
“Do you only draw things with the aim of them becoming tattoos?” she asked slowly, her gaze still fixed on the sketches.
“Mostly,” I said, wondering what the fuck she’d think of me if she flipped to the back of the book and found her own face looking back at her. She’d probably have to wonder if I was the motherfucker stalking her or something.
“When you tattooed Monroe, you did it freehand,” she said. “How does that work? Do you design things first and then just roll with that idea, or do you usually use a stencil to put it on skin?”
“I like to sketch out the designs over and over,” I admitted. “Tweaking details, getting into the flesh of the piece, feeling its heartbeat-”
“Your art has a heartbeat?” she asked curiously, turning her head to look up at me, her gaze tearing away from my sketchbook for the first time since she’d gotten her hands on it.
I almost cursed myself for saying that out loud, wondering why the fuck I was engaging in this conversation for a moment before realising that she wasn’t being condescending or judgemental, just curious, like she really wanted to know what it felt like for me when I was creating something.
“Yeah,” I said in a low voice. “It does when I get it right, when it really feels like I’m breathing life into something. And once I feel that connection to it, I don’t need an outline to work from. I can feel the way the lines should curve, taste the way the shadows should fall…”
She reached out and pressed a finger to my chest, tracing the outline of the devil I’d inked there, sitting on his throne, lording it over the entire world with nothing but his dominating aura to confirm it.
“How does that work for tattoos that you can’t do for yourself?” she asked, obviously realising that I’d have had trouble inking that one to my skin while looking at it upside down.
“If the positioning I want means I can’t use the tattoo gun to ink my own flesh then I have a guy in the city who I trust. I create my final piece on paper and he can replicate it like a mirror image.”
Her fingertips continued to move across the lines of my tattoos like she
was trying to feel that pulse in them for herself and I just watched her in silence for several long moments as my skin burned beneath her touch and I fought the desire to take more.
“What about when you’re creating a design for someone else?” she asked curiously. “Does that affect your process, or-”
“Yeah. The art feels different for different people. If something is destined to mark their flesh then it should be as personal to them as the colour of their eyes or the whorls on their fingerprints. I don’t do work on strangers, only people I know well enough to get it right.”
“What would you design for me then?” she asked, a challenge in her voice which said she didn’t believe I could create something that would suit her that way.
I tugged the sketchbook out of her hands, closing it and placing it on the nightstand before pulling the drawer open and taking a sharpie from inside it.
I turned back to her with a grin, clamping the sharpie between my teeth and reaching over to catch her waist between my hands as I dragged her into my lap. She gasped as I dropped her down, straddling me in that little black dress which rode up even more with her thighs parted over my legs. She never made much complaint about me manhandling her like that and I had to admit I was getting addicted to that look which flashed in her eyes whenever I did it. It was somewhere between murderous and exhilarated and I couldn’t help but enjoy watching the battle between those two emotions take place within her.
I reached for her left hand, turning her wrist skywards and slowly pushing the sleeve of her dress all the way up to the crook of her elbow, my rough fingers dragging across her soft skin and making goosebumps scatter over her flesh.
Kings of Lockdown: A Dark High School Bully Romance (Brutal Boys of Everlake Prep Book 2) Page 49
