by Jo Raven
“You seem to be getting a lot of bad nights lately,” Zane says and grabs the drawing from the bench. “Just saying, man.”
I rub a hand over my face, try hard to find my calm. “My roommates were having a sort of party when I came home.”
It didn’t help that I kept dreaming of Amber and waking up with my hand down my briefs, stroking myself. Can’t stop picturing her pouty mouth, imagining what it’d be like to touch her, fuck her. Kiss her, suck on her soft lips.
Hell.
“Fucker, are you even listening to me?”
“Yeah.” I run a hand over my closely-cropped hair and sigh. “What?”
Zane chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m saying your jeans have holes so big I can almost see your balls, and that’s not something I wanna experience.” His eyes narrow when I wince. “What’s going on, J? If it’s money you need…”
“No, I don’t need any goddamn fucking money.” I snap my mouth shut. What the hell’s wrong with me? I scrub a hand over my face. “Sorry, Z-man. I just can’t take—”
“—pity? Charity? Well, it’s neither.” His jaw is clenched tight, and a seed of apprehension shoots roots inside my chest. “Try worry, fucker. That’s what it is, and hell if I’m ever gonna apologize for worrying about you.”
I lean back on the bench and grip its edge until my knuckles turn white. “Yeah. I…” I lick my dry lips. “I know.”
“Good.” Dark eyes flashing, he motions at the drawing. “Ready to give this a try on real flesh today?”
My breath catches in my throat. “On a customer? Today? No way, man. I’m not ready.”
“I think you are.” He nods wisely, Yoda-like, and hands me the tattoo gun. Or tries to hand it to me.
“Wait, Z-man. What if I make a mistake and piss off your customer? It’s not something you can just wipe away, and I’ve never fucking tried—
“You have to start one day,” Zane says, slow and low, giving me a steady look. “And I judge that you’re ready. If you piss my customer off,” he lifts a hand to forestall whatever I’m about to say, even if I have no fucking clue what that might be, “then you’ll piss him off. It’s okay. Mistakes can happen to the best of us. You don’t stop because of a mistake, fucker. You keep going, keep learning.”
I clamp my mouth shut and take the gun. When the customer arrives, I hide my nervousness, follow the steps Zane taught me in my mind and ink part of the tattoo covering the man’s entire back.
Sweat drips into my eyes, and I let it, not daring to stop sinking the needle into the man’s flesh, drenching it in color. Again and again and again, until I feel Zane’s hand heavy on my shoulder and pass the tattoo gun back to him.
Faintly I hear him say I did a good job, and the elation from having done it and from my mentor’s praise is lost in the buzzing in my ears and the staccato of my pulse.
What he said earlier is perfectly logical. Nothing can happen to me if a customer is upset—unless Zane gets upset with me, too, and throws me back out on the street.
Then again, I’m pretty sure that’s only a matter of time.
***
The sky is only starting to pale outside my window when I roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, my heart pounding. Snatches from my dreams ricochet inside my head, bouncing back and forth. Rough hands grabbing me, pushing me against the wall. Fire radiating through my back and chest. Dim streets, cold and hunger.
Despair. Fear. Sorrow.
Pain.
I splash my face with cold water, shivering, and swallow the sourness in my throat. Fuck. I stare at my bloodshot eyes in the cracked mirror and rub the demon inked on my chest.
You’re safe, I tell myself, Helen’s voice echoing behind my words. You’re safe, warm and healthy. There’s food in the kitchen. You don’t have to do anything you hate to get that food. Hell, you can return to the warmth of your bed and nobody will kick you out.
For now, the voice whispers. And tomorrow?
Dammit.
Instead of going back to bed, I make my way to the kitchen. I open the fridge to make a sandwich, and hell if I don’t find half my sliced bread gone. What the fuck?
Typical. Unless I put my stuff under key and lock, my roommates seem to think I’m inviting them to partake.
Clenching and unclenching my hands, I breathe through my anger and the hit of panic. It’s just food, I tell myself. Just some bread. You have enough now. No need to fight over it.
Apparently roommates share everything. That’s what Travis told me the other day. Well, I’m sorry I didn’t get the fucking memo. In the group homes where I lived, we didn’t own anything, and we had to fight tooth and nail even for those few things allocated to us.
But that’s over. Over and done with. Not going back there.
Jesus.
It still takes me a moment to move, to grab what’s left, take the ham and slap a sandwich together. The anger remains, though it’s not aimed at my roomies anymore. It takes me a minute to realize it’s aimed at myself—for panicking, for falling back into the past.
And where else would I fall back to, if not the past? It’s what’s behind me, what made me who I am. How can I escape it?
“Dude.” A rusty voice from the kitchen door startles me so badly I almost drop the sandwich. “Whatcha doing up so early? The sun isn’t up yet.”
“Gage.”
His hulking presence fills the kitchen, and I force myself not to retreat. Hell, I’m almost six foot tall, and I train at the gym with the guys whenever I can. Every morning I do sit-ups and push-ups in my room before I head out. I can take him if needed.
Which shouldn’t matter, because this is my roommate who’s currently ignoring me in favor of rummaging in the fridge for breakfast—but on the heels of a night of nightmares liberally mixed with memories, his height and physical mass has me feeling cornered. It doesn’t help that he’s blocking my way out of the kitchen.
“I heard you across the hallway,” he says as he straightens with a box of juice. He lifts the box and drinks straight from it, eyeing me all the while.
“Heard what?” I try to think if I jerked off last night, but I’m pretty sure I dropped like a rock.
“You were shouting something.” He finishes the juice and throws it into the trash. “Couldn’t make out what it was. Nightmare?”
“None of your business,” I mutter between clenched teeth. If he doesn’t move out of the way, I’ll damn well kick him in the nuts, and we’ll see who will be shouting this time. “Move, Gage.”
“Why are you so prickly, man?” He actually folds those massive arms over his chest and plants his feet apart. “I wanna help.”
“With what? I don’t need your help. What I want is to head back to my room, and you’re in the fucking way.”
“Hey now.” He takes a step toward me, and I let go of my plate to better defend myself, bending my knees and raising my fists.
He makes a wild grab at my plate and rescues it, along with the food.
“Damn.” He huffs and shakes his head, staring at the dish and then me with eyes round as saucers. “Fuck, dude. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
A whole lot is wrong with me. Where to start? “Fuck off.”
He places the dish on the counter and steps away, hands raised. “Okay. Fine. If you wanna talk, you know where to find me.”
My pulse is so loud in my ears I can barely hear him, and my chest is so tight I can’t breathe. I grab my plate, put an arm around it protectively, even though consciously I know Gage won’t try to take it from me—but you never know, right?—and walk out of the kitchen on shaky legs.
Appetite gone, I carry my sandwich into my room, close and lock the door and lean back against it.
Fucking hell. I need… something. Probably painkillers, a mug of extra-strong coffee and a run around the block—but that’s not it.
Embers. That’s who I need.
No, dammit. I thump my fist back against the door. I don’t need a perso
n. Not that. I’m okay on my own.
The images from the nightmare rush back as the stench of my sour sweat clinging to my sheets hits me. They stink of fear, just like my skin.
Staggering to my bed, I sink on the mattress, plonk the plate down by my side and struggle to push down the fucked up mess that’s inside my head—the ugly jagged tangle of emotions, the sharp sting of memories I’d hoped I buried, the ever-present restlessness and tension.
Who is the guy in my dream? My uncle, a faint memory insists, but I don’t trust it. Can’t remember living with an uncle. Can’t remember much from my childhood.
The past can’t touch me. I’m fine. I don’t need anyone.
But even as I force myself to eat, as I pull on my sweats and go out for a jog, as I pound the sidewalk with my running shoes and see the run rise, all I can see is her face, and all I feel is the desperate urge to touch her. Smell her. Hear her voice. I don’t know how to battle against this need.
I don’t know if I can.
Chapter Seven
Amber
It’s early morning. No idea what woke me other than another string of dreams that turned up the heat until I had to throw the covers off me.
Morning porn, brought to you by a certain sexy hunk called Jesse Lee. Stay tuned for the next episode.
Good God.
After I woke up to find my hand between my legs for the third time in a row, a pulse deep inside my belly and a pair of green-blue eyes haunting me, I decided enough was enough.
I’m not in lust with Jesse. No way. The boy’s trouble. For chrissakes, he’s a manwhore who has no problem flaunting it. No regrets there, obviously, and no thoughts of ever stopping.
And that shouldn’t be my problem, in any case. With his tattoos and attitude, he’s exactly the kind of guy who smoked pot and bullied kids at school. In other words, exactly the kind of guy I should be running away from.
A shudder goes through me.
The apartment is quiet as I pad into the kitchen and start the coffee maker going. Kayla is probably still snoring in her bed¸ as any sensible person would do on a summer morning. She’s a college student, and college students are like vampires when on vacation. They are dead in the early morning hours, and their curtains are drawn shut to stop the sun from disturbing them, while they spend their nights partying and dancing.
Not that it’s any different the rest of the year. I should know. Jeez, I’m a college student, too. I tend to forget that.
Only now I don’t know what to do with my life. Which way to choose. What future I want.
Maybe coffee will help with the brain waves. Has to.
I’m pouring myself a steaming mug when the doorbell rings. A glance at the clock mounted on the wall lets me know it’s seven thirty. Who on earth can that be?
A thought hits me as I cross the living room, but that’s crazy. Nah. Can’t be. I mean, why would he come? Lured by my dreams of him?
Get a grip, Amber.
Then I look through the peephole, and it’s déjà vu all over again. Reality lurches as my dreams merge with the image of the tall, muscled guy waiting outside, bright eyes shifting between the door and the world beyond. He’s dressed in jogging gear, in a washed-out black hoodie and stretchy jogging pants that mold to the thick muscles of his thighs and calves.
My whole body flushes, my nipples harden and the ache between my legs returns.
God. If looking at him through the peephole does this to me, what would it be like to touch his strong chest, his face, kiss those lush lips, taste his smoky, masculine flavor?
And there I go again, wanting a guy I shouldn’t. I may not be a good judge of people, but this case is clear-cut: Jesse isn’t who I need.
For a moment I consider pretending I’m not here. I could walk away quietly. No harm, no foul.
Before I step away, though, he turns his gaze to me, as if he’s looking straight at me. As if he knows I’m there. His gaze is sad, his pretty mouth downturned. He seems so miserable I don’t have the heart to go through with my plan.
Cursing myself six ways to Sunday for being an idiot, I open the door and face him.
“Good morning,” I say, repeating to myself that I should avoid pet names and anything ambiguous he could use to tease me. “Is everything okay?”
The long slide of his eyes over my neck and breasts quickens my breath and leaves a trail of heat on my skin.
“Good morning, sweets,” he drawls and braces one arm on the doorframe, leaning in. “Well, now it is a good morning indeed.”
Looks like it doesn’t matter what I say. With this man everything is an innuendo waiting to happen.
Then again, no wonder he’s staring at my breasts. My nipples are stiff and aching, standing to attention, poking through the thin fabric of my T-shirt.
Hurriedly I fold my arms over my chest to hide them. “It was a good morning until you showed up,” I grumble.
“You wound me to the heart.” He presses a hand to his chest and flashes me a lopsided grin, so sexy my brain short-circuits.
“Do I?” I whisper, breathless. Why the heck am I breathless?
His gaze is dark and hot, the length of his muscular body within touching distance, and his scent snags me and draws me in—musk and cinnamon and sweaty boy. He’s so close I can see the ring of blue around the green starburst surrounding the pupils of his eyes, the fine lines at their corners deepening with his grin, and a thin, jagged scar, white with time, running from one dark brow to his hairline.
When did he get so close? Or was it me?
Maybe that’s why I can’t breathe properly anymore. I force myself to take a step back and look away.
“So what are you doing here today?” I clear my throat, my voice somehow thick. “Anything else you lost during the party?”
“Just the one.” Out of the corner of my eye I see him lean on the doorjamb, his grin fading. “I don’t suppose you found it?”
“The leather band?” I shake my head. “I looked. Maybe it wasn’t here you lost it. Maybe at another girl’s apartment? I know. How about that blonde’s house?”
“What the…” He huffs, a breath of a sound, and rubs his forehead. “I’ve never been to her place. I don’t know her. Can’t even recall her name.”
“Veronica, I believe it was.”
“Then you know more than me.”
“You’re a,” I swallow, looking for a non-ambiguous word, “a douche.”
He doesn’t deny it, only snorts softly. “May I come in?”
“What for?”
“To look for my leather band.”
“No way. I’ll let you know if I find it, but honestly, I don’t think it’s here.”
A pause, and despite myself I glance his way. His eyes are strangely blank. “You won’t let me in?”
“Nope.” In fact, I’m going to grab my coffee and go hide in my room. “Got stuff to do.”
“Really? I could help you.”
“You can’t.”
“Boy.” He chuckles. “How do you know? What will you be doing, playing with yourself? ’Cuz if I can’t help you, then at least I wouldn’t mind watching.”
I choke on my spit. “Screw you.”
He shrugs. “If it gets you off…”
“You’re unbearable.”
“Yeah.” There’s a note of regret in his voice, a bright, golden chime of sorrow, then he taps a rhythm on the doorframe with his fingers while picking with his other hand at a hole in his hoodie. “I’d better get going then.”
Those remarkable eyes shift, and the regret I heard in his voice echoes in their depths, a flash of bleakness.
Crap. I shouldn’t. Not with the way he makes my body react and my heart sting. Not with the way he teases me. He’s like salt in my wounds, the last thing I need.
I really shouldn’t.
“I have fresh coffee,” I say. “Get in.”
***
Jesse draped over a chair in my little kitchen is a sight not easily f
orgotten. He’s taken off his hoodie, and his T-shirt is soft and stretching easily across his pecs and broad shoulders. I watch his long fingers curl around the chipped coffee mug I dug out of the cupboard, his sea foam gaze glinting over the rim, and my mind goes blank.
I’m going to regret this, but Kayla was right. He’s such eye-candy, I can’t help staring.
Just a touch. Just a taste.
Shaking my head at myself, I busy my hands with the coffee maker and keep my back to him. I need a moment to gather my wits.
“So, Embers.” I hear the clink of his mug when he sets it down on the table. “How do you like it, being back here?” He taps his fingers on the table, like he did on the doorframe. “You did say you were from around here, right?”
Crap, I did. “It’s okay.”
“Just okay?”
Mug gripped firmly in both hands, I turn toward him. “It’s fantastic,” I say drily.
He grins and looks down into his coffee. “Yeah, I see you can’t contain your excitement and joy. Going out on a limb, I’d say you hated it here and couldn’t wait to skip town. Makes sense.” He tsks. “Question is, why did you come back if it makes you so unhappy?”
Whoa. I’m not sitting in my kitchen with Jesse digging inside my head. Because that would be weird, wouldn’t it? Like, Oprah weird.
Besides… just no. Answer the question with a question. Boy, those visits to the psychologist are paying off.
“Are you from around here?”
He blinks, looks up. “No, actually, I’m not.” He seems shocked I asked.
“So where are you from, and how did you end up here?”
“You really wanna know?”
His question could be a trap to get me to admit I really want to know, so he can tease me mercilessly about it.
Funny thing is, I find I really do want to know more about him. He’s a puzzle, a riddle.
“Sure.”
He blinks again, brows lifting. “I’m from North Dakota, near Bismarck. I think.”
“You think?”
He shrugs. “Moved about quite a bit.”
“You don’t have an accent.”
He sips at his steaming coffee, his face going blank. “I left a long time ago.”
