She slides off her boy-toy's lap. "Follow me." Her red heels sink into the carpet, then they click against the tile.
She turns back. Motions let's go.
And everyone does.
One by one, people stand. File out of the room.
Someone, a guy about Dean's height, with a letterman jacket and dark hair, whispers something in Dean's ear.
Dean shakes his forehead. "Got something else to do."
The friend laughs.
Dean watches him leave.
It's just us in this giant house.
I move to the table. Fill my glass with more orange juice and vodka. Pray for it to erase that you don't belong here voice completely.
This is supposed to be the best time of my life. Parties. Boys. Fun.
I'm having fun, dammit.
Dean follows me to the table. "You don't want to watch?"
"Alan isn't my type."
"What is?"
"Smart guys." I take a long sip of my drink. "You know any?"
"Not one. But I can help with that drink." His hand brushes mine. Slowly, he peels my fingers from my cup. "Grenadine." He picks up a bottle of candy red liquid. Pours it into my glass. "Goes down smoother."
"Thanks." My stomach flutters as he hands the glass back.
This is intentional.
He's touching me on purpose.
He's helping me on purpose.
He's alone with me on purpose.
He fills his cup with Jack and Coke then lifts it to toast.
"To?" I ask.
"Good friendships."
"We're good friends?"
"Of course." His voice is earnest. Honest.
"I hate you."
"I know."
"That doesn't bother you?"
"Fuck no. It's what I like about you." He clinks his glass with mine. Takes a long sip. Lets out a low sigh of pleasure. "You keep me on my toes."
"You live on your toes."
"Should take up ballet." He makes a show of rising to his tiptoes. It's nowhere close to a ballet move. But it's Dean all the same.
Charming and irritating.
Gia says he reminds her of Han Solo.
But Gia isn't the one taking his constant insults. (And Gia needs to learn that Star Wars isn't the answer to all of life's questions).
"I do like you, sunshine." His eyes find mine. "Have for a while."
"So that virgin question?"
"I wanted to know something. So, I asked."
"What did you want to know?"
He moves closer. Until I can feel the heat of his body. Smell his cologne. "If I'd be your first."
What? My cheeks flame. There's no way he…
There's no…
I…
"Chloe?" His fingers brush the inside of my wrist.
"Huh?"
"I want to fuck you."
"But—"
"Let's go upstairs. I'll show you the night of your life."
My defenses crumble.
Dean wants me.
He's offering to fuck me.
He…
How is this possible?
My heart screams for him. My body aches for him. My head—it's still reasonable.
I throw up the only defense I know—sarcasm. "Of my entire life?"
"Yeah."
"Doesn't speak well for your future performances."
"You already thinking about round two?"
"No. I…" My cheeks flame. "I meant—"
"I know what you meant, sunshine. Round two will be just as good. But nothing is as special as your first time."
"Yours?"
He shrugs, effortless. "Wasn't lucky enough to have someone like me showing me the ropes."
"You're going to show me the ropes?"
He nods. "Yeah." His fingers trace circles over my skin. "If that's what you want."
"Judy offered to fuck you."
"And?"
"Why me over her?"
"I told you, sunshine. I like you. It's that simple."
"You're about to graduate."
"You will next year."
"But you're… you're leaving."
He shakes his head. "Not going anywhere."
"Where will you be?"
"Ryan is gonna get me a gig as an apprentice."
"Yeah?" I bite back my enthusiasm. Dean's older brother is a tattoo artist. It's the coolest thing ever.
"Yeah." He nods. "Just got this one." He pulls his shirt up his torso, showing off inches of taut abs.
He pulls it higher.
All the way to his side.
He turns to show off a tattoo on his ribs—the state of California, adorned with grey and red roses.
"How much did that hurt?" I ask.
"Like a bitch."
"Guys usually say it doesn't hurt."
"Liars."
"Can I?"
"Of course."
My fingers go to his skin. It's soft, but he's bone and muscle beneath it.
God, the feel of him against my fingertips…
My knees knock together.
"Didn't think you were the ink type," he says.
Words dissolve on my tongue. He's so close. And so undressed. And so hot.
My hand knows what it wants.
It traces his ink again and again.
I look up at him. He's so tall. I'm short, yeah, but he's on some other plane of height.
"Can you keep a secret?" I ask.
He pulls an imaginary zipper over his lips in a my lips are sealed gesture.
"I got one last month." I roll my jeans over my right hip to show off my new tattoo. A star. It's a little lopsided, but it's mine.
"Badass." He flashes me that million-dollar smile. "I have another one to show you." He offers his hand. "Upstairs."
There's weight in the word.
Upstairs isn't for conversation. It's for what I've been dreaming about for the last three years.
"Okay." I down half my drink. Pray for the liquid courage I hear so much about. "Upstairs."
I take his hand and follow him to the bedroom.
Dean presses his lips to mine.
He strips me out of my clothes.
He lays me on the bed and warms me up.
Pulls a condom from his jeans. Tears it open. Slides it on.
Then he's on top of me, easing into me, whispering dirty promises in my ear.
It hurts, but not as badly as Gia told me it would.
The pain fades to discomfort.
To pleasure.
To the thrill of knowing that Dean and I are one.
He takes care of me. Makes sure I come.
It feels like we go forever.
We finish. He helps me dress. Promises to stay in touch.
Never does.
He doesn't text, or call, or email, or IM.
The next week, he graduates.
And I spend seven years without hearing a peep from Dean Maddox.
Chapter Two
Chloe
The bell rings as I push the door open.
Morning light floods the cozy shop. For a moment, the September heat competes with the air-conditioning. Then the door falls closed, and the air-conditioning wins.
It's freezing in here. December in Big Bear freezing.
It doesn't fit the cozy vibe. This place is awfully cute for a tattoo shop. Red and pink string lights, tattoo mock-ups in heart-shaped frames, black counter, white walls, shiny hardwood floor.
Two of the suites—there are three of them, oak half-walls on two sides, mirrored wall on one, lobby on the other—are empty.
The one in the middle…
That's his shaggy blond hair.
His broad shoulders.
His strong back.
His bright blue t-shirt.
I wrap my arms around my chest.
Suck a breath between my teeth.
Seven years, and Dean Maddox still fills my stomach with butterflies.
He still sends ever
y bit of my sense packing.
No amount of reasoning—he taunted you, fucked you, then threw you away—helps.
I force myself to adopt a casual stance. Hand in pocket, hip tilted to one side, smile replacing my resting bitch face.
"Hey," I call to no one in particular.
Steps move closer. Not from Dean's suite. From the back.
Light surrounds Ryan in an angelic glow as he steps in the cozy main room.
He holds his hand over his eyes, blocking the glare.
Half-smiles as he nods hello.
Ryan's black-on-black Converse squeak against the hardwood floor. He extends his hand. "You're early."
I take it. Shake. "Always."
His chuckle is soft. "Not this early." He runs a hand through his wavy coffee brown hair. "Leighton won't be in for a while, but I can take you through her routine."
"Sure."
"Have to finish some shit in the office first. I'll be a minute." He motions to the black counter. "Feel free to set up."
He's a man of few words. It's one of the things I like best about him.
Ryan and I are the same kind of weird—too serious, closed off, always in black.
We spar with anyone but refuse hugs from strangers.
I was surprised when he offered me a job at Inked Hearts. Without an interview. All he knew about me was that I was as serious about aikido as he was. And as desperate to find a place to apprentice as anyone has ever been.
I lay my black backpack on the counter. Pull out my thermos. Find it empty. I drank my London Fog on the way here.
There's a Keurig in the lobby, right above one of the teal benches, but there's no sign of a kettle or a fridge.
Damn. I need that easy hit of comfort. Tea from a pod… no thank you.
Strong, steady footsteps pad the floor. "You miss me?"
Dean.
Anger and lust fill my veins.
That voice…
I can still hear him mocking me. Sunshine, you never have any fun.
I can still hear him groaning my name. Fuck, Chloe. You're so wet.
"You ever turn it off?" Ryan calls from the back room. He moves into the lobby. Shoots his brother a really look.
Dean makes that who me? gesture. He shrugs like he can't be bothered to think about anything he does.
Ryan ignores him. "Chloe, this is my brother. Dean. You guys went to school together."
This is a small space. We're close.
Dean is right there. Three feet away maybe. Close enough to kiss. To hug. To slap.
"I remember." My eyes refuse to obey my command. They focus on his narrow waist. His broad chest. His strong shoulders.
Those same bright blue eyes.
That same million-dollar smile.
He offers his hand. "Nice to see you again."
Ryan raises a brow. He shoots his brother a cutting look.
Dean shrugs, effortlessly aloof.
I dig my heel into the hardwood. I'm new and I'm nobody. He's a co-owner. And a blood relative.
Whatever problems I have with Dean Maddox, I'm going to have to get over them if I want this.
Ryan shoots me a look. You okay?
I nod.
He nods back. "If he gives you shit, let me know. I'll kick his ass." There's a hint of humor in Ryan's usually serious voice. He's teasing.
He must be.
Because Dean is wearing his amusement like it's his finest suit.
He waits for Ryan to leave then moves closer. "It's been a while."
God, I was such a stupid kid. I really believed that I meant something to him. "Yeah."
"Your hair looks good short."
"Thanks." I brush a dark strand behind my ear reflexively. At first, this style was a necessity, not a choice. But I grew to love it.
"You look even more like you can kill me."
"I can. I do aikido now."
"Ryan told me."
"Oh." I bite my lip. It doesn't mean anything, Ryan and Dean talking about me. He's the same carefree playboy. I may not be the same, but I'm still the artsy loner.
I'm nothing to him. Another notch on a bedpost covered with them.
"Ryan said you almost kicked his ass," Dean says.
"It's sparring. Not ass kicking."
"You beat him or not?"
Not. "I came close." Ish.
He offers his hand. "Show me something."
The thought of touching him sets me on fire.
The thought of hurting him satisfies somewhere deep.
This sort of anger isn't healthy. I've been through too much to care about a guy who failed to call seven years ago.
I need to get past this.
"Later." I take a step backward. My ass hits the counter. My heels too. "I don't want to break your hand."
"You're no fun."
"Was I ever?"
"Yeah. In your way, you were always fun, sunshine." His voice drops as he calls me by the old pet name.
It's the same charm as always.
He has no idea he hurt me.
Or he doesn't care.
Which is worse—stupidity or apathy?
"I should get to work." I move behind the counter. Take a seat at the stool. Pretend as if I know what I'm supposed to do with the computer.
"You want some help?" The light from the window surrounds him. Bounces off his hair, his neck, his chest.
He looks like an angel.
But that's all wrong.
Dean is a devil, plain and simple.
And he's not tempting me again.
I press my lips into a smile. "Ryan has it under control."
"Suit yourself." He takes a step backward, out of the bright light, into an even, diffuse one. "If you need anything, you know who to call." His voice gets soft. Seductive.
Is it an actual offer to fuck him?
Or more of his usual bullshit?
I guess it doesn't matter.
I'm not sleeping with him again.
I'm not letting him get to me.
I'm not taking any of his bullshit.
Chapter Three
Dean
I roll my shoulders back. Focus on the neat line of black ink. This is almost done and it's fucking badass.
For a moment, my limbs fill with nervous energy. There's a thrill to marking someone's body. One that never gets old.
My eyes fix on the back piece.
This is it.
The end of a twelve hour, three session piece of art.
"You gonna miss me?" I ask.
"Not even a little." Randy squeezes the teal vinyl. He squirms, knocking his sandals together, turning his head to one side.
"You're brave." I turn the gun on. It hums. Vibrates against my gloved hand. "I could still fuck it up."
"Your ego won't let you."
"That's my favorite subject." I lower my stool. Lean closer. Until I'm out of direct sunlight. Why aren't the shades down? It's too fucking bright in here.
"I thought it was whoever you had last night."
I chuckle. Randy is, well, randy. He always fishes for details on my latest fuck.
Usually, I oblige.
Gladly.
Shooting the shit with customers is half the fun of the job.
I attract a certain type of client—guys who want to get crude or women who want to flirt. It works for me. Skin is skin. Doesn't matter if it's a middle-aged programmer like Randy or an eighteen-year-old model.
I kick ass, every time.
Truth be told, I went home last night. After leg day, I was dead tired. Crashed with takeout and TV.
But that isn't what he wants to hear.
I try to reach for an old story, one sure to please, but my brain is blocked.
Chloe is at the counter. Her almond eyes are fixed on me. Her short hair is sticking to her cheeks. Her black nails are tapping the counter.
Same as always. Impatient. Annoyed. Interested.
There's something about her that gets right under my
skin.
Thinking about another woman is impossible.
My head is flush with thoughts of her. Those black jeans at her ankles. The shy smile when I wrapped my fingers around her cotton panties (black, of course). She was worried they weren't sexy. But they were.
There's something about plain cotton panties. The innocence. The sweetness. The Chloe no one sees.
My cock stirs.
I can still taste her cunt on my lips.
Still hear her groaning my name.
Feel her painted black nails against my back.
Three years of teasing and flirting and they ended exactly how they needed to.
Shit.
I can't think about this or I am gonna fuck up.
This tiger is too perfect for that.
"Must be a good one." Randy laughs. "Do I need to give you a minute alone?"
If I keep thinking about Chloe, he will.
I push it aside. Find a… not fiction, but an exaggeration. Sometimes a tall tale is what gets the job done. "You ever have a guy beg you to fuck his girlfriend?"
"No way."
"Way." It was a while ago, yeah, but it was also unforgettable. "It was his thing. He liked to watch."
"Yeah?"
"Don't tell me you're uptight, Randy."
His laugh is hearty. "No."
"I get the objection. I wouldn't let some asshole touch my girl—"
"Certainly not someone like you."
"Randy, stop being brave. You're on your stomach. I've got the gun. I could write Dean Maddox owns my soul on your ass."
"You wouldn't."
"You sure about that?"
"Yeah…" His voice trails off. "Pretty sure."
He's right. I wouldn't.
But I'm not gonna let him know that.
Focus returns as I bring the needle to his skin. This is where I belong. Don't get me wrong. I love a lot of things—weight lifting, surfing, TV, women—but nothing compares to doing ink.
Nothing.
I shift into the zone. "Last one. You ready?"
"And my details?"
"After." Everything fades away as the needle hits his skin. The breathy whine of a miserable lyricist—Leighton's pick—blurs into heavy guitar, conversation, the whir of the air-conditioning, the smell of rubbing alcohol and A&D ointment.
The afternoon light gets soft.
I only see the tiger's paw.
The line of black surrounding it.
Four fingers. Four claws.
There.
Done.
Hating You, Loving You Page 2
