British Bad Boys: A Bad Boy Romance Boxed Set

by Marissa Farrar

“Come up and stay with me.” She blurted the offer before she’d even thought about it.

  “Don’t be stupid, Tess.” Every word he said stung. “We barely know each other. I’m not going to just move in.”

  “Not move in. Just stay with me until you get sorted.”

  “I don’t want your pity.”

  Her emotions for him quickly morphed to anger and frustration. “Jesus. It’s not pity. I thought we were doing okay. I thought we were friends—more than friends.”

  “You’re my landlady, remember?”

  She stared at him. “Why do you have to be such an ass?”

  “You think I’m being the ass? Just try to see this from my point of view for once? I’ve got a lot on my plate and you being around isn’t helping anything.”

  “You know what I think, Art?”

  “No.” He scowled. “But I’m sure you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

  “I think you act like you don’t give a shit what anyone thinks of you, but in actual fact, you’re constantly aware of the possibility people might be judging you. But you know who’s judging you more than anyone else?”

  His arms folded across his chest. “I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”

  “You judge you. And I’m not sure you ever come up good enough in your own eyes. Well that’s fine, cause I can’t be doing with any more of your shit. I waited here to speak to you because I thought there was another side to you, and that you’d be worth my time. Seems I was wrong.”

  And with that, she turned and stormed back up the stairs, wishing she’d never come down in the first place.

  Wishing she’d stayed in America.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Art wished he had somewhere to escape to, but for the moment all he had was the tattoo studio. Tess hadn’t expressly told him he was no longer allowed to sleep there, and, despite their turbulent relationship, he didn’t think she’d want to see him out on the streets.

  Fuck. Relationship. That was the one thing he’d been trying to avoid all this time and he’d failed. This would all be so much easier if he could convince himself to not give a shit. He was trying to keep Tess at a distance, but she just kept breaking through to him, tugging on his heart strings, when he was trying to persuade himself he didn’t have a heart.

  Both Rocco and Kane had offered for him to go and stay on their respective couches, but Art had declined. He hated to admit it, but he was embarrassed at not having anywhere to live, and he didn’t need his employees feeling sorry for him. That Tess had told them made him furious—it wasn’t her place—but he knew she’d only talked to them because she gave a shit. Besides, a part of him didn’t want to leave the shop. At least when he was here, he could lie on his sleeping bag, staring up and knowing Tess was only the other side of the ceiling.

  ***

  Art burst from sleep, coughs hacking their way through his body. His ribs contracted with the volley of coughing, his throat burning. Tears streamed from his eyes. He covered his face with his hand, instinctively ducking his head down, trying to figure out what was going on. Confusion blurred his thoughts and he rolled off the sleeping bag he used as a bed and clambered to his feet. Immediately, whatever was attacking his lungs grew worse, and the coughing clutched his throat and chest again. He dropped back down to the floor, on his hands and knees, his head hung. His eyes continued to stream, but at least he could breathe down here.

  His mind started to put together what was happening. The room was full of smoke. Something was on fire.

  Instantly, his thoughts went to Tess, sleeping upstairs. Was she okay? Smoke rose, and she might be unconscious and completely unaware of what was happening. From somewhere deeper in the building, he could hear a low roar, like distant traffic. Overlaying the roar came a snap and pop, and something cracked.

  Fuck. Why hadn’t the smoke alarms gone off? He tried to think of the last time he’d checked them, but couldn’t remember.

  Indecision froze him.

  Should he find the fire, and try to put it out? Those few minutes might cost Tess her life, and he’d never forgive himself if he she died because he hadn’t acted quickly enough. He could already feel the heat rising up from the floor. Knowing he needed to act, he fumbled around and found his mobile phone. He dialled nine-nine-nine and asked for the fire department, and managed to hack out the address between his coughing. The woman on the other end of the line asked him to stay on the line with her, but he hung up instead and tried Tess’s number. It rang out, and went to answer phone.

  “Shit.” The heat had grown worse. Knowing he’d need to protect his feet, which were currently bare, he scrambled around and located his boots, then pulled them on. He needed to get to Tess.

  Art knew the shop better than any other place in the world, but the smoke completely disorientated him. If someone had asked him if he’d been able to find his way around in the dark, he’d have answered categorically yes. In the smoke, things were different however. His body was fighting to survive, and this made coherent thought a struggle.

  He lurched in the direction of the door which separated the back of the studio from the backyard and the stairs leading up to Tess’s flat. Something slammed against his thighs, rebounding him off like a pinball in a machine. He staggered, grasping out blindly. His fingers met with a wall and heat surged through his fingertips. Where was the fire originating from? He couldn’t see any flames in here, so he assumed it was from something out the back. He used the wall to find his way to the back of the studio, navigating a couple of the chairs they used to tattoo clients on as he went. He found the door to the rear of the building, and immediately the heat became more intense. Fuck. The fire must be originating in the room they used to take their breaks, where the coffee machine and under counter fridge freezer were located. He’d known that wiring had been bad. Had that been the cause or had one of the guys left a cigarette unlit, or something else? He might never find out if he didn’t survive this.

  He opened the door, the handle hot. Just across the small hallway was the rear exit, and freedom. The staffroom was partly located under the stairs. The door was shut but warped with the heat. Smoke billowed out from the gap beneath, and through the smoke he could see the red and orange flames dancing behind the glass. The staircase would be the first thing to go and when it did, Tess would be trapped.

  Panic filled him. He couldn’t lose her. Not like this. Not again.

  Art opened his mouth to call her name, but the smoke caught at the back of his throat and sent him into another coughing fit. He staggered for the stairs. The wooden banister was hot enough to smoke and he snatched his hand away. The heat from the fire below seared up through the soles of his boots. He took the stairs two at a time, and quickly reached the top. The smoke was still thick, drifting up in tendrils.

  Art balled his fist and hammered on the door. “Tess! Tess!”

  The yelling caused more coughing.

  There was no answer, and no sound beyond the door. He hated to think of her lying in bed, unconscious.

  With no choice, he took a step back and rammed his shoulder against the door. Pain shattered through his shoulder, but he ignored it. He wished he had more of a run up, but the door was right at the top of the stairs. Even so, he took a couple of steps down and tried again. This time, he heard a crack and the door bowed.

  “Fuck!” he yelled, adrenaline surging through his body, keeping him focused. He charged again, and this time the lock splintered, and the door flew open, sending him hurtling into the flat beyond. Art managed to keep his balance, his arms pin wheeling.

  “Tess!” he yelled again.

  He headed straight for the bedroom. The smoke wasn’t as thick up here, but he still had to blink tears away to see where he was going. The heat increased again as he reached her bedroom. The bedroom door was open. If only it had been shut, it would have offered her another layer of protection against the smoke.

  Her body was a bundle beneath the blanket and his heart lurched.
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br />   “Tess! You’ve got to wake up. There’s a fire.”

  He shook her, hard. She moaned and tried to roll away from him. She was hot, her skin filmed in sweat, the t-shirt she wore clinging to her skin.

  Art threw back the covers and bent down and scooped her up. If that staircase went—which it was liable to at any moment—they’d be trapped up here.

  “Art?” she said, coming round, wriggling in his grip. “What’s going on?”

  “There’s a fire downstairs. We have to get out of here.”

  Instantly, she grew alert. “What?”

  “There’s a fire. We have to go.”

  “Shit. Put me down.”

  “We don’t have time. The floor’s burning.”

  She started to cough, and he joined her.

  Holding her in his arms, Art ran for the door. The stairs were starting to go, the middle part sagging.

  “Oh, shit. This could get messy. Hang on.” Her arms tightened around his neck, her dark eyes wide and streaming with tears. He didn’t know if they were caused by fear or the smoke.

  As his foot made contact with the tread, the step splintered, his foot almost going through it, sending them into the flames below. Instead of going down, Art pitched forward, shielding Tess with his body as he hit the remaining stairs. Battered and bruised, they came to a rest at the bottom. There wasn’t any time to catch their breath. The glass of the other door shattered outward, covering them with glass. Oxygen hit the flames, and they roared higher, and another part of the staircase collapsed. Tess let out a scream.

  Art climbed to his feet, pulling Tess with him. With his arm around her, they both ran for the backdoor. He kicked it open, and they burst out into the fresh air.

  They both collapsed to the ground, Tess crying in his arms. He held her tight, stroking her singed hair and checking her over for any injuries. The soles of her feet were burnt and she obviously had smoke inhalation, as did he, but otherwise she was safe.

  In the distance, he heard the wail of sirens approaching. The fire brigade and most likely the cops were on their way. Further crashes came from inside as things collapsed. People in the surrounding houses emerged, looking frightened and confused.

  Art’s heart broke at the thought of all the artwork inside, all the equipment that would be lost. He had Tess though—that’s what mattered. He hated to think what might have been if he hadn’t stayed at the shop that night. What if he’d taken one of the guys up on their offer and gone and slept on their couch? He wouldn’t have been here to wake Tess. She would have died.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse from the smoke. He pulled away from her so he could look into her face. He noted how she only wore her knickers and a t-shirt. She was shivering from the cold, and shock as well, most likely.

  She nodded. “I am, thanks to you.”

  He pulled off his own t-shirt, leaving him bare-chested and wrapped it around her shoulders. She reached up to tug it closer, and he noticed something and frowned. The inside of her arms were criss-crossed with lines, some of them still pink and new.

  He caught hold of her wrists. “Fucking hell, Tess. What happened?”

  She snatched her hands away. “Nothing.”

  “That’s not nothing. Those look recent, too.”

  Her face flamed red. “Please, Art. Just leave it.”

  “No, I won’t. I care about you. You can’t expect me to see scars like that and not want to know what happened. Did you do that to yourself?”

  “I was in a bad place. I’m better now.”

  His voice softened. “I know you are, but I want to know all about you, and this is a part of you I never knew existed.”

  Her dark eyes met with his. “We’ll talk about it later, Art. I promise. Now’s not the time.”

  He nodded his agreement. They both had their pasts, their secrets. He hadn’t told her things either, but he knew now that he wanted to. He wanted to know everything about her, and wanted her to know everything about him. No more secrets.

  No more trying to push her away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tess allowed Art to hold her as the police and ambulance crew swept in. The acrid tang of smoke filled her nostrils, permeating both the air around her and the small amount of clothing she wore. She wondered how long it would be before she wouldn’t be able to smell smoke again. She had the feeling it would take a lot longer than a fresh set of clothes and a wash.

  “Are you folks okay?” asked a paramedic, as he hunkered down beside them.

  “Yeah, we’re okay,” Art said. “Just suffering from the smoke.”

  The paramedic’s gaze flicked over them both, a slight frown marking his brow as Tess started to cough again, her hand hiding her mouth.

  “Let’s take you in, and get you checked over.”

  Art’s bare arms around her tightened. “Okay, but we’re riding in the ambulance together.”

  “That should be fine.”

  The fire department had entered the building from the front, dragging huge hoses through the big windows of the shop. The sound of the fire surprised her more than anything. It was as though a roaring dragon had swallowed the building, and was now being drowned by a river. When she’d thought about a fire in the past, she’d known it would be hot and smoky, but she’d never considered the racket it would make.

  The police arrived to assess the scene and were pointed in their direction as Tess and Art made their way to the ambulance on the main road, Art with his arm around her waist and a silver foil blanket around his shoulders.

  “Any idea what happened here?” a young officer asked.

  Art shook his head. “Bad wiring, perhaps. I’m really not sure.”

  She felt a pang of guilt. He’d told her the building hadn’t been maintained properly, but she hadn’t really listened. She wasn’t completely to blame—after all, she hadn’t been responsible for her aunt, she’d had enough of her own shit to deal with—but maybe a little part of her had wondered if he’d only said it as a ploy to keep the rent down.

  But he’d saved her life, and risked his own to do so. Art could have easily run out the door as soon as he’d noticed the fire, but he’d come upstairs and rescued her instead. He said he cared about her, and the way he held her, as though he was terrified that if he let go she might vanish from existence, made her believe him.

  ***

  They stayed together in the hospital. After the doctors had checked them over they were both declared to be generally unharmed, but the doctors wanted to keep them in for a few more hours for observations. They were fine with that. It wasn’t as though they had anywhere else to go.

  Tess sat with Art holding her hands. His thumb stroked her wrists and the multitude of lines marking her skin.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened now?” he asked her.

  “I lost someone,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  “A boyfriend?” he guessed.

  She nodded. “Yes, but he was more than that. We grew up together. He was my best friend as well. He was my everything.”

  “Fuck, I’m sorry, Tess.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “He died about a year ago, but it was a long time coming. He had cancer. I thought I was ready to lose him, that it was something I’d prepared myself for. I’d even thought that it would be a relief when he finally went, that he was no longer in pain, and I could move on with my life. But then he died and there was just this huge hole where he’d been. I guess being with Brett had been all consuming, taking care of him, thinking about him. My life had revolved around him. Then in a blink of an eye, he was gone, and I didn’t know what to do with myself any more. Everything just felt empty and pointless, and everywhere I turned I was reminded of him. His presence touched every single place in our town, everywhere I looked I could see not where he’d been, but what he was never going to see again. For the first month or so, I just figured I was sad because I’d
lost him. My friends tried to take me out, but I refused. I didn’t show up for work. I could barely bring myself to get out of bed and take a shower. I struggled to see the point in it all, when we could just be here one day, and then gone the next. What was the point in working, in building a career or a home, when you could step out of the door one day and never come home?”

  He was staring at her, his blue eyes filled with sorrow. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

  She shook her head and continued with her story. “I thought I was just sad because I’d lost my best friend in the whole world. But I lost all perspective. I just couldn’t see past it—the sadness was all consuming.”

  “Didn’t anyone suggest you were depressed? That you needed to speak to someone, or see a doctor and get medication?”

  “I think they thought it was understandable I was feeling that way. They’d seen Brett die as well. They were all missing him, too. Maybe if my dad had still been alive, he’d have noticed something was wrong, but I was on my own. My friends had their own lives. They came and visited me, and maybe I hid it well when they did. I got out of bed, and washed my hair, and drank coffee with them, and smiled when I was supposed to, but it was all just an act. It was always a relief when they left and I was able to crawl back into bed. I couldn’t see a way I’d ever feel any different. People said it got better with time, but it didn’t. It got worse. I started….” She had to force the words out, still filled with such shame… “Cutting. It made me feel better for a short time. But then the cutting wasn’t enough anymore, and I just wanted it to end.”

  He took her hands, pulling her closer. “I can’t stand to think of you being in so much pain.”

  “I knew I’d made a mistake the moment I’d done it, the moment I’d pulled the blade across both wrists and saw the blood turning the water red. It was like a light bulb went on in my head, and I knew I wanted to live. I grabbed a towel and managed to make it to the phone and call nine-one-one before I passed out. They broke down the door and found me unconscious. I got help after that—put on anti-depressants, which I’m still taking now—and saw a therapist. I got better, but I was still struggling with seeing memories of Brett everywhere. Then I got the letter to say my aunt had died and I’d inherited this place. I had a British passport because of my father, so I was able to come here, and it just made sense. I didn’t want to forget Brett, but I couldn’t live my life being tortured by memories of him.”