by Anne Jolin
God, I miss her. I miss her and I’ve never even had her.
Fuck, I’m such a pussy.
I’ve spent over a pathetic hour in my room trying to convince myself that I could be her friend. I could take care of her, as her friend, and then send her back into Brick Shithouse’s arms when she healed. It may have been delusional, but hell, it could have worked. Could being the choice word there, because one look at her as she was fidgeting outside my door sent my possessive instincts roaring back to life. It is absolute fucking bullshit that I can’t control my feelings. It makes me feel unstable and act like a jerk-off.
I took her phone for Christ’s sake. When she asked for it back, I was so nervous that she’d text what’s-his-nuts that I told her she couldn’t have it for her recovery. I mean, seriously? Her doctor said that she needed rest, not excommunication from everyone in her life.
The stupid organ in my chest can’t handle this crap. It was easier to manage when it was dead. I wish it would go back to being that way.
I trace my fingers over the tattoo on my wrist. The physical pain has long since healed, and scar tissue has built around the emotional wounds, but it hardly matters. One look at her name and my reality courses through me.
I’m the reason she’s dead.
When I quickly stand up from the table, the back of my chair slams into the wall. Avoiding eye contact with her, I carry my plate to the sink, clashing it down into the stainless steel. I don’t have to look back to know she’s watching me. I swear those eyes see straight through me. It’s unnerving.
After shoving my feet into my steel-toed boots, I grab my keys off the table. “I’m going to the shop,” I holler, slamming the front door behind me.
Peyton is an obligation, not a road to recovering my ability to love. I’d do well to remember that.
“Boss man,” Foster greets, looking somewhat confused when I yank the door open.
There’s zero reason for me to be here on a Sunday. Frankly, there’s zero reason for me to be here at all if I really didn’t want to. I opened The King’s Mistress the year I turned twenty-five, five years ago, and it’s been thriving ever since.
The door pings behind me, and I hear Danika’s army boots behind me.
“I’m sick and tired of this bullshit heat. All my clothes are sticky,” she whines, pulling her tank top back and forth in front of her to air it out.
Feeling my tension ease at being in my creative sanctuary, I eye Foster before making fun of her. “In four months, you’ll be bitching that it’s too cold. Why did you move here anyway? Did no one tell you that, in Rock Falls, we get all four seasons?”
Tossing her red hair over her tattooed shoulder, she glares at me. “Kiss my ass.”
“Is that an offer, love?” Foster pipes in from across the shop, where he’s working on a sketch.
Pouting her lips at him, she winks. “In your dreams.”
I hired Danika a little over a year ago. She’s younger, actually probably around Peyton’s age—twenty-four or so maybe. Her hair is thick and red, ending just before her ass, which is currently encased in cut-off denim shorts. I typically don’t hire women. Not to be sexist, but my shop started out with all men, and in the past, well, female employees caused a fuck-load of trouble for me. Danika is a spitfire and one of my best traditional tattoo artists. She’s booked solid nearly every shift, and aside from teasing Foster ruthlessly, she’s laid back.
Foster, on the other hand, is a charming asshole. I would guess she’s literally the only woman his wicked ways don’t work on. Not that he doesn’t try shamelessly every day. He’s been with me since I opened the shop a few years back and tackles mostly portrait work as well as a multitude of piercings each week. I don’t doubt that half the women in this town have their nipples pierced just because they wanted to get in a back room alone with him. Smooth-talking son of a bitch.
Then there’s Jensen.
“Will you two just fuck already? The sexual tension in here messes with my head,” he groans, frustrated, walking in from the storage room.
Speak of the devil.
Second to me, Jensen is the best artist in our shop. He’s talented as fuck, but he looks like a beach bum from Hawaii or some shit. He knocks it out of the park on realism tattoos, but the guy could slay any ink you wanted done. He’s a right fucking genius.
“Easy, Point Break,” I gripe at him, “I don’t need any more in-house fornication, okay? You remember what happened last time better than anyone.”
Flicking his head to the side to move his messy-ass, blond hair out of the way, he flips me the bird. “Go fuck yourself.”
“That’s your boss you’re talkin’ to,” Foster says, egging him on.
“Sorry,” he says, feigning apology before flipping me off with both hands this time. “Go fuck yourself, boss.”
Chuckling, I walk towards my office but stall when I see what Foster’s working on. Leaning over his shoulder, I see the wings of an eagle.
“Is that hers?” I spit out, not meaning to sound like such an ornery fucker, but memories of his hands on her assault me.
“Uhh, ya,” he answers sheepishly.
I grab the sketch book out of his hands, bringing it up get a closer look. “What are these dark spaces for?” I ask, pointing to spaces in the wings where he’s adjusted the drawing.
Foster swallows hard. It’s impossible to miss the fact that he doesn’t know if he should tell me.
Leaning down, I growl in his face. “Tell me.”
“Her scars,” he sighs.
Rage pools in every facet of my humanity. “What fucking scars?”
“Here,” he says, pointing to a spot under his pectoral muscles. “There are a couple.”
My jaw works furiously as my mind tries to settle on the new information.
“How well do you know this girl, boss?”
My sanity is still walking on a very fine line. “The fuck does it matter to you?” I snap, wanting to clock my own goddamned employee in the face for just asking about her.
“Boss.” He hesitates, and I narrow my eyes at him. “They look like knife wounds.”
HE LEFT. AGAIN.
Exploded in my presence and sped out of here like the damn house was on fire. I fought the urge to smell my armpits just to make sure it wasn’t because I smelled.
This shit is getting ridiculous. Why ask someone to live with you if you hate them?
Luckily for me, I have two roommates, and Jackson is a riot. Which is odd considering everyone always insinuated that he was the volatile one and Jayden was the playful one. I guess they’re right when the say that you can never really know what happens behind closed doors.
I tried to help him clean up after dinner, but he waved me off, saying that Jayden would have his ass if I did too much and injured myself. Looks like even when the warden’s away, he has someone to keep me on lockdown. Or maybe not?
“I have a few sites to check on,” Jackson says from the top of the stairs. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own for a bit?”
Fighting the urge to roll my eyes because he’s just being nice, I nod. “I’m not an injured puppy. I’ll be just fine.”
“Jayden shouldn’t be much longer,” he tells me, seeming unsure whether it’s okay to leave me or not.
Sighing, I turn my body on the couch to face him fully. “Jackson, seriously, it’s not a big deal. I didn’t move in here to be a hindrance on your life. I don’t need someone to constantly watch over me. It’s perfectly okay for you to go to work.”
I leave out the fact that I find it odd that both of my roommates are self-employed and both of them seem to have found a reason to go to work on a Sunday evening. But that would make him want to stay, and truthfully, I haven’t had time alone with myself in days. I crave it. Relaxing with all of these people around is next to impossible. Socialization is hardly sweeter than my solitude.
“Okay,” he concedes. “You have my number. If you need anything, I can be back
in a jiffy.”
Smiling at my victory, I shift my body back towards the TV. “Good luck.”
“Peyton?”
“Yes, Jackson?” I answer, flicking through the channels.
“Please don’t do anything to get me in trouble,” he pleads before I hear him move down the stairs, which is followed by the sound of the front door closing.
Get him in trouble? What the hell am I going to do? Rob a bank? I’m way too short for that. I’d barely clear the teller desk enough to point a shotgun at them.
Melodramatic men.
Deciding that I’m not completely satisfied with my smelling dilemma, I opt to run a bath. Aside from training with Colt, which I’d say is on the backburner for at least a few months while I heal, having a bath is one of the best ways I relieve stress.
After shuffling into my room, I locate the box of toiletry items and grin when my hand lands on my bath salts. I go to reach for my iPhone and groan. “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath. Digging through the boxes again, I pull out my laptop and its power cord. Truthfully, I don’t use the thing for anything other than updating the songs on my phone. Thus, it’s perfect for my current dilemma.
Once I’ve made it to the bathroom, I plug the charger into the wall and start up the computer. As it runs through its array of start-up procedures, I run the bath, shaking in the vanilla salts as the tub fills. Considering that I’m not sure how often I’ll be able to have these all to myself, I disappear back into my room and come out with soap to make a bubble bath.
Go big or go home.
Satisfied that the bath is well on its way to perfection, I strip my clothes off, embarrassed that, yet again, it took me an obscene amount of time to get my T-shirt off with this stupid cast on.
Staring at myself in the mirror, I wince. I look like I’ve been rode hard and put away wet. No wonder he doesn’t pay any attention to me. My normally full, beautiful hair hangs limply from having had no attention while I was at the hospital. Instead of being able to focus on the kiss of summer my skin has, all I see are the bruises—nearly half of my face and the majority of my body are covered in them. Skimming downward at my reflection, I take in my clunky cast and wrapped ribs. Knowing that I can’t get the bandage wet, I slowly begin to unravel it.
My breath quickens each time I loosen the wrap around me. If I were smart, I’d have taken my painkillers prior to having this bright idea, but I didn’t. When the bandage finally falls away from my body, I leave the material on the bathroom counter, turning slightly to see myself in the mirror. My upper abdomen is decorated in bruises as well, and hovering underneath them, the darkest reminder of my past.
Tracing my fingers over my scars, I remember why I’m here and all I’ve gone through.
Everyone deserves a second chance—even me.
After pulling my hair up into a messy bun, I open iTunes on my laptop and select my “Suds in the Tub” playlist. Once I’ve set it to shuffle mode, I slowly ease myself into the warm water, and some of my favorite slow songs pour into the air.
I can’t be certain how long I’ve been in here—a while, guessing by the number of songs that have played. I’m considering that it’s time to get out when the door to the bathroom swings open.
“I’m naked! Get out!” I shriek, sinking farther down into the bubbles. Well, as far as someone with a bright-pink cast they can’t get wet can sink, anyway.
Jayden ignores me, leaning his hip against the sink. “What are you listening to?”
Groaning, I try to look anywhere but his shirtless, sweaty chest and mumble into the bath tub, “Etta James.”
Why the heck is he so shirtless and yummy—I mean sweaty—anyway? I didn’t think tattoo artists worked up that much of a sweat at work.
“Hmm.” His eyes fall to my bare knees, and he swallows hard. I silently reward myself for having shaved them earlier; at least I know he’s not completely ignorant to the way I look.
Shifting uncomfortably, I sigh. “I’m turning into a raisin anyway, so if you get out, you can have the bathroom.” I start to smile but falter when he steps towards me instead of the door.
“I’m not leaving,” he growls.
The tone of his voice startles me, and my butt slides farther down into the tub. I flail, taking in nearly a mouthful of water, cursing my cracked ribs as I fumble underneath the surface. Suddenly, a strong arm wraps around my shoulders and another hooks under my knees, lifting my body to the edge.
“I can’t get out if you don’t leave,” I half sputter, half choke out as I quickly check to make sure all of my naughty bits are still covered with suds.
“You shouldn’t be in the bath tub when no one’s home to help you,” Jayden spits angrily.
I start to speak, but before my argument can gain any traction, he hauls my naked body, bruises and all, completely out of the water. Inhaling sharply at the sensation of the cool air moving across my wet skin, I wince, my body rebelling at the pain of my instinct to struggle against him. Finally, I succumb to the help. My burly roommate sets my feet on the ground, grabbing a towel off the hook and wrapping it around my waist.
“Thanks,” I murmur pathetically, holding the towel in place with my cast.
He eyes me for a moment before turning towards the door. Then he stops as he pulls it open. “Sugar?”
“Mmm,” I say absentmindedly, a part of me wondering if the tattooed god just likes to play nurse with his fragile little patient. That would be a shame.
“You look good naked.”
I TAKE ONE last look at her naked, dripping-wet body and slam the door shut behind me. After stalking into my room, I sit down on the edge of the bed, dropping my head into my hands. Breathing deeply, I try to settle the war of emotions raging inside me. I stopped off at the gym on my way home from the shop, desperate to work out some of this god-awful tension I’ve been feeling since Friday, but that shit was blown all to hell the minute I opened that door.
She was listening to some old-school music, something about finding a Sunday kind of love. Ironic that it was Sunday and I was there, but I’m hardly the type of man who’s capable of giving her something like that.
The sight of her lying there, her head titled back, her body covered in bubbles, had my dick swelling in my pants. My lust quickly transformed into worry—worry that she’d hurt herself if she kept up the stubborn attitude. She’d done her best to play it off earlier, but I’d seen how badly her fall out of the truck had hurt her. It had made even her breathing seem labored.
However, my worry was rapidly overturned by rage the moment my eyes slid over her scars. I averted my eyes, trying not to stare. I’d already hauled her naked body right out of the bathtub like some caveman. The last thing I needed to do was practically ravage her bare skin with my eyes or have her feel any kind of judgment behind my gaze.
Foster was right—they look a fuck-load like knife wounds, and the thought of that labors my own breathing.
It’s a well-known fact that most of us don’t know that much about her. We’ve chalked it up to a shy personality and a new town, leaving it at that. We were wrong—so goddamned wrong. I hope to fuck they aren’t what they look like. Just thinking about it makes my head spin and my stomach turn. So help me god, if it’s another person who marred her flesh like that, I’ll kill them.
Upon hearing the bathroom door open then, a moment later, her bedroom door close, I sigh heavily, flopping backwards onto my bed. Then I pull her phone out of my pocket, twirling it around in my hands. It’s not on—I turned it off. I’m not that much of a bastard that I’d go through her privacy without her permission. But even I can’t hide from the fact that having it in the first place is wrong enough.
Day one of this arrangement and I’ve already been a dick more times than I can count. It is due time I make up for that. She is never going to open up to an asshole who can barely keep his shit together for five minutes without acting like a macho loser and either storming off or hauling her off somewhere.
/> Sitting up, I slide the phone into the drawer of my side table and then head into the bathroom to take a cold shower. I might be flooded with rage, but my dick didn’t get the message that we’ve moved on from lust.
“Peyton,” I call through her closed door, lightly tapping my knuckles on it.
When she doesn’t answer me right away, I wrestle with the urge to kick it down. My reactions today are absolutely fucking absurd.
“Yes,” she says softly from the other side.
Fucking finally.
Resting my forehead in the center of the door, I grip the doorjamb on either side with my hands. “I’m sorry for acting like an asshole,” I confess.
I hear the sound of her moving around before the door opens and I’m staring into violet eyes. She’s wearing pink pajama bottoms that are decorated with little moose all over and say “All Moose Asleep” on them and a white sleep shirt. Her honey hair still hangs in loose, wet curls down her back, and she smells like sweet vanilla. I have to fight against every nerve in my body not to crash my lips down on her pink ones and claim her as my own.
“Douche canoe.”
Lifting my gaze from her mouth up to her eyes, I furrow my brow. “Pardon?”
“You weren’t acting like an asshole.” She crosses her arms under her chest, and my dick thickens again as the motion presses them together and lifts them up. “You were acting like a douche canoe—a royal one, I might add.”
Chuckling deeply, I let my hands fall from the doorjamb and back to my sides. “Watch a movie with me?”
Her face scrunches up, and she looks adorable despite the bruising. “I didn’t say I’ve forgiven you.”
“Well, have you?” I ask, taking a step towards her.
She nervously chews on her lip at my proximity. I’m envious of her teeth, of anything that touches her mouth.
