By Degrees (30 page)

Ricky makes a giant u-turn in the middle of the road and speeds off in the opposite direction of Tarin’s house.
 
Posey sees us coming back and tries to head us off, but Rebel grabs her and drags her back to the curb.
 
The cameraman is there, his flash going off over and over.

Tarin puts his hand back over his eye as he smiles at me, the club disappearing behind us.

“I’m gonna have a scar,” he says.

“Probably.
 
I don’t know why you look so happy about it.”
 
I’m worried about him and it’s making me cranky.

“Scars are sexy.
 
Chicks like scars.
 
It’s gonna make me look dangerous.
 
Chicks like bad boys, haven’t you heard?”

I laugh, relieved that he’s at least okay enough to joke about it.
 
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
 
I sit back, sliding over to the far side of the seat.
 
I have to get away from him; even injured he’s too charming for his own good.
 
Or for mine.

He sits back too, but his hand slides across the back seat and settles over mine.
 
“You like me like that.
 
You like ridiculous.”

I don’t argue.
 
There’s really no point in denying the obvious.
 
Dangerous? Bad boy? Scarred?
 
Yes, to all the above.
 
Tarin has way too much going for him, and I don’t have strong enough walls to keep him out.
 
The risks are piling up.

What in the hell am I doing?

Chapter Twenty-Five

AFTER AN HOUR IN THE hospital with a plastic surgeon who was only too eager to come in immediately and put a couple stitches in the famous Tarin Kilgour, we make it back to the house. Ricky leaves us alone at the front door, claiming fatigue and a need to get a good night’s sleep for tomorrow’s workout.
 
We watch as he disappears around the side of the house, headed to his small cottage located on the grounds just beyond the pool area.

Tarin opens the front door for me, allowing me to go in first.
 
I stand in the foyer, not really wanting to go to my room, but also not wanting to invite more trouble into my life.
 
The smart thing would be to go to bed.
 
I know this.

“Want to have a drink with me?”

“Sure.”

I roll my eyes at my eager response as I walk behind him to the family room.
 
Could I be more of a fool?
 
No, I don’t think so.
 
The whole time I’m walking down the hall, I know I’m going to regret this, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
 
Headlong into self-destruction; I’ve taken a page out of Austin’s book.
 
Whatever lessons I’ve learned about running my business over the past two years don’t seem to apply here; or they apply, but I’m ignoring them.
 
I can plainly see myself headed into a dangerous position, but I just keep going there anyway.
 
I’ve never been so irresponsible in my entire life, and I cannot figure out what it is about Tarin that inspires this in me.
 
No one before ever has, not even Austin.

Tarin seems completely cool with everything, especially considering his injury.
 
He walks around the wet bar in the corner of the room and bends down, getting a bottle from under the counter.

“How can you be so calm after all that happened?” I ask.

He shrugs as he pours some amber liquid into a tumbler.
 
“Just another day in the life, I guess.”

“I get the stalker thing, but the slingshot ninja purse? Not so much.”
 
I look at the small bandage at the outside corner of his swollen eye and feel terrible all over again. I’m partially responsible since I’m the one who got Posey the purse-ninja-bimbot all worked up.
 
If I’d stayed out of the picture, they’d be making out on this couch right now, and without the stitches.

He smiles, reaching under the counter again.
 
The fridge is open and he’s sliding something out of it.
 
“Yeah, the ninja purse was a new twist, but it’s not the first time I’ve had something thrown at me.
 
Not by a long shot.
 
I’ve ducked beer bottles, food, bras, panties, condoms … thank God they weren’t used.”

“That’s so not cool,” I say, disappointed in the entire human race.
 
“You write songs that make the whole world sing.
 
No one should be throwing anything at you.”

He looks up at me and grins. “You didn’t just say that, did you?”

I grimace at my retro seventies humor.
 
“I may have.
 
Can we pretend I didn’t?”

“Sure.”
 
He goes back to focusing on his task.
 
He’s pouring a little bit of brown soda, adding it to the alcohol he already put in the crystal glass.
 
Swirling and then sipping the concoction, he frowns at first, then he nods his head. “Not bad.
 
Tarin’s bubble gum special is ready for ingestion.”

I walk over, intrigued by his madness. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but it sounds interesting.”
 
I’m totally ready to drown out the memories of the last couple of hours with alcohol.
 
Sure.
 
Why not?
 
I mean, yeah, it’s a terrible idea, I know this.
 
But it’s the best one I can come up with when lying in bed and torturing myself with flashbacks is not an option. Tonight I want to spare my heart that extra dose of awful.

He walks over and hands me a glass.
 
He holds up a bottled soda and waits for me to respond in kind.

We touch our drinks together with a slight
clink.

“Cheers,” I say.
 
“I’m glad you’re not drinking a real drink.
 
That would be a violation of the rules.”

“Cheers.
 
Here’s to rock and roll.
 
I guess rule violations are a real no-no with you, huh?”

I raise my glass again.
 
“To rock and roll,” I repeat, “and yes … rules are not made to be broken.
 
They’re made to be followed to the letter.”
 
Except for the one saying I don’t get involved with clients.
 
Apparently, that one isn’t nearly as strict as I thought it was.

“If you say so.”
 
He winks as me as he takes a sip of his soda.

I take a big swig of the drink he made me, nearly gagging when the taste finally hits me.
 
I can’t remember what he calls this drink but if it were me doing the naming, I’d call it Frankenstein.
 
Holy ugly monster of a cocktail.
 
Give me more.

He grins at my reaction.
 
“What do you think?”

When my voice is working again, I say, “It’s interesting…”

“Sip it, don’t gulp.
 
Tell me that doesn’t taste like bubble gum, like the kind you can get with baseball card packets.”

All I tasted on my first try was overly sweet firewater, but I’m willing to give it another shot.
 
I convince myself I can already feel its warming effects.
 
Taking a small sip, I concentrate on the flavors more closely.

“What happened to the soda?” I ask, swirling the liquid around as I stare it, wondering why there aren’t any bubbles of carbonation.

“It’s there, it’s just flat.”

“Flat?”

“Yeah.
 
That’s the secret.
 
Flat soda.”
 
He holds his bottle up to his mouth, placing his index finger against his lips.
 
“Shhh, don’t tell anyone.”

“Or you’ll have to kill me?” I say.
 
Why busting out the most over-worked joke on the planet seems like a good idea, I don’t know.

He lifts an eyebrow.
 
“Kill you?
 
No.
 
But other things, maybe.”

My heart is instantly racing.
 
He’s got promises behind those eyes and I’m so very tempted to find out what they are.
 
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
 
Run away!
 
Go to bed!
 
Stop drinking Frankenstein concoctions!
 
Remember what you’re here for!

A smile moves across my face as I recklessly ignore my common sense.
 
I try to save myself and whatever pride I have left by moving away from the bar.
 
Turning my back on Tarin, I go over to the big couch that faces the television and video game closet.

He joins me, dropping down in the middle before I can sit.
 
I’m forced into the corner to put some distance between us.
 
I look over at him as I take another sip of my drink, wondering if he sat there intentionally to make sure we’d be close.

“So … truth or dare?” he asks.

I have to force the liquid down my throat.
 
My first instinct is to cough and spray it out everywhere.

“Say what?” I finally ask.
 
My pulse is so out of control, I’m convinced he’ll see my artery pumping in my neck if he looks too closely.

“Truth or dare.
 
You know how it works, right?”
 
He winks at me.

He’s winking at me!
 
Why does he have to be so freaking hot all the time, dammit!
 
And he was right earlier in the car … Injury = bad boy = sexy.
 
I feel like a cavewoman, my internal dialogue completely devoid of intellectual thought.
 
It crosses my mind that I’m having a walking, talking functional breakdown of sorts.
 
I can act like everything is normal on the outside, but inside my life is falling apart.
 
The rules are crumbling along with the walls that separate my heart from my work.

“Yeah, I know how truth or dare works,” I say, trying to act cooler than I feel, “but I haven’t ever actually played it before.”

“Oooh, good.
 
I have a virgin on my hands.”

I know he doesn’t mean it the way I’m taking it, but his thrill at getting a crack at a virgin ‘like me’ is exhilaratingly hot.
 
I’m no virgin, but he’s making me feel like one as I blush and stammer my way around a response.

“That’s … funny … ha, ha … virgin…”

“You want to start?
 
Cause if you do, fair warning, I prefer dares.”

The smile won’t stay off my face.
 
It easily betrays my interest in his silly games and loaded words.
 
He
so
has me in his trap. I feel stupid, like the worst kind of bimbot.
 
I wonder how many girls have fallen into this mess of sexy before me.
 
Now at least I know what drives them to the flame.
 
We’re all just a bunch of moths eager to get set on fire.
 
I’ve been around celebrities for most of my adult life, and this is the first time I feel like I’m out of my league.
 
I cannot let him know that or this whole gig will be over before it starts.

Even the simple act of him raising his soda bottle to his lips has me wanting to do and say stupid, stupid things.
 
His fingers with tattooed letters on the backs of them, the way his muscles pulse under the ink on his forearms, how his strong jaw moves as he lets the liquid slide down this throat… He could have anyone, be anywhere … but he’s here with me.
 
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself, because tonight, I have no brain.

“Fine.
 
I’ll go first,” I say, pausing to gulp some more whatever he calls this mess of a drink.
 
Frankensteins brew.
“Truth or dare?” I ask, grateful for the buzz that’s taking hold. I’m a complete lightweight and the cocktail is working it’s magic.
 
Thank God.

“Dare, of course.”
 
He takes a sip of his drink.
 
There’s twice as much liquid in his bottle as I have in my glass.

“I dare you …”
 
I can’t think of anything that doesn’t involve him getting naked.
 
I’m freaking out like a fan-girl on Tarin-crack. I blurt out the first non-sexual thing I can think of.
 
“…I dare you to write a song about hot dogs!”

I cringe at my total and utter lameness.
 
Hotdogs?
 
Are you serious?
 
What are you … ten?

He stares at me for several seconds with no expression on his face.

“Hot dogs,” he finally says.

My face is on fire.
 
I’m so embarrassed I want to run from the room and never look at him again.
 
“Never mind.”

He jumps up, putting his drink down on the table.
 
“No, no, that’s fine.
 
You want a song about hot dogs, I’ll give you a song about hot dogs.”
 
He sounds way too happy as he strides over to the far side of the room and takes an acoustic guitar from a stand.
 
Bringing it back over to the couch, he swings it up to land in his lap as he sits.
 
The fingers of his left hand settle under the neck and over the strings while his other hand hovers with a pick, ready to strum out a chord.

Tarin clears his throat and winks at me before starting.
 
“An ode to the hot dog…”
 
Strum, strum, strum…

He begins to sing in his gorgeous, raspy voice.
 
“She looked at meee … and she said to meee … oh Tarin pleeeeasse … would you let me seeeee … your
hot dog
…”
Strum, strum…