Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2) (11 page)

Chapter Eight

S
hay waved goodbye to her aunt and Thalia and closed the shop door behind them, locking the deadbolt securely. Then she leaned over the front desk and grabbed her phone. After a day of listening to Thalia's Reggaeton, she was ready to cleanse her ears with music that was more her style. Plugging her phone into the salon's stereo system, a smile spread over her face as Aaliyah's smooth voice began singing. She turned it up and then grabbed the broom from the corner by Gina's desk. She sang along and swung her hips to the beat as she swept the floor, the mundane chore immediately elevated into something fun. For the first time that day, she was alone. She had a little bit of time to think and it was no surprise that her mind went right to a certain man who had been haunting her thoughts so much lately.

She still couldn't really believe what she'd done the night before. She'd done something a little unhinged, she knew. Sabotaging a date that the two participants seemed to be enjoying wasn't something that normal people did. It was something that crazy bitches did. She had no right to fuck with Tate Grayson's life, but she did it anyway. Then she'd run away before he could do anything about it or defend himself. It was shitty, she knew. But she didn't know if she felt sorry or not. She didn't like the way she'd felt, standing outside in the cold while his pretty date laughed and smiled and leaned in and touched him. Something had come over her, something she couldn't quite explain.

She'd been standing outside of a restaurant on the Upper West Side in the cold, wondering why the hell she was there. The windows were fogged, the warm glow from inside the restaurant only making it seem more frigid outside. She'd stood there debating whether or not to go inside for long enough that her toes went numb inside her boots. Then she just said 'fuck it' and pulled open the door and went in. Immediately, the heavenly scent of properly seasoned meat hit her and she took a deep breath in. The restaurant was small; there were about ten tables up front and a few more in the back that she could see. The light was amber from all the candles on the tables and the low chandelier hanging near the front door. It wasn't empty, but it wasn't crowded either for a Friday night. The low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses and silverware drowned out her lingering doubts. At the very least, she was going to get a table and look over the menu, she decided as she stood there basking in the warmth.

But those plans were forgotten the second she saw Tate. His back was to the door, but she would've recognized his big shoulders and dirty blonde hair from a mile away. He was dressed all in black and he was smiling, she could see that much. She ducked her head for a moment, afraid he was going to look her direction and recognize her. She'd worn Gina's expensive wool coat, which was long and had a hood. She felt like a damn spy in it, like she was in the CIA or something. She would never wear something like that normally. It was too dark and stuffy for her tastes, but for that night, it was perfect. It made her feel like someone else, someone more mysterious and smart and sexy than she normally considered herself to be.

When she finally allowed herself to look up again, she realized he'd never even noticed she was there. He hadn't taken his eyes off the dark-haired woman across the table from him. His date. His girlfriend. Whatever she was, he appeared to be smitten. Shay couldn't get a good look at her, even when she stood up on her tip-toes. Biting down on her right pinky nail, she made the decision quickly. Popping her collar, she made her way down the center of the restaurant, wanting to catch just one peek. She wanted to see what kind of woman would turn Tate's eye.

She didn't know what she was expecting, but it wasn't the petite, almost plain-looking Asian woman sitting across from him. Maybe she was expecting some leggy, stunning white girl, or maybe a Latina from one of the tougher parts of the city. Maybe she expected gaudy jewelry and a tough face and tits out. The woman across from Tate looked soft and pale and rich, like she'd never had to fight for anything in her life. She was wearing a drapey pink sweater that looked like it cost more than Shay made in one week at the salon. She was smiling at Tate like he was the best looking guy in the room, which he was, but it still annoyed Shay. She didn't like how the woman was looking at him like he was a big meal that she was going to gobble up the first chance she got.

The woman probably didn't know the definition of real hunger.

Shay made her way to the back of the restaurant and found the restrooms after a quick glance around the dimly lit room. She shut the door to the small dark bathroom and leaned on the sink for a moment, asking herself for the millionth time what she was doing. It was starting to feel like she wasn't just out to punish Tate. It was was starting to feel like she was out to punish herself as well. On a Friday night, when she could have been out on a date of her own, she was skulking around like a crazy woman and hiding in shadows. Her curiosity had been satisfied, but she still felt restless. Vengeful. She didn't like how she felt when she saw Tate Grayson smiling at another woman and looking like he was having the time of his life.

When she finally forced herself to leave the bathroom, she made her way back into the front part of the dining room, her eyes looking for Tate's dark hulking figure. But he wasn't there. His seat was empty. The petite woman was alone, her thin fingers pressed under her chin gracefully. Shay stood there, her feet planted in the spot in between the front and the back of the restaurant. The noisy kitchen was to her left. Pots were clanging and staff were yelling out orders, but it all compressed down into a dull roar in her ears. The woman glanced up, as if she could feel someone's eyes on her. Her dark eyes traveled around the room until they landed on Shay. Suddenly, Shay was in motion, her feet moving without her mind's position. Then she was sliding into Tate's abandoned seat and leaning forward, her elbows on the table. Tate's girlfriend looked taken aback, but Shay didn't have much time for niceties.

The fact was, Shay had always been a shitty liar. Since she was a girl, it had been impossible to keep a poker face when she was telling one. It was impossible for her to sell an untruth with the conviction necessary to convince someone otherwise. She'd found that in times where she might need to lie, it was best to keep quiet. She was great at being stoic. She'd learned that particular quality from her long-suffering mother. However at that moment, sitting across from the rich Asian woman who wanted Tate, lies had never come easier to Shay.

She'd never lied so convincingly in her life.

Thinking back on the embarrassing incident, Shay knew it was anger that had made her do it, but it was also something else. Something else less easy to define. She didn't like seeing Tate happy. It was petty and small and shitty, but she didn't care. The problem was that making Tate Grayson unhappy didn't make her happy. Well, not very happy anyway. She'd been too much of a chicken shit to stick around and face him afterwards. If she had, maybe it would have been more fulfilling. For some reason, she had a feeling if she saw him pissed off, it would all have been worth it, somehow. Unfortunately, she couldn't go back in time and do it right.

Story of her life.

Singing along with Aaliyah, she bent at the waist and swept the broom under the shampooing station, not paying much attention to the chore. Sweeping up at the end of the night didn't require a lot of brain power. The fact was fortunate or unfortunate, depending on the night. That night it was unfortunate, because her mind was filled with thoughts of Tate. He was becoming her own little obsession. She wasn't dumb, she knew it wasn't healthy or smart, even. She shouldn't have ever gone to House of Pain in the first place. She definitely shouldn't have slandered him to his date. She was completely and totally in the wrong. But it didn't stop her from thinking about him. She wasn't that lucky and, unlike a lot of the other women she met while in prison, she had a pesky conscience.

A bang on the front door made her gasp and jump about a foot high. She glanced over her shoulder at the door, but it was dark and she couldn't see anything but a shadowy figure through the fogged glass. She stood there, frozen, waiting to see if they would go away. But a black gloved hand banged on the door again. Holding the broom handle with both hands, she inched closer to the door, ducking her head and trying to get a better look at who was behind it.

“Open the door,” a deep male voice said and Shay stopped cold. She knew who it was, but it didn't stop her from being in denial about it. Her heart started beating triple-time, though, and she didn't want to admit that his sudden appearance was more than a little startling.

“We're closed,” she called out, still frozen. She knew that he could see her through the glass door, although she could only see a shadowy figure. “Who is it?” she said when he didn't respond back, although she had no doubt about the identity of the man on the other side. She knew exactly who it was, and he was a very big and probably very angry man.

“Police,” he said and she rolled her eyes so hard she was afraid they were going to pop out of her head. Forcing herself to move, she propped the broom against the wall and walked closer to the door, wanting to get a better look at him. He was in all black, she could see that much. The fact didn't do much to quell the beating of her heart. He was intimidating, after all. It would be silly to pretend otherwise. And she didn't really know him all that well, despite everything.

“What do you want?” she asked, when she was close enough to actually see the outline of his pale face beyond the glass.

“I want to talk,” he said, tapping his knuckles impatiently on the glass that separated them.

“I don't,” she said, crossing her arms, needing something to do with her hands. She was too tempted to open the door and actually let him in. But that would be stupid. He was pissed and he had every right to be. And she wasn't sorry, either. She wasn't sorry at all.

“I don't care,” he said off and stepped closer to the door. “We need to talk,” he said, his muffled voice lower and closer to the door. “I'm going to wait out here until you come out. You can't avoid me.” She bit down hard on her lip, not liking the edge in his voice. He was serious, she knew. If there was one thing she knew about Tate Grayson, it was that he was doggedly determined and stubborn as hell. He wouldn't give her any peace until he got whatever he wanted. And she also knew she was being a damn coward by not facing him head-on. She was the one who'd fucked him over. She knew the least she should do was talk to him.

“How angry are you, on a scale from one to ten?” she asked, searching his blurry face in the window for answers. He didn't answer and she didn't take that as a good sign. Taking a deep breath and steeling herself, she reached out and unlocked the door. He pushed it open before she had a chance to open it herself, and a rush of cold air hit her in the face as he stepped in the door. She took a step back, involuntarily, as he crowded her personal space. He stared down at her as the door closed lightly behind him and all she could do was blink up at him. There was a five o'clock shadow on his face and his eyes looked sunken, like he hadn't had a good night's sleep in a long time. He narrowed his eyes at her and she felt her stomach tighten in response.

She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do, exactly. Not that she could do anything anyway—his damn attractiveness was as distracting as it ever was. The dark anger behind his eyes only amped it up, to an annoying degree. Then he looked over his shoulder, breaking her gaze as he locked the salon door behind him. The lock clicked loudly, reminding her that she was all alone in the empty salon with Tate Grayson. She swallowed hard and stood up straight, steeling her spine against him. She wasn't going to let him intimidate her. He was taller and bigger, but she wasn't defenseless. She also wasn't afraid.

“I'm not sorry,” she said, because it was the first thing that came to her mind.

“I bet you aren't,” he bit out through gritted teeth. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“You're my problem,” she replied, trying to keep her voice from shaking. His anger was making her anger ramp up as well. She knew he had a right to be pissed, but goddammit, so did she. It was a hollow and petty victory, but sabotaging his chances with Leah was still something. It was all she had.

“You're fucking nuts,” he said, matter-of-factly. She couldn't really dispute it. When it came to him, all of her sense seemed to head in the opposite direction. “Stay away from me,” he continued, his eyes narrowing to slits.

“You're the one who's not supposed to be here,” she shot back.

“What?” He furrowed his brow.

“Harlem is my hood, not yours. And yet every time I leave the house, I see your ass on the street. I see you everywhere.”

“And what about House of Pain? Is that your 'hood'?” he asked, dropping his face so it was inches from hers. She could smell his spicy aftershave and the tangy scent of his leather jacket, swirling around in the space between them.

“No. It's yours. That's why I went there in the first place,” she said, not backing down.

“So you stalked me.” His eyes scanned her face like he was looking for some kind of answers. She tried to keep her face blank and not give anything away, but it was hard. She was such an open book when she was angry, it was hard to keep a poker face. “You stalked me and then you pulled some psycho shit on me. Why?”

“You know why.”

“Because you're crazy?” he asked, cocking his head. She felt her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline and she didn't think, she just acted. Her arms shot out and she shoved his chest, as hard as she could. He immediately took a step back, taking some of the power out of her blow.