Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) (17 page)

“Hell, yes, it is.” Her face flushes with fury. “After everything I’ve been through with Dave, and everything I’ve seen from the groupies, I have a
right
to say who gets to be a part of this.”

“Thanks for including us, then,” Beryl says, trying to lighten the mood.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

I raise my brow in challenge and down another shot. Maybe this explains Kristina’s perpetually pissed-off attitude. “Who chose, then?”

“Gavin only came back from Africa because of Beryl,” Kristina says, turning to her, “and I saw what you did for him. You reached him when we couldn’t, so you’re in. But you—” Kristina fixes suspicious eyes on me. “Tyler said you’re in, but you’ve already screwed us over once.”

Beryl hisses. “That’s water under the bridge, Kristina. Let it go.”

Kristina holds up her hands as if to say,
It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s gotta do it.
“I’m just looking out for him. He trusts too easily. He’s great at connecting with people, but when it comes to women who want him, he has no friggin’ clue.”

A shriek of laughter draws our attention and I catch Teal whispering something in Tyler’s ear. I can’t tell if his easy smile is encouraging her or just plain friendly. Inwardly, I seethe, but I refuse to make a scene. He’s not
my
man, and maybe he likes the attention. Jayce certainly does.

I have another drink and try to follow Beryl and Gavin’s conversation about their trip to Oregon but I feel left out, like I’m listening to someone recount the plot of a movie I haven’t seen. Kristina gravitates to Dave, pulling him into their coupley-coupled universe, while Shelly and Teal press their ample breasts against Jayce and Tyler’s arms.

I feel like a third wheel. Or rather, a ninth wheel, just an appendage to these four couples. I want Tyler to extract himself from the groupie bimbos but he seems to be having fun, so instead I pound another shot and go to the restroom.

I weave through the crowded bar, holding the backs of chairs for support because my shoes feel too tall. I nearly trip over an ancient rug where it meets the hardwood floor and I gawk at the weird taxidermy over the bar and along the walls.

I take my time in the restroom, putting my head in my hands as I sit on the toilet seat and try to get my bearings. First vodka, then cocktails, then tequila shots. My stomach lining hates me for this abuse and I feel bile rise in my throat as I think of the way Teal’s bubblegum-pink lips whispered in Tyler’s ear.

Oh yes, I am madly jealous.

And madly in—what? Like? Lust? Love?—with Tyler.

But I can’t fathom that he feels the same way. Something hanging over his head has ruined every time we’ve connected, every time we’ve gotten close.

Bad boys aren’t this complicated. Bad boys you just find, fuck and forget. But Tyler is unforgettable. He’s got an electric touch that seems to disconnect the logical parts of my brain that know what I want and how to get it.

What I want is a connection. Tonight. Right now. I want someone to shove me against a wall, pull my hair, and
show
me that I’m the only woman in the room that he wants.

Sweet Tyler isn’t doing any of that.

Fuck.

I sway as I exit the restroom and decide to get another drink at the bar instead of going back to the couches and the nightmare groupie twins. My eyes land on a broad-shouldered man with jet-black hair that brushes his shoulders. I crowd him as he orders a beer.

“Vodka tonic?” I call to the bartender when he glances at me. The man pivots slightly and he’s a good deal older than me, maybe thirty, with a face full of stubble and keen, appreciative eyes that linger on my cleavage.

He likes what he sees. And I like the fact that he’s looking at me as if I’m the only woman in the bar right now. In my alcoholic haze I answer the few questions he asks and let him pay for my drink.

When Jet Black puts a hand on my elbow and then my waist, I don’t resist.

There’s the connection, and my body hums with promise as he edges closer to me. Jet stares at me with hooded lids, asking if I’m here with anyone.

“Nobody special,” I lie, feeling the sting of being the misfit among Tattoo Thief’s little cadre. I hate that the groupies edged me out.

Jet takes my arm and leads me to a darker corner of the bar. He leans one arm against a wall, effectively shielding me from the rest of the crowd. I smell the beer on his breath and he tells me he’s in finance.

He tells me he has a place nearby.

He tells me I’d like it.

I’m thankful for the wall behind me that holds me up, but something about the tilt of his head and the angle of his body so close to mine frightens me. It’s powerful, almost predatory, and I imagine that this is the kind of hookup that will leave me raw and whimpering.

Men like him are rarely gentle.

He watches me closely, his voice a low murmur as he strokes my upper arm with his thumb. The alcohol running through my system dips my thoughts in mud before I have a chance to think them. When Jet’s hand tightens around my arm, he’s asking me to go with him, and I shuffle forward even before I’m ready with an answer.

His touch slithers down my arm to grasp my hand and I let him tow me in his wake toward a side door.

Am I really going to follow him out of the bar? To his place? I’ve done this a dozen times before and yet something in my body resists. I should tell Beryl where I’m going. I should talk to Tyler.

The thought of Tyler makes me stumble and a strong arm wraps around my waist to right me. But it isn’t Jet who holds me.

It’s Tyler.

Jet still holds my hand but Tyler anchors me in place, his eyes burning as he looks at the man’s grip on me.

“We were just leaving,” Jet says.

“You
were,” Tyler snarls. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

The man laughs, a sinister rumble that chills me. My instinct tells me to run rather than be torn apart in this tug-of-war between two men. Tyler’s body is solid and half a head taller than the man, but Jet is stockier and looks like he’d probably win a street fight.

And he’d probably fight dirty.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” The man taunts Tyler. “She sounded pretty into the idea of coming to my place and letting me fuck her brains out two minutes ago. Or did you want to come and watch?”

Tyler stiffens like he’s ready to pounce, but then he takes a step back from the man, pulling me back a bit with him. My arm stretches uncomfortably.

With his free hand, Tyler pulls his wallet out of his back pocket. “Are you a betting man?” he asks idly, sliding five crisp hundreds from the billfold in the stranger’s view. My head swims with confusion for Tyler’s sudden change of pace. What is he doing?

“What’s the wager?”

Tyler eyes me and I cringe, seeing disappointment in his eyes. “I’ll bet that my cousin here isn’t your type.”

The man frowns, his eyes bouncing from me to the bills in Tyler’s hand. “Then you’d lose. One drink and she was ready to leave with me. Easy is
exactly
my type.”

Tyler’s jaw tightens and his body tenses against mine, but he keeps his temper in check. “You see easy? I know better than that. You’re out of your league if you think you can get her to come home with you. And five hundred dollars says you’d rather skip the trouble and go find another girl.”

The man looks at me, tucked tightly into Tyler’s side, and drops my hand as if I’m contagious. He snatches the bills from Tyler.

“Better go find a girl you can rent by the hour,” Tyler hisses.

The man turns and strides out of the bar as I cower against Tyler, shaking. That man almost had me. He thought I was easy.

And it’s true. I feel disgusting.

My stomach heaves and I lurch from Tyler’s side, slamming through a dark wood door and into a toilet stall. I empty the contents of my stomach and every last drink into the toilet bowl.

I cough, choking up thin, pinkish waves. Each retch looks and smells so disgusting that I heave again.

The water runs behind me and Tyler passes me a dampened paper towel.

As lows go, this is one of my worst. I wish the puking would empty my brain of the throbbing weight of alcohol that sloshes inside it, but I feel barely more sober.

When I’m sure there’s nothing left inside me, I get to my feet shakily, blot my face with the damp paper towel and wash my hands in the sink. I scoop several handfuls of water into my mouth, swish and spit, all the while feeling Tyler’s towering presence at the door behind me.

Waiting. For what, exactly? For my humiliation to be complete? For me to apologize? I honestly don’t have it in me. I was drunk and he was ignoring me, and someone else wasn’t.

“Go away, Tyler,” I whisper. “Go back to the group. Go talk to Teal. I’m sure she’s much better company than I am.” I just want him to stop looking at me, and I stare at my shoes and the bathroom’s small hexagonal tiles to avoid his gaze.

“No.”

I move to get around him but he’s blocking the door and I’m too wrung out to try to push him aside.

“Please?” I whimper.

“No.” Tyler’s voice is firm but his arms are open. He’s letting me in.

I let my body collapse against his chest and I cry it out. The humiliation, the fear, the hurt, the anger. Why do I keep going down this self-destructive path thinking it’s going to end somewhere different and better?

I feel like the stupid virgin in a horror flick who opens the door on the dark and stormy night. What does she think will be on the other side? Flower delivery? It’s always the killer. Always.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. I always say a bad boy can’t break your heart. But he can’t heal it, either. Maybe only a good boy can do that.

Tyler strokes my back as my sobs subside. Someone pounds on the bathroom door because we’re taking too long, but he ignores it. When I finally have the courage to look at him, he holds my face in his hands, his thumbs tracing gentle strokes down my cheeks.

“What do you want from me?” I sniffle, mixed up from his gentle touch, the humiliating bet, calling me his cousin and letting Teal snuggle so close. Tyler, the master of mixed signals.

“Nothing. I just want you.” Tyler’s simple declaration tears down my last remaining wall and I slump against him, my arms wrapped around his waist as my chest fits against his, like pieces of a puzzle, the way we were on the bridge.

“I thought—I thought you didn’t want me. When you were talking to Teal like that.” Jealousy looks pretty lousy on me, but I need his reassurance.

“And I thought you didn’t want me when you were going to leave with that guy,” Tyler counters. “But the difference is, I wasn’t going to let you get away. I fought for you, Stella, and I want you to fight for me.”

I look up at him. “How can I, when thousands of women throw themselves at you? I’ve got more competition than I can possibly—”

Tyler touches my lips with his index finger to stop my rush of words, the same electric touch I felt in our first cab ride together. “Not like that. I let that get out of hand and that wasn’t fair. This is all kind of new to me. This attention. But I want you to fight all this negative shit that keeps you running away from me. Fight to stay.”

TWENTY

Tyler leads me out of the restroom and through the Bowery Hotel’s bar, past the couches where our friends sit.

“We’re going home,” he says, and I can’t miss Teal’s scowl. Beryl nods and her eyes are clouded with concern, but I’m floating on that word: home.

We’re quiet on the cab ride, our fingers laced together, and quiet as we walk an extra block to his warehouse. This time, instead of a piggyback ride up the stairs, Tyler scoops me up in his arms and carries me against his chest as he climbs five flights to his loft.

He puts me down by my bed, but he doesn’t let go of me all the way. “How are you feeling?” he asks, gently removing my shoes.

“Terrible.”

“Let’s wash this day off of us.” He points me to the bathroom and I nod, scooping up a T-shirt and fresh underwear before I go to the bathroom and undress, getting into the shower that’s as hot as I can stand it.

The light dims in the bathroom and the shower door opens. I feel Tyler behind me, his hand on my shoulder. “Is this OK?”

I turn and he’s just outside the stream of the water, his eyes holding mine. He’s naked and I want to look at every part of him, but instead I pull him close to me under the stream, letting it flow over our skin.

We stand like that, just holding each other, for several long minutes as the shower washes everything away. My hurt and humiliation, images of Jet Black and Teal, and too many shots that made my brain pound and stomach churn.

My muscles uncoil under the water and Tyler kneads his fingers into my back. My face is pressed to his chest and my lips are inches away from his pierced nipples, but I’m not looking for the roller coaster thrill of sex right now.

I want intimacy. I want our connection to be real.

I want Tyler.

I run my hands along his back and then down the tattoos on his arms, feeling the strength of his muscles beneath them. He grabs a bottle of body wash and squirts some in my hands, stepping just out of the stream of water so that I can wash him.

My hands skim across his chest and flat stomach, the soap suds lingering as they ooze below his waist and down his legs. I keep my eyes on his, though, learning his reactions, and I don’t feel brave enough yet to touch him where I’m most curious.

Instead, I turn his shoulders away from me for access to his back and I soap and lather it. I work my fingers into the muscles at the top of his shoulders and along his spine, letting my hands slide down past his waist to feel his ass in my hands. The slippery soap helps my fingers skate across his skin.

When he turns back to me, his eyes are darker, more intent, and his erection grows. He leads me out of the shower stream and ducks under it himself, letting the soap slide off his body as he squirts body wash in his own hands and begins washing me.

Shoulders, arms, hips. Breasts, ribs, stomach. I falter as his thumbs graze my nipples but his brown eyes, flecked with gold, hold mine. They beg me not to look away.