Hating Beauty (The Vegas Titans Series Book 6)

by Loren, Celia

  “I see what you mean.”

  I roll over onto my stomach for obvious reasons, ignoring her chuckle—both amused and aroused. I don’t want to admit it to myself, but I enjoy the sound of her laughter. Then I feel her arms around my shoulders, her lips on my neck.

  “I’m sorry, Knox Cole. I can’t just leave you like this, all excited and nothing to do. What kind of business partner would I be? Come, I have an idea.”

  Her last idea was coming here, mostly naked, to hide in plain sight just a few blocks away from all the cops and robbers. I’m not so sure I’m a big fan of her ideas. I shake her off of my back and give her a look.

  “Does your idea involve any more misdemeanors? Maybe a felony or two, or a suicide pact, perhaps?”

  She shrugs. “Wouldn’t you be disappointed if it didn’t?”

  “You think you know me so well.”

  Her face quickly drains of its lighthearted smile and grows serious. “I don’t think I know you at all.”

  I instantly regret saying anything that would bring down the mood and remind us of our tenuous standing with each other, but it’s too late. With a grunt, I push myself up to sit and take a good hard look at her face. She’s so young, simultaneously guileless and fiercely self-possessed, like a little hurt kid trying to be brave and not cry. I think of the picture of her I’d seen back in her room, her younger self in the family portrait, surrounded by a mother and sister.

  What happened to them? What happened to her? How long has she been on her own, flirting with disaster?

  Why is she after Breslin?

  It’s frustrating. I simultaneously want to fuck her and protect her, and those two desires seem like they should be mutually exclusive. At least, they always have been before. Shit, I’ve never wanted to protect anyone before. And this is a hell of a time to start, because even if I try my hardest to help, I know in my gut she can’t beat Breslin. That she’ll get hurt.

  Ruefully, I chuck her under the chin. Guess I’m going for the brotherly angle now?

  God, Knox, lame.

  “There’s nothing to know about me, sweetheart,” I say. “What you see is what you get.”

  She stares, her cinnamon-colored eyes veiled and cautious. For the life of me, I can’t tell what the hell she’s thinking. And god help me, I want to know.

  “I don’t believe that,” she says. “I don’t believe you are just this. I believe you have more to you, if you let yourself. If you are brave.”

  Again, her fingertips brush my chest, but this time the touch is not sensual. It’s somehow heartbreaking, and I find myself snatching her fingers away, breath catching, confused. It makes me angry, the intense reactions she seems to stir up in me so easily. It’s like I’ve lost my balance, tossed from one uncomfortable thought to another. She’s made me care enough to defy Breslin. She’s made me care enough to risk everything. She’s made me care enough to question myself.

  And caring is exactly the thing in life I’ve always tried to avoid.

  I don’t want it. Not now. Not ever.

  “Believe what you want,” I grunt. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  With an effort, I stifle the roiling drama going on in my brain and paint on an indolent grin. Then I drag her hand south toward my cock, laughing at her when she blushes and tries to snatch her hand away.

  “What’s the matter?” I tease, coldly. “I thought you wanted to play.”

  I want to get her back for making me care. I need her to know that I’m stronger than her, that I’m still capable of hurting her. I need her to know she can’t trust me.

  This might be my only chance to warn her.

  Firmly, I force her palm to spread over the fabric of my underwear, making her feel the shape of me, my hardness, my heartlessness. I want her to understand that even without the handcuffs trapping her, I could take control if I wanted. I need her to be scared of me, to stop trying to get close.

  That’s right, princess. Two can play at this game.

  Definitely not sticking with the brotherly angle.

  Her lips part, tremble a bit. She’s looking at me with confusion, desire, and something else.

  “Please,” she whispers. “Not here. Stop.”

  And just like that, I have to. When I let her hand go her eyes are downcast, her face is flushed. Like she’s ashamed. But I’m the one who should be ashamed. It was a cheap trick, to make her feel cheap. It didn’t give me the sense of power I wanted. It didn’t make me feel good.

  I’m glad we’re handcuffed together. I’m glad that she can’t leave me, and that I’ll have a chance to do something to make up for that.

  I guess I can say I won this round, but the feeling of triumph is hollow. So she knows I could overpower her. So what? She knew that already. I didn’t gain anything from my stupid crudity.

  After all, once I push her away who will be left on my side?

  No one, that’s who: just me, myself, and I. Like always. It’s a sobering reality check that makes me suddenly feel very, very tired.

  “So what’s this next brilliant idea of yours Katja?” I grunt. “I mean Tatiana.”

  She takes a deep breath, gathers herself. I watch her face harden like a mask. I recognize something of myself in the transformation: the brave, wounded kid is gone, and a focused professional is in her place, rattling off instructions like a sergeant. It’s a gate that she closes over herself like armor, to keep her safe. To hide.

  I have one just like it.

  “The next thing we need to do,” she says, “Is get some of the information I’ve gathered on Breslin out of a locker I keep in the Piers. I need to get in the women’s locker room. See that man over there by the bench, playing Frisbee? He left his jacket and shoes on the ground. And his girlfriend’s sweater looks like it’s long enough to cover me. We walk over there when he’s not looking…”

  Chapter Twelve

  Knox Cole

  Twenty minutes later, two ragamuffins are standing at the front desk of the Chelsea Piers gym. We’ve managed to steal two outfits that would make a circus clown roll their eyes. I’m in someone’s pastel windbreaker and neon flip-flops, an abandoned plaid golf visor, and some striped, wet swim trunks. I look like a 80s pop star mixed with a Country Club grandpa. None of these items would, under any other circumstances, ever converge as an outfit on the same individual. But today is a special day.

  Tatiana (I still want to call her Katja) had even less sartorial luck, and is sporting only the frisbee girlfriend’s sweater. Which, it turns out, is not actually long enough to cover her ass. She’s bearing it like a fucking queen though: she walks purposefully into the huge lobby area, past rows of WASPy moms and mustachioed hipsters, head held high, giving no sign of caring that her perfect ass is on display.

  As she walks confidently in front of me, I get a fine view of the curve of flesh rounding up from her thighs to the sweet peak between her legs, and every few yards I catch a few other dudes checking her out too. But I am linked to her side, the handcuffs ensuring that she can’t get away, and none of them can do anything about it. Not gonna lie, there’s something kinky and fun about having her literally chained to my side.

  With breezy grace, she leans her willowy curves against the front desk and gives a dazzling smile.

  “Hello Mark,” she says. “How are you today?”

  The receptionist is a weasel-faced, bald-headed dude whose professionalism impresses me: as we smile at him looking like refugees from mime camp, he doesn’t bat an eye. In fact, at the sight of Tatiana, he lights up.

  Not that I can blame him.

  “Hi Miss White,” he says. “So good to see you. I’m just fine, thanks. I see you brought a friend today! Hello sir, welcome to Chelsea Piers, how are you?”

  I nod curtly, unable to muster a real greeting for the disgustingly cheerful receptionist even when Tatiana kicks my ankle. Social graces were never my strong suit, especially when it doesn’t directly lead to sex. Tatiana glares at me, then
laughs lightly to cover my faux-pas.

  “We haven’t had any coffee yet,” she jokes to Mark. “Only half awake. That’s why we need the gym.”

  “Ah,” Mark’s professionalism doesn’t waver and he turns back to Tatiana with an even bigger smile. “Well you came to the right place. Did you want to use your guest pass for him?”

  “Yes, yes, that would be lovely,” Tatiana says.

  What does a girl who can afford a Chelsea Piers gym membership want to live at a dive like the Leo House for? Maybe Tatiana really can pay me for my services.

  Mark produces a clipboard and pen and pushes them toward me. Instinctively, I begin to raise my right hand, completely forgetting about the handcuffs.

  “Oh no, I got it,” Tatiana says, pulling my hand back down to hide below the counter. “I think the paper is for me, yes? On my membership.”

  She scribbles quickly, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth adorably. Seriously, is she even out of high school? God I hope she’s out of high school. She has to be out of high school. I notice she’s signed the form as Ekaterina White, and fills my name out as Charlie Williamson.

  Smooth operator.

  She pushes the clipboard back to Mark and smiles. “How is Terrance?”

  “He’s so great,” Mark says, his voice growing sickeningly saccharine. “Just graduated from doggy kindergarten. There was a ceremony with doggy cake, and they all wore these little caps and gowns. So cute! I took tons of pictures.”

  Tatiana laughs, a sound like tinkling bells. “How sweet! Can I see a picture?”

  “Cake for dogs? That’s a thing?”

  The disgusted words are out of my mouth before I even think about it. But before Mark can respond, Tatiana gives me another swift kick in the ankle and changes the subject.

  “Ow!” I object.

  “Mark,” Tatiana sighs. “I almost forgot, I’m sorry. We need your help with one more thing. It’s somewhat delicate, and I am a little embarrassed.”

  His eyes dart between us, widening the way peoples’ eyes do when they think they’re about to hear something juicy.

  “Sure sweetheart,” he chirps. “Anything you need! What’s up?”

  Tatiana leans over the desk conspiratorially, drawing Mark’s face closer to hers like a magnet.

  So it’s not just me—she has that effect on everybody.

  “My friend and I, we’ve had a little…mishap,” Tatiana whispers. “We were goofing around this morning and, uh, lost our key.”

  “What key?” Mark asks dumbly.

  Suddenly I realize what Tatiana is going for, but not quickly enough to stop her from pulling our linked hands up onto the counter, revealing the handcuffs.

  “The key for these,” Tatiana bites her lip impishly, turns red, and giggles.

  It’s exactly the right move to win Mark over. He gives a mock-scolding frown and tries not to chuckle as he waggles his finger at her.

  “Well, well, young lady, I am surprised at you! I had you pegged for more of a missionary-style, girl-next-door virginal type. You saucy minx! And you lucky guy!”

  He gives me a playful shove on the shoulder and I can’t help but raise an eyebrow. The last thing I would ever have pegged Tatiana for is a virginal girl next door, not with that accent and those feminine wiles. And I’m beginning to realize that she’s not the amateur kid I might have thought—she’s got what it takes to be a real hustler, playing up different personas to different people to get what she wants out of them like a pro.

  I have to admit she is playing the shrinking violet part winningly, and Mark is swallowing it hook line and sinker. She is even glowing a dusky peach color now, blushing all the way to her neck with seemingly genuine embarrassment. I’m wondering if maybe she’s an actress.

  “It’s so silly,” she laughs breathlessly, “I can’t believe we lost the key. But I thought, hey, at the gym you must have those…those…what do you call them? For the lockers, when you cut them open? You know, the…the…”

  She makes a cutting gesture with her fingers.

  Mark’s face clears. “Oh, right! Yes, the wire-cutters. We use them to break locks when people haven’t paid for their space. Hmm, of course we have them, but these links look kind of thick for the blades. Tell you what, wait right here and I’ll see what I can do, you naughty girl.”

  Mark scampers off with a wink and a flourish.

  “A little mishap, huh?” I ask, eyeing her. “Interesting way to describe our morning. That’s putting it rather mildly.”

  She glares at me. “Not that you’re helping.”

  “You don’t seem to need my help, Mystery Girl. Didn’t want to get in between you and your admirer, seemed like you had a nice thing going on.”

  “Mark? You can’t be serious. Wait. Are you jealous?”

  “Me? Jealous?”

  “Yes, you, jealous. Of Mark! Ridiculous. He’s gay.”

  I knew that.

  “Then why are you flirting with him?”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake –”

  But Mark reappears, cutting our whispered argument short. And that’s not all he’s prepared to cut: in his hands are a pair of massive diagonal bolt cutters, their sharp beaks gleaming dangerously. Looks like a fine murder weapon, if you ask me. Could probably snap through bone.

  “Wow,” I murmur in spite of myself. “Those will probably do the trick, alright.”

  Tatiana jumps up and down, gleefully clapping her hands. “Mark, you’re our hero! I thought we were stuck together forever.”

  Something in me twists at the relief in her offhanded words.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Mark laughs. “Let’s see if they work first.”

  Tatiana dons a serious air, and kicks my ankle until I let her pull my hand and the chains of the handcuffs into a position that is easy for Mark to reach. He lines up the bolt cutters, frowning in concentration.

  On his first attempt the blades slip across the shiny marble counter-top. The second try, Mark agrees to let me help by holding the bottom handle steady as he pulls down on the top with all his might like a lever. He’s a small guy, and even though he’s in shape it takes four or five of his best pulls before the chain snaps in half. The moment the links break, my heart starts hammering.

  Now there’s nothing holding Tatiana and me together.

  Nothing except a shared cause: surviving Breslin.

  Will that be enough?

  If she gives me the slip now, I’m fucked. She has the laptop, the info that Breslin wants, and all the cards. Without her, I’m a sitting duck. That must be why I’m so nervous at the thought of her leaving me.

  Yes, that’s what it is.

  “Yay!” Tatiana yells, dancing around, giving Mark a celebratory kiss on the cheek. “My hero!”

  She kicks my ankle again, and I grudgingly obey the cue.

  “Thanks Mark,” I grunt, stretching out my hand.

  He accepts the brusque handshake without comment. Then I point at the clippers. “Mind if I try something?”

  “Okay.”

  He hands them over, and after a quick study of the metal cuff still circling my wrist I know what to do.

  “Give me your hand,” I order Tatiana.

  She does so immediately, without question, twisting my guts all over again. The way she’s putting herself at my mercy with a dangerous instrument in my hands makes me feel guilty for doubting her, but the doubts nag anyhow. If I’m going to convince her to stick with me, I have to play my cards right. I hope what I am about to do will serve as a gesture of goodwill, an indication that I’m choosing to trust her now that the handcuffs are gone.

  “Hold still,” I murmur.

  I position the bolt cutters and snap through the clasp of the cuff around Tatiana’s wrist. It falls and clangs on the desk, and Tatiana’s arm comes completely free. She rubs it thankfully, and it galls me to see that her skin is already rubbed raw where the metal had touched her.

  “Oh, what a relief!” she sighs. �
�Thank you. Here, I’ll do you too.”

  She’s a little clumsy with the tool, but she eventually manages to clip through the clasp and free me from my own fetter. Soon we are completely rid of all traces of the shackles, which lie in ruins between us on the desk.

  “Thank you Mark,” Tatiana says, handing back the cutters. “You’re the best. Guess we’d better hit the gym now. Are we all set?”

  “Yup, all set. Glad I could help.”

  With another wink, Mark disappears to put the clippers away. Which leaves Tatiana and I alone at the desk, staring at each other. My mouth has gone suddenly dry. Now we’re smack dab in the moment of truth: will she or won’t she give me the dodge?

  “I’ll just get my duffel bag from my locker,” Tatiana says. “It’s our only chance to cripple Breslin, slow him down. Actually, now that we’re here, we might as well shower, yeah? The men’s locker room is over there. I’ll just meet you back in the lobby in twenty minutes, unless you want to go rock climbing or something.”

  I ignore her attempt at humor, searching her face. It’s gone inscrutable, her secret-agent look. Guess she reserves that for me, while Mark gets all the flirtation.

  My resolve to play it cool buckles. I can’t just let her go. I need to say something. Grimacing, I grab her wrist.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Her eyes narrow into slits. “Are you crazy? You can’t come in the ladies’ room. What do you want—to invite trouble? We need to blend in, be as normal as possible.”

  I pull her in close, until the front of her body is only a centimeter from mine and I can feel her warmth all the way up and down like an extension of my own senses.

  “Please,” I say, the word foreign and cumbersome on my lips. I feel like an idiot as I desperately try to think of how that sentence ends. All I come up with is, “Don’t try anything foolish.”

  “Foolish?”

  “Like, for example, giving me the slip. You wouldn’t last an hour alone against Breslin at this point, and for that matter neither would I.”

  It’s true, at least for the moment.