Bella: Tag, you're it (Men of Steel Book 6)

by Mj Fields

  “It’s a three-three.”

  I walk out and don’t look back.

  When I get in the vehicle, I look at Chad. “I’m sorry for whatever just happened.”

  “Is this”—he pauses, his face pinches up—“normal?”

  I answer honestly, “Nothing about my family is normal. What did he throw at you?”

  He nods to the cup holders in the console. “A bullet.”

  “Oh, my freaking God,” I groan.

  Before even leaving the driveway, I already know Chad won’t be anything more than a friend. Why, you ask?

  First, he ran out of my house like he was going to piss himself. Then he didn’t even open the door for me. The kicker was the pinched face. That pissed me off.

  My family may not be “normal,” but they’re pretty amazing. I would never be with someone who didn’t at least find humor in them. And if I am being honest with myself, I only said yes to this date in order to open doors to dating, and if Chad didn’t run his mouth about Kiki’s shirt, Max’s tutu, or Cyrus’s bullet, I should have been fine.

  But he did.

  However, it didn’t detour others from asking. In fact, I had several boys ask me out. Some I even accepted their invitations.

  Every time I had a date, which wasn’t often, Dad insisted on meeting them before said date. Nine times out of ten, my uncles would be there when said date showed up. And ten times out of ten, I realized they just weren’t, as Dad said, worthy.

  I want a man who looks at me the way my father and uncles look at their wives. I want a man who doesn’t try to change me. I want a man who doesn’t cower at any of the warnings my father gives.

  I held my V-card all the way through high school, and guess what? It doesn’t bother me one fucking bit.

  Three

  Eighteen To Life

  When I turned eighteen, Dad told me, “You’re still not an adult.”

  I countered with, “I’m eighteen, so the law says otherwise.”

  He pointed up at the ceiling. “I make the laws in this house. You’re still under my roof, the rules still apply.”

  The rules, you ask.

  Let me introduce you to the four Ds.

  “No drinking.” He scowled.

  “So I’ll die of dehydration in what, a few days?”

  “Don’t be a wiseass. I mean of the alcoholic persuasion.”

  “It’s illegal, so we’re good.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “No drugs.”

  “Same response from the previous. Illegal.”

  “No decorating your body. Meaning, no tattoos or piercings, other than your ears.”

  Hypocrite much? I say yes.

  “No serious dating.”

  By serious, he means sex.

  “V-card’s still intact, Dad. You can thank yourself for that.”

  “Let’s be real here; none of those little pissants from the past even deserved so much as a kiss, Little Bell. So, as much as I’d like to take credit, that was all you making smart choices.”

  Again, hypocrite, but he’s not wrong. I did make smart choices.

  I don’t hate his rules, even though he was having sex with my mom long before he graduated from high school. I have heard stories that he drank when he was going through the loss of her, and me. And hello, tattoos and piercings? He was a freaking tattoo artist, and from what I’ve overheard, he’s got piercings in places I wouldn’t allow a needle to go near, let alone impale me.

  Also, gross!

  He met Carly when she wasn’t even out of college, so again, he’s being a hypocrite. But also, he’s being protective and, even though I’m supposed to rebel, I just feel it’s not my time yet.

  I think back on all the horrible things my maternal grandfather said about him and about the stories my maternal grandmother told me in secret, the contradictions. Through those stories and pictures she shared with me when we met, I was able to see him for the man he really is. Through the stories he has shared with me over the years, I understood him not wanting me to go through what he and our family endured. I understood his hypocrisy came from a good place, a place of care and concern.

  When I went to college, Dad told me he was still paying for the roof over my head, so his rules still applied, and he added more.

  No going anywhere alone.

  No going anywhere after dark.

  No boys in my dorm.

  No parties where some shitbag could slip a pill in my Kool-Aid, since I wasn’t allowed to drink.

  And no sex ever.

  I broke a few and got caught. Then I realized he was tracking my phone. I was livid, so I went to the source of all things Steel—Momma Joe—to find out how to negotiate with a terrorist—him.

  She laughed and told me that he just didn’t want me to take the path he had.

  I might have known that I was tugging on heartstrings when I reminded her of where his path led—to me. Then I added a smile and the words, “Look at him now. Look at us now. Forever Steel.”

  “Bella, he’s tracking your cell phone because he worries about you.” She sighed. “As a parent, we don’t want our children to struggle like we did. His overprotective ways are out of love.”

  “But …” I began.

  She held up her hand, stopping me. “However”—she winked—“as long as someone knows you’re okay, I see no reason that you can’t let your hair down every once and awhile.”

  “So …”—I tried to hold back my victory smile—“I can just leave my phone in the dorms when I decide to … let my hair down?”

  “Absolutely not.” She laughed. “That’s folle.”

  Momma Joe gave me a new escape system, via a new phone and a system where I checked in with her.

  In that very short amount of time, between let your hair down and Momma Joe slapping me with Italian—folle meaning insane—I went to a hundred parties, walked in the dark … alone, went out past eleven at night … on a school night, had a boyfriend who wasn’t a complete douche, had sex without the threat of seeing my father around every corner, in every shadow, and no, I didn’t feel threatened by my dad in the least, but everyone else in a ten-block radius sure as hell did. He made damn sure of it.

  Part Two

  Present Day

  Four

  Tag Time

  Tags

  Standing inside Body Art, I see four girls outside of my buddy Sisco’s studio.

  He smirks. “They’re fucked up.”

  “The little blonde isn’t. She looks terrified.”

  He chuckles. “She looks like that cartoon character.”

  I nod. “Alice from Alice in Wonderland.”

  “Wonderland would pass out quicker than the little badass.”

  “Purple hair, dark skin?” I ask then take a sip of my coffee. “I think you’re wrong.”

  “If I’m wrong, you get dibs on which one you ink. And the cash, too. I’m right, you get Wonderland and I get the cash.”

  I reach out to shake his hand. “You’re on.”

  Two seconds later, purple hair throws up and we laugh.

  When the other one, the one with the long, thick, brown hair and perfect curves, turns and I see her face, my heart skips a beat, maybe two. She’s fucking gorgeous.

  Living art.

  Sparkling blue eyes, lightly tanned skin.

  Tag, I think. “She’s it.”

  He chuckles as he looks at the one I’m pointing at. “Beverly?”

  “Fuck that.” I laugh.

  “You have a type, Tags—Beverly Hills.”

  “I don’t have a type. I’m perpetually single. And Sisco, those eyes, they’re not Beverly Hills; they’re too deep for that.”

  Only half of it’s a lie. I do go for women who are socioeconomically out of my league. And not because I think I want to be like them. I don’t. Quite the opposite. I want them to realize money isn’t shit. That they just want all the crap that I find nonessential. Shit I’ll never have. I just happen to have a thing for fuckin
g shit up for the man she’s under while still thinking about me. Men who need arm candy and the newest Porsche in their garage, next to last year’s discarded model.

  She’s not Beverly Hills. She’s fucking perfect.

  I turn to walk behind the frosted glass to prep as Sisco yells back, “They’re getting in a cab. Guess we both lose.”

  For some reason, I don’t stop the setup.

  A few minutes later I hear Sisco, “We’re closing up.”

  “But I—” Sexy voice.

  “We open tomorrow at eleven,” he cuts her off.

  “Sisco, I can take this one.”

  “You got cash?” he asks her.

  “I do.” She sounds excited.

  Virgin, I think.

  “She’s all yours,” he calls back to me.

  “Perfect.” I begin walking out front.

  “Lock up and come meet me at the gym when you’re done.”

  “Will do.”

  When I see her, she looks at me like I did her. Fortunate for me, I get to see it.

  “You ready?”

  She doesn’t reply.

  “How deep you want it?”

  Her jaw drops, and I eat it up. Double inuendo, and she got it.

  I step to her and lift her chin to close her gaping mouth. Her skin feels like silk.

  “I like the path your thoughts are traveling on, sweets, but I’m asking about the work you’re here to get. You want just the tip of my creativity or do you want me to go all-in?” I step back just a fraction, and her jaw drops again. This time, I’m close enough to help her out again, and luckily for me, she allows it … again. Then I step back farther, because the way her blue pools are shimmering, and her face flushes, if I don’t, shit’s going down right here on the floor.

  “I have my artwork.” She looks down at a large leather bag and begins pulling out what I can guess is a printout of something that she found on the internet—a flower, a ladybug, something every girl wants. But this one, well, I clearly want to give it to her … deeper.

  “Not how I work.” I walk past her and out the door, putting space between us.

  “Wait. What?” She gasps, and I know she’s following me.

  I reach in my pocket and pull out a smoke. Then I lean back against the brick and take a long drag as I watch her watching me. I exhale slowly while breathing it back through my nose.

  She’s watching me intently, eyes still liquid, face still flush.

  “Your concept, my art.”

  She holds up her paper. “So, you don’t want my work?”

  I look away, not wanting to see it. I get a sort of high when a client looks at my work on them for the first time, the emotions it produces when I nail their idea, and I always nail it. “Nope.”

  “You being serious?”

  “Dead serious.” I look back at her as she rakes her lip between her teeth. “And you keep looking at me like that, and I’m gonna give you what you want then tag you with my art.”

  “Like what?” She feigns innocent when I can already tell better.

  “Like you’ve never had a man like me between your legs and you desperately want it to happen.”

  “I’m only looking at you like that because you’re looking at me like that.”

  Fuuuuck, I think as she rolls her eyes slightly and mumbles something under her breath.

  “You’re a beautiful young woman; of course I’d like to fuck you. You just need to decide what comes first.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You want me to decorate you or make you messy first?”

  “How about you do your best, and if I like what you do, I’ll—”

  “Say it, sweets,” I cut her off because, if she says what I know she’s thinking, I’m going to get arrested when I lay her out on the street. “I dare you.”

  I flick my smoke into the gutter, reach over, and then open the door, cutting her off again, “Ladies first.”

  She nods once, her eyes still dancing between mine, then turns and walks in.

  I shut the door behind me and lock it. When I turn around to see if maybe that freaked her out a little, I see her walking behind the frosted glass.

  Apparently not.

  “Give me a minute. I’ll be right with you,” I say before walking into the bathroom to wash my hands and brush my teeth so I don’t smell like smoke.

  When I come out, she’s standing by the tray of sterile equipment in a tee-shirt and white, lacey boy shorts. Her back stiffens, but she doesn’t turn around.

  “I’m aware you don’t want to see my drawing, but—”

  “More interested in the concept.” And your ass, I think as I stare at its perfection.

  She turns around, looking down at her work, hair covering her face. “It’s to honor the women who made me who I am.”

  “Living or deceased?” I ask as I grab a sketchpad.

  “Both,” she says, looking up at me.

  “Tell me about—”

  “Are you really going to just ignore what was said out there?”

  I lean against the counter and cross my arms.

  “I mean, that was pretty … you know.” She shrugs.

  “Honest?”

  She looks up, trying not to smile as she shakes her head. “Crude?”

  “I thought so, too. I mean, the way you were eyeballing me made me a little uncomfortable. Made me feel like a piece of meat.”

  She laughs. “What?”

  “I accept your apology. Now—”

  “You’re an ass.” She shakes her head.

  “Oh, sweets, that’s just the tip”—I pause—“of the proverbial iceberg that is me.”

  She blushes while shaking her head again. “You really can’t talk to people like that in today’s political climate.”

  “I didn’t talk to people. I talked to you, and your thoughts were screaming at me.”

  “So, this isn’t like a normal thing for you?” After she asks the question, she looks like she regrets it.

  I take a step toward her and hold out my hand. She hesitates.

  “You walked into this studio with me, walked back here, lost your little sweater, dropped your skirt after all those words out there were exchanged, and now you hesitate? Stop it.” I push my hand out farther, and she takes it. Then I turn her toward the mirror and stand behind her.

  “Truth.” I begin, and she looks up at my reflection, a little shaken, “I don’t work here. It’s my buddy’s studio. In two days, I’m going away from anywhere between six to nine months.” Her eyes widen, and I laugh.

  “Not jail.” Not this time, I think to myself. “Where I’m going, I, for damn sure, won’t run into anyone who looks like you, who looks at me like you do, and I’m pretty sure they won’t taste like you’re going to.”

  She bites her lower lip.

  “So, there’s my excuse. Now, sweets, what’s yours?”

  “Huh?” She blinks her eyes that have been glued to the reflection of my mouth since I mentioned tasting her.

  “I told you my story; now tag, you’re it.”

  “Graduating college tomorrow. Then I’m going home to pack for a wedding.”

  The way she says home concerns me. “Is home a bad place?”

  She shakes her head. “I just have a very overprotective father.”

  “If you were mine, I can’t say if I’d have let you out of my sight.”

  We stare at each other for a few moments. Then she tilts her head back and licks her lips. I move closer and stop just before my lips touch hers.

  “Why?” she whispers.

  “Because, when you look at a man like me, you should be crossing the damn street to safety on the other side.”

  “You put a group of suits on one side of the street and a group of men who look like you on the other, I’m going toward you. Now kiss me or ink me.”

  I pull back slightly. “Give me the concept.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” she whispers.

  Stepping
back, I nod. “I’m going to decorate you first.”

  She sighs. “I may change my mind, you know.”

  My lips twitch upward. “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s not like this is normal for me.”

  “It’s also not like you’re completely sober, sweets. By the time I’m done, you will be.” I sit on my chair and put my feet up on the table. “Tell me the concept.”

  “The story behind it?” she asks, sitting on the table.

  “Absolutely not.” I smirk. “That taints the vision.”

  “Four women have given me great inspiration through beauty, wisdom, strength, and love.”

  I begin to sketch. “I don’t love flowers, per say, but daisies look like they’re full of life and are highly detailed.”

  “Also my favorite,” she says.

  “Interesting.” I sit forward and begin drawing. “I don’t want details, but some of the women are no longer here, so one flower fully in bloom, another open but not completely, and another just opening. A lifespan of sorts yet never gone.”

  She leans over and watches me draw. Normally, I hate that. With her, I like it.

  Once the flowers are sketched out, I write the words She is Beauty on the upper left, beside the flower not yet fully opened. To the right of the flowers and a little lower, I write She is Wisdom. To the left and lower, She is Strength. To the right, She is Love.

  “That’s perfect.”

  I nod and continue. To the left, aligned with Beauty, I write, She is… Me

  After looking it over and adding some detail, I give the sketch a satisfactory nod and look up.

  Lust is now replaced by emotion in her eyes.

  “She is me,” she whispers, looks up, and smiles softly. “I love it.” Her smile widens. “I absolutely love it.”

  “I’m glad, because this is what you’re getting.” I toss the book on the floor then look her over. “Just not sure where yet. Turn for me.”

  She slides off the table as I pull my feet down. I push my chair back and look over her rocking body.

  “Not the shoulder or neck.”

  She looks over her shoulder at me. “Somewhere private?”