Shatter

by Lola Taylor

  It was as if Scott had been shocked. Memories of a screaming match, followed by his knuckles beating the living hell out of every breakable thing in the room, started to resurface, but he firmly shoved them down. That mess was something he’d dealt with a long time ago.

  He downed the rest of his drink. “I’m gonna go outside for a smoke.”

  Jace gave him a knowing look, which only made Scott want to run away even more. He couldn’t stand people looking at him with sympathy. It was his own fault for what had happened. He should have seen Erika for the lying, thieving whore she was. He wasn’t hurting from her betrayal, not anymore.

  And so help him God, no one would ever hurt him that way again.

  So what the hell was he doing here?

  He turned to walk outside to the smoking area and had taken one full step before he nearly slammed into a petite blonde sporting too much spray-on tan. She had been standing right behind him. Her hand was still raised, her finger poised as if to tap him on the shoulder.

  “Oh!” she yelped and blinked several times. “Hi, there!”

  He winced. Had she sucked helium? Her voice sounded as if it belonged to a hamster.

  “Hi…” Scott eyed her warily. What the hell did she want?

  The girl was cute, in an over-the-top girly kind of way. She wore hot-pink leather with delicate diamond chains on her shoulders for straps and around her waist as a belt. A pink riding crop was secured on her belt, along with sparkly handcuffs lined in hot-pink fur.

  If Barbie were into BDSM…

  The girl waited a moment for him to speak. You’d think glitter was going out of style, she had so much of it on: in her eye shadow, in her powder, on her lips. Her face was so sparkly, it could rival a disco ball.

  “Hi!” she repeated with a broad smile. Some of her glittery lipstick had rubbed off on her bleached-white teeth; glitter gathered in the cracks between her teeth.

  All he could do was stare.

  “Um, so, like, do you want to dance?” she said, that annoyingly perky smile still plastered on her glittered face.

  He managed to smile back, though the motion felt too tight. “Sorry, but I’m here with someone.”

  “Oh?” She made a point of looking around. “But I haven’t seen you with anyone all night.”

  His teeth gritted. If it was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was pushy girls. “Sorry, but like I said, I have a date.” He decided to let her off easy and not be such a dick. “I’m sure there are plenty of men here who’d love to dance with you,” he added. Hell, he even put in more effort with the smile.

  Wrong move. Barbie took that as flirting. “But I want to dance with you,” she whined with a pout.

  Oh hell no. She was probably some seventeen-year-old girl who’d snuck out of mommy and daddy’s mansion, expecting to be obeyed and treated like a queen wherever she went. He leaned in and narrowed his eyes. “Well, we can’t always get what we want, can we, cupcake?”

  He started past her when she latched onto his arm. Her nails dug in. “Hey, you think you can just walk away? No one turns me down!”

  “Sounds like he just did.”

  They both turned to find Amy a few feet away. Scott’s heart fluttered. Dammit, he did not have time for this pittery-pattery shit. Warning bells went off in his brain, which his sex promptly ignored. He felt it lengthen and harden, squeezing against the tight leather of his pants. Good thing it was dark as night in here, save for Barbie’s face.

  His heart pounded harder as Amy sauntered near. He couldn’t take his eyes off the sensual sway of her wide hips, nor deny how the way the leather pulled at her thighs was hot as hell. He wanted to ride her skirt up, see if her thighs were as smooth and creamy as he imagined they would be.

  Barbie rounded on Amy. “Who the hell are you?”

  Amy walked right up to him, stopped, looked at Barbie’s nails digging into his arm, and pried her hand loose. She then nuzzled next to him and put a hand to his chest. “I’m his date, Tinker Bell.”

  Barbie stared, mouth wide open. Scott did, too, with much the same expression. Dear Lord, if he wasn’t hard before, he positively throbbed with need now. The slight buzz he was riding didn’t help his raging hormones any.

  Amy grabbed his hand. “Come on. Let’s dance.”

  She pulled him away as Barbie continued to stare. Scott was surprised he didn’t see smoke come out of her ears; it looked as if her brain had fried.

  Amy guided him through the throng of gyrating bodies, most of which were stuck together so tightly, you’d think they were trying to fuse into one person.

  When they were well away from Barbie, Amy dropped his hand. “You’re welcome.” She poked a finger into his chest. She turned and started toward one of the many bars in the joint.

  “Whoa.” Scott caught her wrist to stop her. “How many have you had tonight?” She’d started chugging wine, martinis, whatever she could get her hands on, the moment they entered the club.

  “What does it matter?” she snapped, jerking her hand free. “You’re not my boss.”

  “But I am your date.” He stepped in front of her to block her path. “And I care what happens to you.”

  She blinked, looking surprised.

  “That is,” he added quickly as his face flushed, “what kind of a date would I be if I let you get roofied or something?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Get over yourself, Prince Charming. You’re not my date. You were just another victim of Becca’s scheming.” She started to go around him, but he blocked her path again. She glared. “Would you please move?”

  “No.” He grinned. “Not until you dance with me.”

  “Not happening.”

  “Come on. Just one?”

  “No.”

  “But you just said you wanted to dance with me.”

  She sighed and rubbed her temples. “That was just an excuse to get you away from Barbie. I didn’t actually want to dance.” She glanced at the dancers. Longing briefly flashed in her eyes.

  He studied her, a slight smirk on his face. “You sure about that?”

  “Positive.” She leaned forward. “I. Do. Not. Want. To. Dance. How many times do I have to say it?”

  “As many as it takes to wear you down.” He pressed his lips together in thought and looked around. “I could always go fetch Barbie, or one of the other women.” He caught a pair of brunettes eyeing him with wide, flirtatious smiles from the wall. They turned to each other when they caught him looking, and giggled. “Actually, I don’t know how much longer this not dancing thing can last. The natives are getting pretty restless. I might not be able to fend them off much longer.”

  Her shoulders tensed, and she looked away. “Go ahead. I thought Malibu over there was getting on your nerves, and you looked like you could use rescuing. But hey, maybe I was wrong. Dance with whomever you like. I don’t care.”

  She shoved him out of the way, or at least, she tried to. It did about as much good as trying to move a mountain.

  Her palms were pressed flat against his chest. That must have been what flipped his “stupid switch.” Or the alcohol. Either way, he sure as hell wasn’t thinking straight.

  He didn’t waste a second. He seized her wrists and twirled her around. She yelped as her back smacked into his chest; he gripped her hips and rocked them to the rhythm of the tune.

  “What are you doing?” She wriggled against him in a feeble attempt to break free.

  The friction against his hardened sex only made him want to groan. “This is your payback,” he breathed.

  “For what?”

  He lowered his head until his lips grazed her neck. She gasped. He moved his lips along the curve between her neck and shoulder. Her skin was smooth, and slightly salty from the exertion of dancing. “For teasing me earlier with that stuck zipper. It was very clever.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Are you drunk?”

  “No. But from how you’re starting to slur, it kind of sounds like you
are.”

  “I am not!” It sounded more like, “Immanah!” He held on to her to keep her from falling over. Good Lord, heels that high should come with a health warning: Likely to break an ankle or possibly fall on some pavement and crack skull open.

  “Easy,” he murmured next to her ear. It didn’t even bother him anymore that her hair was blond, he was so into her: her spunk, her soft, curvy body, and the way her breasts bunched in the tight, inky dress.

  Beautiful.

  All around them, couples let their hands rove over each other’s bodies. Some hands found themselves in some very private places. He wished hers would.

  She had relaxed in his arms some; her body molded against his and moved to the rhythm. Those beautiful, lush breasts rose and fell with her quickened breaths.

  “Not finding me so vile anymore?” he asked.

  She stiffened, and he mentally swore.

  Spoke too soon.

  “No,” she said, “I still think you’re an asshole. I’m going to have yellow paint caked under my nails for the rest of my life.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  She turned her head up to glare at him. It would be so easy to tip his head, close his lips over hers…

  Focus.

  “Yours,” she said, as if this should be obvious. “You pressed my buttons.”

  He grinned and pulled her closer. “And what kind of buttons am I pressing now?”

  She blinked a few times, startled, and looked away. A haunted expression came over her face that bothered him deeply. “You can quit flirting with me now. It’s not going to happen.”

  “What’s not?”

  “You. Me. Us. This. Whatever this is.”

  The brief sting of disappointment was quickly replaced by a spark of determination. “Come on. You can’t tell me the leather pants don’t turn you on at least a little bit.”

  “Nope. Not even a little.”

  Liar, liar. He leaned in, his voice a husky whisper. “That’s not what your nipples are telling me.” The fake vinyl material of the dress was actually pretty exposing, it was so tight. He brushed his palm over one tight knot at the crest of her breast. She sighed as she leaned into his touch, rubbing her breast against his hand.

  He took it as an invitation. His breathing quickened as he continued to tease her nipples, one at a time. “Do you like this?” he whispered.

  What. The. Hell. Was. Happening?

  Her body was losing control. Well, scratch that. The barrel of tequila she’d consumed in thirty minutes flat had wiped out whatever brain function she’d had, including her determination to stay away from Evil Hotness. She’d thought drinking alcohol like water would drown her worries about entering the club and being so close to Scott, but clearly, that little plan had backfired.

  Way to go, genius. For the record, alcohol=horny.

  The boldness of his caress had surprised her—and then set her blood on fire. God, she’d never wanted anything more in her life than to find a dark corner, rip his pants off, and plant her sex on the rock-hard erection that currently rubbed against her ass.

  “Yes, I like it,” she breathed, taking his hands to guide them to both her breasts. She cupped her hands around his, making him palm both breasts. “I also like this.”

  He groaned and squeezed, slowly kneading her lush, soft mounds. She sighed with pleasure and threw her head back as she began to rock against him. It felt so damned good to be touched. His touch made her feel alive. The thought that this was a bad idea nagged her at the back of her mind, but it was far away. She didn’t want to let go of this sense of being wanted, of being desired. It was addicting.

  How long had it been since she’d let herself go, to not worry, and just feel? After what happened, she thought she’d only be able to feel that way while painting. If she won the lottery next week, it couldn’t be more unexpected than this.

  She was so taken with him that she hadn’t realized he’d slipped a hand under her neckline until she felt the hot, callused skin of his hand caress her breast. She mewled and writhed against him as he kissed her neck. His lips were hot against her sweat-dampened skin. Or maybe it was the rush of flames heating her blood that made her feverish. She felt herself grow wetter with need; her sex throbbed in rhythm to every hot pulse of her blood.

  Speaking, let alone thinking, was incredibly hard while he worked his lip voodoo. “You must think me a wanton woman,” she breathed.

  “Not at all,” he replied, his deep voice ragged. “And I’m in no position to judge if you were.”

  “I’m not.” She wondered why she felt the need to justify her character. Good, sweet little Amy. Never strayed too far from the safety of the sidelines.

  Never lived a little.

  Her life was pretty gray. Dull. Boring.

  Safe.

  Her world had started to be painted in Technicolor when Michael literally crashed into it, and look how well that had turned out.

  Now, it was happening again. Vibrant splashes of color started to appear in her gray world, in the form of the hot man whose touch scalded her.

  The over-amped bass thrumming in her blood and the party cries of the crowd faded to a low hum, accented by the strong throb of her heart. She closed her eyes and savored the feeling of his hands touching her in places she never thought she’d let a man touch again.

  She should have been scared to be that intimate. Or, at least, she thought she would have been.

  But she wasn’t. She’d like to think it was because he made her feel so relaxed, but it was probably just the alcohol.

  “Come back to my place,” he whispered.

  She thought about it for two seconds. She wasn’t that drunk yet, no matter how badly her body screamed, “Hell to the yes!” “Nah.”

  “Why not?” Another kiss.

  She sighed. “Because I don’t sleep with strangers. And I guess that’s what you are, technically, since I don’t know a thing about you.”

  He tensed. “You don’t want to. I’m high-risk.”

  “Oh?” Sensing the mood was ruined, she stepped away from him and raised her brows. “Because you’re so big and bad?”

  “No.” A cocky grin came over his face. “Because once you go Scott, you never go back.”

  “Dork. That doesn’t even rhyme.” She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “I bet you’d be a horrible date. You’d probably talk about yourself all night.”

  He raised a brow. “Have I been a horrible date tonight?”

  “I don’t count this as a date since I was forced into it.”

  “All right,” he said after a pause, eyes glittering. “Want to find out?”

  “Find out what?”

  “How I am on a real date?”

  She stopped and stared at him. “I thought you just said you didn’t want me to get to know you. That it’s too high-risk or something.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t think straight around you.”

  She waited for another cocky grin, or some sign that he was messing with her. But the look in his eyes was dead serious.

  Warnings went off in her head. Her self-preservation instinct kicked in. Walk away! it screamed.

  She couldn’t move. Unable to comprehend what he’d just said, she pressed her lips together and shifted her weight. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

  “Correction: I didn’t like you painting my walls without permission. And yellow, of all things.” He shuddered.

  “What’s wrong with yellow?”

  “It’s hideous, for starters.”

  “And what would you prefer? Black?”

  “Like my soul,” he said in a deep, monotone voice.

  She snorted and bit her lip. “I don’t know…”

  “Come on. One date. We don’t even have to call it that.”

  “You’re my building manager. Isn’t that a conflict of interest or something?”

  “I just think of it as convenient.”

  She rolled her eyes. Indecision we
ighed on her chest.

  He held up a finger. “All I’m asking for. We can keep it casual. Lunch, maybe. Start slow, if you want?”

  Slow.

  Was she ready for slow? Was she ready for anything?

  She shivered, both from excitement and fear. She hadn’t had a date since Michael was taken from her. It had taken a long time for the gaping hole in her chest to feel like a heart again, for emotion to return, and for her actually to feel anything other than numbness and shock.

  Remember, this is Amy 2.0. The old Amy would run. What would the new Amy do? What do you want to do?

  Her therapist said, “Change doesn’t happen by staying the same. Change happens when you take risks.”

  The answer became crystal-clear.

  Praying this wasn’t going to be a colossal disaster, she whispered, “Okay.”

  FOUR A.M. WAS an ungodly hour for most people, but not for the Watcher. His bedroom window was the only one lit up on the block. While his neighbors slept, he felt wide awake. More alive.

  Except tonight. Tonight, he felt absolutely crushed.

  The Watcher opened the worn leather journal and positioned the tip of his pen to the first blank line.

  Entry 408

  Amy didn’t see me tonight.

  She didn’t even look my way once.

  Goddamned bitch. How can she forget about me so easily? I might as well not even exist.

  Tears stained the paper.

  I am such an idiot. All this time, she hasn’t seen anyone. I thought maybe…maybe she was waiting for me.

  Does she know how much I love her? Does she know how badly I ache to be with her?

  The pen in his hand shook with his rising anger. It was always there, lurking below the surface, threatening to spill over into rage.

  Bitch. After all I’ve done for her, how can she dismiss me so easily? She won’t ever forget about me again. From now on, she’ll look my way. I’ll make her notice me.

  I have to—because she’s mine.

  RED OR BLACK?

  It was a simple question, a choice really, and yet the hardest decision she’d had to make since leaving home.

  Amy stared at the bra-and-panty sets laid out neatly on her bedspread.