Tyler

by Jo Raven

  Leave. Leave. Lea—

  Stop, dammit. I swerve into a narrow street, barely missing the wall, and slow down. I force deep breaths into my lungs. All these coping mechanisms—the compulsive behavior that kept me sane with Uncle Jerry and later when I moved to Chicago—should be behind me, just like Dad and his sick games. I don’t need the counting, or repeating words and actions in threes, or even stroking her picture.

  God, what I need is to stroke her. In the flesh. Move my hands over her warm, soft skin and kiss those lips… I imagine my thumb brushing over her soft mouth, down her smooth cheek, and my blood ignites.

  By the time I reach my building and park the bike, I’m so hard I ache. Erin… All the women I’ve ever been with since I left Madison have borne her face in my mind. Some even complained I called out her name as I came.

  She’s in my blood, under my skin, no matter what I do, and now the memory of seeing her is so fresh my body remembers just how it felt to be with her, inside of her. Being one with her.

  And these thoughts, these images and sensations feel too good to shove aside— especially since right behind them lurks the sick fear and the memories from a basement where I thought I’d breathe my last—so yeah, so what if I’d rather think of Erin. I’d rather imagine I’m with her, that she keeps the nightmare at bay, warming me up, making me forget.

  I lock my bike and shuck off my gloves, open the heavy building door and climb up the stairs, trying to ignore my throbbing dick. By the time I unlock my door and relock it behind me, by the time I shrug off my jacket, fold it and lay it on the bed, more images have played out in my mind—Erin stretched out beneath me, naked, whispering my name. Her eyes are half-closed, her skin flushed, her hands on her breasts, begging me to make her come.

  Christ. I need a cold shower.

  I stumble into the bathroom and shed my clothes as I start the water running. I jump under the spray before it even gets warm, but the cold isn’t helping this time. My dick throbs in time to my frantic heartbeat. I reach down, wrap my fingers around it, and grit my teeth as fiery pleasure shoots up my spine. Oh fuck. If just the thought of her does this to me, what would it be like to really touch her again?

  Stupid, Tyler, I tell myself, closing my eyes and letting my head thunk back against the tiled wall. She’s moved on. She doesn’t want you. Barely remembers you—and yet she’s pissed with you, enough that she ran away when she realized who you are.

  Fuck it.

  I drag my fist up my cock, then down, drawing out the exquisite torture. I need to come—my balls are tight and aching, and my stomach muscles are clenching already in anticipation.

  I stop, hiss out a breath and look down at my swollen cock. My fingers tighten around it. “Erin…”

  God, I wish things had gone differently. I can almost see her shining eyes, her smile. I can almost smell her sweetness next to me.

  This is sick. I should stop. But I can’t. Besides, I’m not hurting her this way; I’m only hurting myself.

  Bracing one-handed against the wall, I begin thrusting into my fist, faster and faster, my hips snapping. My head is bent forward, and the warm water hits my back and sends wet strands of hair into my face. My gaze snags on the tattoo decorating my chest and the word etched there.

  This is a brief distraction. I can’t hide from myself for long. I can’t forget. I have to… Have to forget. I groan as my cock jerks in my hand, and my balls draw up tight.

  Oh God. I shut my eyes and give in to the bursts of pleasure blasting through my body. For some endless moments, my mind blanks out completely, and it’s pure bliss. No thoughts. No memories. No past.

  I come to, still braced against the cracked tiles, and turn into the spray to wash my body clean.

  If only wiping the slate of my past were so easy.

  ***

  Many things are changing. I realize this as I step out of the shower, and my body still vibrates with tension. Jacking off usually calms me down, but this time I find my hands still shaking.

  So I do the other thing that gets me through the day: punish my body. I do crunches and push-ups and sit-ups until my muscles scream and sweat drips off my body. I keep at it until black dots crowd my vision, then hop back into the shower and wash the sweat off.

  After that, I finally get out. I have to buy stuff—food, shampoo, fucking toilet paper—and I still have no clue about a job to keep me afloat.

  Throwing on my jeans and a T-shirt, I grab my jacket and head out. Of course it’s not as simple as that. I close the windows, check the hot plate at the corner of the studio, step out and lock the apartment door—then unlock it and get inside again, rechecking the hot plate and the window latches. I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs. Have I forgotten something else?

  Dammit, get your shit together.

  I need… I grab the pendant at my neck, rub my thumb over it. Erin, Erin, Erin. The sound of her name in my mind calms me down. I let the pendant drop back inside my T-shirt, cool against my chest, and zip my leather jacket up.

  What a fucking shitload of a day.

  I skip down the stairs and step out into the icy wind. I think I’ve seen a mom-and-pop shop not far from my building, so I shove my hands into my pockets and head that way. A commission for a web design is waiting on my laptop, and I need to get cracking on it before the customer loses her patience, but my mind is too scattered for that right now.

  Images of the marked teddy bear, the torn certificate and Ash’s shocked face fill my head—and then older images, from that damn basement, Dad’s twisted face, the pain and the blood…

  Fuck. So much for getting my shit together.

  I quicken my pace, almost jogging down the sidewalk, as if running away will erase the visuals, wipe the inside of my head clean. The pendant thumps against my breastbone, a counter beat to my heart. The wind whistles in my ears. I’m running full-out, my boots slapping the cracked concrete.

  Then I hear my name. Someone is shouting behind me, telling me to stop.

  Slowing down to a walk, I stumble sideways and lean against the façade of a building, trying to catch my breath.

  “Man, are you okay?” The voice is bass, the guy tall and moving with the grace of a fighter or dancer, his shoulder-length blond hair catching the morning light. “You’re Tyler, right?”

  “Yeah. And who’re you?”

  “I’m Rafe. Friend of Zane’s and Asher’s.” He leans over, braces his hands on his knees and groans. “Man, you’re like your brother, running like you got hell’s dogs snapping at your ass.”

  I let this sink in. “You go running with Asher?”

  He nods. “These past two weeks. I’m telling you, man, he runs like the wind. He’s unbeatable.”

  A rush of pride goes through me. My little bro is unbeatable. I like the sound of that.

  “Nice to finally meet you,” Rafe says, extending his hand. I grab it, and we shake. “Zen-man and I saw you running past Damage Control. Zane’s doing an ink job and couldn’t come after you, so...”

  I shake my head, then run my fingers through my sweaty hair. “There was no need. I was just letting out some steam.”

  “You were running like someone was after you,” Rafe says quietly, his amber eyes watching me carefully. “Something happen?”

  I turn my face away, uncomfortable and starting to get pissed. “Nothing happened. Run back along now and tell Zane I don’t need a babysitter.”

  Rafe snorts, but when I glance at him he really seems amused, and that pisses me off even more.

  “What?” I grind out. “What’s so funny?”

  “Oh, come on, man, drop the tough act. I’m the bearer of good news.” Unfazed by my glare, Rafe grins and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Get over to Damage. There’s something Zane wants to talk to you about. I think he wants to offer you a job.”

  Chapter Four

  Erin

  My plans of talking to Tyler… well, let’s just say life doesn’t care much for plans. Jax is sick
and I cancel the Spanish lessons I give in the afternoons, so I can drive over to be with him.

  Two days later he’s much better and I’m back in town with Zane’s words about Tyler ringing in my head. ‘He wants to see you, trust me. I think something happened to him.’

  But why did he never contact me—or anyone—in all these years? Why let me worry and cry late into the night and fear for him? Why let me wallow in guilt?

  My anger was my armor all this time, my buffer against the sorrow and the fear. My heart hardened—or so I thought until I saw him again. Those dark chocolate eyes… they seemed full of joy to see me—and shock and pain. What does it all mean?

  Back to square one.

  Meanwhile, I have to play catch up with college. I’ve already missed quite a few classes in this past month, what with the flu and Jax, and now, after sitting for an hour in economics class, the numbers the professor is writing on the board are blurring. I can’t follow. I’ll need to borrow someone’s notes and study them.

  I also need more sleep and to stop thinking about Tyler.

  Rubbing my fists over my eyes, I try to erase his image; his handsome face, his square jaw dark with stubble, his soft lips, his broad shoulders, stretching his wet T-shirt tight over his hard chest.

  Gah. Useless. I avoided looking at pictures of him as much as possible in my struggle to forget him and bury the pain, but seeing him again has ruined all my efforts. Both the pain and the desire, and all those feelings for him I’ve done my best to kill, are back with a vengeance.

  Noise rises around me like water, engulfing me. Voices and rustling. I lower my hands. Class dismissed. Crap, I spaced out and missed the end of the lesson. Shooting to my feet, I grab the hand of a girl I’ve talked to a couple of times. Tattoos peek over her neckline.

  “Dakota?” I say breathlessly.

  She lifts a dark brow. “Yeah?”

  “Can I borrow your notes? I’ll just make a copy and give them back real quick. Please?”

  Hefting her black backpack on one shoulder, she bites into her bottom lip and glances toward the classroom exit. “Right… Aren’t you Zane’s friend? The one living with him?”

  I nod, at a loss. “Yeah.”

  “The one who kicked Asher out to the curb.”

  Holy crapola. Is this how I will be known from now on? The bitch who kicked Asher while he was down? Not that it’s totally unfair, though. I take a step back. “Never mind. I’ll ask someone else.”

  That brow lifts again, and this time her lips tip into a smile. “No, it’s fine. Take them. I’ll walk with you.”

  “Thanks.” I try not to get whiplash from her mood changes. I grab my stuff, and we stroll out of class together, heading to the photocopy center of the campus. “I thought you were pissed with me,” I say before I can control my damn mouth. “Because of the Asher business.”

  Dakota takes her time to reply. She takes a pack of chewing gum out of her bag and pops one into her mouth. She gestures for me to help myself to one, but I shake my head.

  Blowing and popping bubbles, she says nothing until we enter the copy center, and I get a machine. She hands me her notes, written in a tight, barely legible script, and leans back against another machine, watching me.

  “I’m not pissed with you,” she finally declares.

  “Really.” Because the way she’d asked the question earlier could have fooled me. “You’re friends with Ash.”

  “No. With Audrey.”

  I wince. “Right.”

  She shrugs and picks at her sleeve. “I barely know Asher. He seems like a decent guy. And I barely know you. I thought, I don’t know. Maybe you had your reasons for what you did.”

  “Maybe.” Bad reasons, all of them.

  “We all have our reasons for what we do,” she says, and it sounds somehow ominous.

  “Like your reasons for helping me out now?” I don’t mean it seriously, but her blue eyes narrow and she shifts from foot to foot.

  Oh, I see. She isn’t doing this out of the goodness of her heart. Why should it surprise me? I go on copying the notes, waiting for her to say her piece.

  “You, um.” She gives me a sidelong look. “You’re good friends with Zane.”

  It’s not a question, so I wait some more. I finish up, gather her notes and hand them back to her.

  “Do you think you could get a word in for me?”

  “To Zane?”

  “Yeah. I’ve tried and tried, but he just won’t do it.” She throws her hands into the air, her eyes flashing with frustration.

  “Do what? Go out with you?”

  Her face flushes. It’s a slow process, pink and then red spreading from the roots of her hair and her neck up to color her cheeks. “For a tattoo.”

  I pause and let this sink in. “You want me to put a word in for Zane to ink you?”

  “Yes!” She jumps up and down. “He knows the tattoo I want, and only he can do it. But he won’t.”

  “You’ve already asked him, then. And he said no.”

  She calms down and nods.

  “Maybe he has his reasons, too.”

  She flinches. “Maybe he’s mistaken.” She lifts her chin.

  Her meaning is clear. It’s a challenge. She thinks Zane is mistaken, like I was. She wants me to fix one wrong to balance another.

  Or maybe I’m the one seeing it as a challenge. Make this right, if you think you can, Erin. Go on. Do your best.

  I huff a sigh. This is crazy thinking.

  Stuffing the photocopies into my bag, I head toward the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  ***

  On my way to my car, I almost plow into someone. A high-pitched squeal alerts me to the fact it’s a girl, and then I get another clue when she says, “Hey, Erin! How was your weekend?”

  Tessa. She’s dressed smart, as always, in a designer gray dress and high black boots, a fine charcoal woolen coat wrapped around her. “Fine. Came back this morning.”

  “Jax okay?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Needed you to hold his hand again? Have you told him he acts like a three-year-old?” Tessa snickers. “Men. Always so childish.”

  I say nothing to that, and she grabs my arm and drags me away from the parking lot, toward one of the campus cafes.

  “You have to bring him over one day,” Tessa chatters on as she steers me through the door and to a small table by the window. She’s in a fine mood today, and I wonder if Dylan is around. A surreptitious glance at the other tables reveals no broad-shouldered, blond-haired men.

  Suspicious.

  “I want to meet the mysterious Jax,” Tessa goes on, waving at the waitress, not deterred by my lack of response. She’s used to it, obviously, and doesn’t see it as a refusal. “I bet he’s drop-dead gorgeous, and you don’t want us to see him, huh? Afraid we’ll try to steal him? Push him against a wall and ravish him?”

  I sigh and lean back in my seat. The waitress arrives, and we give our orders. I ask for a double espresso; I have a feeling I’m going to need it today. Tessa is again in a chatty mood, and I’m exhausted, too exhausted for this sort of conversation.

  “Does he look like Tyler, I wonder?” Tessa says, batting her lashes at me and making kissy noises.

  Oh crap. Definitely not ready for this discussion, because, yes, Jax does look a lot like Tyler. I sometimes wish he didn’t.

  She squeals again, as if I’ve said anything. “Oh my God, he does, doesn’t he? I knew it.”

  “Knew what?”

  “You’re still in love with Tyler.”

  Suddenly my eyes burn like fire, and I put my hands over my face. A heaviness settles on my chest, and I can hardly breathe. What’s this? What’s happening to me? I’m over Tyler—though he was my first in everything, first guy I slept with, first guy I loved. The center of my world.

  He’s come back too late. I have my routine, my life, the people who love me, who won’t leave me without a word of goodbye. I’m still trying to mend
my faith in mankind. And now…

  Thin arms go around me, startling me, and then Tessa whispers in my ear, “I’m sorry. Don’t know what got into me. I won’t joke about this again.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I find myself saying, dismayed when I feel tears rolling down my cheeks. I hug her back, where she crouches at my feet, and some of the weight lifts off my chest. “It’s just that I don’t know…”

  Don’t know what to do with my stupid heart that still only beats for Tyler.

  ***

  After a day of classes and playing catching up, then trying to teach a spoiled brat the joys of Spanish past tense, I’m starving and so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. I normally love teaching—so much so that I’ve been considering a teaching degree, but tonight I’m beat. This schedule is killing me, but I need the money, or I’ll never pay back the debts from the medical bills I accumulated four years ago, Mom’s medicine and hospital visits, not to mention rent and college fees.

  Depression clings to me as I pass by a store to pick up some stuff on the way home. My finances are like a sinkhole, sucking every penny I toss into the debts, but my parents are adamant that I should go to college and live like girls my age. I get that and I appreciate the opportunity. Mom barely finished school, and Dad works in a hardware store. They want something better for me, and I want that, too. I love teaching Spanish. A degree in that sounds great. Besides, after years having to stay locked up at home while my friends went to school and parties, met with boys and had fun, I want that, too, even if just for a while.

  It’s just that, on some days I feel I’m in a theater play, pretending to be someone I’m not. I’m not a carefree girl. I have responsibilities. I have debts, for god’s sake. I should be working full-time and leave college for later.

  I grab some groceries, thinking to make Zane his favorite dish: seafood spaghetti in white sauce—and take the opportunity to pass on Dakota’s request and maybe ask for Tyler’s phone number. Or maybe set up a meeting? Does Zane know where Tyler lives?

  I guess I’m going to have to ask to find out. We all have our reasons for what we do. Dakota is right, and I feel a twinge of guilt as I unlock the apartment door and plop my grocery bags on the kitchen table. I should be cooking for Zane anyway—because he’s my friend and because he’s always there for me. Not to push some chick’s request on him and ask him for favors.