by Elle Casey
“You want me with you or with Zach?” asks Leonard.
Tarin looks at me as I jerk my head towards the stage. He takes my hint. “Go with Zach. Help him with Scott. I have a feeling he’s going to be mobbed.” He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and puts it to his ear.
Leonard leaves us there with the doorman.
Tarin says a few words into his phone and then hangs it up. “Ricky’s on his way.” He rubs my back, trying to make me feel better, I know, but all it does is ramp up my emotions.
I look at the floor trying to get a grip on myself, trying to keep myself from moving up against him. It’s every kind of wrong, but I want his arms around me again. I feel so vulnerable right now, it’s beyond ridiculous. Tarin’s a lot stronger than I gave him credit before. As I fall apart at his feet, he stands there like a rock. A dependable rock of a man.
I’m going a little nuts. That’s the only explanation for my next thought. It strikes me that Jelly could very possibly be the luckiest girl alive. Maybe he doesn’t want to have her around as a girlfriend, but if she has his kid, she’ll see him plenty for the next twenty years or so. But I won’t. After three more weeks, I’ll be gone and I’ll never see him again except for on the television or online news articles. Tonight’s fiasco with Jack has taught me that keeping in contact with old clients can be too risky, too painful. I can picture Tarin playing me a song like that and know without a doubt that it would be my complete undoing. Tarin is not like anyone else. He’s not just a rocker, here one day to party it up and then gone the next. My heart aches with how much he reminds me of Austin in that way.
“Have a good night.”
I raise my eyes to the man with the deep voice. The not-Russian guy is looking at Tarin and nodding slightly.
“Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” Tarin asks, frowning at the guy, his head tilted.
The doorman shrugs. “Maybe.”
“You don’t work just here, do you? You work somewhere else, too.”
The man nods. “No, I don’t work just here. I have a garage.”
Tarin smiles and points at him. “That’s riiiight. Muscle cars, right?”
The guys smiles back, and I’m stunned with how it transforms his face. He goes from stoic and unapproachable to gorgeous in half a second. The smile lasts only that long before it’s gone again. “Yep.” He’s a man of few words, apparently.
Tarin goes from slightly aloof celebrity to fan-boy in an instant. “Dude, your shit is seriously sick. I’ve been wanting to stop by, you know, but life’s been crazy.” He glances down at me.
The guy gets the wrong idea, following Tarin’s gaze and nodding. “I get it.”
“Oh, no … we’re not…” I want to straighten out the misunderstanding but Tarin interrupts me, agreeing with the guy.
“Yeah, right? So are you open this weekend? I’d love to stop by and check out what you’re working on.” He pauses and looks down at me. “If that’s all right with you.”
I shrug. “Whatever. I can work around it.” I give up on dissuading this guy from thinking Tarin and I are together. It makes no difference in the scheme of things what a stranger might think, and the story’s too complicated to explain right now anyway. I’m not even sure I know what my job is anymore.
The guy pulls a business card out of his wallet and hands it to Tarin. “Just give me a call. Shop’s open pretty much all the time.”
“Cool, man. Thanks.” Tarin looks at the card for a few seconds. “That’s your name? Rebel?”
“Yep.”
Tarin looks the guy’s tattoos and muscles over, grinning. “My kind of guy.”
Rebel shrugs and then holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Tarin shakes his hand. “My name’s Tarin by the way. Tarin Kilgour.”
The guy’s expression doesn’t change. “Yeah, I know who you are.”
Tarin nods and takes me by the hand. His fingers are warm and dry to my cold and clammy mess. Ricky has just pulled up. “See you soon, man,” he says to Rebel.
I give Rebel a small wave goodbye, not trusting myself to speak right now. Tarin leads me out of the entrance and down the sidewalk, and I’m happy to just follow along. It’s easier to not think and just do what he wants, at least until my head is back on straight. Ricky wasn’t able to park close enough to the front for us to rush right in, so we have to battle some people hanging out by the line of wanna-be clubbers to get to him.
We’re almost there when someone jumps in our way. “Tarin!” the vision-in-pink squeals.
“What the fuck … Posey? What are you doing here?” Tarin says, pulling on my hand to force me behind him. I take it as a protective gesture, but I fight his good intentions, jerking my hand away and going back to his side.
“I came to be with you, of course!” She’s grinning like the lunatic she is. “I heard you were here, so I came right over.”
Her friends join our little meet-up, standing just behind her. One of them has the decency to look embarrassed about her painfully misguided friend.
“I’m outta here,” says Tarin, stepping to go around her. “Have a good night.” He’s angry but holding back, I think to be nice. He’s much more calm about it than I am. I should probably feel bad about the fact that he’s holding it together better than I am right now, but I don’t; I’m too emotional to think straight. I just need to get away from here so I can fix things.
She reaches out and grabs his arm. “But Tarin … wait! I need to talk to you.”
He yanks his arm out of her grasp. “Not now, Posey, I have to go.”
A flash goes off and I turn my head in surprise, noticing for the first time that there’s a guy with a big camera getting several pictures a second. His automatic shutter is going off like a machine gun.
Chick-eh, chick-eh, chick-eh.
Posey finally notices me standing there. I haven’t moved, so Tarin is no longer at my side. Ricky’s out of the car now and coming around to open the passenger door. A moment later, when Tarin realizes he’s left me behind, he turns back and reaches for my hand, looking up just in time to get a flashbulb light to the face.
He growls, putting his hand up to block any more shots. “Fucking paparazzi … get outta here, would you please?!”
“What are you doing here?” asks Posey, practically spitting the words at me. She’s oblivious to the camera or Tarin’s annoyance.
“Posey, you really need to stop following Tarin around, okay?” I say, using my reasonable, professional tone. Thank God my work-brain has kicked in; I’m pretty sure crying on her shoes wouldn’t be very convincing. “At this point, your behavior’s coming dangerously close to stalking.”
The cameraman moves to the curb to grab some shots of us in profile. Tarin moves to put his back to the camera and block the guy from getting me in the frame.
“It’s not stalking if he wants me to do it!” she screams, stepping forward to get closer to me. Her hands are balled into fists and her small beaded handbag is swinging out in front of her.
More flashes go off.
Chick-eh, chick-eh, chick-eh.
Tarin gives up on trying to grab a hold of my evasive hand and takes me by the wrist, pulling me towards the car. “Come on, Scarlett, just leave her be.”
The cameraman is going bananas, probably already seeing dollar signs for the two thousand actions shots he’s taken.
“Yeah, Scarlett, just leave us alone.” Posey shoves the back of my shoulder as I walk away.
I halt in my tracks, spinning to face her. My reasonable, rational voice is gone, and now I’m just mad. “Touch me again and I’ll lay you out, right here on this sidewalk, you lunatic bimbot.”
“I dare you!” she shrieks. She’s clearly lost her mind, thinking she’s fighting for her man or something. She’s no match for me in her stupid heels and tight dress. One punch and she’ll be toast.
I take a step forward. Once again, I’ve lost my ability to think rationally. All I want to do
is make her shut up, go away, and never come back again to bother Tarin. He deserves some peace; he’s a good person.
Ricky comes between us. “No, no, no … nobody’s laying anyone out anywhere tonight. ‘Least not here in public.” He puts his hand up to stop Posey from going anywhere, but she’s not interested in being tamed.
She pushes on Ricky’s chest, grunting with the effort of trying to move him. “Get out of my way, you stupid chauffeur!”
Rebel the doorman appears out of nowhere. He pushes the cameraman firmly down the sidewalk away from us, giving him a warning with a pointed finger before coming back over. He’s like a mountain of muscle, and it calms my racing heart down to half its frantic pace just to have him there. I’m glad I won’t have to beat up a lust-crazed teenager tonight.
“Listen,” Rebel says to Posey in a totally cool and calm voice, “if you don’t calm down, I’m going to call the cops and ban you from the club, too.”
“Who cares about your stupid club, you big gorilla. I don’t even want to go into your club. I’m here for Tarin.” She tries to look around Ricky’s large frame. “Tell him, Tarin. Tell him to let me in the car with you. And leave her out.” Her eyes are shooting daggers at me, and her way-too-long fake eyelashes make it almost comical. It’s like getting a stare-down from a camel … so not intimidating.
“Posey, go home,” Tarin says. He sounds tired.
“But … Tarin!” she wails as he pulls me towards the car again. He opens the back door so I can go in first. I hesitate.
Posey's tone is helpful now, concerned and overly sweet. “What’s the matter, Tarin? Are you feeling okay? Are you sick? Do you need me to take care of you?” She’s doing her best to yell around Ricky, but he dodges left and right to block her.
“Please, let’s just go,” Tarin begs me. “I’m so fucking sick of this shit.”
“I’ll go if you go with me.”
He takes my hand and squeezes it gently. “Deal.”
We’re in the car when Tarin rolls down his window and yells over to the doorman who’s now alone in the controlling-Posey business. “Thanks, Rebel! I owe you one!”
Rebel doesn’t respond to the statement, focused on restraining a very upset Posey. She’s bucking around, hitting and yelling, her dress going sideways and her hair turning into a tangle with her efforts to get to our car.
Ricky jogs over to the driver’s side and gets in, shifting the vehicle into drive before he even has his seatbelt on. He battles to put it on as he spins the wheel of the SUV with one hand and we move away from the curb.
As we merge into the small amount of traffic on the road, Posey manages to get loose. She runs next to us in the street, screaming something I can’t understand. Her clunky heels are clocking against the asphalt in fast-forward-time, and her screeches sound deranged. The last thing I see before we’re going too fast for her to keep up is her little purse, swinging out and coming into Tarin’s window.
He shouts out in pain and bends over, holding his eye. Posey's purse falls to the floor at our feet as we leave her and her friends behind.
“Holy fuck! That bitch hit me in the eye!” he yells.
I slide over the bench seat quickly and put my hand on his back, leaning over to look at his face. “Are you okay? Sit up and let me see.”
He’s breathing in and out sharply, the pain he’s suffering obvious.
“Come on, Tarin,” I cajole. “Please? Let me see.” I pray he hasn’t suffered any damage to his cornea.
I keep my hand on his back as he sits up, then move it to his shoulder as he twists sideways. I put my hand on his and gently pry it away from his face.
Tears are streaming out of his eye and I can tell he can’t open it. When his hand is fully away, I hiss inward. “Ricky? Better take us to the hospital.” I can’t see everything with his eyelid in the way, but there’s a cut and some blood near the outside corner of his eye, and it’s all way too close for comfort. The whole area is already swollen.
Ricky makes a giant u-turn in the middle of the road and speeds off in the opposite direction of Tarin’s house. Posey sees us coming back and tries to head us off, but Rebel grabs her and drags her back to the curb. The cameraman is there, his flash going off over and over.
Tarin puts his hand back over his eye as he smiles at me, the club disappearing behind us.
“I’m gonna have a scar,” he says.
“Probably. I don’t know why you look so happy about it.” I’m worried about him and it’s making me cranky.
“Scars are sexy. Chicks like scars. It’s gonna make me look dangerous. Chicks like bad boys, haven’t you heard?”
I laugh, relieved that he’s at least okay enough to joke about it. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?” I sit back, sliding over to the far side of the seat. I have to get away from him; even injured he’s too charming for his own good. Or for mine.
He sits back too, but his hand slides across the back seat and settles over mine. “You like me like that. You like ridiculous.”
I don’t argue. There’s really no point in denying the obvious. Dangerous? Bad boy? Scarred? Yes, to all the above. Tarin has way too much going for him, and I don’t have strong enough walls to keep him out. The risks are piling up.
What in the hell am I doing?
Chapter Twenty-Five
AFTER AN HOUR IN THE hospital with a plastic surgeon who was only too eager to come in immediately and put a couple stitches in the famous Tarin Kilgour, we make it back to the house. Ricky leaves us alone at the front door, claiming fatigue and a need to get a good night’s sleep for tomorrow’s workout. We watch as he disappears around the side of the house, headed to his small cottage located on the grounds just beyond the pool area.
Tarin opens the front door for me, allowing me to go in first. I stand in the foyer, not really wanting to go to my room, but also not wanting to invite more trouble into my life. The smart thing would be to go to bed. I know this.
“Want to have a drink with me?”
“Sure.”
I roll my eyes at my eager response as I walk behind him to the family room. Could I be more of a fool? No, I don’t think so. The whole time I’m walking down the hall, I know I’m going to regret this, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Headlong into self-destruction; I’ve taken a page out of Austin’s book. Whatever lessons I’ve learned about running my business over the past two years don’t seem to apply here; or they apply, but I’m ignoring them. I can plainly see myself headed into a dangerous position, but I just keep going there anyway. I’ve never been so irresponsible in my entire life, and I cannot figure out what it is about Tarin that inspires this in me. No one before ever has, not even Austin.
Tarin seems completely cool with everything, especially considering his injury. He walks around the wet bar in the corner of the room and bends down, getting a bottle from under the counter.
“How can you be so calm after all that happened?” I ask.
He shrugs as he pours some amber liquid into a tumbler. “Just another day in the life, I guess.”
“I get the stalker thing, but the slingshot ninja purse? Not so much.” I look at the small bandage at the outside corner of his swollen eye and feel terrible all over again. I’m partially responsible since I’m the one who got Posey the purse-ninja-bimbot all worked up. If I’d stayed out of the picture, they’d be making out on this couch right now, and without the stitches.
He smiles, reaching under the counter again. The fridge is open and he’s sliding something out of it. “Yeah, the ninja purse was a new twist, but it’s not the first time I’ve had something thrown at me. Not by a long shot. I’ve ducked beer bottles, food, bras, panties, condoms … thank God they weren’t used.”
“That’s so not cool,” I say, disappointed in the entire human race. “You write songs that make the whole world sing. No one should be throwing anything at you.”
He looks up at me and grins. “You didn’t just say that, did you?”
“Sure.” He goes back to focusing on his task. He’s pouring a little bit of brown soda, adding it to the alcohol he already put in the crystal glass. Swirling and then sipping the concoction, he frowns at first, then he nods his head. “Not bad. Tarin’s bubble gum special is ready for ingestion.”
I walk over, intrigued by his madness. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but it sounds interesting.” I’m totally ready to drown out the memories of the last couple of hours with alcohol. Sure. Why not? I mean, yeah, it’s a terrible idea, I know this. But it’s the best one I can come up with when lying in bed and torturing myself with flashbacks is not an option. Tonight I want to spare my heart that extra dose of awful.
He walks over and hands me a glass. He holds up a bottled soda and waits for me to respond in kind.
We touch our drinks together with a slight clink.
“Cheers,” I say. “I’m glad you’re not drinking a real drink. That would be a violation of the rules.”
“Cheers. Here’s to rock and roll. I guess rule violations are a real no-no with you, huh?”
I raise my glass again. “To rock and roll,” I repeat, “and yes … rules are not made to be broken. They’re made to be followed to the letter.” Except for the one saying I don’t get involved with clients. Apparently, that one isn’t nearly as strict as I thought it was.
“If you say so.” He winks as me as he takes a sip of his soda.
I take a big swig of the drink he made me, nearly gagging when the taste finally hits me. I can’t remember what he calls this drink but if it were me doing the naming, I’d call it Frankenstein. Holy ugly monster of a cocktail. Give me more.
He grins at my reaction. “What do you think?”
When my voice is working again, I say, “It’s interesting…”
“Sip it, don’t gulp. Tell me that doesn’t taste like bubble gum, like the kind you can get with baseball card packets.”
All I tasted on my first try was overly sweet firewater, but I’m willing to give it another shot. I convince myself I can already feel its warming effects. Taking a small sip, I concentrate on the flavors more closely.