He reminds me of my favorite character from my youth, Jack The Pumpkin King. I smile briefly, I haven’t read the book or watched the movie in years. My mother used to read the book to me every night or so she said, when I try to remember the years before her illness took over, it all fuzzes into a blur. I guess it hurts too much to remember her the way she was before—beautiful, young, and healthy.
Before my trembling fingers reach his face, he grabs my wrist, stopping me forcefully. My book is lying on the ground at his feet now. What kind of jerk mistreats a book like this anyway? Tristian Vandacamp, that’s who. I shouldn’t be surprised that this tough as nails biker has no manners or respect for literature.
Jerking my hand back from his tight hold, I clear my throat and raise from my spot on the loveseat. I retrieve my discarded book and place it back on the shelf I borrowed it from, trying to reign in my annoyance at his disruption.
I can feel his dark eyes on me, assessing me. “Can I help you Mr. Vandacamp?” My voice comes out hoarse and shaky. I look up meeting his gaze and I have to avert my eyes back to his hands. I take a calming breath studying the bones tattooed over his digits, traveling up his arm. They look so real. He’s like a living dead man.
His hand reaches up, his strong, very alive fingers pinch my chin and tilt my face up, forcing me to stare into the dark abyss held in his eyes. “My father was Mr. I’m Tris.” Dropping his hand, he holds an ink covered hand out for me to shake. I can still feel his touch on my face as if he never let me go.
Letting out a nervous breath I smile feeling giddy and silly. “Isabella,” I return unsure of whether I want to risk touching him. I am afraid the desire to trace my fingers over his tattoos will be too tempting. I can’t help it as my eyes bat, fluttering my lashes. That’s something my sisters would do, not me. This man has a weird effect on me.
Giving up on the handshake he drops his hand to his side, now clenching his fist. “Where’s your old man?” His dark eyes narrow on me, giving me goosebumps.
The way he looks at me makes me feel naked and afraid. I feel as though the depths of his darkness is swallowing me whole.
I clear the lump in my throat. “He will be in tomorrow. He stepped out early.” I look at the clock on the wall. I was reading a lot longer than I realized. I should have closed the store over an hour ago. Papi should be back to drive me home by now.
“You seem nervous,” he presses taking a calculated step toward me, boxing me in-between what I imagine to be his hard body and the counter. “Are you afraid Isabella?”
“Should I be?” I ask my voice coming out in a tight squeak.
“Very,” he answers cold and serious.
I scoot along the edge of the counter moving closer to him rather than further away.
“I think you are terrified of my appearance.” He cocks his head to the side appraising me.
I’m sure I’m not the kind of woman he is used to. My slim figure is hidden beneath my frumpy dress. I wear it more out of comfort than anything. My sisters always dressed so revealing, attracting attention with their bodies. I want to be liked for my mind not my body.
His nose turns up as his eyes travel down my guarded body.
Would he think differently of me, if I was dressed like Ariala, with all my goods hanging out on display?
“You seem to be the one judging appearances,” I observe.
“You looked appalled when your eyes met mine,” he states.
Before I can tell him his appearance doesn’t scare me in the least, and that it was his treatment of my book that set me off, the store line rings, startling me. I jump slightly as it clangs loudly in the quiet room. “I have to take this,” I announce with an apologetic smile.
Turning my back to him, I answer. “Book Nook, Isabella speaking.”
An unknown to me woman squawks on the line, “Mr. Perez has been rushed to the hospital, you need to come quickly.” I nearly drop the phone on the counter at her words.
My face pales as her words sink in. My stomach is twisting in knots and I have the urge to throw up. Sweat beads down my back. I feel dizzy. Vertigo sweeps over me as two strong arms wrap around me, protecting me from knocking my head on the counter.
A vision flashes of a boy but I feel too disoriented to make it out. But something about Tristian’s hold on me feels all too familiar. It’s like my body knows his touch and welcomes his darkness.
The warning tone signaling the phone is off the hook snaps me back from my sick spell. I steady my hands on the counter regaining control. His hands linger around my waist a bit longer as I focus on breathing. He looks at me again with those black orbs of despair and I want to drown in the icy, black waters threatening to pull me back under, but I need to get to my father.
I smile graciously and shove his hands away. He stills behind me, his body pressing into mine, definitely a hard wall of muscle. His mouth curves down in a grimace and he walks toward the door.
“Thank you. I have to go. I’m sorry. I’ll tell my father you wish to speak with him.” I don’t wait for a response. I rush to the office grabbing my bag and the keys to the store. The courtesy of phoning my sisters doesn’t cross my mind. I need to get to my father and make sure he is okay. I can’t lose him too. I don’t bother turning off the lights I can return later, once I have seen my father, to shut them off.
As I am twisting the key in the lock, I register Tristian standing by his motorcycle down the street watching me. I don’t like it. He makes me feel vulnerable.
My knees shake slightly threatening to buckle as I walk past him, my worry over my Papi is threatening to knock me off my feet.
“Need a lift,” he offers with the hint of a demand in his tone.
I know what kind of man Tristian is, the type that always gets what he wants and if he doesn’t get it right off, he can buy it.
He motions to his motorcycle.
His bike will get me to the hospital a lot quicker than my legs.
I nod unsure of how to get on or how to ride on the thing with him. I’ve never ridden before.
He takes one look at my frail appearance and laughs darkly.
His tattooed face wears a menacing smile. “Never had a little power between your legs.”
I blush, at the double meaning laced in his crude teasing.
“I bet you are as pure as a first snow in winter,” he jokes again at my expense.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I snap finding my spine.
“You wouldn’t know what to do with a man like me,” he barks before instructing me how to ride with him on what he calls the bitch seat. The skirt of my dress, hiked over my knees and bunched up offers a thin veil between my purity and his backside. I snuggle into his back for protection from the cool night air. “You’re too pure for me sweetheart, much too fragile for a man like me.” He laughs as he pulls us out onto the street.
Dirty Truth (Fighting Dirty Series Book 2) Page 15