by Mazzy King
I shrug. “I wanted to. I need to be on my own for a while.”
“What about work?” She eyes me carefully.
I flash a smile. “Am I also welcome at your new shop?”
“Of course. I was going to force you.” She smiles. “Ryan and I have been doing really well. I can start you off at a great salary.” She names a price, and my jaw drops.
“That’s way too much,” I argue.
“Take it up with your supervisor,” she says. “Oh, wait, I guess that's you."
I gape at her. “Are you serious?”
“You and Daddy taught me everything I know about what’s under the hood of a car or inside a bike,” Gemma says earnestly. “I might own the shop now, but you’re the manager. So deal with it.”
I chuckle, scratching the back of my neck. "Well, thank you, sis. I won't let you down."
“Good.” She pats my chest. “So. Have you talked to her?”
“Who?” I say, but it’s an automatic bullshit reflex.
Gemma’s dark eyes bore into me. “You know who.”
Yeah, I do.
Imogen Haste.
I draw a deep breath that turns into a wistful, regretful sigh. I picture her flowing dark hair and those enchanting jade-green eyes. Memories of her were the only things keeping me going while I did my time. The last three months of that time, I was in a unique training program with several elite Ridge City cops. As part of my plea bargain and cooperation, they helped me find a decent apartment and a car before my release—as long as I joined their ranks of undercover recruits.
My first assignment in the Program is to infiltrate a street racing ring. I have to convince these guys I'm a criminal just like them and run the info back to the cops.
I love you, Tristan, but I can’t watch you go down a life of crime. I won’t watch you get locked up or killed.
The last words Imogen said to me before she walked out of my life over a year ago have never stopped ringing in my mind. Locked up or killed—well, I’ve checked one of those things off the list now.
“You need to talk to her,” Gemma says softly.
“She made it pretty clear she wants nothing to do with me, sis.”
“You’re an honest man now. You did the crime; you did the time. You have a whole new life and a job.” My sister squeezes my hand. “Talk to her, Tristan.”
When I leave Gemma and Ryan's a short time later, I mean to drive back to my apartment. It's a furnished one, in a nice, quiet, lowkey neighborhood. It's clean, it has everything I need, and I'm thrilled to be able to call it mine. Coming home is one of the most enjoyable things I've done since getting out.
But instead, I drive in a different direction, a direction that might just lead nowhere.
Haste Tattoo.
It's late, almost ten. If I'm lucky, the shop will be closed, and I can pretend I never lost my mind like this.
But when I pull up, though the small lot is empty except for one car, a couple of lights inside are on. I get out of my car and walk up to the storefront. Through the glass, I see her.
The woman I love to madness and back.
She leans over the front counter, a pencil in hand. It looks like she's sketching something. She's a fantastic artist, and not only are her tattoos amazingly beautiful, but she designs as well.
It looks like she’s gotten some new ink since the last time I saw her. One arm from shoulder to wrist is covered in ink, but even from here, it’s a beautiful work of art. She employs two or three other artists, all of whom are top-notch, which is why her shop is the most sought-after in the city.
You need to leave, a small voice in my head commands.
But at that precise moment, Imogen lifts her head, sees me, and freezes. It's like she sees a ghost.
In the reflective glass, I note my new appearance—shorter, kempt hair. No more black leather. No chains. Just jeans, a plain tee, sneakers. A regular guy.
Well, I’m caught now.
I try the handle. It’s unlocked, so I push the door open slowly. A melodic, electronic chime plays from a little speaker above the door.
"Hi," I say because I can't think of anything else to say.
Her mouth is opened slightly as if she's not sure what to say. Then, "Hi."
“Can I come in?”
She lifts a brow. “You already are.”
“Right. Shit.” I clear my throat and walk toward her. “It’s…been a while.”
“It has.” She draws a deep breath. “What are you doing here?”
2
Imogen Haste
I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
Scratch that—who.
Not a day goes by where I don’t think about Tristan Black, the love of my life, the leader of the Rogue Draconians. The man who went down a path of self-destruction and broke my heart in the process. The man I refused to watch go to prison or be killed, even though he went to prison anyway. The man I walked away from.
The man I’ve never stopped loving.
It's like a ghost walked into my shop a second ago. But it's not a ghost. Tristan looks more alive now than he ever has. He looks different, so far removed from the tough biker guy I fell for years ago. He's still beautiful. That will never change. But he seems …calm from his plain clothes to his shorter hair to the way he holds his body.
And his body… I don’t remember him ever being this buff.
He was always leanly sculpted, but the man standing before me now has muscles on top of his muscles. His biceps strain the hem of his T-shirt, and his shoulders seem like they fill the room.
The sight of him immediately makes my body ignite. I haven't been with anyone since I left Tristan. Even though I walked out of his life, I'll never stop belonging to him. I never even went on so much as a date, because no one in the world can measure up to him.
“I was just visiting Gemma,” he says. “Heading home. I, uh, wanted to see you.”
I draw a deep breath, lowering my eyes to my sketchbook. My creative muse hits late at night, and all day I’ve been thinking about a huge back piece for the right person. A phoenix rising from the ashes. "When did you get out?"
“A few days ago.”
I nod. “I always told you that life would come down to one of two outcomes.”
“Imogen,” he says softly. “That life is behind me now. I’ve got…things lined up.”
I shake my head. “What things, Tristan?”
He steps toward me, close enough for me to pick up the clean, crisp fragrance that lightly clings to him. “Legitimate things. Things that…you’d be proud of.”
I fold my arms. “Enlighten me.”
“I…” He clears his throat. “I’ll be working for Gemma. Shop manager. I’ve got my own place. My own car.”
“Your bike?”
“In storage.” He shrugs. “Can’t change my love for them.”
“I never wanted to change you, Tristan,” I blurt out, shocking myself with the note of emotion in my voice. “I wanted you to not be a fucking criminal!”
"I know," he says quietly and takes another step toward me. His hand lands on mine. I want to pull away, but the strength of him, the warmth of his hand, fills me with long-buried need. I don't move. "I'm not a criminal anymore, Imogen. I'm a regular guy now."
I lift a shoulder. “So, what? I’m supposed to welcome you back with open arms? I’m not sure I even know you anymore.”
Hurt passes through his dark eyes, and I regret saying that, even if it is true. He glances down at my sketchbook. “That’s really incredible. Still drawing, I see.”
“Can’t change my love for that,” I murmur.
He meets my gaze. “There’s nothing about you I want to change. Except maybe your opinion of me.”
A huge lump forms in my throat.
"Listen, I wanted to see you," he continues. "Imogen, I think about you, nonstop."
Tears burn my eyes. I can’t bring myself to tell him the same. I can’t give him the power to break
my heart again.
“Will you give me a chance to get to know me?” he asks. “That’s all. Can we just get reacquainted, maybe work on being friends?”
“How do you propose we do that?”
He smiles. “How about a proper date?”
“Friends don’t go on dates.”
He huffs a little laugh. “I guess you’re right. How about we’re two friends catching up…over coffee? Please? I’ll even bring it to you here. On your territory. No pressure.”
I hesitate. What could it hurt? Besides, don’t lie to yourself. You want to see him. Be with him. “Okay. But the shop’s closed tomorrow since it’s Sunday. You could…you could bring it by the apartment. We can sit outside.”
His face brightens. “Think I could see Hanz? I miss him.”
He's referring to Hattori Hanzo, the cat we adopted, and who I took when we broke up. Tristan loves Hanzo as much as I do, but he knew how much I love Hanzo, and made a choice to let me have full custody. I can only imagine how much Tristan misses him—and vice versa. "Of course you can."
Tristan smiles like he’s just won the lottery, and my heart lightens a little. “Still drinking a chai latte?”
I offer half a smile and nod. “I guess some things never change.”
His thumb strokes over the back of my hand. “There’s a lot that hasn’t changed,” he says softly, and we lock gazes.
I missed you so much.
Then a loud vibrating sound rumbles against the front desk, and Tristan clutches at his pockets. He withdraws a cell phone and studies the screen, and I study his face. It’s not the relaxed expression one might have received a text from a friend or a family member. His brow lowers, eyes narrow, mouth tightens.
It's the same look he'd get when we were together, and the Draconians needed him for something.
But they don’t exist anymore, Imogen. He’s on the straight and narrow now.
I ignore the little pull in my belly.
Tristan lets out a soft sigh and tucks his phone away. “I better get going,” he says lightly. “You closing up? I’ll wait for you, walk you out.”
The pull eases a little. If the message he got was something…unsavory, he’d be out of here like a bat out of hell. Like before.
“Sure.”
There’s not much for me to do, anyway. I take the cash bag from the register, my sketchbook, and shoulder bag, and together we walk out. I pause long enough to lock the doors and pull down the security grate.
There’s a sleek black BMW parked out front I assume must belong to him. I lift my brows. “Nice ride. How’d you manage that three days out?”
“Luck,” Tristan says lightly. “Gemma helped me find it. Belonged to some guy moving across the country and was desperate to sell it. It’s a salvaged title, too. Don’t let the smooth paint fool you. She’s a lemon.”
“My ass,” I reply. “She’s beautiful. And new.” There goes that pull again.
He takes my hand. “It’s not what you think. Okay?”
“What do I think?”
He shrugs. "I bought it with blood money. Or drug money."
“Did you?”
Tristan runs his fingers along my chin and tips my face up to look him directly in the eyes. “No, Imogen.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe him so badly.
And, as my gaze falls to his plump lips, the ones I know for a fact are so soft, I also want to kiss him. Badly.
Instead, I pull away and back toward my car, parked on the side of the building. "Tomorrow. Three o’clock works best for me.”
He nods. “Same address?”
Same address as the one I moved to after I walked out of your life?
I nod.
He smiles. “Okay. Tomorrow. Three.”
“Goodnight,” I mumble, then hurry into my car.
He won’t show.
Maybe he will, maybe he won’t.
But that doesn’t change how much I want him to.
3
Tristan
When I pull into Imogen’s apartment complex the next day—at 2:55, to be exact—she’s already waiting inside the secure lobby. I’ve only passed by this place, but I did look it up online, admittedly, after Imogen and I broke up. I wanted to make sure she was doing okay and living in a safe neighborhood. I could guess immediately what drew her to the apartment, apart from its cleanliness and bright rooms with big windows—the lush garden in the courtyard in the center of the building. She’s always had a green thumb, most of which she gave up when we adopted Hanzo since there are more plants and flowers that are toxic to cats than not.
Looking at those pictures online, I imagine her spending a lot of time out there with a good book and a glass of wine in the spring and summer months, at peace.
Maybe lonely.
As I approach, a hot drink cup in each hand, she pushes some button on the inside. A loud, electronic buzzing noise fills my ears. For a second, I freeze in my tracks. It reminds me of the sound our cell doors would make when they got unlocked in prison. My time in lockup could've been so much worse, I know. But I don't recommend prison for anyone. I have no intention of ever going back.
Ever.
Imogen looks radiantly beautiful this afternoon, in a simple white tank top that hugs her voluptuous frame, ripped denim, and Birkenstock sandals. I’ve seen her in cocktail dresses and super-chic outfits, but this no-fuss, effortless look is my favorite. It makes me think I’m seeing the real her.
“Good afternoon,” I say. I hold out her cup. “One hot dirty chai latte.”
She smiles a little, taking the cup. “Thank you. And good afternoon.”
“Do you want to go for a walk, or…?”
“Do you want to see Hanz?”
I nod eagerly. I haven't seen my little guy in so, so long. He probably doesn't remember me at this point, but I'll never forget the tiny ball of fluff he was when we adopted him. He was a fussy kitten, but he always used to love curling into one small ball and laying on me, right against my throat, tucked under my chin.
The memory brings a lump to my throat.
Imogen leads me to the elevators, and we ride up to her apartment on the seventh floor. I am keenly aware of how much she's extending herself to me by letting me into her private space and am determined not to fuck it up.
She unlocks her door and opens it to a spacious, light-filled room. A sparkling kitchen sits off to my immediate left, and in front of me are pale-blond floors, open windows letting sunlight stream in, and plush, comfortable-looking furniture. The space is both stark and welcoming, totally in line with her personality. The walls are hung with her artwork and photography.
“Hanzie,” she calls in a sweet, loving voice that warms my heart.
I hear the rapid jingling of collar tags clanking together, along with some high-pitched squealing from the back of the apartment.
“Is that him?” I ask with a chuckle.
“He gets really excited when Mom comes home,” she tells me.
A moment later, a sleek black cat—a tiny panther—comes bounding into the room. Then he sees me and freezes. His back hunches and his tail puffs out.
“Shit,” I say. “He’s freaked.”
Imogen scoops him and brings him closer. I hold out a hand, and after a moment, Hanzo sniffs it, first hesitantly, then more frantically. He squirms in Imogen’s arms, and when she hands him to me, he starts purring and grooming my chin.
I’m totally unprepared for the rush of emotion that overwhelms me. I missed my little guy terribly. But I didn’t have to miss him. Being away from Hanzo and Imogen because of the choices I made was entirely my fault, and it makes me sick.
I force out a little chuckle even as my eyes burn. “Look at this little guy. You’re a man now, Hanz.”
He purrs even louder, and his sharp claws—the reason we named him after the legendary samurai and the katana craftsman from Kill Bill—dig into my neck as he kneads his paws against me.
“He missed
you,” Imogen says softly, and when I look at her, her own eyes are glistening.
“I missed him.” I draw a deep breath. “And you, Im. I’ve missed you so much.”
Her chin wobbles a little as she looks away.
I set Hanzo down. He weaves through my legs, gazing up at me and meowing softly. “I want to be in your life again, Im. More than anything.”
“That’s…asking a lot.” She sinks down on the arm of the couch.
I move to stand in front of her and reach for her hand. “I know it is. But I just want a chance. And maybe you do too. Hey, I’m here, right? There was a time when you didn’t even want me to know where you lived.”
She’s not exactly squeezing my hand, but her fingers curl slightly around mine. “Tristan…”
“I’m sorry. Not the time to make jokes.”
She lifts her gaze to me, and I lose myself in her gorgeous green eyes. “I never stopped loving you. You should know that. Even when I wanted you out of my life, it was because I couldn’t watch you self-destruct. But I never stopped loving you—the real you. And…that’s why you’re here. Because I think there might be a little of that guy left inside you.”
“More than a little,” I whisper, my heart pounding.
Her hand slips from mine and lands lightly on my chest. She tips her head back, and I run my thumb across her cheek, down her chin, and down the slender column of her throat. Is it possible she wants me to kiss her?
Her full lips part slightly, her gaze intensifying.
I know it’s been a while since I’ve been in the presence of a woman I’m not related to, but I’ve gotten really good at reading people over the years.
My other hand joins the first as I softly cup her jaws, tracing with my thumbs the delicate bones of her face, the silky smoothness of her skin, her satiny lips.
Is it possible…?
Before I can discover that, my phone rings.
4
Imogen