Fracture

by Amanda K. Byrne

She could handle one night with a stranger.

  Since he couldn’t see her, she limped her way to the elevator, and once inside, gave up and pried off her shoes. “Don’t say it,” she muttered, anticipating Taylor’s retort. She yawned, fatigue overriding everything else. Her fantasy of a hot shower and a glass of wine died a quiet death. All she wanted to do was undress and fall into bed.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Was she crazy, or was there a hint of a smile in his voice? She risked a glance at his face. Perfectly blank. The man was a frickin’ safe.

  They found room 505, and she swiped the card key through the reader. She fumbled for the switch on the wall, and the dim light didn’t do much to chase the shadows from the room. Her gaze immediately fell on the bed. Definitely not big enough for two. Hell, even if it was a king size it wouldn’t be big enough. “I’ll take the floor. I’m sure there’s extra blankets and stuff in the closet.” Most hotels had them. Right?

  “Take the bed. I can sleep on the floor.” He set his laptop case next to the closet.

  “No, I’ll take it.” Despite her tiredness, she doubted she’d get much sleep anyway, and she didn’t want to keep him awake with her tossing and turning.

  Now he did snort. “Fine.”

  Hitching up her skirt, she knelt in front of her roll aboard and found her toiletry kit and the boxers and oversized t-shirt she’d been sleeping in. Taylor was working at the knot in his tie when she shut the door to the bathroom.

  Deep breaths. He hadn’t shown any signs of being attracted to her, either tonight or in the past. He hadn’t put up much of a fight over the bed versus floor thing. She could do this. She could think of it as a practice run for when she did want a man in her bed, and, well, being in the room was safer than trying to sleep in the concourse.

  Drawing her brown hair into a ponytail, she washed her face, then pulled on her sleep gear. After one last check in the mirror showed she’d gotten rid of the mascara rings under her eyes, she opened the door.

  “Taylor, did you—” She stepped out and the words dammed up in her mouth.

  The tattoo covering his back was more than ink. It was art. It belonged on full display, where it could be admired, studied, envied.

  Black shaded to grey, the edges of the frame bleeding out rather than squaring off. A lone figure was stretched along his spine, and she could feel the pain of the needles as they worked over the thin skin, so close to bone. Stuck in the middle of a desolate wasteland, it conveyed a bitter, suffocating loneliness, the figure hunched over as it walked.

  His muscles rippled, and she balled her hands into fists, shocked at the impulses twitching under her skin. She wanted to trace every line with her fingertips, then do it all over again with her tongue. It was a slim back, broader at the shoulder, tapered at the waist, fit and lean. A back that would hide well under a tailored suit.

  It had her considering Taylor Smith in a whole new light. The unassuming sales executive with his quiet good looks took on a sleek and sensuous edge.

  Her mouth snapped shut when he glanced over his shoulder. “Um. Blankets? Were there any?” Swallowing became very difficult as she watched him walk to the closet, muscles bunching as he reached up.

  He tossed the blanket on the bed. “Thanks.” She grabbed the pillow nearest to her and hugged it to her chest.

  There were scars. Faint ones, thick ones, running over the ridges of his abdomen, up on his biceps, and a long, jagged one trailing down his sternum. There had to be a story behind those, too, and the questions whispered in the back her mind.

  She wasn’t staring. She just couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. She shifted it to the floor, the pillow falling from her hands.

  “Sara.”

  Her head snapped up.

  He reminded her of a hunting cat, all patience and stealth. His expression gave nothing away, although he had to be annoyed by her staring. If her scars were visible, she’d be annoyed, too.

  She brushed the guilty thought aside. “Yes?”

  “Room service? We didn’t get a chance to eat.” He handed her a paper menu. “You done in the bathroom?”

  She nodded absently, studying the menu. Better to study the menu than the man in front of her.

  When the bathroom door clicked shut, air rushed from her lungs. She had to get a handle on this. This was Taylor. Boring old Taylor. Who cared if his body made him a little more interesting? Under it, he was still the same person who ignored her unless he needed something for work. It was probably her mind’s way of telling her she was ready to take the next step. There were other men out there if she wanted an entanglement. Men who talked. Unlike Taylor.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she switched on the TV, flipping channels while she waited for him to come out. Russell Crowe’s face flashed over the screen, and she paused. LA Confidential. Sweet. Scooting toward the headboard, she grabbed the remaining pillow and tucked it behind her.

  Guy Pearce was interrogating the three punks they’d picked up on suspicion of committing the Nite Owl murders when Taylor emerged from the bathroom. He’d exchanged his suit pants for a pair of ratty grey sweats, and covered his scars and tattoo with a worn t-shirt. Good. He’d be less distracting.

  He sat on the bed and reached for the phone. “You know what you want?”

  “Mmm.” Sara kept her eyes on the screen. Ignore him. “Club sandwich. Fries. And wine. I think there’s a merlot on there.”

  Her mind trick worked, and by the time the food arrived, he was back to being Taylor, quiet Taylor, and she picked at her food, the film sucking her in. God, she loved this film, the intricacies, the performances, the costumes. The women of that era knew how to dress. They didn’t starve away their curves. They played them up, skirts slim and molding over hips, waists nipping in, colors popping.

  “What are we watching?”

  She almost jumped at the question. He’d melted into the woodwork, as usual. She bit a fry in half. “LA Confidential. One of my favorites.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  She flapped a hand at him. “Now you have.”

  There may have been a soft chuckle, but as Vincennes was about to get his brains blown out, she wasn’t paying attention.

  Reality returned as the end credits rolled, and she stretched, noting with surprise her plate was gone. She smothered a yawn. She was wiped, and even though it was only half past ten, she needed to pass out. “Um. D’you mind if I turn in now? The light on the bedside table won’t bother me.”

  He shrugged, hazel eyes inscrutable. “Probably a good idea. I might catch up on some work.”

  Was that all he did? Work? Normally at this time of night, she’d be curled up in bed with a book. He had to have hobbies. Things he did outside of work.

  And it so wasn’t any of her business. “Whatever.” She climbed off the bed, taking the pillow with her and dropping it on the floor.

  “You don’t really need to do that.”

  She glanced up. “Do what?”

  He lifted a brow. “Sleep on the floor. I’ll do it.”

  “I don’t mind.” She wasn’t going to let him take the floor for her any more than she was going to share the bed. He could have it. The hard floor would help keep her from sleeping too deeply.

  She padded into the bathroom and brushed her teeth, lecturing herself. Everything would be fine. Taylor was a co-worker. Not all men were horrible assholes. It was one night, and she was on the floor, he was in the bed, and everything would be fine.

  He was stretched out on the bed, reading through some papers when she came out of the bathroom. He didn’t look up as she picked up the blanket from the end of the bed. Spreading it over the floor, she lay down, pulled half of it over her, and shut her eyes.

  She was asleep within seconds.

  * * *

  Taylor sat in the semi-darkness, listening to Sara’s steady breathing. He’d seen her reaction to his tattoo, his scars. He was used to it. It was a typical female reaction. Everything else
about her was off. The outgoing, friendly Sara had secrets in her eyes.

  Curvy little thing. The shirt she slept in covered it well. Her suit was a different story. It had followed those curves like a sports car hugging the road.

  Definitely not his type, and she seemed to need the reassurance she wasn’t. So he’d sat back and watched the movie, kept his head down when she’d made up her little bed on the floor. Staying quiet and observing was instinctive to him, and apparently it had the additional bonus of keeping her from freaking out.

  A soft snuffling noise drew his attention to the floor on the opposite side of the bed, and he eased over. She’d curled into a tight ball and was huddled under the blanket. He shook his head. Stupid. It was snowing outside, and she was sleeping on the floor with nothing more than a blanket. She needed a quilt.

  He watched a shudder work through her. Fuck this, fuck the chivalry. It was too damn cold, and she’d looked completely worn out by the time the movie ended. They both needed a good night’s sleep. He slid off the bed and stalked around the end of it.

  She jerked, then stilled, as he placed a hand on her shoulder. One eye cracked open, and he swallowed a sigh. “It’s too cold for this shit, Sara,” he said quietly. “Get in the bed. I won’t bite.”

  Both eyes open, she stared at him a while longer, watching him with a weariness he felt echoing in his bones. She struggled to sit up, kicking aside the blanket. The pillow went back on the bed, and she crawled under the covers, curling into a ball once more as she shivered with cold. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  “Nothing to thank me for.” He wasn’t some kind of monster. He circled the bed and slid in, listening for her breathing to go deep before he lifted his hips and pushed his sweats down, then eased into a sitting position and yanked off his t-shirt. He wasn’t going to touch her, but he wasn’t going to make himself uncomfortable, either. She’d have to deal with his boxers.

  As he waited for sleep to come, he wondered who’d made her so afraid.

  Acknowledgements

  Fracture never would have made it out into the world if it hadn’t been for Liv Rancourt’s absolute faith that this story needed to be heard. So thank you, Liv, for your feedback and your unwavering support, even when I went all whiny and self-doubty.

  To my editors, Rhonda Helms and Rebecca Weston, for helping me turn this into a gem of a book. You’ve both made me a better writer, and I loved working with you.

  Whitney Fletcher, for your valuable feedback and your cheerleading — I’m so glad to have you as a friend and CP. Shannon O’Brien — you rock. Thanks for coming up with a fab title and for being an awesome friend.

  And finally, thank you to my friends and family for cheering me on as I slogged through the process of putting out this first book. And to the world’s greatest BF, Aaron, your support means the world to me. I love you!

  About the Author

  When she’s not plotting ways to sneak her latest shoe purchase past her partner, Amanda writes sexy, snarky romance and urban fantasy. She likes her heroines smart and unafraid to make mistakes, and her heroes strong enough to take them on.

  If she’s not writing, she’s reading, drinking hot chocolate, and trying not to destroy her house with her newest DIY project. She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest, and no, it really doesn’t rain that much.

  Books by Amanda K. Byrne

  One Night in Buenos Aires

  Fracture

  Hidden Scars (Hidden Scars, book one, available September 2015)

  Broken Down (Hidden Scars, book two, available Spring 2016)

  Rehab (free erotic short story)

  ©Amanda K. Byrne, 2015

  Published by Radiodemon Publishing, 1st edition April 2015

  Cover Design by Cover Your Dreams

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.