All the Pretty Lies

by M. Leighton

  Hemi takes a step toward Steven, obviously unconcerned. “Do what you have to, man. I’m not going anywhere until you take your hands off her.”

  “You really don’t want to do this,” Steven warns.

  “Oh, I think I do,” Hemi says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  Oh shit! Where’s Sig when I need him?

  I step in front of Steven, facing him. “Steven, I’m fine. I’m not driving. Just go back to what you were doing. Don’t start trouble.”

  Cops don’t start trouble in cop bars. Other people start trouble in cop bars. And that’s the story every cop in the place will stick to. It’s just the way it is. If Hemi gets in the middle of this, there’s only one way it will end. With Hemi in the back of a squad car.

  Steven doesn’t even look at me when I speak to him. He’s focused on Hemi and Hemi alone. Purposely, like he’s making a statement, Steven puts his hands on my shoulders and moves me behind him.

  “You can consider this your one free pass. You won’t get another one.” As if to punctuate his control, Steven grabs my arm again and propels me in front of him.

  I hear Hemi say the words, “Man, I asked you nicely…” and then all hell breaks loose.

  I feel Steven’s fingers disappear and I turn. I see him pivot on his heel and swing his fist right at Hemi’s face. My breath catches in my lungs. Steven is a big guy, and he’s trained to take down criminals. Just the thought of what his fist could do to Hemi’s wonderful bone structure…

  My thoughts are curtailed when Hemi easily ducks Steven’s fist. He does it with light grace and comes up smiling.

  “That’s a little more like it, big man. What else you got?”

  Ohmigod, he’s taunting my brother!

  Holy shit, this won’t end well.

  Steven brings up his fist and catches Hemi in the stomach. Hemi steps slightly to the side, the blow glancing off for the most part. He uses the momentum of Steven’s punch to roll out beside him and push Steven into the crowd.

  Steven goes stumbling for a few feet before he stops himself and turns on a dime. I see hell on his face when he starts back toward Hemi. That’s when the true nature of the situation really sets in.

  I’m drinking. For the first time. In a bar. With my brothers. And a fight breaks out. Over me.

  This will forever be my first impression upon them as an adult.

  Impulsively, I yell at the top of my lungs as I step in front of Hemi. “Stop!”

  I’m not sure if it’s my presence between them or my voice that does the trick, but something brings Steven up short. And before he can continue on his warpath, I hurry to continue.

  “Steven, before you can take all your ridiculous anger out on a perfect stranger, know this. I’m turning around right now and I’m going home. Sig is driving me. You were way out of line and you can expect this same kind of shit every night for the rest of our lives if you don’t stop treating me like a child. If that’s how you want to play it, fine by me. But I will do what I want to do, whether you approve or not.”

  After I finish ranting at him, I turn to face Hemi, ignoring the fact that my heart skips a beat when our eyes meet. “And you, this is none of your business. You don’t have time for a girl like me, remember?” Hemi raises one dark brow. Other than that, he doesn’t move a muscle. Doesn’t say a word. Just watches me. “I appreciate the gesture of you trying to protect me, but I don’t need protecting. Even from my asshole of a brother.”

  His eyebrows draw together in a frown. “This is your brother?”

  I glance at Steven over my shoulder. “Yes. Unfortunately.”

  When I turn back to Hemi, his brow is even more deeply furrowed.

  “Now, I hope you two have the good sense to drop this rather than go act like jackasses out in the parking lot. I’m leaving.”

  With that, with my head held high and my spine ram-rod straight, I do my best to walk away without stumbling. And, as far as I can tell, I do a pretty damn good job.

  CHAPTER EIGHT- Hemi

  Holy shit! He’s her brother? I can’t decide if this is the best turn of events—an unexpected gift to a man trying desperately to do the right thing—or if it’s the absolute worst—life handing me the very means by which I could destroy myself. Either way, it’s a game changer.

  I have a difficult decision to make. Do I let her in? Do I do the unthinkable and let this girl into the shitstorm that is my life? Or do I let opportunity pass me by? Either way, I’m a thoughtless asshole and it all boils down to one question: Who can I live with hurting more? My family? Or an innocent girl?

  CHAPTER NINE- Sloane

  I hear the doorbell ring, but I ignore it. It’s probably a salesman. Someone stole the NO SOLICITATION sign from the front of the neighborhood about a year ago. Not that it worked. Solicitors kept coming anyway. Every couple of months, someone would buy another sign and stake it in the grass near the entrance to our subdivision. And every couple of days after that, someone would come by and steal it. Neither the signs nor the stealing of the signs interrupted the flow of solicitors. I just wonder if one of them makes signs. That would be pretty brilliant.

  The bell rings again and I roll over to look at the clock. Twenty minutes before ten.

  My head throbs like my heart has migrated from my chest cavity and taken up residence between my temples. I moan into the quiet, glad that all the men in my house are either at work or are at the gym on their way to work. The last thing I need on top of my raging hangover is a bunch of arrogant I-told-you-sos and smug looks.

  I hear the annoying ding dong sound for the third time. Gritting my teeth, I throw back the covers and stomp down the stairs to the front door. I yank it open, ready to unleash unholy hell on some poor unsuspecting vacuum cleaner salesman, but I’m brought up short when I see Hemi standing on the stoop. He looks like a breath of fresh air in his low-slung jeans with a hole in one knee, his black The Ink Stain t-shirt with the fabulous art on the front, and his aviator sunglasses, shielding his eyes from the harsh light.

  I squint as I look up at him, the sun driving a thousand tiny needles straight through my eyeballs and into the center of my brain.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I see his lips curve into a wry smile and, when he lifts his hand, I notice for the first time what he’s carrying—a cup of coffee.

  I reach out and take it in both of my hands, holding the steaming brew to my lips and taking a careful sip. Even the smell makes me feel a little better. Like there’s life inside the cup.

  “Come on in,” I say absently as I turn and walk away from the door.

  It isn’t until I’m seated on the couch in the living room with my legs curled beneath me that I realize what I must look like—plaid pink shorts, tiny pink t-shirt that says KISS ME on the front, hair in a ponytail, last night’s makeup undoubtedly smeared all over my face.

  I close my eyes against the mental image and take another sip of coffee. After a full minute or two, when there’s nothing but silence in the room, I crack my lids and look around for Hemi. He’s sitting on the edge of an armchair with his elbows on his knees, watching me.

  “Good?”

  I nod and take another sip. “How’d you know?”

  “I’ve had a hangover or two.”

  “This is my first.”

  “Mmm, I’m getting to see all kinds of firsts for you. Lucky me.”

  A coil of warmth lazily unwinds in the pit of my stomach. It seems that he’s hinting at other firsts, dark, taboo firsts. His expression gives away nothing and his eyes are hidden by his glasses. I don’t need to see them to know that they’re on me, though. I can feel them. Like a touch. Like a warm finger against my lips. Nervously, I wet them with the tip of my tongue. I’m not purposely trying to taunt him, but I don’t think that matters. I see the muscle in his jaw bunch as he grits his teeth. And I hear a hissing sound as he sucks in a breath past them.

  I revel in the tension strung between us like a
taut wire. I want to enjoy it, prolong it, not push him away like he tried to push me away.

  “And lasts,” I say with a casual laugh, referring to my venture into alcohol consumption.

  “Maybe. Some things you try will be much more…addictive than drinking, though.”

  My pulse flutters. “And what might those be?”

  “I’ll let you tell me.”

  The coffee feels tepid compared to the heat that’s coursing through me. This subtle, intimate way he has of speaking to me is doing horrible things to my nerve. And delicious things to the rest of me. But should it? This is the guy that asked me to leave…

  “What are you doing here? Did you come all the way out here to bring me coffee?”

  I live about thirty minutes outside Atlanta.

  With my father and brothers.

  Still.

  But once I graduate, and start making some money, I’m outta here.

  “I’m here to take you for your first lesson.”

  “My first lesson?”

  “Yes, lesson. Didn’t you say you wanted to learn all about the art of tattooing?”

  “Umm, yeah, but didn’t you say you didn’t teach others?”

  “I did. But with you having so many firsts to share with me, I felt the need to keep up.”

  “And what makes you think I’ll be sharing any more firsts with you?”

  Hemi smiles broadly and my insides burst into flame. “Trust me. You’ll be sharing many more firsts with me.”

  It doesn’t occur to me to argue his point. Mainly because I don’t want to. I can think of nothing I’d like better than to share all of my firsts with Hemi. I can think of no more fascinating person with whom to spread my wings. I won’t deny that I’m pleased. Very pleased. But I don’t have to admit it either.

  “Is that so?” I’m purposely nonchalant, even though I feel anything but nonchalant.

  “That’s so.”

  He’s still smiling. And it’s still doing wicked things to my guts.

  “And just what does my first lesson entail?”

  “You. Me. And the Beach.”

  “The beach?”

  “Yes, the beach. So hurry up and drink your coffee then go squeeze that tasty ass of yours into a bikini so we can hit the road. We’ve got a long drive ahead.”

  All I hear is tasty ass and long drive. I get to spend the day with Hemi. And he thinks I have a tasty ass.

  Best. Hangover. Ever.

  CHAPTER TEN- Hemi

  What the hell was I thinking?

  I decided to take Sloane up on her offer because the opportunity was too good to pass up. I mean, this might be the “in” that I need. I just need to be careful. I can’t afford to let her distract me too much. A little is okay. Everyone needs a little entertainment. And exploring a virtually untouched body like hers would definitely be entertaining. But it also might be too distracting.

  I think the thought of denying myself is getting to me. I’m used to taking what I want. I’ve always been that kind of man. There have never really been consequences for a guy like me. Until recently. But while that man might have been buried for a while now, he isn’t dead. And I have a feeling that he might raise his head long enough to take advantage of this situation, no matter how stupid that would be.

  Some part of me wonders if Sloane—and the temptation to taste her— has more to do with my decision than pragmatism does. It makes sense, but does it make enough sense?

  I quickly brush the notion aside. Yes, it makes enough sense. At twenty-eight, I’m too old to be ensnared by a girl like Sloane. For all the life experiences I’ve had and the way I’ve lived for so long, I might as well be fifty.

  But damn, I can’t say I wouldn’t love to dig my fingers and my tongue and my cock into her sweet little body. I’m reminded of that when she comes bouncing back out into the living room less than ten minutes later, carrying a beach bag and wearing nothing but a bikini top and the tiniest shorts I’ve ever seen.

  “Ready?” she asks, all fresh-faced and enthusiastic.

  “Oh, hell yeah I’m ready.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN- Sloane

  I never really thought of what a guy like Hemi might drive. I wouldn’t have been surprised by a big, shiny motorcycle or a fast little sports car, but what I find parked in the driveway at my house suits him perfectly.

  It’s an old car, but in absolutely perfect condition from what I can tell. It’s a convertible and the top is down. With its muscular build, glossy black paint and sparkly silver racing stripes that zoom up the hood, it looks dangerous and powerful, just like its driver.

  “I don’t know what kind of car this is, but it suits you to a T!” I say as I walk around to the passenger side. Looking at the car, I didn’t know Hemi followed me until he reaches past me to open up the door. “Oh,” I exclaim, startled, “thank you!”

  Hemi nods, a grin teasing the edges of his lips. “My pleasure.” I love it when he’s almost smiling like that. It makes him look like he’s up to something and I can’t help but feel excited with anticipation.

  I watch his loose gait as he walks around the hood of the car and slides easily behind the wheel. He glances over at me. “It’s a 1969 Camaro.” As if to punctuate what I already suspected about the car, Hemi fires up the engine. The deep, throaty growl screams speed. And power. “It’s four hours to the beach. This baby’ll get us there in closer to three.”

  He shifts into gear and guides the car slowly out of my subdivision. As soon as he turns the corner onto the highway, he hits the gas and turns up the music. I feel a lighthearted laugh bubble up in my throat. The tunes, the wind, the sun, Hemi—it all feels like freedom. I’m spreading my wings. And it feels wonderful.

  ********

  It’s just after one when we arrive at Tybee Island, right on the edge of Savannah. We didn’t talk on the way down, as a convertible isn’t exactly conducive to hearing much of anything. But we didn’t need to talk. The trip was wonderful without a single word having to be spoken.

  Hemi finds a parking spot at a public lot and maneuvers his car into it. He cuts the engine and hops out, grabbing my bag from the back seat. I get out before he can get around to my side, and I meet him at the front of the car.

  “I hope you brought sunscreen,” Hemi says, reaching up to rub the backs of his fingers down my arm. “I’d hate to see this porcelain get burned.”

  “I did,” I reply softly, feeling his touch all the way into my core.

  “All right, then, let’s do this thing.”

  I smile, remembering he said the same thing the first night we met. Hemi holds out his hand. I slip mine inside it, fighting the urge to smile even wider. “I’m ready.”

  He’s not looking at me when he speaks, and his voice is low, so I’m not entirely sure I hear him correctly, but it sounded like he murmured, “I sure hope so.”

  We cross the street and make our way onto the hot sand. There is a nice crowd out today, but it’s nowhere near as commercial (and, therefore, as congested) as other beaches.

  Hemi surprises me when he leads me to a small square of empty sand right in the thick of things and sets my bag in the center of it. “This oughtta do.”

  “Not that I’m complaining, but why are we here again?”

  “To observe.”

  “To observe what?”

  “People. Bodies. Your canvas will be this,” he says, sweeping his hand over the throng of beach-goers. “Folks just like these. The more familiar you are with the human body, the way the skin moves and shifts, the way it stretches over bone and muscle, the better able you’ll be to craft a great tattoo.”

  “Oh,” I respond, not knowing what else to say, but duly impressed with his philosophy. “Sounds good.”

  As I spread out my towel, I’m keenly aware of Hemi. He’s standing to my left, facing me. Behind his glasses, he could be looking out at the people beyond me. Or he could be watching me. I can’t be sure. Either way, it makes peeling my shorts down my leg
s unnerving. And exciting.

  I stretch out on my towel and take advantage of my own shaded eyes, tilting my face toward the sun and surreptitiously watching Hemi. I find that I’m much more interested in observing his form than I am in looking at the other half-naked bodies on the beach.

  I see his lips curl up again—just the tiniest bit—and I wonder if he knows I’m watching him. He slips his glasses off as he pulls his shirt over his head. He pitches it onto the sand and, before he puts his glasses back in place, I see his eyes meet mine through my own aviators. Yes, he knows I’m watching him.

  I’ve seen Hemi in a tank top before, but without it, he’s even more beautiful than I could’ve imagined. His shoulders are impossibly wide, one side covered with an intricate tattoo that crawls over onto a perfectly-defined pectoral. His chest is covered with a smattering of hair that narrows as it approaches the washboard of his abdominals. On one side of his trim waist is a series of beautifully designed letters and numbers that travel from his hip, beyond his jeans, up his ribs to his armpit. I’m just about to ask what they mean when he reaches for the closure of his jeans. The words die in the back of my throat.

  Hemi unfastens his button fly, his fingers working nimbly to undo each one. He looks practiced at it and I can’t help but imagine him expertly loosening the clasp of my bra. And my shorts. And whatever else lies between his skin and mine.

  He eases the material down his legs, revealing black swim trunks and, beyond them, the most perfect legs I’ve ever seen. They’re muscular and not overly hairy, and I can see the end of a tattoo peeking out from beneath the hem of his shorts. It must cover his right thigh.

  He pitches his jeans on top of his shirt and turns to face the ocean. My mouth is dry as I look at his amazing back side. I hope to God we get in the water and I get to see what all that looks like with the thin material of his trunks stuck wetly to every wonderful inch of his lower body.