by Kasey Lane
She nodded. “After three p.m.”
“Hot date?”
“Work.”
“Good.”
She snorted. Why the hell would a hotter-than-fuck musician and tattoo artist give a shit if she had a date or not? What a flirt this man was.
“Do you mind if I stop by this afternoon and show you my ideas?” His knee bounced restlessly, and he looked at her with those icy eyes. Despite the way he’d almost hugged her when she pulled her shirt off, he’d only flirted with her. Never crossing the line. She could handle him. Well, until he showed up high or drunk; then she’d probably lose her shit. But, until then…
“Well?”
“Sure. Come by around four?”
“Cool.” He stood and stretched, flexing the muscles in his arms and neck as he rolled his shoulders. She couldn’t watch this. She didn’t want any part of this guy. Other than his artistic talent, that was. Turning she walked quickly out of the room.
“Hey, I’ll walk you out,” he called when she was already halfway down the hall.
She kept walking, but her short legs were probably half the length of his and were no match for his determination. He pushed the front door open for her and followed her out into the nearly empty lot. Her new-to-her white Mini sat front and center.
“Motherfucker,” she heard Bowen murmur behind her.
Scrawled across her little car’s window in red was the word BITCH.
*
Bowen glanced up from his drawing board and saw the late afternoon sky framing big white and gray clouds rushing across the horizon. Shit. He’d let the time get away from him and gotten lost in the art for Gabby’s tattoo. The clock on the wall indicated he had ten minutes to get across town to their apartment building. He had a feeling if she said be there at four he better be there at four.
He grabbed the sketches and his helmet and went into the main part of the studio where his oldest friend, co-worker, and bandmate Nathan was working on a new customer, an older woman who wanted a memorial piece for one of her daughters who had passed away from breast cancer the previous year. He was nearly halfway through the watercolor-styled piece, the flowers and foliage creating a garden of color on the woman’s shoulder.
“What do you think?” Nathan asked without looking up.
“Awesome, dude. Really cool,” he said, keeping his voice low. Sometimes getting tattooed became a meditative activity and he didn’t want to take away from the woman’s experience. But he heard her whisper, “thank you,” and she smiled softly, but kept her eyes closed.
“You working tomorrow?” Nathan asked.
“Yup. Couple hours in the morning, then a meeting and coffee with a friend. You?” That was his life. Work, meetings, rinse, and repeat.
“In the evening. Feel up to practice Wednesday or Thursday night?”
“Sure. Can’t Wednesday. Booked.” Kid gloves. His friends were treating him with kid gloves. But he couldn’t really blame Nathan considering Bowen’s track record the last few years. Frankly, he was lucky he still had a job and friends. Damn lucky. The usual blanket of guilt he wore like a uniform set heavily on his shoulders. Snug and comfortable.
“Cool. Jax said we could start using their warehouse to keep our stuff in and practice as long as they’re not practicing.”
“Sick. Hey, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
They said their goodbyes and promised to try and meet for coffee the next day. Bowen strapped his helmet on and kick-started his beloved Bonneville T120 Triumph motorcycle, loving the loud rumble of the engine and the high whine as he shifted into gear and took off. He would have sold the motorcycle long ago to pay off his sister and brother-in-law except it had been a gift from them. Supposedly a spiff from Mason’s days as the CEO of the megalithic entertainment company, Global Entertainment Marketing. Mason had insisted he didn’t care for motorcycles and said the gift was in celebration of Bowen’s recovery.
Bowen loved the bike. But it was another thing to add to his list of things he owed them. Now it was a means to getting back to Gabby and getting started on her tattoo.
It had taken him nearly an hour to get into his research and then actually work on the tattoo. His mind had been reeling from the morning. From seeing Gabby again and all the weird shit he felt when he was around her now. Then her scar. That fucking scar. Something bad had happened to her. Something really terrible. Looking at it had filled him with a sad longing, and he’d wanted to pull her to him. Hold her and give comfort. The only other person he’d ever felt the need to comfort or protect was Kevan. And that’s where the similarities between his feelings for Gabby and Kevan ended.
The spike of anger had faded to a dull rage quickly enough to notice Gabby’s smoking-hot body under her T-shirt. Perfectly shaped, small but round tits and a narrow waist that curved into hips a man could hold on to. Flat belly he could only imagine running his palm across straight to…straight to where? Nowhere. Because all women were off limits for him now, especially Gabrielle Alvarez. He’d tried keeping her out of his head since the day before, but she kept popping up. When he went to a meeting that morning. Later when he’d gone to coffee with his sponsor. When he was working out like a man possessed. All the damn time.
Bowen revved the motor of his bike when the light turned green and he shot forward. As he turned into the lot of his apartment building he saw Gabby’s little white car parked in its designated spot. No sign of the obscenity that had been scrawled across her window because he’d scrubbed that fucker off immediately. And though she’d gotten into her car and she drove off with barely a mumbled “thanks,” he could see her hands shaking slightly and the shutdown expression on her face. But would she tell him what was going on? Nope. Not one word.
That chick was stubborn. And maybe in danger.
He parked his bike and removed his helmet, throwing his messenger bag over his shoulder. As he took the stairs two steps at a time he wondered for the millionth time who would do that to her car. Was it the person who had scarred her beautiful skin? Was it someone she knew? Ex-lover? He would have chalked it up to random asshole and lone car in the lot, except that the word seemed personal.
Stepping to her door he glanced at his phone—right on time—and knocked. The door swung open and he raked his eyes over her. He couldn’t help it. She was attractive and he was just a guy. Plus, it was like someone had ripped the blinders off his eyes at the wedding and Mousy Gabby was now Hot Gabby. He couldn’t just unsee Hot Gabby.
She was still wearing the T-shirt she’d had on earlier but had traded her jeans for a pair of black yoga pants that clung to the soft flare of her hips and narrow waist like a second skin. Bowen gave a silent thanks to the inventor of yoga pants before following her into her apartment.
She pointed to the small pink couch against the wall and glanced around. The layout of her apartment looked identical to his. Small living room and balcony. Tiny kitchen and a bedroom and bathroom off to the right.
“Your place looks a lot like mine,” he said and sat on her tiny couch.
She snorted. And it was kind of cute. “I doubt it.”
“Okay, mine is definitely lacking in color and yours is totally a chick’s pad, but the model. It’s the same.”
“A chick’s pad? Whatever, greaser.” She walked into the small kitchen and leaned her hip against the counter. “Want some water or something?”
He snorted. “Please.” Taking the opportunity to observe her while she grabbed a couple glasses and filled them, he noticed she still held her shoulders tight and her movements seemed rigid, but not nearly as pronounced as earlier. Her long dark reddish-brown hair was held back in a big black clip low on her slender neck. No makeup marred her perfect, elfin features, her full red lips and dark green eyes. When she sat down across from him in a lime-colored chair on the other side of her coffee table—or the stack of books with a board on top that was pretending to be a coffee table—he noticed a smattering of freckles across her nose. He was
startled by how stunning she was and how it had gone under his radar for the last few months.
“What’d you bring me?”
He pulled out two pieces of paper from his leather backpack. One was a printout of the inspiration art he’d used for her piece and the other was the sketch he’d finished fifteen minutes earlier.
“This is what I started with.” He set down the inspiration sheet. “And this is what I came up with.” He loved this part. Watching the client’s face for clues. Sometimes it was obvious and he was greeted with a smile. Other times, like now, it was less clear. Bowen watched Gabby’s face for a clue, anything, that might give him a feel for what she thought of the drawing. He felt queasy, like he’d eaten something a week past its expiration date. Dammit.
She hated it. She must since she didn’t say anything, just held the picture in her hands and stared at it.
“Look, it was my first try. I just went with it. I can come—”
She reached over the small table and covered his mouth, sending a sharp knife of lust from his lips straight to his cock. This celibacy shit blew. And it occurred to him for the first time that maybe his newfound lust for Gabby had something to do with his lack of female companionship as of late.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered still staring at the picture of the watercolor butterfly that would wrap around the right side of her body from under her breast around her ribs to her mid-back. “It couldn’t be more perfect.” She raised her head to look at him and again he was struck by her natural beauty. Only this time he thought he saw a little something else under the surface of her steely outer shell. She smiled and he thought the fucking sky would open up and a chorus of angels would start singing church hymns. He decided right then and there that he’d do just about anything to get her to smile like that at him as often as possible.
That smile made something long dead in his chest come awake and gasp for air. That smile made him want to believe in love and redemption and second chances. That smile made him want to be the man who deserved that praise. Before he could tell himself to stop, he took her hand from his mouth and stood, pulling her up. Cupping her cheek with his other hand he ran his thumb over her bottom lip and eased down to follow it with his mouth. Her gasp fueled his desire, breathed more life into the dark, dead thing that had sat dormant in his chest for far too long.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he had no right to touch her, let alone kiss her. But when her hand gripped his shoulder and didn’t push him away all he could see was her. And kissing her. Slowly he moved his lips against hers, gently licking the crease with his tongue. He swallowed her quiet moan as she opened to him and he couldn’t hold back any longer. Crushing his mouth to hers his hands found those hips he so badly wanted to grab and he pulled her forward. Thankfully she leaned in to him and didn’t pull away. Her small body fit his so perfectly, so unexpectedly.
Pull away. He should pull away. He shouldn’t be pushing himself on her like this. Not when she was vulnerable and he was a fucking wreck. She deserved better than a broken-down jackass like him.
He groaned and moved his hands to her shoulders before pushing gently and breaking their epic kiss. Regret filled his chest like warm tar when she gave a dissatisfied squeak. Didn’t matter. He had no place kissing her.
“I’m sorry. Really sorry.” But she didn’t look pleased or relieved. In fact, she looked pissed. For a moment he considered running before she threw something at him. Fuck, he should have never kissed her.
“You’re sorry.”
He nodded. “I had no right to kiss you. Never should have done that. I promise I won’t do it again.”
The anger bled from her face, leaving that slightly annoyed and amused look she usually wore. That ball of tar in his chest expanded, making him miss that smile, the passion she allowed herself for a moment.
“No. You won’t.” She turned and walked the few steps to her door. She swung it open and turned back to him. “So when do we get started?”
Started? On what? More kissing?
She stood staring at him with her brows raised. “On the tattoo, Bowen.”
Oh, right the tattoo. “Uhm, it’s going to take a few sittings. So, hey, can we talk about what just happened?” The old Bowen would have banged her and bailed. Or finished off her booze and then bailed. Sober Bowen needed to talk about shit and get it all straight before he walked out that door. Couldn’t leave any room for miscommunication to build into resentment. Resentment was poison.
“When’s your next appointment?”
Stepping toward her, he reached out to touch her hand, her face, something, but she pulled back, repulsed by his touch. Was she just trying to save face or did she realize what a horrible mistake she’d made? Because it was a mistake. Although he didn’t like the way it made him feel to realize she thought it was.
He shook his head. Obviously she wasn’t going to play by his rules. And wasn’t that the problem? Nobody played by his damn rules.
“You’re not going to cut me a break, are you? I’m sorry,” he said.
“I don’t care. When do you have an opening?” Her face was like carved marble, flat and unmoving.
He sighed, feeling like that ball of tar was going to choke him. “Wednesday night. When can you get to Tatuaggio? After work?”
“Six.”
“Then six it is, little one,” he said as he stepped through the door. And she promptly slammed it. He heard the lock click and two chains slide into place, shutting him out. Maybe forever.
Well that didn’t exactly go as planned.
Fuck, he really needed to call his sponsor.
Chapter Four
The blinking window on Gabby’s computer screen taunted her with the insistent reminder that her appointment with Bowen was in twenty minutes. It’s not like she actually needed to be told. She hadn’t been able to think about anything else since Sunday. Well, that and his stupid fucking kiss.
Usually she had a pretty simple system for filing away experiences, but Bowen’s kiss was still sitting in her “to-do” stack of shit to handle. It’s not like guys hadn’t kissed her before, or tried. But she always dealt with it. Swiftly. A sharp glare or “back the fuck off” was usually all it took. Because she didn’t want guys to kiss her. She didn’t want anyone to touch her. She hadn’t for a very long time. So she didn’t quite know what to do with these new feelings.
Feelings of desire. Want. Lust. Whatever it was called she suddenly wanted it. With him. But then he’d gone and fucked it all up by apologizing. Like she was untouchable. Unwantable. A mistake. The one guy in the whole world she was attracted to treated her like a wayward child with a crush.
Whatever. She should cancel her stupid appointment. And she’d been two seconds away from doing that several times over the last couple days, but hadn’t been able to. The truth was, she really, really wanted that tattoo. Maybe that’s why she’d let him touch her, kiss her like that. Because she’d fallen in love with his art and how well he captured what she’d imagined. Everything…the color, the shape, the scope. It was stunning. The perfect symbol of rebirth.
Clicking the “done” button on the reminder, she turned off her monitor and grabbed her messenger bag. She flipped the light switch off in her office before saying good night to her boss and another programmer and had just enough time to drive across the river to the tattoo shop.
Ten minutes later she stepped into Tatuaggio and was greeted by the usual wall of sound she associated with the shop. Three people, probably in their early twenties, sat on the worn black leather couches in the lobby area looking at the different tattoo flash and photo books while Quinley, the shop’s new office manager and piercer, checked someone out at the digital register sitting at the end of the long glass-covered chrome and wood counter that bisected the big open studio.
“Hey, Gabby, Bowen said to go on back when you get here.” Quinley waved at her and continued talking to the couple at the counter.
“Thanks,
Quin,” she muttered.
Nathan and Jax were both working on some beefy-looking gym dudes. The one guy under Jax’s needle had his eyes closed and was breathing shallowly like he might have actually fallen asleep.
Conner, the tall built bass player for Manix Curse was sitting at his station looking at a music magazine. He glanced up when she walked by and said, “Hey, getting some ink?” He had his long hair pulled back.
“Yep.”
He smiled and looked back down at his magazine. She liked Conner. He seemed a little like her, more an observer than a participant. He also didn’t try to pull her into conversations or make her talk when she didn’t feel like it. He volunteered at Quirk once a week, alternating between art and music lessons. The younger kids really seemed to gravitate to his quiet, reassuring personality.
The door to the office hung open and Bowen had his broad back turned toward her. His shoulder muscles tensed under his dark T-shirt as he shifted and moved stuff around on the table in front of him. It was quieter in the back part of the shop so she could hear him singing to the song playing over the loud speaker, “In the Air Tonight,” an epic remake of the classic by In This Moment. She wasn’t much of a metal fan, but she did follow some of the female-led bands. It was kind of hard not to when you hung out with not one, but two popular heavy metal bands.
Leaning against the doorframe she admired Bowen’s flexing biceps as his deep baritone thrummed through her body. He was a beautiful man, definitely over her pay grade. No wonder he’d pulled away from her. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the memories of that damn problematic kiss.
It didn’t matter anyway. She didn’t need to get involved with an addict like Bowen. He had demons—they all did—and she was barely strong enough to handle her own baggage, let alone someone else’s.
Bowen spun on his stool and his mouth hung wide as he stopped singing mid-word. His lips slowly formed a smirk when he realized she’d been standing in the doorway checking him out. She cringed and stepped into the room.