Tainted by Love

by Jones, Gillian

  “There you are! Now, tell me…who let you out? It’s too dangerous for you out here at night on your own, you’re still too little. Remember the nice cozy garage with lots of food? That’s your home now.”

  Unlocking the door and walking into the shop, the familiar smell of gasoline and oil floating in the air hits me. It smells like home. But I also hear Pink Floyd’s unique sound blasting heavily in the open work area. As the lyrics to “Comfortably Numb” echo in my ears, I register that the overhead fluorescent lights are still on in the shop. We’re supposed to be closed. What the hell? The guys are never here late on Friday nights.

  Moving into the shop area of the garage, I stop in my tracks. My eyes land on a very tall, very built and very shirtless man who’s standing with his back to me. Looking around, I’m not sure exactly what to do. I mean, I know I should take off and call Dex or the police like a normal person, but I’m like the cat I hold in my arms—curiosity has a hold on me. Hopefully, it won’t get me killed.

  “Shit,” I mutter, holding Beast a little tighter as I stare at the stranger. I’m captivated by his stature and his very muscular back. Looking further, I note his short dark brown hair and the large tattoo of a sword on his back. I’m completely hypnotized when I see his muscles rippling under the colours, reacting with each move of his arms. I hear the sound of tools clanking.

  He’s standing in front of the cabinet where we keep the impact-, torque- and pipe wrenches. Not our most valuable tools, that’s for sure, but a large tan Rubbermaid tote resting on the floor beside him has me curious as to what the hell he’s doing. Therefore, using my mad detective skills, I deduce that he’s either stealing our cheapest tools—which would mean he’s the world’s worst bandit—or he’s moving in. I’m going to guess that it’s probably the latter, because I’ve never heard of a criminal who played loud music and left the lights blazing while he robbed a place, although there’s a first time for everything. Also, I notice that there are two very large red tool cabinets along the wall to his right which weren’t there when I left this morning.

  After watching him for a few beats, he does appear to be unpacking. Swallowing my initial fear, I toss aside my internal Panic-Mode Barbie to make way for Heat-Seeking Missile Barbie. A hot pulse floods my veins as my eyes linger on his toned biceps, and his ass-hugging dark blue jeans, as well as on the array of colours making up that illustrated piece covering most of his back. My desire to make a closer inspection is daunting, a reaction I haven’t had to any member of the opposite sex in a long time. And, hell, this is all before even seeing the front! I am seriously hurting.

  The music’s rhythm mirrors the beating of my heart. The lyrics Roger Waters is singing about his hands feeling “just like two balloons” pretty much sum up the way mine feel right now as my nerves take over—numb.

  This stranger hasn’t noticed me yet—which is a good thing—because I need a plan, and drooling isn’t the best course of action when faced with a potential intruder, even if it might turn out that he belongs here. Who the hell is this guy? I don’t remember anyone mentioning a new hire, but I guess it’s a possibility. The shop has been getting busier lately, and I can’t see any signs of a break-in, but wouldn’t I have been told if there was going to be a new employee so I could add them to the payroll?

  Deciding it’s time to confront the stranger, I move in closer, grabbing a tire iron resting on top of the counter at Brody’s station with my free hand as I pass—just in case.

  Taking another step, my eyes are again riveted on the stranger’s back, specifically to the tattoos gracing his tanned skin, which I can see almost perfectly from this distance. The main piece is a large Excalibur sword running down the middle of his toned back in the most shimmering silvers, greys, blues and blacks. It’s an intricate piece that’s incredibly masculine, and breathtaking, to be honest. The sword’s tip is encased in a stone, and the handle is pronounced, as if ready to be pulled out by the one deemed worthy. A blue-grey shield is propped against the side of the rock, and the words “IN PERPETUUM ET UNUM DIEM” are written in bold Olde English letters across his shoulders, the black ink spanning from blade to blade. Jesus, it’s a beautiful tattoo, on a beautiful canvas.

  Meow. Beast glances up at me, looking pleased with himself. He obviously missed Spy Training 101. Never speak; the element of surprise is key. Luckily, the music hid his meowing from everyone but me. Shaken from my tattoo-induced trance, I’m reminded that I still have no idea who this man is.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I gently set Beast behind my feet, readying myself for battle.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing in here?” I call out loudly right behind him, the tire iron gripped firmly in one hand and my cell poised to call 911 in the other. In case I’m wrong and he really is robbing us, I’m ready. “Better yet, who are you?”

  He jumps, hitching up his broad shoulders, clearly startled. And then, just like in the movies, the intruder slowly turns, revealing himself. His eyes are a mix of brown and gold with flecks of yellow, reminding me of autumn, and lined with the darkest lashes I’ve ever seen. His strong jaw is tense, a scowl marking his otherwise ruggedly handsome face. He’s extremely hot, in an “I’m trouble” kind of way.

  “And why did you let my cat out?” I snap, my tone accusing as I gesture down at Beast with my phone.

  The sexy-as-sin intruder’s full lips unfurl as he takes in the tire iron and cell phone in my hands. I think I see the right side of his mouth pulling into a half-smile as his eyes roam down my body, taking his turn to check me out.

  My own eyes can’t seem to focus on his face; not when the smooth lines of his chest are drawing my attention and I see even more tattoos I’d like to explore, along with a whole bunch of muscles down the centre of his stomach.

  Holy shit. Who the hell is this guy?

  12

  Hendrix

  Meow.

  What the fuck? I swear I put that furball out back.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing in here? Better yet, who are you?” I hear a high sharp voice yell behind me, making me jump. I pause, giving it a second to see if someone’s calling the cops or pulling an alarm, but I don’t hear anything that tells me I should be worried.

  Putting down the wrench in my hand, I grab a cloth and wipe my hands, deciding I’d better deal with this, and quick. I’ve got crap to do. Turning to face a mystery woman who’s giving me a shit ton of attitude, she barks another question at me, this one making the lightbulb above my head go off. I know exactly who she is.

  “And why did you let my cat out?” she demands, looking down at the feline hiding behind her orange runners. She doesn’t have too far down to look; she’s really short. She’s jutting out her chin under her long pink bangs, and it’s kind of cute. That’s when I notice the tire iron in her hand, and a right-pissed-off look across her beautiful face.

  Christ, what a sight she is. If this is my welcome present, then thank you, Mr. Flynn. She’s a tiny little thing, but, fuck, is she ever pretty. And it seems she might appreciate the sight of a shirtless Hendrix from the way she’s eye-fucking the shit out of me. Regardless of her angry tone, I see her hunger, and I can’t deny that I can feel the heat licking over my body where her eyes trail.

  “I might ask you the same thing, Short Stack.”

  “‘Short Stack’?” she repeats, cocking her head, the move making her tits bounce a bit. I see that they’re quite perky and a bit large for a chick her height. This girl is hot.

  “Eyes up here, Ogre Man,” she points to her face. She’s got this crazy pixie-cut, all messy and dyed a fucked-up shade of pink, but it suits her perfectly.

  “Huh. ‘Ogre Man’. You’re a witty one, I see,” I grin, taking her in.

  “Better than ‘Short Stack’.”

  “Would you prefer Halfling? Pix, Little One, or maybe Little Bug? Cause right now you’re kinda bugging me. I’m working here, got shit to do.” I glance at the open boxes, at a
ll the tools I have left to put away.

  “None of those names are any good, asshole.” She raises the iron bar. “Now tell me. Who. Are. You?” She punctuates each word, stepping in close, our chests almost brushing. The look on her face as she suddenly realizes how close we are, and how far up she’s having to look, is one of the sexiest things I’ve seen in a long fucking time. Nothing is hotter than when a beautiful woman is riled up, and this one is pulling it off tenfold.

  “You gonna hit me with that thing, Fruitloop?” I ask, bending my head down to take in more of the sweet smell I got a whiff of as soon as she crossed into my personal space. She smells like a bloody fruit roll-up, and I’ll be damned if I don’t want to eat every inch of this girl.

  “You did not just call me ‘Fruitloop’,” she warns, stepping back and folding her arms over her chest. Of course, my eyes follow the move. Yeah, she’s definitely got a nice rack.

  “Sure did,” I tell her honestly. “‘Fruit’ ’cause, damn, baby, you smell sweet, like one of those sticky strawberry fruit roll-up things, and, fuck, would I like to get all sticky with you.” I bridge the gap she just created between us, and place my hand over hers, the intake of her breath letting me know she likes what I’m saying, even if she wants to pretend she doesn’t. I grip the tire iron. “And ‘Loop’ because you’re fucking loopy if you think you’re gonna hit me with this thing.” I pull it, forcing her to let it go.

  Thankfully, she doesn’t fight me, and I think it’s because of our close proximity. I’m affecting her. Just as she’s affecting me. Her intense grey eyes are a mix of anger and lust and I swear I can smell that she’s turned on. That’s okay, Fruitloop. I am, too.

  “Please,” she says, looking up at me and taking a deep breath. “Obviously you’re not robbing my uncle, so can you just explain what you’re doing here?” And with that I confirm my earlier lightbulb moment.

  “I’m Hendrix, and you must be the stipulation.” I extend my hand, loving the look of utter confusion on her face. Of course, she doesn’t shake it.

  “The—what? My name is Trinity. Trinity Adams. And Dexter Flynn is my uncle,” she huffs, her lack of patience clear. “Now tell me who you are to Dex—and exactly what you’re doing here—before I call him, or better yet, the cops. You’ve got to be trespassing or something.”

  “Trust me, I’m not doing anything wrong.” I pull the keys out of my pocket. “Let’s try this again, Trinity. I’m Hendrix. Hendrix Hills,” I say, imitating the way she introduced herself, “and this,” I gesture with the tire iron, “is my new shop. Well, fifty percent is, anyway. So, I guess that makes me your new half-boss,” I chuckle, stepping back to lean against the workbench so I can see the show my Fruitloop is about to give me as she goes off.

  Yeah, I like this little stipulation just fine.

  13

  Trinity

  “You’re lying. There’s no way Dex would sell the place without telling me. I mean, I knew he was thinking about it, but he would’ve told me…” I say, more to myself than to Hendrix.

  “Well, he did sell it, and here I am.”

  There’s no way he’d sell it to this asshole, no matter how good-looking the ogre might be.

  “Call Flynn. Ask him yourself,” he challenges.

  “I will. There’s no way he’d sell it to a guy like you.” I give him my best dirty look.

  “Shit, you’re cute. This is gonna be fun, and here I was worried about having stipulations.”

  “What stipulations? And why did you call me that?” I ask, totally ignoring him. What the hell did “and you must be the stipulation” mean, anyway?

  “I called you a few things, Fruitloop. Which one are you most confused about?” he asks, his tone laced with “I’m-a-cocksucker” arrogance. “Let’s review shal—”

  I cut him off.

  “Stipulation,” I huff, getting pissed off all over again. “Why did you call me that?”

  “I suggest you call Flynn and get him to explain, it’s not really my place. All I know is you’re part of the package deal. And after spending five minutes with you, I’m more than happy with my purchase,” he winks, then turns around and starts putting shit away again. Clearly, I’ve been dismissed.

  Furious, I scoop up Beast and decide it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge before I hit him with more than just a tire iron. After making sure Beast is safely returned to his storage room, I head to the back door, stop, then look back over my shoulder and give him a final warning. “New boss or not, let my cat out again and you’ll find your tools in the hazardous waste dumpster,” I harrumph, satisfied I’ve gotten the last word.

  As I reach the door, I chance a peek over in Hendrix’s direction. Sexy bastard has me all flustered, pissed off and—dare I admit—excited? And, of course, the big jerk’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest with a huge smirk on his face, watching me.

  “I think we’re gonna be great friends, Fruitloop. I like crazy.” He waves, and I roll my eyes. In order to preserve some shred of dignity, I keep my trap shut as I slam the door and exit the garage.

  Stomping up the stairway to my apartment, I make a mental note to overfeed Beast tomorrow morning, because there’s no way in hell I’m going back down there again tonight.

  Opening my door, I drop my keys on the counter and hang my purse on the coat rack. I pull out my cell and dial Dex and Tillie.

  “You’ve reached the Flynns. You know what to do.”

  I hang up after the beep.

  “Dex is getting a cell phone for Christmas,” I tell myself, frustrated. I mean, who still has an answering machine? It’s probably best I talk to him in person, anyway. I toss my phone beside my keys and beeline through the open-concept kitchen, stopping in front of the fridge. Pulling open the freezer drawer, I take out my emergency pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Peanut Buttery Swirl. Grabbing a spoon, I settle into the overstuffed grey couch, which comforts me instantly. Popping the lid, I toss it on the wooden coffee table and kick my feet up, letting out a long exasperated sigh.

  “What the hell just happened?” I ask aloud around a huge spoonful of sweet and salty ice cream, my mouth thanking me as I uncover a chunk of peanut butter.

  It’s been a while since I’ve allowed myself to look at a man and see him as anything other than a hurtmachine, I’ll be damned if I let this Hendrix asshole get to me. He’s got bad news written all over him, and that’s the last thing I need in my life. Even if he is super-good looking and has a body I’d like to explore up close and personal. Maybe if I was someone else I’d be falling at his feet, but I’m not. I’m me, and things are different now. Plus, I bet he has enough chicks to fill his days of the week as it is. Guys like him don’t get serious. And that whole “friends” thing? No, thank you. Like I’d ever be friends with a man who can make me go from zero-to-a-hundred that fast.

  “I think we’re gonna be great friends, Fruitloop. I like crazy.” His parting comment runs rapidly through my mind. What’s with the “Fruitloop”? And I’ll show him crazy if he thinks he’s going to be my boss or messes with my cat again, that’s for sure. Asshole.

  “Like we’d ever have a reason to be friends. He’s the crazy one,” I say out loud, rising from the couch to put the ice cream back in the freezer before I devour the whole container.

  14

  Trinity

  “Yeah, come in,” Dex’s gruff voice calls.

  I’m outside his office door. It’s taken me five minutes to find the nerve to knock. It was easier having the conversation I’m about to have with Dex with myself last night, but as I stand here now, I realize that Dex doesn’t even really owe me an explanation. If anything, it’s me who’s in debt here.

  It was Dex and Aunt Tillie who helped me pick up the pieces of my life when HIV shook my foundation. It was Dex who offered me an amazing job that I love, a supportive family and a place to live. The last thing I should be doing is acting like an ungrateful brat.

  But him selling the garage behi
nd my back hurts. And if living with HIV has taught me anything, it’s taught me not to live a life with regrets and unhappiness, and this has been bugging me all night so I need to talk it through with Dex. It was this thought that gave me the courage to finally put on my big girl pants and knock.

  Opening the door, I smile at the sight of Dex running his fingers through his beard, a telltale sign he’s frustrated.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. He’s balancing his tablet in one hand, his eyes scrunching, staring at a small piece of paper he’s holding in his other hand, as far away from his face as he can.

  “Hey, darlin’.” He looks up, his green eyes shining as he takes me in. “Trying to read our access code for this year’s car show. I gotta confirm our spot online with this stupid number by the end of today, and I can’t find my readers anywhere. Old man eyes’re fuckin’ with me this morning, and my arms are getting too short.”

  I reach for his tablet, laughing. “Here, I’ll do it.”

  “Thanks, sweetie. You’re the best helper I got,” he says. “I don’t know why they make the print so small.” He shakes his head. Any anger I had been harbouring evaporates.

  Whatever our talk reveals, I know if Dex has sold the place, the reason for his secrecy wouldn’t have been malicious on his part. He’d never intentionally hurt me, and I feel like an ass for thinking otherwise. I’m an idiot for allowing myself to lose sleep about it.

  But, okay, let’s be honest. Dex wasn’t the only reason I was losing sleep; a certain beefcake might have played a role. It was as if his scent had drifted up the stairs after me, an unrelenting hint of bergamot and grapefruit dancing in the air, an intoxicating mix that I couldn’t seem to shake.

  “You’re here early for a Saturday,” Dex says, rummaging in his desk for his glasses. “Shit, they have to be here. I thought I’d left them right on top last time I used ’em.”