The Start of Us: Book 1 in the No Regrets series
Page 1
The Start of Us
Book 1 in the No Regrets series
Lauren Blakely
Little Dog Press
Contents
Also by Lauren Blakely
About
Author’s Note
The Start of Us
1. Harley
2. Trey
3. Harley
4. Trey
5. Harley
6. Trey
7. Harley
8. Trey
9. Harley
Chapter 10
11. Trey
12. Harley
Chapter 13
14. Harley
15. Trey
16. Harley
Chapter 17
18. Harley
19. Cam
20. Trey
Chapter 21
22. Harley
23. Trey
24. Harley
25. Cam
26. Harley
Chapter 27
28. Trey
29. Harley
30. Harley
Chapter 31
32. Trey
33. Harley
34. Cam
35. Harley
Also by Lauren Blakely
Contact
Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Blakely
Cover Design by Helen Williams.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book 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 you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Also by Lauren Blakely
Big Rock Series
Big Rock
Mister O
Well Hung
Full Package
Joy Ride
Hard Wood
The Gift Series
The Engagement Gift
The Virgin Gift
The Decadent Gift
The Heartbreakers Series
Once Upon a Real Good Time
Once Upon a Sure Thing
Once Upon a Wild Fling
Boyfriend Material
Asking For a Friend
Sex and Other Shiny Objects
One Night Stand-In
Lucky In Love Series
Best Laid Plans
The Feel Good Factor
Nobody Does It Better
Unzipped
Always Satisfied Series
Satisfaction Guaranteed
Instant Gratification
Overnight Service
Never Have I Ever
Special Delivery
The Sexy Suit Series
Lucky Suit
Birthday Suit
From Paris With Love
Wanderlust
Part-Time Lover
One Love Series
The Sexy One
The Only One
The Hot One
The Knocked Up Plan
Come As You Are
Sports Romance
Most Valuable Playboy
Most Likely to Score
Standalones
Stud Finder
The V Card
The Real Deal
Unbreak My Heart
The Break-Up Album
21 Stolen Kisses
Out of Bounds
The Caught Up in Love Series:
The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series
The Pretending Plot (previously called Pretending He’s Mine)
The Dating Proposal
The Second Chance Plan (previously called Caught Up In Us)
The Private Rehearsal (previously called Playing With Her Heart)
Stars In Their Eyes Duet
My Charming Rival
My Sexy Rival
The No Regrets Series
The Start of Us
The Thrill of It
Every Second With You
The Seductive Nights Series
First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)
Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)
After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)
One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)
A Wildly Seductive Night (Julia and Clay novella, book 3.5)
The Joy Delivered Duet
Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)
Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)
The Sinful Nights Series
Sweet Sinful Nights
Sinful Desire
Sinful Longing
Sinful Love
The Fighting Fire Series
Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)
Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)
Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)
The Jewel Series
A two-book sexy contemporary romance series
The Sapphire Affair
The Sapphire Heist
About
From #1 New York Times bestselling author Lauren Blakely comes a sexy, emotional and deliciously addictive trilogy.
Let me tell you everything I know about love…
Love is a lie, a game, a chase. And most of all – it’s a battle every man and woman must fight for themselves.
I don’t trust love for a second.
Until I meet Trey.
He’s just like me – dangerous, scarred, and keeping secrets that might be darker than mine.
And I can’t seem to stay away from him even though I’ve promised to.
How can this be the start of something when tomorrow it has to end?
The Start of Us is the first novel in the No Regrets Trilogy.
Author’s Note
I first released the No Regrets trilogy in 2013, and I have since revamped, revised and restructured the trilogy to tighten the storyline, enhance characterization and update elements. The heart of the love story and the main characters remains the same. Enjoy!
The Start of Us
By Lauren Blakely
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1
Harley
No Regrets.
The neon-blue sign is both an invitation and a warning.
It is also the reason I chose this shop for my first tattoo.
That, and the fact that it has great online reviews. Because, let’s be honest, if you’re going to stick a needle in your skin, you want to make sure you’re not going to a butcher.
I peer through the window of the West Village tattoo parlor, scanning the walls for images of its art. They are everywhere, crammed frame to frame. Up, d
own, across. Tigers, dragons, butterflies, dolphins, hearts, flowers, and oodles of abstract illustrations that look like calligraphy. Some are comical, some are beautiful.
Soon, one of these drawings will brand me. Remind me of who I am.
I’m not the kind of girl who gets inked. My skin is virginal, untouched by needles and piercings. I’m jittery because this is permanent. I’ve only ever been temporary. I’ve never done anything that lasts before.
I’ve never needed to.
Now I do.
My nerves race around the thoroughfares in my body like they’re mapping the route to chaos, and I need to calm down. I can do this—brand myself like cattle so I don’t slide back to the way I was.
A gust of cool November air scurries by, making me shiver and reminding me to get out of the cold and just do it. This is a defining moment in my life—the line between the past I leave behind, and the new girl that somehow, someway, I have to become.
I pull on the brass handle, open the door, and walk into a tattoo parlor for the first time ever. I’ve entered a zone of coolness, a land of hip artistry, where everyone is badass and bold. It’s eight in the evening on a Tuesday and the shop is open for another hour, so it’s packed inside. There’s a gal lazily blowing bubbles with her chewing gum as she kicks her foot back and forth while waiting on a leather couch in the entryway. Black ink snakes up the small path of exposed skin from her collarbone to her earlobe.
Indistinct metal music plays overhead.
Two artists are working in the back of the shop, set up in little chrome cubicle areas, like at a hair salon, each with their shelves and tools, marking up customers. A large man is spread out on his belly as a guy with dyed-black hair gives him a back tattoo. I wonder if the black-haired guy is Trey, the tattoo artist I scheduled with. The other artist is hunched over, working on an ankle of a pretty redhead.
As I wait, I check out the portfolios on the counter, flicking through pages of designs. So many designs my eyes feel like they’re swimming in black-and-blue lines, birds, and butterflies. But I don’t need to be looking through the portfolios. I know what I want on my body. I’m just passing the time until Trey is ready.
“Hey. Can I help you with anything?”
I look up from the drawing and into the eyes of the black-haired guy. Swarms of dragons adorn his arms. With his sleeves, jet-black dye job, and pierced lip, he clearly belongs here. I don’t. From my Mary Janes to my short plaid skirt, it’s as if I have a blaring sign on my head: Never been inked.
But then I remind myself I’ve been in plenty of unusual, weird, and potentially awkward situations, and have handled them all with finesse. I was paid top dollar to be confident, to be sweet, to be sophisticated. I channel all my skills into this moment.
“I have an appointment. With Trey,” I say, chin up, voice strong. I am ready to be marked.
“That’s him. Back there.” He nods toward the other guy who’s finishing the redhead, covering her ankle in a bandage. “I’m Hector. I’ll walk you through the paperwork,” the black-haired guy tells me.
I show him my ID and then sign the papers. When I cap the pen, Hector’s no longer alone. A young guy in jeans, combat boots, and a T-shirt stands next to him. His jawline is stubbled, his body is toned, and his arms are covered in tattoos, his right bicep a canvas for an abstract swirl of ink that looks like three lines wrapped together. I fight the urge to smile stupidly at him, since he’s beautiful and probably the recipient of a lot of stupid smiles. With light-brown hair that’s thick and messy, green eyes that remind me of a grassy hillside after a summer rain, and a face that you might see on a magazine, he could almost have model-perfect looks. But there’s a scar running across his right cheek, and I’m drawn to the imperfection in him amid all that surface pretty.
I wonder how he got that scar and what it says about him. You can’t have a scar on your cheek without it telling a story.
“Hey. I’m Trey. You must be Harley.”
“Yes, I’m Harley.”
He holds out a hand to shake. His firm grip makes me glad I’m going to spend the next hour with his hand on my shoulder.
“Nice to meet you. Come on back.”
I follow him several feet, and he gestures to a dentist-style chair. As I sit down, I notice his T-shirt. It’s black with a picture of a white-and-red sign on it. On the sign are the words I’m the tattoo artist your mother warned you about.
I try to suppress a grin, but I have no such luck.
“What’s so funny?” A smile plays on his lips too. Nice lips, full lips. I wonder what it would be like to kiss someone I wanted to kiss. I have no idea. Not that I want to kiss Trey.
“Your shirt.”
He glances at his chest as if he needs to jog his memory. “Yeah. This one usually gets some sort of reaction.”
“My mom never warned me about tattoo artists,” I say. “That’s why it’s funny to me.”
“Ah, well. Then you have no preconceived notions that we’re all trouble.”
But everyone is trouble, I want to say. And everyone has preconceived notions. And the reason my mother never warned me about tattoo artists is that she never warned me about a thing.
He pulls up a stool and straddles it. “So, are you ready to get your first tattoo, Harley?”
I’m startled when he says my name. It’s not the name I’m used to hearing from men, and for a moment, a cold rush of worry sweeps my skin. But then I remind myself he’s allowed to know my name. He leans in closer and speaks again, his voice low and gentle. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. Some people come in for their first tat and change their minds when they sit down,” he says, his green eyes fixed on me, searching me, sensing my reticence. He’s trying to read me, to give me an out, and there’s something so sweet about his offer, even though he’s misread my silence.
I shake my head. “I’m ready. Can you do a red ribbon? The one I emailed you when I made the appointment?”
“Yeah. I can do whatever you want. It’s all ready for you. I sketched it last night. Let me show you.”
He swivels around and reaches for the design on his shelf. His arms are strong, his muscles on display in his T-shirt, and I watch him, giving myself permission to stare while his back is to me. His T-shirt rides up as he grabs the transfer paper, revealing a sliver of his back.
I never knew a back could be so sexy.
When he turns around, he shows me the design. It’s a small red ribbon, like the photo I found online and sent to him. He’s drawn it brightly, as if it’s shining. I love the simplicity of it—that’s why I wanted it.
I nod approvingly. “It’s perfect.”
“Anything special about red ribbons?”
“They’re special to me,” I say, and leave it at that. There’s nothing more I want to say about this ribbon. Nobody would understand why I want it, why I need it to remind me of my mother. Because when tomorrow comes and I have to begin my penance, I need to remember that I love her.
“That’s as good a reason as any. If you’re doing something permanent to your body, it should be special. Special to you,” he says, repeating the words as he looks at me, his eyes locked with mine. Something passes between us, something unsaid in the silence. “Where do you want it?”
I push up the sleeve on my T-shirt, bunching it up, then point to my right shoulder. But the sleeve falls down.
“Let me help,” he says, rolling it up and cuffing it. “It’s better like this. It won’t fall down.”
And then the strangest thing happens. My stomach flips the tiniest bit as he touches me for the first time, and I’m not sure if I should flinch or bat my eyelids at him because I don’t usually feel, so I don’t know how to respond to a real feeling in my body instead of a manufactured one. I’ve worked hard not to feel, so I tell myself this is a fleeting moment in time. Because he’s beautiful. Or really, smoking hot would be a more apt description for Trey the Tattoo Artist my mother never warned me about.
A
nd maybe because this night is a divide in my life, because tomorrow marks the start of going on the wagon, I decide to simply let myself enjoy the view as he preps my skin.
He pours rubbing alcohol on a cotton ball and cleans my shoulder. “Just need to make sure it’s sterile,” he says as he tosses the cotton ball in a trash can. He grabs a disposable razor from a box on the shelf, holds it up to show me. “Now this might sound weird because it’s not like you have a hairy shoulder, but I need to shave it anyway.”
“Shave away,” I say, and the words come out halfway inviting. Maybe I want to flirt. Maybe I want to feel. Maybe I could get away with one night of flirting with a boy my age. A boy I find attractive. Not an assignment. Not a job. He brings the razor to my skin, but before he shaves me, he places his hand on my shoulder. Holy shit. His skin is warm, and he feels good touching me. Not like the clammy octopus hands I’m used to.