All the Pretty Lies (9 page)

Sloane laughs and I hold out my arm for her
to lean against as we walk. I doubt she’ll take any more charity
from me at the moment, so I won’t offer to carry her.

Even though I wouldn’t mind.

It’ll be a long time before I can get the
feel of her pressed up against me out of my mind. In the meantime,
tonight is liable to be pure hell.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN- Sloane

Not that I needed
any
more reasons to
be enchanted by Hemi, but being on the receiving end of his careful
attentions and seeing him take charge really adds another dimension
to his appeal. And there was a whole lot of appeal there to begin
with!

On the way to Savannah from Tybee, he pulled
off at a huge convenience station, where he bought a bottle of
vinegar and a box of baking soda. When I asked what they were for,
he just muttered, “Don’t ask.” He also bought me a Coke and a
Snickers, a combination that I was fond of before and now find
nearly intoxicating. Even though I’m not sure why and I’m pretty
sure it’s stupid to feel that way.

Now, I’m sitting in the car on the street in
front of what looks like a mansion. It’s actually a posh hotel with
a rich sunset-colored brick exterior, intricately carved moldings
and a whimsical spire that looks perfectly at home with a
horse-drawn carriage parked outside. If I had to guess, the
building is probably some sort of historic landmark. It sits right
on Forsyth Park, so waiting for Hemi to get us registered is hardly
a chore.

I’ve already called Sarah to let her know
she’ll have to extend her part in my cover story until morning. She
squealed and started to launch into a hyper inquisition about
whether or not I was planning to sleep with Hemi. “Sarah,” I said,
interrupting her. “I’ve been stung by a jellyfish and I’m a mess. I
seriously don’t think this is the best way to lose my virginity.”
She was disappointed, but she agreed to go along with my ruse. Then
I called Dad, who sounded a bit suspicious, but didn’t press me,
which was a surprise.

So now, I’m people watching. As they walk by,
I find myself wondering whether or not they have tattoos. It
doesn’t take me long to realize that Hemi has completely invaded my
brain. But if I’m to be overtaken, I can think of a million worse
things than being consumed by Hemi.

I see the hotel door open again and Hemi
exits. My eyes rove his tall, lean frame as he moves.

He put on his jeans and t-shirt before we
left Tybee, but now that I know what’s under them, I love watching
him even more. He walks with an easy grace and a confidence that
makes me feel breathless. He looks left and right before his eyes
rise to mine and stop. He doesn’t smile or nod. He just winks. And
my heart does a little flip.

What a way to spread my wings!

I smother my grin and try to control the
overactive hormones and imagination that have taken possession of
me lately.

“We’re all set,” he says, as he plops down
behind the wheel. He starts the car and drives around the block to
approach the building from a different angle, one where a valet is
waiting at the curb to greet us. He comes to my side first,
politely opening the door and offering me his hand. I take it,
stepping onto the curb as he closes the door and heads to Hemi’s
side.

“Do you have bags, sir? I can arrange for the
bellhop to—”

“No, thank you. This was an unexpected stop,”
Hemi says as he gets out and hands the kid a folded bill.

The valet nods, “Yes, sir.”

Hemi comes to my side and puts his hand at my
lower back. “Shall we?” he says with a practiced sweep of his
hand.

I narrow my eyes on him. “You’re really good
at this,” I observe. “Like,
really
good at this.”

His expression is nonchalant. “I watch a lot
of Bond movies.”

He opens the door for me and I step into a
luxurious lobby. The hardwoods are the color of coffee and the
furnishings look like a mixture of French and Italian antiques. I
could be wrong. What the hell do I know about decorating, other
than what I’ve seen on HGTV? Very little. But whatever it is, it’s
breathtaking.

Several people nod at us as we make our way
through to the elevator. I’m glad I had the time to pull on my
shorts over my bottoms, and that the cover up I brought can
function as a shirt. It by no means makes me look like I fit in
here, but at least I don’t feel like Julia Roberts walking through
the Regent Beverly Wilshire.

We take the elevator up to our floor. The
doors open with an expensive
swoosh
and usher us out into an
elegant hallway. Hemi turns left, so I follow. He stops four doors
down and slides a card into the slot below the knob. A green light
appears and is followed by a mechanical click. Hemi pushes the door
open and steps back to allow me to enter first.

The room is opulent. That’s the first word
that comes to mind. The thick carpet is taupe, a few shades lighter
than the walls. There are splashes of color—a chocolate mink throw,
pillows of red and furniture of mahogany—but the bed is done in
white—white duvet, white pillows, white headboard. All in all, it’s
stunning.

“Well,” I say as I perch carefully on the end
of the bed, “I don’t guess I need to ask if tattooing pays
well.”

Hemi ignores me as he walks straight to the
bathroom. “Which side do you sleep on?” he asks when he reappears
with an armful of towels and washcloths.

My mind stalls on his question. It’s then
that it occurs to me that there’s one bed. One big, beautiful,
luxurious bed. And two of us.

“Umm, it doesn’t really matter. I can—”

“It’s not a trick question, Sloane,” he says,
softening his words with a small smile. “I just need to know which
side to put all this stuff on.”

“This side,” I say patting the bed to my
left.

“Those shorts need to come off,” he says
casually, giving me a little chill. “Then pull back the covers and
lie down,” he orders, depositing his load on the opposite side.

I do as he asks. As I’m stretching out, I
feel the need to be accommodating. “Hemi, I can seriously sleep on
either side. Really, it won’t bother me if you need to sleep over
here.”

“It won’t matter. I don’t sleep in the same
bed as anyone else, so I’m not planning on getting much
shut-eye.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“No.”

“Wh-why not? I mean…”

He looks up at me and grins as he folds two
towels length-wise. “You mean, I’m a guy. I must sleep around.
Therefore I should be able to sleep on either side of a bed, next
to virtually anybody, right?”

“That’s not what I—”

“Of course it is,” he interrupts. “But you’re
wrong. The women that…occupy my space know to be gone before I get
out of the bathroom. I’m not really a…breakfast kind of guy.”

“Oh,” I say flatly. I don’t suppose I’m
really surprised. He doesn’t seem like the
let’s-make-love-and-cuddle type. But, then again, I wouldn’t have
imagined he’d be so…cold either. “Have you never… I mean…”

“Not in a long, long time,” he says,
arranging the towels under my leg then taking a washcloth in his
hand and dousing it with the vinegar he got from the convenience
store. He presses the saturated cloth to the angry red streaks and
dots on my right thigh. “You’re technically supposed to soak it,
but that’ll be hard to do considering where it’s at. Plus, we’d
need
a lot more
vinegar to fill the tub. So this’ll have to
do.”

After he presses the compress to my leg, he
backs off and crosses to the desk. He returns with a leather-bound
book.

“Where did you learn all this?”

Hemi shrugs, his attention on whatever he’s
reading rather than me. “I spent a lot of time at the beach as a
kid. Picked up a few things here and there.” I don’t know if he’s
purposely trying to change the subject or if he’s just not that
into it, but either way, he changes it. “You hungry? I say we order
some room service for the impaired.”

“I’m not impaired!”

“Oh, sorry. ‘Challenged’,” he says, holding
up his fingers in air quotes.

“I’m not challenged either! I can get up and
go to dinner just fine. Don’t let me hold you back.”

“You’re not holding me back. I’m stuck in a
quiet hotel room with a woman in a bikini. How is this holding me
back?”

I can’t help but smile.

“I’m sure it’s hardly what you had in mind
for the day.”

“Oh, I can definitely think of
worse
ways for a day at the beach to turn out.” His grin is
lascivious.

I sit upright. “Oh, shit! Were you supposed
to work tonight? I didn’t even think about that when I called home.
Will you get in trouble?”

“Calm down, calm down,” he says, scooting
onto the bed beside me. “I already took care of it.”

“God, I hate to be such a pain in the
ass.”

“Wellll, I wasn’t gonna say anything,
but…”

I grab a pillow and lob it against his head.
Hemi laughs.

********

My belly is full and it’s long past dark
outside. After reapplying vinegar compresses to my leg for a while,
Hemi made some kind of nasty paste out of baking soda and water and
slathered it on there. Even though I can’t really do much with all
that goo on my leg, I must admit that the sting
does
feel
better.

Hemi gets up from where he was reclining on
the other side of the bed. “Mind if I take a shower? Get all this
sand and saltwater off me?”

“No, not at all.”

“You can take one in the morning, but for
tonight, you probably ought to stay out of hot, fresh water as much
as you can.”

“Okay. I’ll be fine until morning.”

Hemi heads for the bathroom, pushing the door
up, but not closing it completely. I’m sure it’s so he can hear me
if I need anything. Or to torture me. I can see him doing either
one intentionally. He’s a compelling, charismatic bundle of
contradictions, I’m learning.

I listen as the spray cuts on. I close my
eyes and I follow him through the process. I hear the rings slide
along the rod as he pulls back the shower curtain, and then again
as he likely closes it behind him. All too clearly, I can imagine
him stepping, naked, into the stall, taking a bar of soap, so white
against his tanned skin, and rubbing it over his chest and stomach.
I can picture the beads of water traveling down his back and over
his perfectly-curved butt. There’s very little that I can’t picture
with absolute clarity. Very little. But the part I want to see most
is the part I can’t imagine.

My eyes are still closed when the water shuts
off. I hear the soft friction of the towel against his skin and I
can imagine him securing it around his waist as he runs his fingers
through his hair to straighten it.

The fan in the bathroom becomes louder and I
open my eyes. Hemi is standing in the open doorway, wrapped in
nothing but a towel.

“Were you sleeping?”

“No, just…thinking.”

“What were you thinking about?” he asks,
walking casually to the bed and stretching out across the end,
leaning on one elbow, facing me. He crosses his feet at the ankle
and waits, his expression patiently interested.

“Skin,” I answer in honesty. I just don’t
tell him that I was thinking about
his skin
in particular. I
hurry to continue. “I was thinking about what it would feel like to
draw on it.”

“Wanna practice?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m sure there’s a pen in here. You
can draw something on me if you like. It’ll wash off.”

“Seriously?”

“Sure. What else is there to do?”

I can think of several ways to answer that,
but I voice none of them. I’ve got white gunk on my leg, I haven’t
showered all day, and my hair is a mass of saltwatered tangles.

“Is there something particular you’d like me
to draw?”

Hemi gets up and walks to the desk, returning
with a pen that boasts the hotel name. “Hmmm, well, I’ve been
thinking about getting ‘Live, no regrets’ tattooed on my right
side. Lettering that has some kick ass points. Nothing too ornate.
Maybe some design that looks like tribal art coming off the L and
the G. I don’t know. I’ve been meaning to sketch it out since…well,
for a while now. You’re welcome to give it a shot.”

“Okay,” I say, warming to the idea. “Is that
your life motto or something?”

“It was…someone else’s. Someone that I used
to know.”

Something in his voice leaves me with no
doubt that the topic is closed for discussion. But that same
something in his voice makes me want to explore it, to see if this
is what he escapes from in his art. And if it’s about a woman.
Maybe the woman he used to sleep beside. And have breakfast with.
So long ago.

I put those disconcerting thoughts out of my
head as I sit up in bed, thinking about the logistics of making
this work. “How can I…I mean, where will you…”

“Are you right or left handed?”

“Right.”

“Perfect. Roll up onto your left side and
I’ll come lie in front of you.”

I scoot over in the bed and roll onto one
side, like Hemi suggested. I assumed he’d put his back facing me to
give me access to his right side. I’m flustered and more than a
little excited when he stretches out facing me, resting his head on
my leg just below my jellyfish sting and slinging his arm over my
waist, leaving his ribs open to me.

Hemi looks up at me, his eyes like pools of
turbulent, dark blue waters. “I can be very…accommodating.”

“Yes, you can,” I say, unimaginatively, my
nerves stretched taut. “I hope you aren’t ticklish.”

“Only in one spot, but you won’t be getting
anywhere near that with your pen,” he says with a wink.

I feel my face flush and, again, I curse the
fact that I’m such a mess. What a perfect opportunity this would be
otherwise. I clear my throat and put all my focus into what I’m
about to draw on Hemi.