Masquerade

Book 3 in The Games Series

Nyrae Dawn

New York Boston

To my sister, Jessica, one of the most talented and caring people I know. I am blessed to have a sibling with such a big, loving heart.

As always, I have to start with my family. My two beautiful little girls who amaze me daily and who get it when Mommy is in the writing zone. To my husband, who has taken over doing so many things around the house, and doing them
well
in order to give me writing time. We got so lucky to find each other. I’m thankful for you every day. Huge thanks to my incredible agent Jane Dystel, and everyone at Dystel and Goderich Literary Management. There is no one else I would rather have in my corner. You guys are truly amazing. To my editor, Latoya Smith. I am so lucky to be able to work with you. You not only make my books stronger but also your enthusiasm never fails to make my day. Also, I would like to thank everyone at Grand Central Publishing. I still get smiley when I tell people I write for you. I wouldn’t have been able to write this book without the help of my tattoo artist, Eliza, from County Line Tattoo. Not only are you amazing at your job but you also answered my million questions about tattooing without hesitation. Any mistakes are my own and I can’t wait to schedule another appointment with you! Finally, I would like to thank my readers for everything. Your support and excitement means more to me than I could ever put into words. I couldn’t do this without you!

It’s almost perfect. The only thing missing as I stand in the middle of Masquerade is the constant buzz of a tattoo gun. After the past few years, it’s my form of comfort. Like a lullaby that sings me to sleep, massaging the tension out of my muscles. But at the same time, it shoots endorphins into my veins, bringing me happiness—something that’s mine and will always belong to me.

Yes, I need to hurry up and open the doors to my tattoo parlor before I go crazy for that lullaby. Tomorrow is the day. I can’t wait.

I play the words again in my head:
my tattoo parlor
. They’re scary as hell and exhilarating at the same time. I’m not sure many twenty-one-year-olds can say they’ve already worked in five shops, but none of those places belonged to me. This one will stick. I’ll stick. I have to, for a lot of reasons. One of them being, despite the fact that it’s my name on all the paperwork for Masquerade, my parents footed the bill.

It doesn’t matter that I’m paying them back, only that they did it. After everything I’ve put them through—after the way that I struggled so much to love them the way they do me—they did it. Hell, I fight to even understand the word. People throw
love
around all the time, but I’ve seen it make people do crazy things. It’s not something I’m sure I want. But still, they’re always there.

Walking over, I straighten one of the frames filled with tattoos I’ve done. To the right of it is the one and only workstation here. It’s exactly what I need, small without too many places to make a mess. Growing up, my parents—
shit
… I shake my head—Melody and Rex—had both been artists. They would get lost in their zone and the house would be a mess with supplies, but it didn’t matter because they were happy.

Then I went back home and everything was different. They were happy like Melody and Rex, only not in the same way. They didn’t get so deep in their art that they’d forget dinner and then order a pizza, which we would all laugh over later.

No, my real parents were perfect—are perfect—and even after eight years, it’s still hard for me to be the person they need me to be instead of the one I am.

But I try. For them, I try.

“Christ,” I mumble, not sure why I’m feeling so introspective today. I’m a single girl in a new town. What I need to do is get out and have some fun.

After locking up Masquerade, I climb into my Honda Insight and drive to my apartment. It doesn’t take me long to get ready. I keep my blond hair down. It’s so long it hangs past the middle of my back. I put on a black spaghetti-strap tank top with silver studs on it. It shows some of the tattoos I have, one on my right arm, the back of my neck, and the star on the front of each shoulder. Slipping on a pair of black heels, I walk to the bathroom and change out the small diamond stud in my nose and then I’m out the door.

It’s not like Brenton is very big, so it doesn’t take me long to find a club called Lunar that looks like it could be a good time. It’s about 10:00 p.m., so a little early, but all I want to do is have a drink and relax anyway. More than that and I’d have to take a cab.

Music pulses through the speakers when I walk in, and I suddenly feel a tinge of guilt for being here. I guess my real dad got lost in the bottle for a while after I was kidnapped. I hate using that word—
kidnapped
—because it makes it sound like they were horrible to me when they weren’t. Anyway, he’s okay now. They’re those kinds of people. They make it through everything together, but I wonder if they’d be disappointed I’m here.

No
, I tell myself. There’s nothing wrong with having a beer once in a while.

It takes a couple minutes to make my way through the crowd and up to the bar. It smells like alcohol and too many bodies, but I try to ignore it. A seat opens up and I take it. Men sit on either side of me, but none of them seem to be paying any attention, which is good. I’m not in the mood to be hit on tonight.

The bartender comes over a few minutes later. He’s about my age, hot, but a little pretty for my type. He has blond hair and green eyes that run the length of me, telling me it’s going to be him that tries to flirt.

“Hmm, let me guess. Cosmo?” he asks. I shake my head. “Lemon Drop? Mojito?” He keeps tossing drinks at me, and I continue shaking my head.

“You’re going to have to give me a clue here. I’m drowning and I’m usually pretty damn good at knowing what a girl wants.” He winks at me and I can’t help but roll my eyes.

“The only thing you have that I want right now is a Corona with lime.”

“Ah, a beer girl. I was way off.”

He grabs a bottle, twists the top off, and then hands it to me.

“You’re new. I would have noticed you before,” he says.

I nod. Again, he’s good-looking. Maybe on another night I would have been interested or if I were a different kind of girl—the good kind. But I’m not and I swear he looks like he belongs in a college frat, so I lean back and take a drink of my beer.

“I’m Trevor,” the bartender says.

“Bee,” I reply. It’s amazing how the name automatically rolls off my tongue. It’s almost like it gave me my new identity at eighteen years old. It was my third one, but this one I actually picked. It’s the only one that feels like me. I don’t remember what it was like to be the girl I’d been before I was taken, and once I went back home, I couldn’t be the person I thought I was.

“Bee? As in buzz, buzz?” His question jerks me out of my thoughts. “Did I tell you how much I like honey?”

Yeah, because I haven’t heard that one before. “No, as in the letter
B
. It’s short for ‘bitch.’ Want me to demonstrate how accurate the name is?” I finish my tirade with the tiniest of wicked grins.

At that, Trevor smiles and holds up his hands. “I was kidding. Kind of. But seriously, that was hot. I think I’m in love with you.”

Before I have the chance to reply, someone yells, “Trev! Stop flirting and get your ass down here. There’s work to do.”

That’s my cue to leave. I toss a ten down and he grabs it before I walk away. I want a nice, empty corner to hang out in and finish my drink. Or, if I’m being honest, I’m not opposed to meeting someone; only that someone isn’t him.

When I spot a small table in the back, I head right for it. I’m surprised no one’s grabbed it yet. I sit down and lift the bottle to my lips and drink the whole thing.

I set the bottle down, and for some reason seeing the lime inside transports me back in time. Rex used to make all kinds of bottle art. He’d tell me sometimes the simplest things could be the most beautiful. We’d fill different colored bottles with different shades of objects until we found one that we thought was the most unique, and then he would let me keep it. I put it on the shelf above my bed with all my other favorite things. The things I couldn’t take with me when they found me.

My hand squeezes around the bottle and I take a couple deep breaths. What’s wrong with me? Why am I thinking about them so much tonight? I’m doing better. I have Masquerade. I need to remember things happened the way they were supposed to and go on with my life.

“Decided not to flirt with Trevor anymore?” a male voice says. I look over to see a guy leaning against the wall in the dark, his arms crossed. There are stairs that go up right next to him, and it’s almost like he’s hiding.

“Is there a problem if I was flirting with him?” I reply.

He has a tribal tattoo around his forearm. It’s pretty nice work but I could have done it better.

“Not my business. I don’t know why I even said anything.” He turns his head and scans the crowd. My first thought is,
Now this is the kind of guy I’d be into
. He has a trail of dark stubble on his face, a tick in his tight jaw, and black hair. It has a few curls in it. Just enough to make you want to run your fingers through it to see how it feels.

I would put money on him riding a bike. He’s gorgeous and trouble, and from the scowl on his face, he’s probably angry at the world just like I’m confused by it.

Too bad he’s an asshole.

“You’re right. It’s not your business. Since that didn’t stop you from bringing it up, I’ll keep it going for you. Let me guess, I’d probably be a slut or a tease if I was flirting with him? Let’s for a minute forget that he not only came on to me, but also that men do that kind of thing all the time. It’s okay for them to hook up with someone in a bar, but not for a girl to, right?”

I’d dealt with stuff like this all the time when I was in school and I hated it. I wasn’t like all the other people who joined activities and smiled in everyone’s face, pretending to be perfect but then going wild behind their parents’ and teachers’ backs. I was who I was then and I am who I am now. At home I didn’t fit in, which bothered me, so I made sure I didn’t care if I fit in anywhere else.

The guy doesn’t reply to me but continues to look out into the sea of people.

What’s his deal?

I pick up my bottle before remembering it’s empty and setting it down again. I keep glancing at the guy, but he’s not paying any attention to me. It frustrates me, and the fact that I’m letting it bother me annoys me even more.

Finally, he says, “I don’t care who you fuck, or who anyone else does for that matter. Being a man or woman doesn’t make a difference.”

There’s something in the raspy seriousness of his voice that makes me believe him. It makes me wonder what he does care about, if anything, because by looking at him, I’d say it isn’t much.

That makes two of us.

I’m not really sure what makes me do it, but I push to my feet, walk over, and lean against the wall next to him. “Your piece is pretty nice. Could be cleaned up a bit.” I point to his tat.

He huffs. “And you’re an expert, right?” He makes it sound like it’s a ridiculous thought.

I smirk because, of course, that’s the first thing people think. I don’t know why. It’s not like it’s so rare to be a female tattoo artist.

We keep standing there. People are dancing all around, drinking and talking. He’s wearing an earpiece, so it’s pretty obvious to me now that he’s security.

After a few minutes, he tosses a glance my way. “You’ve got some nice work too.” It seems to physically pain him to say the words.

“Thanks.”

All of my work was done by the Professor. He’s the old guy who taught me how to tat. I don’t really talk about the Professor because he’s important to me and I like to keep important things to myself. Most people wouldn’t get it anyway.

“What’s your name?” he asks without looking at me.

“Bee. Yours?”

“Maddox.” I recognize what he’s doing. It’s so much easier to talk to people when you don’t have to look at them. Looking brings you closer, and sometimes it’s too hard to get close. I was like that when I first came home. I’m still like that sometimes.

Standing here, I realize I kind of get this guy. I think he might get me, too, and I don’t remember the last time I thought something like that. It’s not that I need him or anyone else to understand me. Still, in this moment, it feels kind of good.

“Maddox!” a guy yells from a few feet away. “You’re off early tonight. Go ahead and clock out.”

Maddox turns to look at me. My skin sizzles under his stare. His eyes are gray and hot on me. Man, this guy is sexy, and for a second, I consider what it would be like to lose myself in him for a night.

“You here with anyone?” His voice is low.

A good girl would probably tell him she wasn’t interested. The kind of girl I maybe should be. The kind my sister is or my mom is. I don’t think it’s such a bad thing to let myself have a little fun. If I’m smart… safe, what’s the problem?

“No.”

I push off the wall so I’m standing right in front of him when he speaks again.

“Do you want to leave with me?”

“We go to a hotel, not a house. And it’s only one night.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” He smirks. It’s the first time I’ve seen him do anything except scowl.

“I’m all about equal opportunity, remember?”

“Are you drunk?”

“No, just had the one beer.”

Maddox gives me a simple nod, then tells me the name of a hotel and says he’ll meet me there.

To be sure, I walk over to a different bouncer than the one who talked to him and confirm Maddox works here. You never know what kind of scams people will come up with and I need to confirm he’s legit.

A few minutes later I’m in my car and driving to the hotel. Just one night. It’s been crazy and stressful getting everything ready for Masquerade, and I really want to let go and have a little fun, with someone who’s safe because I’ll never have to see him again.