Stripped Down (19 page)

Rose is probably waking up alone now, and J.J. will look after her. He’ll make sure she has what she needs. My fingers slip and I catch myself roughly.
Fuck
.

Those two days in Afghanistan were bad. I expected torture, followed by death. Instead… yeah. Instead I know
exactly
what Rose went through. She was tied down, fucked up.
Fucked
.

So was I.

Breathe. In. Out. Swing up and find the next crack. Twenty feet left. I killed my captors when I broke free. It sucks to be powerless, and I won’t do that again. I won’t make the mistake of letting down my guard again, won’t turn my back. I fucked up and I paid for it.

Ten feet.

The sun explodes over the horizon, lighting up the range and the cliff where I’m playing Spider Man. I wonder what Rose is doing, what she’s thinking. I should have been there, holding her, but sometimes the walls close in and the room’s too dark and… yeah. I fucking can’t forget and that makes me dangerous, so instead I’m out here and she’s back there.

ROSE

A
nother day, another dollar, right?

Rory and I don’t drive off into the sunset (although I guess it would have been the sunrise by the time we recover from our respective shitty nights). If I give up and leave, Angel wins. My feelings for him will pass, but Auntie Dee’s house is tattooed into my very soul. I can’t run away from home this time.

By the time Rory wakes up, I’ve got a plan. I need two things if I’m going to fix up the house: money and Angel’s agreement. Acquiring money is easier than changing Angel’s mind, so that’s what I’ll focus on now. I’m a tattoo artist and I have a portable workstation, so I’ll set up shop right here and fuck Mr. Angel Mendoza. I don’t need his money and I don’t need his sorry self. Instead of crying or whining about how my life sucks, I need to get busy. I can fix this.

I send Rory out to make the rounds of the bars, while I hit the bunkhouse with the news that anyone who wants a flash tattoo can come on over and get the design of his dreams. I’ve got takers, too. I’m not sure if it’s the novelty or if Angel’s cowboys have been repressing their tattoo dreams for years, but Rory and I each do two tattoos.

Staying up all night bitching about the state of your life isn’t all that helpful. Inking centers me, and by late afternoon my shit may not make more sense, but I don’t want to kill Angel on sight.

Which is good because I’ve just waved goodbye to Dare when strong arms slide around my waist from behind. Because dignity is apparently out of the question, I squeal.

“You’ve been busy,” Angel growls in my ear.

What the fuck?

Before I can say anything—and I’m not even sure where to start, although I’m leaning toward
Get the fuck off my lawn and out of my life
—he kisses me. God, Angel can kiss. His mouth is hard and sweet at the same time, and my brain immediately short circuits. That has to be why I’m kissing him back like my life depends on it. He’s warm and smells like leather and male, which makes me imagine all sorts of things I could do with him or to him.

Damn it.

Yanking backward, I glare at him. “You left last night.”

Oops. My words aren’t subtle. I think about rephrasing, but then decide screw it. I’m pissed, and Angel needs to understand that.

“I’ve been climbing,” is all he says and lifts his hands. Honestly? Either he climbs badly, or he spent way too much time falling. His fingers are roughed up something bad, though. He’s got cuts on three fingers, and one thumb is red and abraded.

“You couldn’t wake me up and let me know?”

His gaze doesn’t waver from mine. “I fucked up.”

No. Shit.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he continues and I almost believe him. Okay. I actually, totally, completely believe him—but that claim of his doesn’t cover accidental damage. Our relationship is like a rental car. I thought everything was covered by the rental agreement, but now that I’ve had an accident, I’m realizing I’m liable for all sorts of damages.

“Good to know, but too late,” I tell him. I think he actually winces.

Angel being Angel, he tries to take control of our conversation. “I’m not letting you go,” he announces, as if that was in question. His cowboys are going to see the fireworks from the bunkhouse in a minute, because now I’m seeing red and about to explode.

“Does the caveman bullshit work for you, cowboy?”

“I need you,” he says and I try to pretend that my stupid heart isn’t doing a happy dance against my ribs. He must sense it, though, or maybe he’s just being arrogant Angel again, because he prowls toward me, slinging an arm around my waist and pulling me in close. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

We both look at my portable workstation with its array of needles and inks.

“I’m making money.”

I only need to ink another two hundred thousand cowboys or so to come up with the money to fix Auntie Dee’s house.

“If you need money, take mine.”

“There are so many things wrong with that statement that I don’t know where to start.”

“Try,” he whispers, nipping my ear. “You and I have gotta start talking about our shit.”

“So you’re back to wanting to give the relationship thing a try? You confuse the hell out of me.”

“I never stopped,” he says roughly.

“So last night’s hot-cold thing was a fluke?”

“Sometimes I need space,” he grits out. I twist my head so I can see his face, and the expression there is scary. It’s part self-loathing, part hatred, and I’m pretty certain I’m not misreading the need for violence. Angel wants to hurt someone or something, and while I know he’d never hurt me physically, it’s uncomfortable.

“Okay. Now tell me why.”

“No.” He doesn’t dress up his answer with excuses. Some genies don’t go back in the bottle once you let them out, and they damned certain don’t grant wishes. Angel is holding onto secrets that he can’t or won’t share with me.

“Then tell me this: was it what I told you last night?” I’m so tired of worrying about my past. Instead of holding on, I want to let go. I try to turn away from Angel, but he won’t let me.

“Nothing you ever tell me could push me away,” he promises. “I’m not leaving you. I’m in this for the long haul.”

“You left last night,” I point out, knowing I sound pathetic. Really,
really
pathetic. I wish Rory were here to kick me, but he’s disappeared inside the RV for what he calls a “siesta” and I label a “hangover.”

“I came back,” Angel counters calmly.

He officially drives me insane. “I can’t wait around for you to work through this come-go-stay bullshit.”

And… he nods. See? He’s messing with my head.

“It won’t happen again. Now tell me why I can’t give you money.”

“Jesus, Angel. For starters, because I don’t have any right to it. Secondly, I want to use it to fix up a house that
you
want to tear down. You don’t see the problem with that?”

“I don’t want you touching other men,” he growls.

“Too bad it’s in my job description.” I’m teasing the beast. I
know
this. “Most guys don’t find it kinky.”

That gets his attention. “Most?”

Yeah. Angel’s not happy about the caveat.

I shrug. “Some guys like the pain or the buzz of the needle. I don’t ask. I don’t look. As long as they keep in their pants, I’m cool with it.”

“For fuck’s sake, if you need to tattoo someone, tattoo
me
.”

And,
hello
opportunity knocking on my door. I’m not passing up my chance to mark Angel. If I could, I’d tattoo a
no trespassing
sign on his gorgeous ass, but I do have professional standards.

So I ask him: “What do you want?”

ANGEL

“Surprise me.” Fuck. My voice sounds gruff, like I’ve been smoking too much or crying too hard. Maybe scream. I know what men sound like when they’ve screamed for hours.

Rose nods, and pulls away from me. I let her go, because her attention’s still one hundred percent focused on me. She bends over the portable tattoo station, sketching something with a pencil. Frowns. Erases a line and starts again. It’s no surprise that I’m a work in progress.

Eventually, she comes back over to me, frowning. “You sure about this? I know you’re a control freak.”

She doesn’t have to point out that I’m letting her make the decision here. She’s going to be the one—temporarily—in control.

“Do it.” I hurt her last night. I didn’t mean to, but I was an asshole. Letting her ink me now is payback. She’s good at what she does—fucking brilliant—but that’s not the point. She chooses the design, she chooses where to mark me, and I take it. I drop onto the chair where her last guy sat.

“Wrist,” she says, thank fuck. Knowing Rose, it could have been my ass or my dick. I’d like to think I’d do anything for her, but I suspect I have limits. I cross my arms over the back of the chair, exposing my right wrist.

“You’re not gonna make me sign a waiver?” I may be an tattoo virgin, but I’m pretty sure paperwork is the part of any ink job.

She hesitates. “Can I trust you?”

Big fucking question right there. I give it to her straight. “Yes.”

She nods. “So let’s do this.”

She bends over my wrist and sprays the skin there with something cold and antiseptic smelling. Then she applies a stencil. That reminds me of the prize in the Cracker Jack box that my brothers and I fought over when we were little. Good to know she has a plan for my unmarked skin.

When she reaches for the needle, she hesitates. “Still don’t want to look? This is your chance at a temporary tattoo.”

“You trust me, I trust you,” I tell her. “That’s how this is gonna work.”

She’s not sold. “Maybe I’ll give you something really ugly. Or tattoo card verses on you.”

I’m not good at trust. People rely on me and not the other way round. Honestly? I don’t know that I can trust her. There’s no way
to
know. It’s like pulling myself up the cliff face, knowing that I go up or I fall off. Those are my options.

“I’ll like whatever you choose. You do fantastic work.”

She sighs. “And this is why you’re not going to end up with a pink cat on your wrist.”

And then she snaps on a pair of rubber gloves and gets to work. I’d rather have her touch me without the latex between us. Fuck, I feel that way all the time. It’s cute, the way she tries to keep me safe, when it’s my job to keep her safe.

When she picks up a thin needle and starts outlining my new ink, I keep my eyes on her face. I’ve been hurt before. This pain is a tickle, buzzing at my senses. She holds my wrist in place, her fingers pressing, pulling at my skin. I don’t do restraints. For a moment I tense up, before I force myself to relax.

“You okay?” She looks up, assessing.

“Fine.” As if I’d tell her anything different.

She must believe me, however, because she goes back to work. The bottom of my wrist turns out to be more sensitive than the top, but I really am fine. I watch the top of her, following the bounce of the crazy, messy ponytail she’s got going on. Her hair curls where it escapes from the hair tie.

“This next part is going to hurt,” she warns me a few minutes later. “I have to shade it.”

“I can handle it.” I touch her cheek with my free hand. Jesus. She’s soft.
And I hurt her
. I am such an ass.

“If you need to stop, just tell me.”

I’m wondering how bad it can really hurt and how much worse I deserve when she picks up a different needle and starts in. She’s right. This is different, deeper. This needle bites into my skin, filling up the outline with rich, dark color. The pain is there beneath the surface, but I focus on Rose. Not like it’s a hardship. She’s fucking gorgeous when she’s focused on her work.

“Done,” she announces and lets go of my wrist. It feels like Christmas when I look.

She’s given me a single, black eagle feather. My ink is about three inches long and one inch wide, but she’s packed so much detail into that real estate. It’s fucking gorgeous.

I tug her head down to mine. “Thanks,” I say against her mouth and then I kiss her, marking her in front of my cowboys, my brothers, and anyone else who’s watching. Rose is mine.