Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) (12 page)

Which I do. It feels more New York.

I give her the address and she promises to be here in an hour. That’s enough time for me to take Jasper on a short walk, shower, and shave the old growth forest off my legs.

***

I’m in cutoff sweats and my green-and-yellow University of Oregon T-shirt when Stella arrives, looking chic in painted-on skinny jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that bares her shoulders. A fat bag on her hip signals that she’s brought supplies.

They’re not just for my hair. She pulls out a half-empty fifth of vodka and we each do a couple of shots in between her cooing over the views, the palatial kitchen and the rest of Gavin’s
oh-mygawdcanyoubelieveit
apartment.

I give her the full tour with the exception of Gavin’s office, which is still littered with papers. I show her how to give Jasper a high five and she giggles, transformed into the less-worldly version of herself that I remember meeting in our sophomore year newswriting class.

“Show me what you’re wearing, and then I’ll do your hair.”

I hold up the black dress and she approaches it reverently. “Where in the hell did you get this, Beryl? This is some
expensive
shit.” The label is a name I’ve never heard of.

“Good thing it has built-in bra cups,” I say, changing the subject from the dress’s provenance. “There’s no way I can wear a bra with this.”

“In that dress, nobody will be looking at your shoes,” she confirms, eyeing the slim pickings in my closet. We head to the bathroom and under her skillful hands my hair is transformed.

I close my eyes as she brushes, irons and sprays. I haven’t heard from Gavin since he admitted what happened to Lulu last night, and I’m still reeling from his admission. His bubble is gray and I don’t want to email him. I don’t even know what I’d say, or if I want to say anything at all.

No wonder he ran. If I caused someone’s death, I’d be running from guilt, and the law, their family, and who knows what else?

“Jeff doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

I start. “Huh?”

“Remember Jeff, you goof? Or have you already forgotten him?”

I blush as she irons out the final sections of my hair, admitting as much.

“Awesome, Beryl! Way to rebound. There’s hope for you yet. Repeat after me:
A bad boy can’t break your heart.
”

I think for a moment, but I’m stumped. “What song’s that from?”

“Nothing. It’s just a good rule to live by.” Stella smiles wickedly and I can tell bad boys are on her personal menu tonight.

Maybe that’s not a bad idea. Forget rock star Gavin. Forget good boy Jeff. Bring on the bad boys.

We stand side-by-side in the bathroom mirror to apply our makeup—she draws on dramatic cat eyes with liquid liner, and I dust smoky gray powder on my lids.

“More,” she commands. I follow her lead.

I wiggle into Lulu’s dress and I’m surprised by my own curves. When I first saw photos of Lulu, I thought my body was chunky by comparison. But in this dress I realize it’s all about packaging and proportion. With my rounded hips and decent boobs, I could
be
that curvy pinup I envied.

I present myself to Stella for inspection. The dress is sleeveless, above the knee, and shaped carefully with darts to hug every curve. A stark vee neckline runs more than halfway to my navel, and strands of delicate silver chain close the vee from mid-boob down to its point, revealing far more cleavage than I think I’ve ever displayed, even in a bathing suit.

Stella gives me a wolf whistle and I offer a naughty wink in return. She’s changed into a short red halter dress that shows off her slim, toned arms and shoulders.

And no bra.

“Stella, I can see your—”

“Nipples? Yeah. They’re the new butt crack.”

I step into my boring black pumps as she explains that the trend used to be wearing ultra-low-rise jeans, which gave a peek-a-boo view of your butt crack.

“That trend’s over,” she says authoritatively. “The new sexy is going braless to show the outlines of your nipples.”

I roll my eyes. Those are two trend trains I never want to get on board.

“Got enough pre-func?” I ask. Our pre-function vodka shots have warmed a nice little trail down my throat and I’m feeling more relaxed than anxious.

“Got my buzz on. But of course we need one for the road.” Stella pours us each another shot.

I knew she’d say that.

The cabbie commits a dozen moving violations before depositing us a half-block from our intended destination. It’s after ten and recently dark since we’re approaching the summer solstice.

It’s still early for clubs but Stella’s not waiting around. As I said, she’s on a mission.

We dive in to the club’s darkness and spinning lights, laughing loudly, smiling hugely, and dancing like the whole scene is a party thrown in our honor.

Pretty soon it feels that way as more people crowd onto the floor. I’ve hit the perfect mix of adrenaline and alcohol that fuels total, unsloppy abandon.

There’s nothing like this in Eugene. It’s a good day when a bar can get more than a dozen people moving to the music.

Stella and I are here with hundreds, but it’s easy for me to keep track of her in that bright red dress, even as more guys separate us. I’m grinding against some guy with truly fantastic thighs beneath his denim—that’s what I hold onto as he grabs my waist, pressing his pelvis into my rear.

I just let go.

For once I’m not self-conscious, sizing myself up and wondering what everyone else thinks of my dance moves. I’m not comparing my curves to much slimmer girls like Stella. And I’m not wondering how much damage the humidity did to my flat-ironed hair.

I’m just here and feeling like a vixen in my sensible shoes and stolen/borrowed little black dress. Jeff doesn’t know what he’s missing, and I’m only just discovering what I would have missed if I’d stayed in Eugene forever.

Thighs of Steel has a strong grip on me from behind while a Wall Street type presses against me from the front, smiling roguishly as his eyes trickle down my cleavage.

I fight the urge to look down at what he’s inspecting. They’re just boobs.

Wall Street pulls me closer, bringing his button down right up to my chest and I become a Beryl sandwich, swaying to the music as the guys grind against me, my dress riding higher on my thighs. I catch Stella’s eye and she gives me a thumbs up.

The music changes and Wall Street’s left hand slides from my side down to my hip on its way to my ass—the same ass Thighs of Steel is protecting like a birthright. Meanwhile, Wall Street’s right hand cruises from my arm to my breast and I flinch, unprepared for that bold move.

I feel both men’s chests harden, feel them both stand taller. I want to duck out of the line of fire—there’s definitely some kind of standoff going on that I’m not privy to, considering the fact that I can’t see Steel’s face.

Wall Street tries to take my hand to pull me away to another part of the dance floor, but Steel is one step ahead of him, spinning my hips around and wrapping me in his arms. I barely get a glimpse of his face before it’s buried in my hair, his breathing tickling the side of my neck as he rocks me to the beat.

This is the most erotic dance I’ve ever experienced and I’m loving every minute of it. I love the standoff, the predators, and being the prey. It takes all of the guesswork out of it and—I’ll cop to it—I like being the prize.

The song changes again and Steel leads me off the dance floor and around a corner to the back side of the bar, where little couches with just enough room for two are strewn at angles under a red glow.

“An IPA for me and whatever she likes,” his head swivels and I’m arrested by expressive, chocolate-brown eyes looking down at me. Even in my heels, this guy is
tall.
And built. But I’ve got to order and I’ve forgotten the word cosmopolitan.

“I, uh,” I stutter, “a vodka-cranberry?”

The bartender nods and Steel takes both of our drinks to a couch in the furthest corner where I don’t have to shout too loudly to be heard.

“I’m Anthony,” he says, handing me my drink and offering to clink glasses. “Prost.”

“Beryl,” I tell him. “Cheers.”

“Cheryl?” he leans in, giving me his ear.

“Beryl!” I yell. “With a B!”

Anthony grins and pulls back to give me a little space, his powerful thigh solidly against mine as we sit.

I like it.

“I’m glad you picked me,” he says. “That other guy was all over you.”

“And you weren’t?”

“Guilty,” Anthony says, and has the decency to look it a little. “But at least I wasn’t grabbing at you the way he did.”

“You
were
grabbing me.” Why am I arguing with this guy? His short brown hair and recent shave, not to mention perfectly pressed shirt, suggest some gentlemanly qualities.

“Beryl.” His sudden intensity stops me cold. “I felt you flinch.”

I take a big gulp of my drink and drop my gaze, suddenly hyperaware of his body next to mine. Finally, I nod.

“I wasn’t trying to go all caveman on you. I just thought you deserved more respect than that.”

“And grinding is super-respectful?” I ask it before I can stuff my sensible shoe-wearing foot in my mouth.

What the hell am I doing shutting down this massive wall of man in front of me? He
could
go all caveman on me, throw me over his shoulder and walk us out of here. And I might like it.

Anthony grins, showing charmingly crooked but very white teeth. “Beryl, I read the signs. You were into it. I never would have gotten so close if you hadn’t kept pressing that delicious rear end of yours into me.”

His expression heats and I flush, suddenly thinking about all of the regions south of my navel, rear included. Anthony takes the empty drink that I don’t remember finishing from my hand and puts it down on the table next to his nearly empty beer.

Then his hands are on me, one banded around my shoulder to bring my face within inches of his, the other resting on the bare skin above my knee.

I know it’s coming. I know it. I close my eyes and feel like I’m on a roller coaster that’s inched to the top, suspended in a weightless moment before it rushes to the bottom. I breathe in slightly and catch a hint of his cologne and soap and sweat. And something else—I don’t know if it’s pheromones or just plain
man.

“Beryl. Open your eyes.”

My eyes snap open and Anthony is inches from my mouth, his gaze hot and raw. My hand trails over one of his Thighs of Steel for encouragement, but that doesn’t get me kissed. It just earns another crooked grin.

“That’s no flinch,” he says, and his mouth covers mine—hungry, demanding, teasing and torturing at once. I bite his lip and it barely slows him down. His tongue strokes mine as one hand burrows deeper into my hair. His other hand glides up my thigh to my hip, pulling me closer, cupping my ass.

I’m making out with a guy in public! A hot guy!

I debate how to word my Facebook status update.

But Anthony recaptures my attention with a sharp nip on my earlobe, his tongue tracing its outer edge, and I feel a rush of heat.

I feel a lot less like a Bumpkin Fashion-toting New York newbie and a lot more like a sexy siren.

***

Anthony owns me for the rest of the night, tight against me as the dance floor crowd swells. He gives me space to dance with Stella and anyone else who approaches, so long as they mind their manners.

Stella’s found another bad boy—maybe Blayde 2.0, but decidedly not
my
type—and his eyes are glued to the outlines of her nipples whenever they’re not pressed chest to chest.

It’s not the place to chat, so I have no idea what Anthony does for work, how old he is, or his story. But there’s plenty of nonverbal communication and I find myself melting into the hard planes of his chest, and letting my hands explore his impressive muscles.

I take a break for the bathroom and when I’m finished, he leads me around another corner, pressing me against the wall of the club. His mouth crushes mine and I answer, feeling the electric sizzle as each part of him melds to my body.

He nips a trail of bites down my neck and I tip my hips into his, feeling his response through the denim. It’s the alcohol and the music and his hungry kisses—everything heats me from the inside out, and I feel the frozen parts of myself begin to thaw.

I don’t remember the last time someone kissed me this thoroughly, with this voracious need. Am I over Jeff? Oh,
hell
yes. Maybe there’s some truth to Stella’s theory.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and Anthony and I look up at once. Stella’s there, her other hand entwined with a shaggy-haired, pierced guy, and she tells me she’s leaving. She asks Anthony if he’ll see that I get home safely and he promises he will.

She’s gone and Anthony’s gaze shifts to mine, a mix of passion and intensity that steals my breath and most of my logic. His hands grip my ass and his mouth reaches me again, at first a question, and then a demand for an answer.

I wrap my arms around him tighter and let my body say yes.

Morning slams into my brain. Even before I open my eyes, I take stock of the damage: my mouth is dry and sticky, my head pounding, and my body drained.

All evidence of a
very
good night.

My lips are still puffy and raw from the marathon make-out session with Anthony, and it took every ounce of self-control I possess to keep it from going further once we left the club. Stella’s bravery is rubbing off on me a little, but not so much that I’m ready for a one-night stand.

I pad to the kitchen barefoot and drain a massive glass of water, then root through Gavin’s bathroom in search of ibuprofen. Success. More water, then coffee, and I’m feeling sort of human again. I open the terrace doors and enjoy the cool breeze nipping through my T-shirt.

Jasper baroos to tell me I can’t just roll back into bed for another few hours of recovery. I scrub off my raccoon-eyed makeup, throw on workout clothes and running shoes, and take him to the park.