Unleashed (A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance) (171 page)

“Told you I’d behave.”

She smiles, and actually it’s one of the few times she’s not being hostile to me. I… I like it. She’s beautiful when she smiles. Her whole face just lights up.

It makes my heart race and my cock throb. Even just a quick glance at her bare neck – she’s got her hair tied up – brings me up. I want to bite her there, lick her, taste her. God, my lust for her is carnal, almost savage. I want to bite her until it hurts, and then a little more.

“You
did
behave,” she says. “To my great surprise.” She gives me an accusing stare, as if to ask, ‘
What’s your angle?
’. I just play it off as nothing. I got no
angle
. She knows I want her.

Penny clears her throat. “Tina did a good job with the shading, didn’t she?”

“She did,” I agree.

“Does it hurt?”

“No. Tingles.” I pull the Porsche over. “We’re going to Lou’s.”

“Lou’s?” she says. “That sounds like an American pizza restaurant, or something.”

“That’s because it is,” he says. “Deep dish, Chicago style. Thought you’d like something from home.”

There it is again, that smile. God, she looks amazing when she smiles.

I lick my lower lip, and bunch my brows together for a moment. I don’t think I’ve ever thought something like that before.

“Thanks, but it’s not really
just
a Chicago thing anymore. I had no idea they had something like that over here?”

“American themed restaurants are popular here,” he says. “Mexican, too.”

I get out, and then help her out of the car on her side. It’s so low that she practically has to climb up onto the curb.

As we step into the bar-and-restaurant, a smattering of American accents reach us. I see Penny looking around, perhaps a little surprised that there’s such a large American enclave in the form of a restaurant. The place is heaving, and the television above the bar is playing one of yesterday’s college basketball games.

“This feels pretty authentic,” she says.

“How’s that?”

“I don’t know. Just the decorations, the atmosphere.”

“Well, it’s popular.”

“With Aussies, too?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” I say, flagging down a waitress. “They love this shit over here. They pretend to hate the
‘yanks’
, but really they’re enamored with us.”

We get seated in our own booth, pick out a spinach and mushroom mix, and then order drinks. To my surprise, she gets a vodka-martini.

Penny shrugs when she sees my expression. “Dad and I have this thing where we watch a James Bond movie every other weekend together. I don’t really like them, but he does. Anyway, I’ve always wanted to try one.”

“The old ones are the best ones.”

She snorts. “More like the most misogynistic ones.”

“So, what made you want to become a tattoo artist?”

Penelope grins, and peers at me. “What is this? You pretending not to be a dick?”

“Got a bite, do you?”

“Seriously, Pierce. Why are we here?”

“Why do you need a reason for everything? It’s like you’re always suspicious, always need to know every detail. Don’t be so insecure.”

“I’m not being insecure,” she says. “I just don’t believe this whole act you’re putting on.”

“What act is that?”

“The whole dinner date thing.”

“We’re on a date?” I ask, smirking. “You just can’t say no to me, can you?”

“I’m going to leave,” she tells me. “Really. I only agreed to come because I was curious as to what you might want.”

“You’re so prickly all the time. It’s like defusing a bomb trying to get to know you.”

“Well, get used to it, because I’m not letting my guard down.”

I lean back. “You going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“What made you want to become a tattoo artist.”

“You tell me what made you want to become a fighter first.”

I shrug. “Fair enough. My dad’s brother, Uncle James. He was a boxer when he was young. He was pro, but not very well ranked. Before—”

“I don’t need a retelling of your life story.”

“Are you going to let me tell you or not, Pen?”

“Fine.”

“Before my dad died, he showed me an old black and white recording of Uncle James boxing. He wasn’t a hard hitter, and he had a bit of a glass jaw, but fuck me he could dance in the ring. He was so springy, always moving, like a rabbit on amphetamines. I was just mesmerized by it. He could dodge and evade like no other. I wasn’t a big kid growing up. It wasn’t until I was about sixteen that I hit a second growth spurt, so his style was attractive to me. I mean, half the time he wore his opponents out, and when their guard was down, that’s how he scored his points.”

She frowns. “There are points in boxing?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure. It’s a technical sport. You get rewarded for good technique, and you can win off points, even if you’re outclassed physically.”

“But in your illegal cage fighting, no points?”

“That’s right,” I say.

“Why didn’t you go into boxing?”

“Uncle James trained me, starting from when I was ten. Mom kind of checked-out after Dad died.”

Penny’s beautiful features turn cautious, awkward. “How, um did—”

“Car accident. He was hit by someone.”

The atmosphere grows somber quickly. It’s like grey clouds have collected above us.

“Sorry, Pierce.”

I smile at her. “It was a long time ago. Anyway, so Uncle James took care of me, raised me, and eventually sent me to boarding school out here.”

“Why Australia?”

“He was moving here because he got offered a training gig. Anyway, I was good at boxing, but I wanted to try more styles. He was a traditionalist, didn’t believe in all the new fighting approaches, especially with the emergence of MMA. We had a bit of a falling out. He died of a heart attack when we weren’t talking. It was my own damn fault, anyway. I pushed him away.”

“Color me unsurprised.”

“So I stopped boxing.”

“But you could have gone pro?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I’m not as good at boxing as I am in the cage. There are a lot of rules, a lot of technicalities. It feels stiff to me. But I mean, it’s not stiff at all. Watch Ali, and there you see a fluidity that’s just amazing. Even Tyson was a really fluid athlete,
and
he had all that power.”

“You like fighting,” she says, thanking the waitress politely as she sets down our drinks.

“I do. Now it’s your turn. Why a tattoo artist?”

She relents. “Fine. My story is nothing so dramatic. I just saw a tattoo one day – one of my high school classmates got one – and I started researching it. I was always good at drawing, but I liked the idea of drawing on skin. It all just sort of continued to grow out of there.

“Before I realized it, I was obsessed, reading magazines, talking to owners of tattoo shops around the city, making new friends in the industry. I found Tina’s work online, and loved her style. She makes such great use out of lines. Like, she’s got this style that’s hard and soft at the same time, you know? It reminds me of a strong woman.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hard and soft,” she says. “We can be all sharp lines, or we can be smooth curves. You know, flexibility. Unburdened by ego? We can fulfill multiple roles where men typically are singular. Anyway, I’ve never seen someone draw so well on skin before. I mean, her proportions are just perfect.”

“Technically perfect? Like, if you measured them they would add up mathematically?”

“See, that’s just the kind of thing I was talking about with regard to men and women. It’s not about technical perfection all the time. Anyway, I followed everything about her, started planning how to meet her.”

“And it all just fell into place?”

“Yeah,” she says, and she laughs softly. “I’m a little amazed, to be honest.”

“Your dad just let you go?”

“No, I had to push him a bit, but eventually he did.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Even though it’s been so little time. We’ve been like a team, you know? After mom left, it was just me and him. I looked after him. He never cooks well on his own. He eats unhealthily.”

“You’d think a fifty year-old man would know how to manage his diet.”

“He’s busy,” she says. “He works really hard.”

“So does everybody,” I say. “Not eating well is a conscious choice.”

“Not everybody lives in the gym like I assume you do. Not everybody wants to be an athlete.”

“I’m not talking about being physically fit. I’m talking about eating right. With all the information out there about healthy eating, anybody who doesn’t is making the choice not to. Frankly, if it’s not idiotic, it’s lazy.”

“Don’t talk about my dad like that. And don’t be so judgmental. Like you never had a fucking pizza.”

I look at her, and she at me. We both turn to our neighboring table, and see a family tucking into a big pizza. Our spinach and mushroom one is on the way. We are, after all, in a pizza restaurant.

“You know what I mean,” she says.

“I’m just calling it like it is.”

“You don’t know his situation. He works sixteen-hour days sometimes. He worked hard for me.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s an architect.”

“An architect?” I echo. “Fuck, that’s a job for people with passion and pride.”