All the Pretty Lies (4 page)

“It’s not that,” I begin.

“Good,” he says, his lips curving at the
corners. “You don’t have to take it off, just unfasten it so I can
move it up a little.”

My breathing is shallow as I lever myself up
on my elbow and reach around to unsnap my bra.

Thank God I didn’t wear one that opens in
the front!

The band around my torso loosens and I get
back into position, bending my arms and folding both hands under my
cheek as I scoot back toward Hemi again.

He wheels his chair in as close as he can get
and, without a word, lays one arm across me and fires up the gun to
freehand another string of beautiful butterflies.

Positioned like I am, there’s really nowhere
to look but at Hemi, which is fine by me. His eyes are sharp in
concentration, his brow slightly furrowed. His tongue is caught
between his teeth, barely visible at the edge of his sculpted lips.
It makes me wonder what it would taste like—his tongue and the
inside of his mouth.

“You doing all right?” he asks, not looking
away from what he’s doing.

“I’m fine.”

“The higher I get onto your ribs, the more it
will sting.”

“I know. I’m prepared. It’ll be worth
it.”

Hemi
does
glance up at me this time.
He studies me curiously for a few seconds. His lips move as though
he might say something, but he changes his mind and turns his
attention back to his task. “Good,” he finally says. “Just let me
know if I need to stop.”

I watch him as he works. I watch his face, I
watch the competent way his hand holds me, the controlled way his
fingers grip the gun. I watch the subtle shift of muscle beneath
the skin in his forearms. I watch the way the light glints off his
shiny dark brown hair. I admire the way the ends curl up on the
longer pieces. My guess is that if Hemi didn’t keep his hair short,
it would have a wave to it. I can just imagine running my fingers
through it, feeling the texture of it tickling my palms.

Hemi weaves up and down along my side, giving
me a lazy ribbon of butterflies that winds ever higher toward my
arm pit. When he reaches the place where my bra strap rests, he
slips his fingers under the edge and pushes it up out of the
way.

He inks a butterfly right at the edge of my
bra line and then dips down, closer to the underside of my breast
to do another. I feel my nipples tighten in response to the brush
of his hand as he holds the material out of his way. I close my
eyes and try to concentrate on something else. I focus on the
painful sting of the needle as it penetrates my skin, leaving only
beautiful color behind.

When the prickling stops, I open my eyes,
confused. Hemi is watching me. He doesn’t move. Not one muscle. He
just looks at me. For a few seconds, I’m lost to everything but
him—the look in his eyes, the way his hand feels hot as fire where
it rests against my skin, the way my breast aches for him to slide
his fingers up just a fraction of an inch.

After at least a full disconcerting minute of
watching me without saying a single word, Hemi finally speaks,
surprising me. “Maybe we should give you a rest and finish up
later.” I see him glance at a place above my head. “You’ve been
here nearly two hours. That’s a long time under the needle.”

I’m shocked. It feels like I’ve been here
only a few minutes. Or a lifetime. I’m not sure which. Kind of like
the way I feel about Hemi. On the one hand, he’s a perfect stranger
who gives me butterflies of a different kind every time he looks at
me. But on the other hand, in a way I feel like I know him. Like
we’re…connected. But not in the way one might think. I feel as
though there’s a tug of war going on. Between us as well as within
us. I’m the sheltered girl trying to break free and really
live
for the first time in her life. I’m striving to put
fear and reservation and hesitation aside in favor of seizing the
moment.

But not Hemi.

I get the feeling that he’s lived that way
for a long time, that he seized all of life’s moments until
something happened to make him stop. Stop and take notice. And slow
down. And distance himself.

I could be way off base. But if I’m not, how
do two people like that meet in the middle? Or do they? Is that
even possible?

Maybe I’m overthinking something that’s
merely fleeting. I mean, he’s giving me a tattoo. He didn’t ask me
to move in, for God’s sake.

But still…

I’m sure it’s psychotic as hell that I don’t
want the night to end, that I’m willing to endure such discomfort
to stay here a little longer.

You’re pathetic. And desperate.

But that other voice inside me pipes up
again, reminding me that there’s no time like the present. No one
is promised a tomorrow. We have today. Right now. Nothing more.

Hemi’s hand over my ribs, rocking me gently
back and forth, shakes me out of my stupor. I don’t know how long
I’ve been watching him, thinking, saying nothing, but I’m guessing
too long. I nod and smile, pushing myself up into a sitting
position, protectively holding one arm over my chest.

“Oh, sorry,” Hemi says, whirling around in
his chair to tend his equipment so he can give me a little
privacy.

With my eyes glued to his broad shoulders, I
right my bra and fasten it. I pull down my shirt then reach for my
pants, tugging them up to where they belong.

Hemi stands to throw something into the
garbage. When he turns back toward me, our eyes collide. That’s
when the impulse hits me. It slams into me like a gust of wind
going ninety miles an hour. It steals my breath and makes my heart
beat so hard that I can hear it in my ears. And for once in my
life, I put thought aside. I don’t overthink it. In fact, I don’t
think about it at all. Before I can change my mind, I slide off the
table and step toward him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t back up, just
stands tall and perfectly still. Watching me. I wonder if he knows
what I’m thinking, how I’m feeling. What I’m about to do. And I
wonder if he’ll stop me.

But I don’t overthink that either. If I do,
I’ll chicken out. And I can’t afford to chicken out on life
anymore.

I take another step toward him, building up
the nerve to just do it, just kiss him. But Hemi surprises me when
he
takes the step that will bring us near enough to
touch.

He’s so close, my chest almost brushes his
every time I inhale. I sway toward him the tiniest bit, craving the
contact. With him. A perfect stranger.

“Sloane,” he whispers, the sound of my name
on his lips bringing chills to my arms again. He reaches out to
push my hair back over my shoulder. His fingertips linger on the
skin of my neck before they fall away.

“Hemi,” I sigh, melting into the heat of his
eyes. I knew there was something between us. Well, I’d hoped. Hoped
I wasn’t imagining it. But now I know I wasn’t. It’s there, staring
out at me from behind his hooded midnight eyes. Blatant and
unabashed, he wants me. And I want him, too.

“You need to walk out that door and never
come back.”

My heart stops. Of all the things I thought
he might say, this came out of nowhere. “What?” I ask in a small,
uncertain voice.

“You need to leave. And don’t look back.”

I scramble to recover. “But…but what about
the rest of my tattoo?”

“I’m not talking about your tattoo and you
know it.”

“Then what
are
you talking about?” I
inquire, playing dumb to save what’s left of my crumbling
pride.

“I’m talking about you. And me. This.
Us.”

“There
is no
us.”

“There will be in about thirty seconds if you
don’t get the hell out of here.”

“What if I don’t want to leave?” I’m
confused. Is he saying that he wants me? Or that he wants me to
go?

“I’m not asking.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want me to go?”

“Because guys like me change girls like
you.”

“Girls like me?”

“Innocent girls.”

“What if I’m not that innocent?”

His lips quirk in a wry grin. “Oh, you’re
exactly
that innocent. I can practically smell it on you.
Sweet, pure, untouched. And, if I’m being honest, I’d like nothing
better than to taste that on the tip of my tongue.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

I watch him wrestle with…something. “I don’t
have the time or the inclination to get involved in ruining someone
else’s life.”

“What makes you think you’d ruin my
life?”

“Oh, trust me. I would.”

“But—”

“But nothing. For tonight, I’ll be the good
guy you need me to be. Whether you know you need it or not. I’m
asking you to leave, Sloane. But I promise you—
promise
you
—that if you so much as darken my doorway again, I won’t let
you walk back out again.”

I’m torn between heady elation and harsh
rejection. “Hemi—”

“Go, little girl,” he says softly. “Go before
I change my mind.”

CHAPTER SIX- Hemi

A persistent buzzing wakes me. I swat toward
the sound and hear my phone clatter as it hits the floor. With
bleary eyes, I lean over the side of the bed to look down at it. I
have to blink three times before I can focus on the lighted screen.
I note two things. Number one, it’s only fifteen minutes until
eleven. It’s too damn early for anyone to be calling me. Everyone
that has my phone number knows I work at night and sleep late in
the morning. Number two, it’s my older brother, Reese. Wanting an
update, I’m sure.

I curse under my breath when my head pounds
as I lean over the side of the bed to reach for the phone. I roll
back up quickly, throwing an arm over my eyes as I slide my thumb
across the screen to answer it.

“What?”

“You’re still in bed?”

“Hell yes, I’m still in bed. You know I don’t
get in until after three most nights.”

“You’ve got more than seven hours already,
you pussy. You’ll be fine.”

“I didn’t go straight to sleep, asshole.”

“Damn, you’re grouchy. You must’ve been
drinking.”

Reese has always complained that drinking
makes me pissy. I guess maybe he’s right. I feel like I could drive
my fist through a solid steel wall.

“What do you want?” I ask, ignoring his
observation. Lucky for him, he lets it go.

“Just checking on…things.”

“’Things’ are fine. No change.”

“Are you
any
closer?”

“You say that like it’s easy to get close to
these people when it’s anything
but
easy. They’re naturally
suspicious. It’s what they do, who they are.”

“And I’m sure
you
don’t inspire
confidence as a trustworthy guy.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You ink skin. You’re a step up from a
criminal in some people’s eyes.”

“Oh, right,” I say drolly. “This sounds
familiar.”

“I didn’t say
I
feel that way, just
that some people do.”

“Well then ‘some people’ can kiss my puckered
ass.”

“Look, I didn’t call to pick a fight.
Just…just keep me posted.”

“I will,” I squeeze through my gritted
teeth.

“And lay off the sauce.”

“Suck it, dickweed,” I murmur before I hang
up.

I peek out from under my arm long enough to
hit the disconnect button. I’m sure once I get sobered up, I’ll
feel like shit about this conversation, but right now, I’m just
ill.

Reese is a good guy and I love him. We
actually get along pretty well. Normally. Our relationship has just
been a little strained since I moved to the Atlanta area. We’ve all
been under a lot of pressure and stress. Losing Ollie changed
everything.

Already tired of my thoughts, I sit up
quickly. Too quickly. My head spins and throbs. I press my palms to
my temples and squeeze, wishing I could make it stop.

“Damn you, Sloane,” I mutter into the
emptiness of my bedroom.

I blame her. One hundred percent. What the
hell was she thinking, coming into the shop, looking all sweet and
innocent?

But I know it’s not that. The sweet and
innocent I can handle. That’s never appealed to me. It’s the sweet
and innocent
combined
with this innate sexiness that she has
that’s tempting me. Tempting me bad. There’s a little gleam in her
eye that says she wants me to show her naughty rather than nice.
And oh, how I could show her naughty. I could show her naughty like
she’s never even dreamed before.

But a girl like her deserves nice, too. And
naughty’s all I’ve got. It’s all I’m interested in. Especially now.
Which means I need to stay away from her. I need to deny myself the
pleasure of her. And I’m not used to denying myself
anything
that I want. Including women.

Sloane might have to be the first.

And I like it even less than I thought I
would.

Ignoring the still-drunk swim behind my eyes,
I get up and head for the shower. For the
cold
shower.

CHAPTER SEVEN- Sloane

The only good thing I can think of when I
open my eyes is that it’s Thursday. Which means tomorrow is Friday.
Which means no classes. Which means I can sleep in.

I roll over and look at the clock. Three
minutes until my alarm goes off. This is the fourth morning I’ve
awakened before it sounds its annoying buzz. And it’s the
four
teenth
morning I’ve awakened thinking of Hemi.

I haven’t seen him or talked to him since
three Saturdays ago. When he told me to leave. I did. Even though I
didn’t want to. I wanted to stay, to explore what I saw in his
eyes, felt in his touch. Explore all the things he hinted at but
didn’t say.

But I didn’t. I left. And now I get to wake
up every morning with the regret of my decision.

Throwing back the covers, I head for the
shower.