The Singles (53 page)

He tilts his head slightly, his blue eyes burning into me, as he grips the steering wheel with one hand. “But it’s taking your mind off of Lucas’s newest bullshit.”

Well, yes.
Tonight has been so hectic that I haven’t had time to think about what’s going on with my older brother. “So, you think that taking me to God-knows-where will keep me from reality?”

“Of course it will, Bluebird.”

“It might help if you at least clue me in on where this escape is going to take place,” I reply. He responds by lifting his shoulders, and I sit back in my seat, letting the sound of whatever’s playing on Octane, my favorite Sirius station, fill the silence inside the Suburban.

I’m humming along to an Evans Blue song, staring out my window, when Wyatt drives past the
Welcome to Santa Fe
sign. Turning to look at him, I scoot as far as I can toward the center console and lean over so that my lips graze his ear. “Babe?”

His back straightens, and he glances at me from out of the corner of his eye. “Hmm?”

“Why the hell are we in Santa Fe?”

He twists his face to mine, leaving less than an inch between our mouths. As he accomplishes this, I’m amazed at how he manages to stay on the road.  “Because I want to fuck you in every city I can before we go home in a couple days.” When he laughs after he says this, I know he’s screwing with me.

At least, I think he is.

I quickly find out what his plans are when he takes a series of turns. He finally swings the Suburban into a parking lot that’s hardly large enough to fit the massive SUV. One corner of my mouth quirks up as I glance at the fluorescent lights on the building right in front of us.

“Piercings and tattoos,” I say, and he grants me a nod. “So, which are you here for?” My eyes automatically dip down to his crotch, and I think of his Prince Albert.

He touches his right hand to the left side of his chest. “And before you ask...” He opens his door and gives me a cocky grin. “No, this isn’t one that can wait until we get back to L.A.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” I say as I get out of the SUV. I join him at the front of the building where he slides his hand into my back pocket and stares down into my brown eyes. “It’s late. You sure you want to do this tonight?”

“Corey’s already expecting us. Best fucking artist I’ve ever met, beautiful, and he’s only available right here.”

He holds the door open for me. The second I step inside the tiny parlor, I’m immediately greeted by the aroma of green soap, fresh ink, and witch hazel. I inhale and exhale several times, letting the intoxicating familiar scent wash over me.

Wyatt lowers his mouth to my ear. “Does it to me, too, beautiful.”

As I glide the tip of my tongue over my lips, he draws in a deep breath.

“Know what you’re getting?” I ask.

He nods confidently just as a short man with surprisingly very little ink darts out from behind the curtain across the room. “Wyatt!”

Wyatt quickly introduces us. “Kylie, this is Corey. Corey, this is—”

“Bluebird,” Corey says simply.

I swear I flush all the way down to the tips of my toes.
When did Wyatt tell this man about me? More importantly, what did he say?

“Nice to meet you, too,” I reply. I glance back and forth between them, hoping that Corey will tell me what Wyatt’s said about me.

He doesn’t, and while they talk, I wander to the lounge area and sit in a plush suede chair. Every few moments, I catch Corey or Wyatt glancing over in my direction, and it’s unnerving. I pluck a giant binder from the coffee table and begin to flip through it, running my fingertips over each page of intricate tattoo designs.

After several minutes, from across the room, Corey asks me, “See anything you like?”

My lips curve into a smile as I nod my head. He’s prepping the ink on his worktable, but he takes a moment to shoot me a curious look. “Too many. Your work is absolutely amazing.”

Wyatt makes a little sound in the back of his throat that resembles a chuckle, drawing my attention to him. He’s already in the chair with his shirt off, and his blue eyes rake over me.

“Want to watch?” Corey asks as he cleans Wyatt’s skin.

I shake my head. For me, watching lost its novelty years ago, and besides, no artist wants somebody staring over his shoulder while he works. I reach for the next binder, and when I’m done with it, I pick up the next one. Once I’m out of photos to look at, I flip through the pages of
Inked
while listening to the soothing hum of the tattoo gun as Corey runs it across Wyatt’s skin.

I’m on my fourth issue of the magazine, admiring a tattoo of a skull surrounded by orchids, when Wyatt finally calls me over. Glancing up, I realize that the sound of the machine has stopped.

Standing, I stretch out my legs, which have gone stiff from sitting so long. I cross the linoleum floor slowly, squinting at the design on the right side of his chest until I come right up on it. At the moment, it’s just an outline. His skin is splotchy, but this is something I’ve seen before. It always heals.

What stops me from immediately saying anything is the design itself. It’s a bird descending, and I study it carefully, starting from its tail feathers close to Wyatt’s muscled left shoulder to its beak in the center of his chest. At first, I think it’s a crow because of the creature’s fierce features, but then I notice where the color is partially filled in along the wings.

And I realize that it’s a bluebird.

An aggressive and powerful and utterly sexy bluebird.

Words finally find me. “It’s gorgeous.” I look up from the tattoo into Wyatt’s eyes, feeling my throat swell at just how vulnerable they suddenly look. “It’s my favorite.”

And that’s the truth. Out of every mark of ink on his body, this bird is the one that has the most significance to me. It’s the one that I’ll dream about.

Wyatt and I don’t say too much to each other as he pays Corey, but when we get to the door to leave, I pause. “You okay, Ky?” he asks, touching my shoulder.

I grip the doorknob and shake my head. Turning around to face Corey, I clear my throat. He glances up from where he’s cleaning his equipment and cocks an eyebrow. “Is it too late for you to do one for me?”

Corey’s eyes dart from Wyatt to me, and he laughs. “If this motherfucker is paying, then hell no.”

I draw my hand away from the doorknob to head over to speak to Corey about the design I’m looking for, but Wyatt stops me. “It’s not over yet,” he says in a pained voice. “No more fucking blackbirds, Ky, not yet, not until you give me a chance.”

I peel his fingers away from my arm, one by one, shivering when his thumb brushes the tiny scar on my wrist as he lets go. “No, no blackbirds.”

It doesn’t take Corey long to sanitize his work station, and once he’s finished and I quietly tell him what I want, it takes him a total of fifteen minutes to draw up a sketch for me. Thirty-five minutes later, when the needle cuts into my finger like a razor blade, I suck in a deep breath of air. I can feel Wyatt’s intense eyes on me from the other side of the room, but I keep my focus on watching Corey’s boot work the foot pedal on the floor.

I go through the different emotions as Corey turns my skin into his canvas. At first, there’s the pain. It builds up slowly until it feels like he’s piercing everywhere at once. Then, there’s the high, the sudden rush of adrenaline. It doesn’t kick in until I’m numb to the needle, and the only thing I’m able to feel is the vibration from the tattoo gun. And last...there’s the feeling of release. That doesn’t come until Corey finally leans away from me, and I hold my hand in front of my face to examine the tattoo.

Gone is the name
Martin
, which has branded me for more than seven years. In its place is a knotted design. It races around my ring finger with a tiny bow in the center. My new ink is nowhere near as intricate as the bluebird between my shoulder blades, nowhere near as painful as the blackbirds on my collarbone, but it symbolizes something none of the others do.

Letting go of the past.

It’s 2:49 a.m., when we climb back into the Suburban. Wyatt takes an alternate route out of Santa Fe, a back road, which causes the GPS to reset and estimate our time of arrival to 3:53 a.m.

He reaches into my lap and pulls my hand into his, being careful not to squeeze my wrapped-up finger. “I’ve been amazed by you since the first time I touched you, Ky. I’ve wanted every part of you since that day,” he starts in a rough voice. “Do you know what the bluebird is for?”

“Happiness,” I say, repeating what he explained to me about my own a few years ago. “A new beginning.”

He shakes his head. “It’s for you. You’re my happiness, and I’ll fight until the end to make sure you know that.”

In all the years we’ve played this toxic game, in all the years when we’ve sworn off being a real couple, this is the closest he’s come to telling me that he loves me. It’s even closer than the time on my parents’ porch four years ago, and it leaves me speechless.

I turn down the radio volume, canceling out the bittersweet grittiness of “By the Way,” my favorite Theory of a Deadman song. I can’t listen to a song about being ripped apart and saying good-bye to the one you love when Wyatt’s sitting right next to me, telling me all these things.

“I can’t let you go,” he continues. “Not when you’re the only goddamn thing on my mind. It’s impossible.”

I rub my hands back and forth over my face, letting his words seep in. He glances over at me, waiting, and I take a deep breath. “I can’t promise you anything, but I know how I feel about you.”

I know that I’ll hate it if he’s with anyone else. I know that if I walk away from him without trying, I’ll spend the rest of my life hating myself, regretting what could have been.

I know that despite it all, I love Wyatt too much for things to be as simple as a good-bye.

I should have realized this all along.

“Come here,” he growls.

“You’re driving,” I point out.

He’s silent for a couple of minutes, but then he eases the Suburban down a narrow dirt road shrouded by pine trees. He cuts the ignition and the lights. “Come here.” This time, his tone is far more demanding, and it makes my pulse race.

I crawl across the center console, and my breath catches when he jerks me into his lap. It’s a tight fit, especially between the seat and the door, but I manage to place my legs on each side of his body.

“I can’t be in the same room as you without wanting you close to me,” he murmurs against my chin. He traces his lips down the column of my throat, the labret tickling my skin, and I shiver. “I can’t even be in the same car without keeping my hands off you.” His mouth touches the top of my left breast. He runs his tongue along it, and I arch my back until the steering wheel digs into my skin.

“We’re probably in someone’s driveway.” Yet, I’m moaning and already moving my hips against his, heat pooling in the pit of my belly, as his cock grows hard beneath me.

“If I can’t do anything without wanting you near me...” He reaches between my legs, ripping my leggings at the spot between my thighs. “Then, why the fuck do you think I’ll ever stop trying?”

“You won’t.” I gasp when his fingers find my clit. He touches me through the outside of my panties, grinding the pad of his thumb against my sensitive flesh. “Unless I’m happy. If I were happy with someone else, something else, you’d stop wanting me.”

He kisses me greedily, skimming his fingers inside my panties, as he digs his other hand into the small of my back. I move my hips in time with his every movement, sucking on his bottom lip after he’s done the same to mine.

Finally, I grasp his cock through his jeans. “You’d stop wanting me then, wouldn’t you?” I repeat what I said before he distracted me.

He drops his eyes to my hand on his dick. “Don’t start shit you’re not going to finish,” he whispers. “But to answer your question, I’ll never stop wanting you, even if you are happy. I’d just know when to leave well enough alone.”

His words make my head spin, and I drop my forehead to his shoulder. He continues to touch me as he whispers unintelligible things into my ear. I’m on the verge of climaxing when he pulls my hand away from the outside of his jeans. His fingers wrap around mine, and, carefully, he helps me guide his zipper down. 

“You’re not going to come unless I’m fucking you,” he says as I reach inside his boxers to stroke his cock. He touches me between my legs again, and I pull in a deep breath when I hear my panties rip apart between his strong fingers. “I want to feel everything, beautiful.”

“I want you inside me, Wyatt,” I whisper.

I lift my hips a little, so he can dig into his back pocket for the condom in his wallet. Once he’s ready, he motions me forward. Gripping his shoulder with one hand, I guide his cock between my legs with the other, but he stops me before I can push him inside me.

He holds my hips tightly. “You’re mine. No matter what you decide or who the fuck you end up with, you always will be.

“Is that right?” I tease.

A self-assured laugh comes from the back of his throat. “You’ll always be mine.”

“Show me.”

Releasing a rough sound, he thrusts his cock deep inside me, and I dig my knees into the sides of his body. “I want to fuck you harder, Ky.”

I cry out as he grasps my hips, rocking them fast and hard up his length and back down again. I hold on to his shoulders, not caring when pain streaks up my ring finger or when my back slams into the horn behind me. It beeps loudly, and it’s the only sound other than our heavy breathing and the rhythm our bodies make with each other.

When I feel myself on the verge of an orgasm, I clench my pussy around him, and he buries his mouth on my shoulder. He murmurs something against the fabric of my black shirt as I come, and a moment later, he releases a groan, shuddering and driving himself into me until he reaches his climax.

As we catch our breath, I realize that he’s right.

I am his.

T
he sound of my phone ringing on the floor beside the bed wakes me up the following morning. I roll over to grab it, groaning when I see that it’s another unknown caller. Even though I’m still livid with Lucas, I answer it immediately, almost expecting it to be his bank with another overdose of horrible news.