Page 5

I pause at the floor-length mirror in my walk-in closet.

Brushing my hands down my chest, taking a moment to admire how I look.

My hair is artfully messy, eyes dark with the mascara I carefully applied, along with the black skinny jeans and pepper-gray concert tee.

I have to admit I look worth at least ten minutes in a bathroom stall.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and find a guy that wants to take me home so I can feel something besides nothing for just a handful of seconds.

I wait in line for approximately two cigarettes’ worth of time before getting ushered into the club without having to pay a cover.

At least I’m worth that. The club thrums with music, the smell of sweat permeating the air.

Something inside me settles at being just another body in a room full of people wanting.

I work my way between them on the hunt for someone that could keep me distracted for the evening. Nobody fits the bill.

I won’t waste the evening though. Throwing my head back, I let the rhythm of the music move me, and the pulsing beat that silences all the insidious thoughts in my traitorous brain.

Hands grab my hips and sway me, but I ignore them.

I even ignore the lips that move over my neck because none of them feel right. Nothing is right.

The bar is packed when I leave the dance floor for familiar territory.

It’s easy to push my thin body through everyone until I’m leaning against the gleaming wood of the bar, beckoning the shirtless bartender over with a flirty smile.

Two shots of top-shelf vodka later and still no one at the bar is even remotely interesting.

A few guys try to chat me up but they either look like minute men, or they don’t smell right.

If someone doesn’t smell right, it ruins my entire mood.

Tonight was a waste of fucking time.

I toss money down on the bar, then work my way back through the crowded dance floor towards the exit. That odd prickling feeling crawls up my neck again, but when I turn around, there’s no one looking at me. That I can tell at least.

Lighting up again, I stand in front of the club as I wait for a ride back home. Stars dot the sky, but they’re muted from the light pollution of the city. Moon’s still big and bright though. I squint up at the sky in wonderment and take a harsh drag of the cigarette.

“Smoking kills,” a voice rumbles from behind me.

Ugh. After taking a slow, final drag, I let my cigarette flutter to the ground before stomping it dead with the heel of my black boot. Blowing the smoke out of the corner of my mouth, I turn around to aim my displeasure at the disembodied voice.

But it’s him. The guy from earlier today. Except this time he’s dressed in tight dark blue jeans and a sleeveless muscle tee that shows off the tattoos across his ribs. Golden skin, dark slightly curled hair, and a smile just the right side of dangerous, lighting a wildfire in the pit of my belly.

“Everything kills,” I quip. I grin up at him and point at the helmet hanging from the tips of his long fingers. “Motorcycles kill just as many people as cigarettes per year.”

That goads a sharp laugh out of him. “Do better with your made-up statistics.”

“It’s very true,” I reply, despite it being total and utter shit.

“It’s not. Your body is a temple and all that jazz.”

“Says the guy covered in tattoos.”

One dark eyebrow rises as he looks down at me. “It’s art on the temple. I can show you, if you want.”

“Give me a ride home and we’ll see. Reid,” I say, holding out my hand for him to shake.

He stares down at me for one taut, long moment, before his large hand easily envelops my own. I’m not a short guy, but he’s so tall that he makes me feel small. Maybe tonight isn’t a total loss.

“Dante,” he replies softly.

Why does my brain feel like it already knows him?

That odd niggle in the back of my brain gets worse, but nothing comes to fruition.

I can’t remember anything. Maybe I had a brief encounter with him at the club while cooked out of my gourd on drugs.

Such a shame because I’d love to have the memory of him. I’ll have to make a new one.

Dante keeps a tight hold of my hand to tug me toward the alley beside the club.

A shiny, brand-new-looking motorcycle sits gleaming under the streetlight.

He swings one long leg over it, then holds the helmet out for me.

I stare, shocked for a moment, and step closer when he wiggles the helmet to get my attention.

Dante slips the helmet over my head, then pats the sliver of space behind him.

I climb on and wrap my arms around his middle.

God, he feels so fucking familiar. Smells familiar too.

He smells like sweet liquor and outside after a storm, two things that shouldn’t go together but oddly do.

He slaps my hand softly just before the bike lurches to life.

Fear rattles through me for a second until I slide closer, clinging to him like a koala.

His back and stomach vibrate with a laugh as the bike navigates the almost empty roads of downtown Eastport.

I hook my chin over his shoulder to watch out in front of us.

He handles the bike like second nature, big, strong hands tight across the handles.

I admire the veins of his forearms for one second, then shake myself loose and focus back on the road.

Somehow he navigates the bike right to my street. My heart races, blood pounding in my ears when he pulls the bike right up in front of my house. What the fuck? I jump off and yank the helmet off, angrily tossing it at his feet.

“Who the fuck are you?” I scream, uncaring about attracting the attention of my neighbors. “How do you know where I live?”

“Oops,” Dante says with a look so petrified and raw, that some of my anger dissipates. Some of it. Not all of it. But some.

“Who are you?” I demand incredulously. I’m going to lose my shit in the next thirteen seconds.

“I brought you home last night.”

I was not expecting that. I close my eyes tight to try to remember last night, but all I remember is taking a pill from some stranger at the club, then waking up in my bed this morning. This is so me.

“Listen,” I say slowly, desperately needing this guy to understand.

“I’m sorry if I said anything last night…

anything misleading. But I don’t date, okay?

I’m sure we had a good time and that it was very lovely, but please do not get any ideas in your head.

Also, I am just rooming here. I’m very poor. I have no money.”

Dante swings his big legs off the bike and takes a step closer, forcing me to take a step back as he looms over me. “You live here with your brother.”

“Jesus Christ, did you come inside for a chat? My ass is good, but it isn’t that good.”

Dante’s eyebrows furrow as he looks down at me, his eyes shifting between mine.

Some of his hair has fallen into his face, the odd urge to push it away overwhelms me for one halting second until I squash it down.

A car honks in the distance, but neither of us reacts as we remain locked in this weird standoff.

Finally, Dante swallows roughly and tears his gaze from me.

“We didn’t have sex. You got high at the club, went catatonic, hurled all over my custom Chucks, and then I brought you home after finding the address in your wallet.” Dante narrows his eyes at me. “They were my favorite Chucks, by the way.”

Who the hell is this guy? “We didn’t fuck?”

Dante shakes his head as a flush works its way over his cheeks. Interesting. “No. I’m a perfect gentleman. Your brother though…” Dante pauses and flicks his gaze up to the house, then back to me. “He offered to pay me a thousand dollars for having the decency to bring you home.”

I snort because that’s so very Mason. “I hope you took it.”

Dante smirks. “I’m not that hard up for money. Plus, you looked pretty hot on the dance floor before the whole puking thing.”

“Stop mentioning the puke,” I mumble as mortification threatens to overtake me. Jesus. I meet the hottest guy on earth, puke on him at the club, and then he doesn’t even fuck me. Where is the reset button?

Dante’s laugh is a low rumble. “Sorry, it was just really memorable.”

“Well, forget it and forget me.” I turn around to go inside, head held high, but I pause at the foot of the stairs. “Why were you in the math building earlier? I’ve never seen you there before?”

“I had a meeting with a friend.”

My eyebrows furrow. “At the math building?”

“Yes,” Dante quickly replies. “Listen, don’t take pills random people give you at clubs. It could kill you.”

I roll my eyes. “You sound like my brother. I’m alive, aren’t I?”

Dante’s smile shatters me. “For now, maybe not the next time.” He takes a step forward, reaches into my pockets, and deftly tugs out my phone. He flips through it for a few seconds before carefully sliding it back into my pocket. “Call me if you ever change your mind about that dating thing.”

“No fucking for fun allowed?”

Dante grins, slow and sweet, and dips so that we’re eye level as he whispers, “Sweetheart, if I fuck you, I’m not letting anyone else touch you ever again.”

My breath stutters in my lungs. Dante walks away with all the swagger of a man that just dropped an atomic bomb on an unexpecting someone.

The roar of the motorcycle filters through the static in my brain.

My fingers twitch at my sides as Dante slips the helmet on, curls his fingers in a wave, then disappears in a flurry of movement down the street.

The light is still on inside the house. I follow the sound of the television to find Mason sitting with a cup of tea, curled up on the couch like a cat. His eyes flicker from the television to me, surprise etched across his tired face.

“You’re home early,” Mason notes tiredly.

I roll my eyes and kick off my boots. Tossing myself down on the couch beside him, I put my feet on the coffee table knowing it’ll piss him off. But his look stays soft, not remotely angry as I raise my eyes to his.

“The guy that you tried to pay off the other night brought me home.”

Mason’s lips part in shock. “The same guy brought you home again ? How was his nose?”

I tilt my head in confusion. “His nose?”

“Yeah,” Mason replies, eyes distant in memory. “He had a bloody nose, looked like someone got him good.”

Huh. I don’t reply to Mason, instead focusing on the old television show playing on the screen.

The plot thickens. Dante brought me home after finding me at the club, I puked on him, and he had a bloody nose.

The urge to grab my phone and ask him about his nose is strong, but I ignore it.

I’m not going to waste my time encouraging someone to have thoughts about me that they shouldn’t.

After all, he called me sweetheart.

But my heart is anything but sweet.