“Trevor!” Jazz wails from the other side of the street. “What the hell are you doing?”
His face twists in a scowl. “Tell Al I’ll call her later.” He whips around and stalks across the street.
Who is this asshole? I drop into the driver’s seat.
“Thanks for getting rid of him,” Allie whispers, wiping the wetness on her cheeks with shaky fingers.
With a sigh, I reach over, brushing my elbow on her thigh, and she flinches. Getting irritated again, I open the glove box and dig out some old napkins. “Here,” I say, dropping them in her lap.
“Thanks.” She reaches for the crumpled paper as I pull onto the street.
I drive. She wipes at her tears, then lets out a deep sigh. “I thought I could handle it. Obviously I was in la- la land. I didn’t mean to use you that way. I really did think we could go out and have fun.” The napkins are fisted in her lap. “Then I saw them together, freaked out, drank too much wine, and acted like an ass.”
Turning a corner, I shrug but I’m still annoyed. I try to remember I agreed to a fake date but can’t help snapping, “Your relationship must have been pretty serious. Two years and you’re still affected by this asshole dumping you?”
She turns toward the side window. “He didn’t dump me. I left him. And he wasn’t just a boyfriend.”
“What does that mean?”
She leans her forehead on the glass. “My husband.”
Those two words have me feeling like the wind was just knocked out of me. “You were
She doesn’t lift her head. “For over a year.”
Fucking married. My hands clench around the steering wheel. I want to punch it. That’s why this guy is such a huge deal to her. I’m pretty sure he’s the reason her eyes always churn with the depth of a stormy gray sky. And why she’s so distant. “You must have been young,” I somehow get out.
“Eighteen.”
I guess a connection. “He cheated on you with Jazz.”
She lets out another sigh. “And others but mostly her. He always goes back to Jazz. Childhood sweethearts.”
“Sounds to me like you were his childhood sweetheart.”
“After Jazz. Always after Jazz.” Her voice is small and sad.
I pull up in front of her shop. “You should have warned me about the past between you two. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten so pissed off and attacked you.”
Her laugh sounds miserable but it’s still sexy. “I try to pretend the past doesn’t matter. Explaining it makes it matter. Besides, I wasn’t really complaining when you pushed me against the wall.”
At this point, I’m not sure what to make of that. “Allie…”
She reaches for the door handle. “See you Friday. Good night, Justin.”
With those final words, she’s out of my car, leaving me as confused as shit.
I’ve been dreading Justin’s appointment since he dropped me off Tuesday night. Beyond being embarrassed by my meltdown, I’m having a hard time forgetting his kiss. I haven’t been kissed like that in ages. Heck, I haven’t been kissed at all in ages. But it doesn’t matter. Justin is not the man for me. Not even close. If I were looking, it would be for someone mature. Definitely someone not on the one-night-stand merry-go-round. So when Shay brings him into the room for his appointment, I force myself to appear calm and professional. I don’t want him to notice my jittery nerves.
Of course, Justin is his usual grinning, smooth self. “Hey, Allie,” he says, dragging off his designer sunglasses and leaning a hip against the tattoo chair.
Shay gives his whole body a slow once-over, then looks at me pointedly as she leaves. I ignore her. The last thing I need to be reminded of is that he’s hot. All I want at this point is to clear the air. I want the elephant out of the room before I stick a needle in him. Putting my twisting hands behind my back, I start, “I want to apologize again for Tuesday. Regardless of my reasons, my behavior was unacceptable—actually, ridiculous.”
He gives me a slow smile. “Come to my show tomorrow and no apology needed.”
Oh, crap. I forgot about our deal. I bite my lip ring. Why he’d want me to go after Tuesday’s debacle is beyond me, but I can’t back out after what he put up with at the art show. “If I don’t have anything scheduled, I should be able to go. If not, when’s your next show?”
He taps his sunglasses on his thigh. Though his face is relaxed, the motion suggests irritation. “In four weeks. We rarely play back-to-back Saturdays, usually once a month or so.”
“If not tomorrow, then four weeks gives me enough time to work out my schedule.” Ignoring the frown turning his full lips down, I reach for my stool. “You ready to get started?”
He answers by setting his glasses on the counter and reaching for the bottom of his T-shirt. He pulls his shirt off in the same efficient yet sensual way as usual, then straddles the chair. I ignore the “Holy crap, Batman!” comment ringing through my head again as I stare at his muscled back, then apply another transfer. After that I get to work filling in the tribal work inside the treble clef. I’m 99 percent artist and only one percent female, and am totally focused on the process. I keep the question of why he’d want me to go to his show so badly in the far recesses of my mind.
Everything’s quiet, smooth, and lovely until the endorphins kick in and he starts talking. “I’m curious, did your ex call?”
Yes. He did. And had the audacity to warn me away from Justin. This was thanks to Jazz, who had heard that Justin was known for moving through his band’s groupies like a fast-moving summer thunderstorm. I was not amused by a warning from cheating Trevor. “Yeah, but ugh. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Art?”
I pause and lean back, checking out my work. I’m almost half done with the interior. Unconsciously, I switch the topic to him. “How about music? What do you like to sing best?”
“Mmm…Never thought about it.”
“You have some time now.”
His fingers tap on the armrest he’s leaning over. “Probably the songs that get the crowd wild. It’s more about the energy between the crowd and me than the enjoyment of singing the song. Their energy gives me a natural high that no amount of alcohol or drug can beat. It’s like their excitement, their enthusiasm flows into me. It puts me on top of the world, but it humbles me too.”
I’d been trying to make small talk with the question about singing, but his explanation deepens the conversation and gives me a glimpse beyond his playboy persona. I find it intriguing that the crowd’s enthusiasm humbles him. I can’t help asking, “What songs get the crowd going the most?”
“Different songs produce different kinds of momentum. Something rocking and fast like ‘Remedy’ gets them excited and moving with the music. With that song, an almost tangible energy comes off the crowd.”
“Remedy?”
“It’s a heavier song, almost metal. By Seether. You’ve never heard it?” He glances over his shoulder.
I wipe at the blood and ink on his skin. “Probably. It’s not ringing a bell though.”
He shakes his head slightly and I imagine the expression of incredulity on his face. “While that song is loud and rocking other songs like ‘Twenty-One Guns’ by Green Day…You’ve heard of that, right?”
“Yes,” I say wryly. “I’m not totally out of the music sphere.”
“Well, dramatic songs like that bring a different energy, a sort of passion to the crowd. I’ve even seen tears. Those songs are like riding an emotional wave. It can be draining, a roller coaster of emotion worth the drain.”
The needle hovers over his skin as I take in his words. “Why?”
He draws in a deep breath, and luckily I wasn’t inking him because his muscles ripple from the acute rise of his shoulders. “Not sure if I can put it into words correctly.…” His fingers drum again on the vinyl armrest. “It’s like we’re connected for the length of the song. Their memories, their regrets, their hopes crash into me, and all of it
