Mason nods slightly. “Alright.” He returns to behind the desk, his eyes now firmly on the computer in front of him. “I’ll keep saving you until you tell me to stop, just so you know. We’re all we have left.”
“Unfortunately,” I mumble, fleeing the room before I can see the heartbroken look on his face.
I spend the rest of the afternoon and evening hidden in my room to avoid Mason. Earbuds in, classical music blasting in my ears, I draw in my notebook until the world fades away. I brush the graphite on the page, hoping to smear it a little, and pull away with a small smile when it has its desired effect. Somehow I’ve ended up drawing the hot guy from earlier, the slight curl of his dark hair over his ears, eyes so deep they’re almost black, warm glow of his skin under the black tattoos. He’s committed to memory now, along with the other people in my notebook.
When my room darkens, I roll out of bed to get dressed for my evening out. I scroll through my phone hoping to find someone to hook up with, but nobody is appealing to me tonight. I’ll have to find someone the old-fashioned way at the club, then traipse off to abathroom stall for five minutes of feeling like I mean something to someone. I desperately need a trip to the salon for a touch-up of my roots. I don’t want anyone to be able to tell my natural color. As far as anyone else is concerned, I was born platinum blond.The natural red of my hair makes me feel like I see my mother’s face staring back at me in the mirror. The blond makes me someone else.
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 skinnyjeans 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 fora 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.
“Whoareyou?” I demand incredulously. I’m going to lose my shit in the next thirteen seconds.
