Rex (4 page)

“Zeek, that tattoo is brilliant.” I’ve been watching him do a tattoo on the arm of a guy whose son is returning home from war, and the man is a freaking genius. The resemblance to the picture is spot on: shaggy hair, bold green eyes, cleft indent in his chin, bright smile.

I listened as Michael told Zeek his story. His son, Jed, the class clown and sports enthusiast with aspirations to become a professional baseball player, instead went off to fight for our country. And when he said goodbye to his only son, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever see him again. But now Jed’s finally coming home.

Michael stands up, examining the tattoo running from his shoulder partway to his elbow. His face completely transforms, the tough exterior peeled away, only a man with a grateful heart left behind. A tear pools in the corner of his eye and he roughly wipes it away. Then he turns around, immediately embracing Zeek and slapping him on the back.

“Thanks, man,” he says with the utmost respect before Zeek covers his tattoo with a bandage.

Everyone that comes into this shop has a story. Day after day, I’m privileged to get a tiny glimpse into someone’s life, to see through a window, one that remains closed to the outside world.

I may not make a lot of money tattooing, but there’s no way on earth I’d want to do anything else. My mother always told me this was a crap profession, but again, she never had a clue about what really mattered. The people here matter. Their stories matter. What we imprint on their skin
matters
.

“What’s the plan for tonight?” Zeek asks as he cleans up his station. “Tabitha and I are going to maybe head out later and meet some friends, if you want to join us. I think Stevie and Jaden are coming too.”

My cell phone chirps and I pull it from my back pocket. “Hold that thought.” I slide the screen, seeing Hunter’s number. “Hey, bro, what’s up?”

“I called to see if you wanted to hang out with Olivia and me tonight? We’re going to a club.”

“What, and be a third wheel while you guys are eye-fucking each other?” I say with my usual edge, watching Zeek, Stevie, and Jaden laugh.

He lets out a loud sigh. “No, wiseass, she’s bringing a friend. I think you’ll like her. She’s got the same kind of attitude as you,” he adds, chuckling through the phone.

“But tits, how are her tits?” I ask, and I know he’s shaking his head on the other end of the line. “All right, all right, what the hell. What time?”

“I’ll pick you up at eight,” he says. “They’re going to meet us there.”

“Okay, see you then.”

I hope she’s got a great rack.

“Jesus, Rex.” Hunter scans the apartment, eyeing the clothes and beer bottles spread around the living room. “You need a female touch.”

“There’s only one female touch I need.” I grab my dick before snagging my keys from the table.

“Yes, and might I point out,” he waves his hand in the direction of my crotch, “that little gesture right there is one of the reasons you don’t have one.”

“Funny. Now let’s go. I need to get laid tonight,” I joke, well, half-joke, just to get under his skin a bit more.

“And yet another reason.” He chuckles, shaking his head as he trudges down the stairs in front of me.

“So, where are we going anyway?” I ask as we head outside, waiting for his lead in terms of direction.

“We’re gonna take a taxi uptown to the Open Door Lounge.” He leans over the curb with his finger in the air, attempting to hail a cab as they speed by us. Of course, they’re all full.

“Why are we taking a cab anyway? Why didn’t you just have your driver wait for us?” If we have a chance to travel in style, I don’t understand why my brother consistently turns that down.

A cab finally screeches to a halt in front of us, and he holds the door open for me to climb in first. “You know, Rex, I don’t know if you’ll understand this or not, but sometimes I just want to feel like a normal person.”

“Whatever, bro, but I feel like a normal person all the time, so for me it would be a nice change of pace.” I laugh, and he smiles, shutting the door behind us.

“So, how are things with you and the porn queen?” I tease, his lips flattening into a straight line. The driver speeds off, both of us thrown back against the seat.

Gotta love New York City taxis.

“I wish you wouldn’t call her that. You know that’s not what she does,” he replies, annoyed. But as far as I’m concerned, Hunter hit the jackpot—falling for an erotic romance author. I should only be so lucky.

“Well, it’s close enough.” I pull a pack of gum from my pocket and peel the wrapper open, holding a piece out to Hunter. “Gum?”

He pushes it away with his hand before responding to my wiseass remark. “She doesn’t act in porn, she writes erotic novels. There
is
a difference.”

“Whatever you say, bro, whatever you say.”

The line to get into the club is wrapped around the block when we arrive. “Do you see them?” I ask, and he steps out of line to check for Olivia and her friend.

“No, but I’m going to text her. They’re probably already inside.” He plucks his cell phone from his jeans and slides open the screen. After a minute, a grin spreads clear across his face. “Yeah, they’re inside,” he says, and I’m not even going to ask what that’s about. “Sit tight, I’m going to see what I can do about bypassing this line.”

Music filters out from the club and I tap a lazy foot against the sidewalk as I wait for Hunter. My eyes roll over all the hot females. There are some real lookers here, and I’m keeping every body part crossed that Olivia’s friend is my type. If she’s anything like my brother’s girl, I’ll have hit the motherload.

Not more than five minutes later, Hunter is walking toward me with a satisfied smile. “We’re in. Let’s go.”

“What’d you do?” I follow behind him. “Slip him some cash?”

“Something like that,” he mumbles, weaving through a now irritated hoard of people. Someone curses at us as we walk by, but I ignore it. Being Hunter’s brother has certain advantages. This just happens to be one of them.

“Normal guy, my ass.” I chuckle, and he raises a shameless brow.

The music is thumping when we step inside, the smell of smoke and sweat assaulting my senses, and I breathe it in, instantly relaxing. Bright blasts of multi-colored light mix with blackness, illuminating drunken faces and clinking glasses. My shoes stick to the floor, the beat pulsing thunderously under my feet as we push our way through the crowd.

Hunter raises a hand in the air and smiles, obviously catching sight of Olivia. I’m not really one for being soft, but she’s really good for him and a welcome change from the women he’s been with over the years—money-hungry, spoiled, self-serving brats.

As we get closer, my eyes rove over the long blonde waves of the chick sitting next to her. A sexy, exposed back also draws my attention. That must be my date for the evening. As long as her name isn’t Diane, I’m all in.

Hunter grabs Olivia, smacking his lips against hers as if he hasn’t seen her for a month. It makes me want to gag. “Hi, sweetheart.” He kisses her again, this time with his tongue before grasping her ass.

“Okay, why don’t you guys get a room,” I suggest, and Olivia grins, while Hunter tosses me a death stare. The girl next to her pivots around on the stool and the world is suddenly spinning on its axis. “You’ve got to be shitting me?” I exclaim. “Blondie?”

“You’re kidding me?” She turns away, scowling, clearly not happy about her new nickname. A second later, her gaze falls back on Olivia. “
This
is Hunter’s brother? This is the guy I was telling you about at the café.”

I grin, pleased that I was a topic of conversation. “You were talking about me?” I wink, and she frowns, the tension in her jaw palpable.

Hunter’s eyes dart back and forth from me to her, and I realize I don’t even know her name. “Wait a minute, you two know one another?” He rubs his chin, his brows taking a dive.

“Kind of.” I stare at the grimace on her face. “She came into the shop last night.”

Olivia breaks out into laughter, but she and I are the only ones who seem to find this situation funny. Blondie is eyeing her like she wants to rip her hair out. She’s almost scary.

“Come on, Hunter.” Olivia pulls him toward the dance floor. “Let them duke it out. I want to dance with you.” He willingly follows behind, leaving the two of us alone.

“So?” She drops her hands to her sides, mouth still pulling down on that pretty face of hers.

“So?” I mimic, letting my eyes travel the length of her body. The dress she’s wearing molds to her in just the way that I like—revealing everything: the smooth angle of her hips, firm breasts, and long, toned legs. I smile, thinking about getting off last night, those pale blue eyes boring into me.

“What’s so funny?” she asks, her gaze narrowed. If looks could kill, I’d be a dead man.

“Nothing. Can I buy you a drink, Blondie?”

With fire in her eyes, she fists her hands on her hips, staring me down. God, she’s sexy as hell when she’s angry. “My
name
is Vanessa. Are you going to stop calling me Blondie?”

“I don’t know, Blondie.” I grin wickedly. “Are you going to let me buy you a drink?”

And finally a smile.

“You know….” I step closer to her, itching to tangle my hands in those golden strands. I don’t touch her, but get close enough to inhale the fresh scent of her perfume. She smells fucking good. “Being a bitch doesn’t suit you.”

“
Excuse
me? You don’t know the first thing about me,” she snaps, and I’m near enough that I can feel her breath blowing on my lips, so close I could probably kiss her. Not a good idea though since she might sprout claws any minute.

“It’s not who you are, it’s a mask you hide behind, to hide whatever’s cut you so deep. How do I know that? Because I do the same God damn thing.”

And then I take a step back.

What the hell is wrong with me? I slipped. I’m not
that
guy—the cuddly, sharing type. But I see myself when I look at her, and for some reason, I want her to know that I understand.

There’s a flicker in her eyes, maybe surprise that I can read her so well. A small smile tugs at her lips as she glances downward and something inside me feels victorious, as if I’ve chipped away at a tiny piece of her armor.

“Okay,” she submits, finally. “I’ll have a rum and coke.”

I nod, and sandwich my way between two customers at the bar, ordering her drink and a beer for myself. I’ve never been a heavy drinker and I don’t do hard liquor. Probably because I saw the damage it did to my mother, and I don’t want to end up like her.

Turning around, I grab our drinks and gesture toward a table in the corner. I let Blondie go ahead of me, taking in the slope of her back in that low-cut dress that fits like it was made for her.

“I can feel you staring at me.”

There’s not a hint of defensiveness in her response. In fact, I think it’s quite the opposite. She takes a seat, a subtle smile playing on her lips as I place our drinks on the table.

“Well,” I reply, “you’re a stunner. There’s a lot to stare at.” Her cheeks flush pink in response and she quickly lifts her drink to her mouth. “So… you left Ryder’s bar last night pretty abruptly.”

She shrugs, setting her drink down and swirling the ice around with her finger. “There wasn’t anything else to say.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” I take a long pull of my beer. “There’s always more to say. What’s your story?”

She raises her eyes to mine in question. “My story?”

“Yeah, your story. Everyone’s got one. As a tattoo artist, I hear people’s stories every day. So, what’s yours?” I lean back in the chair, arms folded across my chest.

“I don’t have a story.” She casts her gaze to a group of people at a nearby table.

“Bullshit.” I scrutinize her as if she’s a specimen I’m trying to dissect. “Your eyes say something completely different.”

She’s quiet for a few minutes before her gaze settles on me again and she heaves out a hard sigh. “The bitch thing is hereditary.”

“Ah, from your dad,” I tease, and she actually laughs. It’s light and airy, carefree, the total opposite of how she presents herself.

“Yeah, when he wore dresses it came out the most.” She smiles, and that’s when I notice the way one side of her mouth lifts a tiny bit higher than the other as she does.

Her gleam fades and she pauses, staring into her glass before continuing. “My mom is a first-class bitch. So let’s just say I learned from the best. She’s one of the hardest women I’ve ever met: cold, condescending, judgmental.”

“I’ve got one of those, too. And you want to know the irony?” I shake my head on a laugh. “She writes bestselling romance novels, sappy, happy ending shit. Yet she’s as cold as ice.”

Raising the drink to her lips, she swallows it down hard. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Likewise.” I clink my bottle against her glass just before she polishes it off, slamming it on the table. “To shitty mothers,” I salute, picking her glass back up, the ice clinking around at the bottom. “You want another?”

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she asks, but she’s smiling when she says it.