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Chapter 6
I can do this. I’m Tyler God-damn Bateman. I’ve dealt with worse situations—worse women than Gracie Hutton. I can’t pussy out now.
I tell myself the same confident words until they're impossible to ignore. I’m sure I would make the day of the prissy-ass receptionist dressed in a white-collared shirt and well-ironed slacks if I made a beeline for the entrance. He’s been watching me from the moment I stepped inside the building. Curiosity and maybe even fear dances in his eyes, almost like he’s waiting for me to pull a baseball bat out from under my tattered leather jacket and rough up the place. I’m almost tempted to do it just to see how fast he would run out of here with a wet spot in the crotch of those expensive pants.
Every ounce of my self-control is being tested the longer I watch him stare at me like a puzzle he just can’t solve. I can’t pinpoint the exact reason behind his rigid demeanour, but I would assume he’s trying to figure out why I look so familiar. It’s clear I’m not from around here. I’m used to the judgmental looks by now. It’s not common to see a millionaire walk around looking like a kid from the wrong side of the tracks, but I’ve stopped caring about shit like that a long time ago.
Harsh words are on the tip of my tongue, just aching to be spat at the blonde-haired boy, but I swallow them down. Pulling out my phone, I check the text message that brought me here once again.
Apartment # 313, floor 10. You’re already on the list of people allowed up. Just tell the receptionist your name. Think before you speak this time Tyler, or I’ll kick your sorry ass all the way back to Greece.
The firm warning makes me chuckle. Ava always knows what to say to make me pull my head from my ass, even when I’ve been so adamant about keeping it there. She knows me too well.
I slide my phone back in my pocket as I reach the front desk. I grind my teeth when sunshine boy’s eyes widen, and his Adam’s apple bobs with each nervous swallow. My nose scrunches. The smell of Justin-Bieber-wannabe’s expensive cologne is suffocating, and I have to bite back a cough before I draw even more attention to myself.
“Buzz me through. I’m visiting a friend,” I snap, eyeing the name tag above his right peck with an amused grin. “Ryan.”
He stares blankly back at me, mouth gaping like a damn fish. I debate reaching over and clamping it shut but think better of it.
“If you wouldn’t mind getting a move on, I have other things to do today.”
“Your your name please,” he stutters, staring at the computer screen with wide eyes.
“Tyler Bateman.” I rest my forearms on the desk and stare as he nods his head, his shaking fingers typing frantically. A few moments later, he nods once more and buzzes me in. “Now that wasn’t so hard. Thanks for your time, cupcake.” I shoot him an arrogant grin before walking through the now opened sliding glass doors beside the front desk. My arrogance doesn’t last long though. My nerves return as soon as I reach the elevator.
I’m a pretty brave guy. I don’t scare easily. Hell, I get paid to beat hockey players into curled up balls of pain for a living. So why does the thought of apologising to a small, twenty-year-old girl terrify me? I like to think it’s because said girl happens to be my best friend’s sister. But I know that deep, deep down, it’s because she’s one of the few people who can go head to head with me without breaking a sweat. It’s pretty clear to anyone who comes across Gracie Hutton that the woman is a fucking spitfire. I’ve known it since the second I first saw her. And I know for a fact that it was what caused the inevitable breakup with the damn pansy she was dating for way too long after high school. Although, I know she would never admit it. So as far as she knows, we all think she left him to “find herself,” or whatever lame-ass bullshit she’s tried to spin since they broke up.
The ding from the elevator snaps me out of my thoughts, and I take a deep breath before exiting the small space. Triple checking Ava’s text, I square my shoulders and march down the hallway. The fluorescent lights burn my eyes, and I stare down at the carpeted floor beneath my feet. The carpet is rich with intricate designs that remind me of something out of a seventies movie, the look of it almost activating my gag reflex. Talk about a design failure.
Gracie’s always been a bit over the top, but she wouldn’t have picked out this place alone. I’m sure of it. It’s way too rich for her blood. Just like it is mine.
After a solid three minutes, I reach apartment 313. A brown doormat sits in front of the door—the words Welcome To The Shit Show etched in the rough brown material. How fitting. I knock on the door and take an anxious step back as I wait for it to open.
I don’t have to wait long before a dark-haired beauty pulls open the door. She’s turned to the side as she yells something back into the apartment, not sparing a glance at the stranger in her doorway. The short, velvet pajama shorts she’s wearing do little to hide the ass peeking out from underneath them. Her lack of bra is made well-known when I see two rock-hard nipples saluting me through her thin top.
“Never shy, are you, Jessica?” I cock a brow.
“Not really,” she says flirtily, as if her best friend isn’t just down the hall. She puts a hand on her hip. “If you want another round, you only have to ask.”
I take a confident step towards her, pressing our chests together. Her breathing slows and she looks up at me through hooded eyes, mouth relaxed, tongue flicking out to wet her lips.
“I would rather rip my fingernails off one by one with a rusty pair of pliers than spend another night with you,” I whisper, bending down and letting my breath brush her ear. She is so close to me, I can feel her flinch.
“Who is it, Jess?” Gracie’s voice echoes down the hall.
The question makes her jump away from me, nearly tripping over her feet. “It’s Tyler!” she calls back, eyes moving to the floor as a look I can only assume is shame passes over her face.
Thumping footsteps crash down the hallway, making me chuckle. Clad in an oversized t-shirt, Gracie comes barrelling into view. She has tossed her unruly blonde hair up into a lump on the top of her head. It bobs from side to side with every unbalanced step. It’s a pretty comedic sight, but I won’t test her patience by laughing at her. Not until she accepts my apology at least.
“I’m going to go to my room. Let me know if you need anything.” Jessica mumbles before scurrying away and avoiding eye contact.
“What did you say to her?” Gracie demands, in an accusatory tone. With hands on her sides she walks closer to me. I brush off her irritation with a grin, frustrating her even more.
“You don’t wanna know, princess. Trust me.” With a roll of my eyes, I walk inside, not waiting for the invitation I know I will never get.
Gracie shakes her head at my reply and waves her hand towards the living room, sarcasm thick in her words. “Sure, come on in.”
“This place is a little extravagant, don’t you think?” I ask when she moves around me to close the door.
