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Dammit. I rub at the roses inked in my side, the scar curling over my ribs. If only I could remember more, understand what the images in my head mean…
Doesn’t fucking matter, though. Too late for answers to that.
What matters is I didn’t find my purpose in life by leaving. I didn’t find happiness. But I also didn’t find bullets and blood and pain, as I did the moment I returned home. Being away was a peaceful time, and it didn’t last nearly long enough.
I yank the oven door open with more force than necessary and stick the lasagna inside, smacking my hand into the hot tray.
Ow. Shaking my head, I grab my drink and head out before I punch something. I should’ve jacked off, taken off the edge.
What if she doesn’t come by?
I chug down the whiskey as I walk around the pool and wonder why my heartbeat is pounding in my ears. I trace again the scar on my side and swallow down bile.
What the hell’s happening to me?
Chapter Three
RAYLIN
Worst idea ever. We’re already established that, and yet here I am, walking down the beach in my worn sandals and the same dress I had on this morning to meet a man I’ve only exchanged a few words with. For dinner.
It’s the hunger, I tell myself. Canned pears and boiled noodles in tomato sauce can only do so much for you after being on the run for so long.
Not that I want to see him again. Storm. Or smell him. Touch the ropey muscles in his arms, trace that square jaw, feel the dark stubble scrape my fingers. Feel the heat of his tall body and hear his raspy, deep voice.
Nope. I’m going for the food, and that’s all there is to it. A girl’s gotta eat, and maybe I want to know more about him. That’s safe, right? As long as he doesn’t find out more about me. And I’m curious.
Is his name really Storm? Is he really housesitting, unlike me? Why would a guy who looks like a cross between a supermodel and a grungy rock star be fixing fences and cleaning the pool?
Yeah, and why not? I kick at a pebble. Stupid questions, Ray. Storm is a perfectly fine name, and maybe you can lay aside your eternal suspicion for one evening and have some fun. Not like you can’t defend yourself if the need arises. God knows you’ve been trained well and can hold your own in a fight.
Still. I slow down, suck in a deep breath. He doesn’t look like a bad guy, right? The way he held my hands and spoke to me was… gentle. Concerned. If he wanted to harm me, he had his chance, twice. He could easily have done so on that terrace, but instead, every time he only made sure I was okay and walked away.
No two ways about it. I want to see him again. Can’t hide it from myself.
So I walk faster, before I change my mind, my feet sinking in the sand, small pebbles getting into my sandals. The tiny pinpricks of pain center me. It’ll be okay.
Lights illuminate the gardens of most of the grand houses on the beach. They’re beautiful. So many of them. After a while I start to think I won’t be able to remember which house it is.
And then I see him.
He’s standing by the pool inside the garden of a huge mansion, the blue light from the water outlining his tall form. I’m sure it’s him because he’s shirtless and turned sideways, giving me his back, and his tattoo is visible.
Plus, I just know it’s him. I feel it deep in my bones, feel the hot energy of him that jolts me like live current.
The wind is blowing, cool and humid, lashing my long hair on my back. I hesitate at the gate by the dark green hedge and look at him. In faded, worn jeans and nothing else, his torso bare, all tanned skin wrapped around taut muscle and sinew, he’s beautiful.
He turns around, as if sensing me there. His eyes find me, and time stops. Something flashes across his face, and tension leaches out of his shoulders. His mouth twists into that sexy, panty-dropping grin that takes my breath away as he walks toward me.
Bare-foot, bare-chested, muscles rolling in his chest and the powerful thighs stretching his jean
s.
My gaze latches on to the ink on his sides. Barbed vines and flowers. It’s the tattoo on his back, curling its way around to the front of his body, enveloping him in thorns and red roses and blood.
“You came.” His dark hair falls in his eyes, and my gaze drops to his mouth, reading his beautiful lips. “Raylin.”
He reaches for me, and I lift my hand, placing it in his. His left hand, I think dizzily. He’s left-handed. Every little thing I find out about him gets me excited. This is ridiculous.
