Solitude (Artistic Pricks Ink #3) (5 page)

“Kinky broad. Ha! And she calls me a smartass,” he mutters making me roll my eyes.

Instead of slapping the shit out of Mitch, like I’d rather do, I wave a goodbye to Carl. Even though I tell him I'm capable of handling Mitch and his grouchy ass, the old man still insists on following us to my car to make sure I get the drunken lug inside without a fight.

Mitch grunts and groans, wrestling with the seatbelt for nearly ten minutes before I yank it from him and do it myself. Pulling onto the street, I try to concentrate on the road, but can’t help watching him out of the corner of my eye. Once he settles, he crosses his arms over his chest and leans his head back, closing his eyes tightly.

Glancing at the clock on my dashboard, I sigh. “Mitch, it’s almost two a.m. Where in the hell am I taking you?” I ask, realizing that I’ve never been to his condo.

“It’s more fun to drive this badass car than ride shotgun,” he mumbles under his breath.

“Sure is,” I reply smugly. “Sober up and maybe I’ll let you drive it again.”

“Never asked permission,” he deadpans. “That ain’t changin’.”

Sleepily, he rattles off the address for some high-end condos on the other side of the strip, so I head that way. Traffic can be shit in Vegas, no matter the time; that means, by the time I get home, I’ll barely catch a couple hours before having to be up and at it all over again.

“It’s funny, sweetness.”

Stopping at a red light, I glance over and see his eyes are still closed. “What’s funny, Mitch?” I ask, wondering if he’s lost it.

“Everything. Nothing. Fuck, I don’t know,” he mutters, opening his eyes to look out the passenger side window. “I’m sure somewhere God, or whoever the fuck is in charge of handing out the plot twists we get in life, is enjoying the hell out of how my life has turned out.”

Navigating the lot, I pull into the empty spot in front of Mitch’s condo and shut off the engine. Flinging open the door, Mitch stumbles onto the curb before tripping and landing on his back in the grass.

“Shit!” I shout, slamming the door and hurrying over to help him up.

“Ha! Wanna kick me while I’m down? Well, here I am,” he shouts, throwing his hands up at the sky. “Motherfucker! Where’s the comment box? I want to file a complaint because you suck at your job. Give me back my life!”

Grabbing his arm, I help him sit up, but he doesn’t attempt to stand. His eyes lock on our joined hands, moving slowly up my arm before meeting my eyes. The usual cocky asshole is gone. What I see now breaks my heart.

His eyes are glassy, and I honestly would attribute that to the alcohol if I didn’t catch the tear slip down his cheek before he swats it away with his free hand. I know that Mitch lost his fiancé, and Luke has said enough for me to know how hard the last year has been on him, even if he won’t admit it. The thing is, Mitch never really lets anyone see beyond that facade he puts up. Right now, that isn’t there, and part of me wonders how much of the real Mitchell Taylor I even know at all.

“Come on, let me help you up.” Grabbing his elbow with my other hand, I tug until he finally pushes to his feet with a grunt causing me to wobble unsteadily on my feet.

Tumbling backward, I lose my footing and land on my ass with a thud. Mitch’s eyes widen, his lips quirk up, and shockingly, he drops to his ass beside me on the lawn. His eyes meet mine and he laughs. Burying his face in his hands, Mitch erupts into something that can only really be described as some sort of drunken hysteria. I’ve never seen anything like it from anyone other than Leah; and, before I know it, I’m laughing along with him.

Lying on his side, he stares up at me, his dark eyes studying me in disbelief. His lips part and I expect some snide comment about me landing on my ass, but he doesn’t. “Are you okay?” he asks, covering my hand with his. “I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

Somehow, something tells me that those words aren’t just meant for me, but I decide not to probe further. The gesture, on top of the shock I feel when he takes my hand in his surprises me. I manage to nod a reply and get us both to our feet again. “Where’s your keys, graceful?” I ask once we finally reach the front door.

Looking down at me, he smirks. “So you’re not pocket divin’ for ‘em this time, huh?” he asks, patting his front pocket of his jeans before reaching in to produce his keys. “Not that I’d mind.”

Yanking them from his fingers, I fumble with them before finding the right one to unlock the door. “Inside with you, asshole,” I reply, shoving at his chest.

“So bossy,” he mutters, staggering into the house. Kicking off his shoes, he stumbles on the brown area rug centered in the living room and through a doorway to what looks like the kitchen.

I hear shuffling while cupboard doors bang and slam. The fridge opens, bottles and who knows what rattle and clink against each other. “Mitch?” I ask, closing the door and making my way through the room to check on him. “You okay in there?”

Stopping in the doorway, I take in the completely plain white kitchen. The only bit of contrast coming from stainless steel appliances. Mitch stands at the sink, fumbling with an empty bottle of vodka before tossing it to the trash can beside the back door.

“Since alcohol poisoning isn’t in the cards for tonight, how about you try to get some sleep?” I ask, knowing that we both are scheduled to be at the shop early.

“What’s sleep?” he asks with a forced laugh. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he turns and meets my eyes.

Stepping toward me, he brushes by me before bumping into the wall. Wrapping my arm around him, I hold him up as best I can. “Where’s your bedroom, Mitch?” I ask, glancing down the hallway at all the closed doors.

“Pick a door, any door,” he answers, throwing out an arm to gesture down the hall. “I don’t sleep in any of them anyway.”

“Come on,” I grunt. Trudging us both down the hallway, I push open the door on the right, thankful when I flip the light switch and see that it’s the master bedroom.

Mitch falls nearly over his feet, and mine. By the time I am close enough to the large king sized mattress, to shove him onto the perfectly made bed, I nearly fall along with him.

I am in no way a small woman, like Leah or Kionna, and I am totally okay with every pleasure filed extra pound of awesome I pack. These curves I am working with house enough strength behind them to keep up with any man, but drunk Mitch is a whole different story. That body of his looks damn near carved out of stone and, as hard as it has been to move his drunk ass around, I am starting to believe it really is.

Sure, I know that I could starve myself and bust my ass at the gym every day to get that size four body that women like to flaunt in tiny black dresses. That ain’t me, babe. I like who I am and what I look like. Besides, I rock a little black dress with a strut that will have you eating your heart out all while having the energy to rock you all night long, since I eat more than carrots and lettuce.

Mitch flops his head back onto a pillow, his arm covering his eyes. His breathing is steady, but I wait, wanting to make sure he’s passed out before I lock up and head home to hopefully grab some sleep myself. I sure as hell don’t want to take a chance on him finding more to drink, or worse, going back out to hunt it down.

“Please don’t,” he whispers so quietly when I shut off the light that I almost miss it.

“Don’t what?”

Turning around, I see him in the light shining in from the hall. His eyes are haunted, full of fear. I want to know the things that haunt him, those painful parts of his life he drowns in booze to escape, but I don’t dare ask. The look on his face says, loud and clear, that topic is off limits. As much fun as it is to stir him up, I don’t want to hurt him any further tonight, than he already is. It’s funny how, in the last hour, I have learned more about Mitch than I have in probably the entire time I have known him. On the other hand, it also has me wanting to know more.

His jaw ticks and I can make out the muscles of his jaw and throat as he swallows. “Stay, please? Don’t leave me all alone.”

For the first time since I met him, I don’t have a comeback for Mitch. I don’t want to exchange the banter that usually leads to me wanting to slap him with my stapler, or name off the alphabetical ways to remove his nutsack. Somehow, ever since the day I was shot, things with Mitch and me keep evolving to something different. When any other time I’d laugh and ask if he’s afraid of the dark, his simple plea has rendered me speechless and I can only do one thing.

Nodding, I kick off my shoes and climb onto the bed beside him.

“Did you ever think that God was fucking with you?” he asks, rolling onto his back. “That even if you found something or someone that makes you happy, you know you don’t deserve to get to keep it?”

Rolling onto my side, I reach out and brush the black hair from his forehead as he stares at me. “It’s all a matter of how you choose to see it, Mitch. You can accept what your life is now,” I say, softly, “Or you can decide to change it. Your scars shape you, but don’t let them break you.”

“I feel so alone,” he whispers.

“You’re not alone,” I reply, “I’m right here.”

Pushing me to my back, Mitch’s arm wraps around my waist, his head coming to rest on my lap. Burying his face in my stomach, he sobs. His body shakes violently, causing mine to jolt along with him
. Wrapping my arms around him as best I can, I hold him while he falls apart. Tonight, I’ll give him this because I know he needs it. He doesn’t say another word, but then neither do I. There is no reason to add needless conversation to a moment I can’t begin to explain or understand. All I know is that Mitch needs me right now, and for whatever reason, I am okay with that.

My head pounds so hard my entire body feels like someone shoved me in a paint shaker. Rolling over, I wrap the pillow around my head, hoping to drown out the blinding sun shining in the window, even though I know I should get up.

The bed shifts beside me and I smile. Sleepily, I reach out with one hand, wanting to feel the warmth of her body pressed against mine.

Then, just like every other time, reality comes crashing back and I remember. She’s gone. Rolling to my back, I sigh, hating that it still feels like Becky is beside me, even though I know she isn’t. My memory plays tricks on me, my cruel subconscious torturing me with all the things that were and never can be again.

A shrill beeping goes off beside me, making me jump. Just as I feel the bed move again, I hear a very feminine moan.

What the fuck?

Reaching out again, my hand brushes over something soft and warm.

“If you want to keep your hand, cocknugget, I suggest you get it off my ass.”

Throwing the pillow away, I leap to my feet. My eyes widen when I see Shelby roll over and sit up in my bed. She fumbles with her cell phone to silence the alarm that has my ears about to bleed. “The hell?” I shout, then grab my head with both hands because my own voice sounds like an atomic bomb exploding inside my head. “Ow, shit.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet that hurt,” Shelby says, shoving her phone down the front of her black v-neck t-shirt, into her bra.

“What, why, how?” I ask, still clutching my head, as if my hands are the only thing keeping it attached.

Kicking her legs out from under a quilt my mother made me, Shelby stands to her feet. Her neon green toe nails drawing my attention before I drag my eyes up her body to meet her insanely blue eyes. The blue churns with these crazy green bursts and, though I have noticed how the color changes before, now, they suck me in.

“Someone called the shop about some drunken twatface bothering bar owners and drinking up all their vodka so I had to pick him up,” she explains, bending down to pick up her shoes before meeting my eyes again. “Once I drove him all the way across town and managed to get his big ass into his bed, he begged me not to leave.”

Memories flood back of me arguing with her, falling in the yard and screaming at the sky, not to mention my dinner with Ma and her leisure suit wearing man. Could I have been more of an asshole? I have never been rude or mean to my mother, let alone in front of guests. Fuck, I
am a horrible person. I lashed out and said things that I know hurt her. I made her cry. Shit. Why do people let me go out in public?

“Because we don’t have a cage big enough to hold your ass,” Shelby counters.

Groaning, I scrub a hand over my face before yanking it through my hair. “How much of that did I say out loud?” I ask, wincing.

“Enough to know that I’ll be looking up online pricing for flower delivery later at the shop and using your credit card to order your mother a paycheck’s size arrangement,” Shelby replies, shoving into her pink and silver Converses.

“Yeah, I deserve that,” I say, sagging to the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Thanks for saving my ass last night.”

“It’s what we do, isn’t it, Mitch? Get ready, I’ll give you a ride to your truck, I need to head home before I have to be at the shop.”

“I bet Luke is pissed too, huh?” I ask, feeling like shit that someone called the shop and bothered the guys to come pick me up, yet again. “Guaranteed he’s gonna kick my ass.”

“Probably a good thing I didn’t tell him, then,” she replies, surprising me. “I was playin’ poker with the girls and the shop phone forwarded to mine; I handled it. I deal with you pricks and your shit on a daily basis and never bat an eye. Trust me, I know how it would’ve went had I told Luke; this was better for everyone. Just do me a favor next time, okay?”

“Next time?”

Placing her hand on my shoulder, she smiles at me. “Is it too much to ask for you to call me before you pass out? Your ass is heavy.” Walking towards the door, she tosses her hair over her shoulder and shrugs. “Or, hey, maybe get hammered at home. That’s how I do it.”

Her hips sway as she heads out of the room. Even though I know I shouldn’t do it, I can’t help myself. My eyes lock straight on the curve of her hips and fantastic ass encased in perfectly fitted black denim until she is out of sight.

Once I’ve showered and changed into clean clothes, I feel somewhat human again. Not that it matters. All I see is my end game. Get my gun in my hand and a body ready to be my canvas.