The Bad Boy's Dance (13 page)

              Asher was trying to subtly ascertain that the food was safe to eat, but since I wasn’t dead yet, his hunger won. Asher finished eating quickly, but I was determined to finish everything. They’d have to roll me out of here.

              “Would you happen to have a phone?” Asher addressed the couple that was watching me eat with morbid fascination.

              Henrietta tore her gaze from me. “Unfortunately, we don’t get a signal this far from the city. But there’s a local center you can call from about two miles from here.”

              Asher perked. “Could you give us a lift by any chance?”

              “We’d love to, but…it would be better if y’all stayed the night. It’s not safe to venture outside this late.”

              A glance at the clock confirmed that it was indeed late. It was two in the morning! We must have been walking longer than I thought. If I spent the night here…my parents were going to flip. I’d be grounded until I was actually
in
the ground.

              “Ah,” Asher shifted in his seat, obviously uneasy. “We wouldn’t want to impose.”

              “You’re not imposing at all, hun. We only have one spare room, unfortunately. As you can imagine, we don’t get many guests here,” she tinkled a laugh. “So you two will have to share a room.”

              Old lady say what?

              “Uh…I’ll take the couch,” Asher said. It was a very strong indication of how weird this situation was that Asher didn’t submit to his teenage guy instincts and jump at the chance.

              “Nonsense,” Henrietta waved away his suggestion. “It’s chilly and uncomfortable down here. There are two beds in the room, dear.”

              They shepherded us up the rickety stairs and pointed towards a room at the end of the hall. Asher and I peeked in reluctantly. It was small and cozy, with a small oven radiating heat in the corner, and two small beds with checkered quilts.

              “The bathroom is in the middle of the hall and our room is on the other side if you need us. Goodnight!” Henrietta beamed at us before gently closing the door.

              That left Asher and me alone.

              “I’ll take the bed on the rig-” he started, but I interrupted.

              “Are you going to explain what the heck happened today? We were chased and shot at, Asher! Your car is bulletproof and you carry a gun!”

              Sighing, he scrubbed his forehead. “I told you I’ll tell on Friday.”

              When I opened my mouth to reply, he held out a hand. “Angel, I’m sorry I got you into this, but I’m tired and not up to this conversation right now.”

              My jaw dropped in disbelief. “Am I really supposed to be satisfied with that half-ass apology?”

              “I’m very, very sorry I got you shot at, Ivy. I would never put you at risk like that. I swear it.” Asher sat heavily on the bed and rubbed his neck. 

              He did seem really beat. Grumbling under my breath, I let the matter go for now.

             
Friday had better be worth it.

             
Turning away, I nervously fiddled with the edge of the blanket. It was warm and inviting. I couldn’t wait to be wrapped in it, but there was still the matter of my roommate.

              “Listen-” My sentence died on my lips at the sight of Asher, clad in only his boxers.

              “Asher!” I screeched, clapping a hand over my eyes, resisting the desire to play peek-a-boo and see that amazing chest again. He had a six-pack! A freaking six-pack! Teenage guys were supposed to have pizza bellies and back acne, not tempting smooth skin. And if I wasn’t mistaken, there was ink on the back of his shoulder. He had a
tattoo
!

              Eeep! Eeep!

              No! Ivy Desiree Robello, you will
not
allow Asher Grayson to turn you into a penguin.

             
Stop acting like a middle school kid in the gym locker room!

              He smirked at me, completely at ease being nearly naked in my presence. His T-shirt dangled from his finger before falling in a heap at his feet. “Something wrong, angel?”

              “P-put some clothes on!” I spluttered. “I’m gonna be scarred for life!”

              My hands were pried away from my eyes. Oh man, I was level with his chest. His muscled pectorals that I suddenly had the urge to poke much as I did his bum, to be specific.

              Good thing he was still restraining my hands.

              “This is how I sleep every night. It won’t bother me if you disrobe,” he said, sighing as if that would be a burden he was generous enough to take on.

              “In your dreams,” I snapped.

              “Every night,” he retaliated with a sly wink. Yanking my hands from his grip, I played tug of war with gravity, which was super eager to plunge me straight at Asher like a frenzied chimp.

              When did I get this hormonal? I’d never been so flustered around a guy. Not even with-

              My seesawing thoughts halted as I realized I was in yet another uncontrollable situation with a dangerous guy.

             
I can’t believe I’m actually playing with fire again. I never learn, do you?

             
Pivoting on my heel, I sat on the edge of my bed, used the heel of one foot to remove each shoe, and then tossed myself under the deliciously warm covers.

              Shooting me a strange look, Asher turned to his bed, giving me a perfect view of his tattoo.

              It was centered on his left shoulder blade and spread to the tops of his arms, and it was a tribal tattoo with long black strokes, and in the middle was a series of letters in a different language I couldn’t distinguish. It looked freaking amazing.

              How do I know so much about tattoos?

              Some girls have things for guys with perfect teeth, some like boys who skateboard, some like boys who can sing to them, some like geniuses or athletes or hipsters.

              Me? I’m a tattoo girl.

              Which explained the drool practically wetting my bed as I watched the tattoo shift with his muscles. What did those letters in the center mean? Ah! The not knowing was killing me.

              Sometimes I think I am the embodiment of the cat that will be bitten in the butt by curiosity.

             
Eyes on pillow. Eyes on pillow.

             
He stretched his arms over his head, arching his spine. Before I knew what I was doing, I was two inches from his tattoo, staring at it intently. I will never understand how I moved so fast, but that sight was like a magnetic pull.

              Asher jumped a foot when he saw me behind him, unmoving, eyes fixed. I giggled, and he glared at me. “Are you nuts? I was this close to knocking you flat!”

              “What are you…” he tried as I maneuvered behind him to ogle the tattoo. My fingers twitched, begging to touch it.

              “See something you like?” His confusion had vanished to be replaced by his typical cockiness.

              “What does your tattoo mean? Tribal tattoos are usually symbols of aggression, a brand to warn others that you’re not to be messed with, but I’ve never seen the symbols in the center of the helix,” I queried.

              The tattoo stiffened as Asher did. “I’m not
branded
,” he growled.

              I shuffled a few feet away, bumping into the edge of his bed. He seemed to notice the absence of my gaze on his tat, because he spun and watched me. Then, like a tiger stalking his hunt, Asher came closer and closer. I stumbled and fell on his bed, ‘oomphing’ as the breath was knocked from me.

              To my utter terror, Asher climbed the bed, bracing his arms and legs around my body, effectively caging me in. He wasn’t touching me, though. But he was poised over me in a way that would look very, very scandalous to Muriel and Eustace if they were to barge in.

              He lowered his mouth to my ear, his breath fanning the side of my neck. “Branding is something that’s done to a criminal. Branding is done to trash, to wastes of human air. It’s done to
animals.
I’m not branded, angel.”

              Grabbing my hand, he placed it against the part of the tattoo that crept onto his arm. His skin was warm and smooth under my palm. Heart beating fast, my breaths came in shallow puffs. “
This
isn’t a brand. This is a badge of duty. And I’m a man who values his integrity.”

              In the space of a second, he was off me. Sauntering towards my bed, he dropped into it and slid the covers on. “Mm, comfy. Thanks for the trade,” he said casually.

              I was too numb with shock to even register that he was in my bed and I was in his. My brain was trying to medicate my neurons to life, and my body had gone completely boneless. Certainly, in the morning I’d probably ponder his cryptic message. At the moment, I was too freaked about the reaction I was having to him. This wasn’t good, oh this wasn’t good at
all.

              “Frick you, Asher Grayson,” I said in the darkness twenty minutes later, when I was sure he was asleep and I was on the verge of slumber myself.

              My last fervent hope before I fell asleep was that the deep chuckle I heard was only my cruel imagination.

Chapter Twelve

Love Child of a Porcupine and Cactus

“Wake up.”

              Breath tickled my ear and I pulled away, batting behind my shoulder. “Go away Spencer!”

              “How many guys do you wake up with, exactly?”

              Any sleepiness weighing my body vanished in an instant once I recognized the deep, humor-filled voice at my ear. I bolted upright, clutching a pillow to my chest.

              “Relax,” Asher smirked. “I’m not going to ravish you.”

              My cheeks heated, and I shoved him off the bed and rolled to the floor. Oh geez. The unkind mirror reflected a very disheveled, rumpled Ivy.

              Asher, curse him, was as hot as ever. Not one ebony lock was flattened, and I’d deduced that his tousled hair was natural. He really didn’t use any product. He stretched, and I saw just a glimpse of that tattoo.

              Ugh, what is it with me and tattoos? Then again, his wraps around his tones bicep very nicely, and his rippling back muscles. Who wouldn’t develop a tattoo fetish just looking at him?

              “Okay, now I feel like I’m the one about to be ravished,” Asher remarked, a smile tugging the corner of his lips.

              Oh fajitas. Stomping past him, I almost ran straight into Muriel-I mean Henrietta. She beamed at me. “Good morning! You look rested!”

              Aw, she was so nice, not mentioning that I looked like fresh road-kill and all.

              “Thank you. Can you point me towards the restroom, please?”

              It was somewhere in the center of the long hall. I’d only managed to pee and brush my teeth when a knock sounded on the door. “Let’s go, we need to get to that phone booth.”

              Asher obviously had no female siblings. My little sister was too young to have the instinctual rising of one’s hackles when your sacred bathroom time was interrupted, but I had two brothers. They thought rapping on my door every five seconds was a flipping riot.

              “I’ll be out in a minute,” I lied.

              “We don’t have a minute. That silent dude is giving us a lift, and he needs to leave for work. If you don’t come out, I’m coming in.”

              What? He wouldn’t. That was practically sacrilegious.

              Five seconds later the door burst open, and I was being dragged by a certain guy down the hall. I writhed in his grasp. “Let me go, you heathen!”

              He eyed me. “Not until we’re belted in the car and on our way to the phone booth.”

              My lungs started to constrict. “Asher, let go of me!”

              He ignored me, dragging me along, his grip on my hand unyielding. Black dots danced along my vision as a memory dug itself from the cemetery of my mind.

             
His fingers bit into the soft flesh of my wrist as he dragged me from his car up to his apartment.

              “Sweetheart, let me explain. It’s not what it looked like,” I pleaded with him to calm down.

              My wrist was starting to thrum uncomfortably from the pressure, and I yanked at my arm, but it was useless. He was stronger than me, much stronger than me.

              He unlocked the door to his apartment and threw me in. I stumbled, hitting my foot against his coffee table before falling to the couch. Red welts covered my wrist, and I knew it would be another month of long-sleeved shirts.