He disconnects, and I suck air into my lungs. Mom will be fine. She worries too much about me. Then again, I’ve given her good reason over the years. Why won’t she believe I’m happy the way things are? She’s worse than Tessa, pushing me to find someone, always talking about love.
I loved once and look what it cost me: I lost my faith in love and my trust in others. Even in myself.
***
Evening settles over the town like a veil. The snow has melted, leaving dirty puddles on the sidewalks of the campus. I call Tyler again. His phone rings and rings. No reply.
This is ridiculous.
Perhaps it’s the frustration with Mom collapsing and the whole bad month I’ve had, but my patience is at an end. I call Zane, who picks up after the third ring.
“What’s up?” he rumbles into the phone.
“I think Tyler’s number you sent me is wrong. That, or he doesn’t want to talk to me, so maybe your infernal radar was wrong for once.”
“Shit. Just a sec.” Then he shouts, “Hey, Tyler, got your cell with you, fucker?”
I frown. “He’s there, at Damage Control?”
Zane mutters something under his breath, then says, “He says he left his cell at home.”
“Okay… What is he doing there?”
Zane tsks. “He works here.”
“He what?” My mouth falls open. I force myself to move, unlock my car and slip inside. “Since when?”
“Couple days. Front desk. Why don’t you come over and talk to him in person? Wouldn’t hurt.”
“Wouldn’t hurt whom?” I ask bitterly, one hand clenching on the steering wheel. Talking to Tyler is one thing, but talking to him while looking into those dark eyes of his… Totally different story.
“Just come over, girl,” Zane mutters. “Stop fighting it.”
I press my lips together and disconnect the call. I throw the cell into the passenger seat and bow my head. I thought I’d stopped fighting it. I thought I was over him.
I am over him.
I drive over to Damage Control, and the closer I get, the clammier my palms become, slipping on the steering wheel. I’m afraid of what he might say—of the excuses he might give for leaving, for never writing. But I will do this. I won’t chicken out. I need the closure—for me, for Jax. For Mom, so she’ll stop worrying about me. For Dad, so he won’t have to keep picking up the pieces.
I park outside the shop and sit still for a long moment, gathering my courage. This time I won’t freeze with shock or run off crying. I’ll face Tyler and talk this out, adult to adult. It’s about time we did.
Zipping up my jacket, I step out. The wind is rising as darkness falls, whipping my ponytail across my neck, lashing my face with loose strands of hair. My short skirt flutters around my legs, and I’m glad for my knee-high boots.
The sign over the door flickers in neon blue and light spills through the store front, seeping between the tattoo designs stuck inside the glass.
With a fortifying breath, I step inside. Soft music is playing for the customers—soft vocals, quite unlike Zane’s taste in music, which leans more toward punk rock and metal. Two men are standing in front of the desk, hiding it from view—wide shoulders, leather biker jackets, shaved heads and silver studs on the shells of their ears. The usual type of customers at Damage Control. I wait until they’re done and then take their place in front of the desk.
Tyler is standing there, typing something at the computer. His dark head is bowed, silky strands brushing his square jaw and falling in his face. He’s wearing a light gray, long-sleeved T-shirt that hugs his muscled arms and broad chest and faded jeans hanging low on his narrow hips.
Whoa, Tessa’s right. Boy’s smokin’ hot. My face feels warm, the heat creeping up my neck. I tug on the collar of my jacket, suddenly breathless.
I must have made a noise, because he looks up from the computer, a hand poised over the keyboard.
“I’ll be right with you…” His eyes widen, dark like the night, and his jaw slackens. “Erin?”
I wipe my palms on
my pants and struggle to formulate words. His lips look soft like satin, and when he licks them it’s all I can do not to grab and kiss him.