Tyler (Inked Brotherhood 2)

Good job, Erin. Losing your mind the moment he looks at you.

“I, um,” I say intelligently and shift my weight. Focus, Erin. On something other than his lips, that is. “Can we talk?”

His gaze drops, and he heaves a quiet sigh. “Sure.”

“Where can we go?” I’m suddenly aware of the buzz of the tattoo guns and voices.

His jaw clenches, and his gaze slides sideways. I turn and see Zane watching us, his slanted eyes narrowed.

“Come with me,” Tyler says and steps around the desk. He grabs my hand and drags me behind him. I don’t even think twice as I follow him to the back of the shop, to the customers’ bathroom, my resolutions and my list forgotten.

***

As he opens the door, I tug on his hand, and he lets go. His dark eyes shift to me, uncertainty flickering in their depths.

Good. Let him be uncertain.

He hangs back, and I step inside the spacious bathroom. The black granite counter where the white sink rests is cool under my hands as I lean back against it. A floral air-freshener scent wafts around me.

Then Tyler steps inside and locks the door behind him. He turns toward me, running a big hand through his longish hair, and steps closer. His presence fills the room. His shoulders seem impossibly wide, his gaze growing darker by the second. The room is growing smaller.

I suck in a sharp breath and press back against the counter, the granite edge digging into my palms. He looms over me, and my heart thumps too fast in my chest. My demands, my questions, every word in my vocabulary flees at the sight of him. From close up, he doesn’t look so much like Asher. His mouth is wider, his cheekbones high, and that gaze… It glides over my skin like liquid fire.

Another scent overlays the floral air freshener now. It’s musky and deep, layers of masculine, clean sweat and a whiff of pinewood. I draw it into my lungs as if it’s oxygen before I realize it’s all him, the scent awakening memories I thought buried and dead—of Tyler kissing me, holding me. Our bodies pressed together, skin to skin, our limbs tangled.

“Why?” I blurt out, to break the spell.

“Why what?” his voice rumbles, low and deep, sending shivers skittering over my skin.

God. I can’t let his face, his scent, his body take away my reason. I came here to talk. “Why did you leave four years ago?”

His mouth flattens, and he shoves his fingers through his unruly hair. Those broad shoulders roll in a shrug.

That’s it? He thinks he’s off the hook that easily? No way. I push off the counter and get into his face—well, I crane my neck and almost rise on my tiptoes, but it’ll have to do—and grab a fistful of his T-shirt. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going? Why didn’t you ever call? Where were you, for chrissakes?”

“What do you care?” he says, so quietly I’m only sure he spoke because I’m looking right at his beautiful mouth.

My grip on his T-shirt tightens. “Are you seriously asking me this?”

“You told me I should go and never come back.” His eyes close briefly, and a pang goes through my chest. “That I was a bastard and an asshole and wasn’t worth the trouble.”

Christ. I let go of him and take a faltering step back. I did say those things, didn’t I? “I’m sorry.” My hormones played havoc with my feelings back then, intensifying every feeling. “What about you? Why did you leave instead of talking this out? I never got a chance to tell you I’m sorry, you just…” I bite my lip and let out a long breath, but it catches in my throat.

Maybe he hears it because he reaches for me and trails his thumb down the line of my jaw. The gesture stills me completely as his dark eyes nail me. I see sadness there, and fear. What is he afraid of?

“I had to go,” he whispers, and his hand drops away.

“You left town, Tyler. Left everyone and everything, and nobody knew where you were. God, I was so worried.” My throat constricts; I can barely swallow.

“You were?” There’s a hitch in his voice, as if he doesn’t believe it.

“Yes, I was.” I’ve been so afraid for him for so long, I can hardly believe he’s here, alive and well. I reach up and slide my hand over his chest. It’s hard, solid. “Why, Tyler? Tell me why you left.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he grinds out.

I want to bang my fist on his chest and slap his face. My fingers curl against the soft fabric of his T-shirt, and I feel his muscles clench underneath.

“Screw you,” I whisper, and I hope my voice won’t break and betray me. “That’s all you have to say to me? I’m not going to—”