“Yeah, me too,” I whisper. “If you want to talk, you know where to find me. My phone number’s in your missed calls.”
He blinks at me. “That was you? You called me?”
“Who else?” My breath this time catches for a different reason. “Oh. Another woman?”
“It’s not what you think.”
Right. Of course not. I square my shoulders and turn away. “See you around, Tyler.”
I’m already outside the bathroom, when he pushes past me and strides across the shop, opens the door, sending the chimes ringing, and is gone into the night.
Chapter Seven
Tyler
Fuck this.
I’m so worked up, I barely feel the biting cold as I hurry across the street without my jacket, only in my long-sleeved tee. I kick at a trash can as I make my way past shops and restaurants, then bang my fist against the wall.
Not enough. Pain flares in the back of my eyeballs. My head throbs. This was a fucking mistake—coming back to Madison, agreeing to talk with Erin. Holding her. Kissing her. Tasting her. I’d been so perfectly happy for a moment… I never thought I could feel th
at way again. It was as if my past had fallen off me like a crust of old mud, leaving me free and light.
Then reality crashed back down around me. The look on Erin’s face when the last tremors left her body. Her plea to be told why I left. She may think she’ll understand, but I doubt it. She won’t understand why I never told her about Dad. The dark secrets, the nightmares, the drugs… None of it. She’s clean. Perfect. The only perfect thing left in my life, and I’m not gonna fucking sully it with the past.
Besides… Four fucking years. I bet she moved on. I should never have touched her, but dammit, her smell, her skin, her face, her voice… She’s worse than drugs. She’s the real thing. The only real thing. And my body aches to be close to her as much as my mind latches onto the memories of her.
Coming to a stop, I reach down to adjust my painful erection. Her taste is still on my lips, sweet, the image of her, spread for me, so beautiful.
My body craves her, and it pisses me off that I can’t control the urge. Can’t control myself. Pills, ticks, rituals—all the things I need to keep myself in check. Just like Uncle Jerry.
Fuck. Why do I feel the need to crawl on my knees to beg for her forgiveness? Why open myself up only to be pushed away again? I can’t forget the way she sent me packing four years ago, and although I know I fucked up, it hurt. Because she was everything to me. She was my safe place, my secret place. And I lost her even before I lost everything else.
My hands curl into fists and I let go, pummeling the brick wall in front of me, welcoming the sting in my knuckles. Right hook, left hook—just like dear Dad taught me all those years ago, in between punishments for being a bastard; not his own son.
Holy shit. Leaning against the wall, I rest my brow on my forearm and struggle to draw breath. I’ve always fought to be in control and now it’s all spiraling away. I came here to talk to Asher and satisfy myself that he’s okay. But instead here I am, hitting a wall at full throttle.
I need something to take the edge off. I may have some pills stashed somewhere in my bag at home. Or maybe I’ll just take my bike for a ride—
Dammit, no! I push off and scrub both hands over my face. I have to get my shit together. Have to keep my head straight until I do what I came here to do. I’m not a quitter.
I force air into my lungs, force myself to cool off and my traitorous cock to back the fuck down. Resisting the urge to count in my head, to repeat her name until the pressure lifts off my chest, I turn my steps back toward Damage Control.
***
Erin’s gone when I return to Damage, and the customers have left, too. It’s late.
Zane gives me one of his penetrating looks but says nothing as I close the books and turn off the computer.
“I need Asher’s number,” I mutter, since I’ve been thinking about it for days. Ash hasn’t come by the shop once so far, and I have to speak to him.
He grins lazily and folds his arms over his chest. “What you need,” he says, “is some ink.” He’s wearing a thin Rammstein concert T-shirt—the heating is cranked up high inside Damage—leaving his arms bare and displaying the colorful full sleeve tats that run down his forearms and circle his wrists.
“I have ink. Don’t need more.”
A dark brow lifts. “Got a tat? Where? Show it off, then. Customers are suckers for that sort of thing.”
I wince.