Tied (All Torn Up 2)

Guilt is misplaced here. No matter how much I want Holly, no matter how much I live just to see her smile…she’s not mine, and she’s never going to be, even though I want nothing more than for her to be mine and to play out all my fantasies and dreams with her. Unfortunately, that’s just not a safe place for her to be.

I’m not the prince. I’m the thing that goes bump in the night and sends shivers up her spine.

The electric lock clicks, and I don’t look over as the door swings open and she does the high-heel strut directly to the thick envelope waiting for her on the table near the door. Her thumb feathers over the hundred-dollar bills, and I can sense her smile as she shoves the envelope into her bag. Her instructions were clear in the confirmation email: payment first. My instructions were just as clear: don’t expect me to talk. No lights. No kissing. No screaming.

She falls onto the couch next to me, and her perfume permeates the space. It’s flowery and feminine, but it’s not the lavender vanilla scent that somehow calms me and drives me wild at the same time.

My breath is hot against my face behind the mask. This one is a favorite, with its bloody, oozing gashes and grotesque twisted lips.

Her hand rests on my leg, and for a second I’m pissed that she’s distracting me from thinking about Holly and her perfume. That’s the only place my mind and my heart really want to be. And so does my cock, which is exactly why I’m sitting here next to a two-thousand-dollar escort. For distraction.

I grab her wrist, seconds away from twisting it behind her neck and pinning her down on the couch.

“I like the dark, moody types,” she coos in my ear.

Jesus Christ. I know that voice. My hair stands on end. I release my grip on her and jump off the couch like it’s on fire. No pun intended.

I rip the mask off my face. “Tesla?” I can’t believe this. I want to turn on the light to see if it’s really her but, holy shit, I can’t. I refuse to see her sitting there.

“Tyler?” she asks, the shock in her voice rivaling mine. “Oh my God.”

“Get the fuck out of here.” I seethe, running my hand through my hair. This can’t be fucking happening.

She stands and tries to grab my arm in the dark. “Tyler, please—”

I point to the door. “Get the fuck away from me, Tessie. Now.”

Instead, she flicks on the light, and we stand there staring at each other, both of us speechless, shocked, and humiliated. Her eyes shift to the mask on the floor then slowly back to my face.

“Get out,” I growl again. “Keep the fucking money if you need it bad enough to do this.”

“No.” Her voice shakes with emotion. “No way. I’m not leaving until we talk about this. And I’m not going to sit in the dark with my own brother.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. You’re a whore, and I’m an ugly psycho. The end.”

Her hand smacks my face, hard, and I grin at her for having the balls to do it. Being raised with five big brothers made my little sister tough as nails.

“I’m not a whore, Tyler.”

I cock my head at her and run my hand along my scarred, stinging cheek. “From where I’m standing, you are. Last I heard you were a hairdresser. When did sucking dick for money become part of that job description?”

“Fuck you. Don’t you dare judge me. It’s not as disgusting as you think. I don’t stand on street corners. You went through the interview process to get me here in this room with you, you know first-hand it’s all discreet and professional.”

“Wow. That makes it much better.” My voice drips with sarcasm. “You can get the fuck out now. Unless you want to wait here for your next customer?”

I barely recognize the girl shaking her head at me with hurt in her eyes. I haven’t seen her in probably three or four years, and now she’s a gorgeous woman. Not the cute teen I remember. And not the little girl who screamed when she saw my face for the first time after the fire and ran to hide in her room.

She kicks off her black high heels and plops back down on the couch, pulling a pillow onto her lap.

“The fuck are you doing?”

She shrugs. “I’m not leaving. I haven’t seen you in years. Since we’re both here, let’s talk.”

My sister apparently has the crazy gene too. “I don’t talk.”

“Well, maybe you should start. Your voice sounds good, by the way. A lot better than it did the last time I saw you.”

I sit on the arm of the couch because I can’t sit next to her when she’s wearing a low-cut blouse and a tight skirt and I just gave her a pile of cash. “Yeah, I’ve been practicing.” I don’t try to curb the sarcasm.