Stripped Down

Rose is probably waking up alone now, and J.J. will look after her. He’ll make sure she has what she needs. My fingers slip and I catch myself roughly. Fuck.

Those two days in Afghanistan were bad. I expected torture, followed by death. Instead… yeah. Instead I know exactly what Rose went through. She was tied down, fucked up. Fucked.

So was I.

Breathe. In. Out. Swing up and find the next crack. Twenty feet left. I killed my captors when I broke free. It sucks to be powerless, and I won’t do that again. I won’t make the mistake of letting down my guard again, won’t turn my back. I fucked up and I paid for it.

Ten feet.

The sun explodes over the horizon, lighting up the range and the cliff where I’m playing Spider Man. I wonder what Rose is doing, what she’s thinking. I should have been there, holding her, but sometimes the walls close in and the room’s too dark and… yeah. I fucking can’t forget and that makes me dangerous, so instead I’m out here and she’s back there.

ROSE

Another day, another dollar, right?

Rory and I don’t drive off into the sunset (although I guess it would have been the sunrise by the time we recover from our respective shitty nights). If I give up and leave, Angel wins. My feelings for him will pass, but Auntie Dee’s house is tattooed into my very soul. I can’t run away from home this time.

By the time Rory wakes up, I’ve got a plan. I need two things if I’m going to fix up the house: money and Angel’s agreement. Acquiring money is easier than changing Angel’s mind, so that’s what I’ll focus on now. I’m a tattoo artist and I have a portable workstation, so I’ll set up shop right here and fuck Mr. Angel Mendoza. I don’t need his money and I don’t need his sorry self. Instead of crying or whining about how my life sucks, I need to get busy. I can fix this.

I send Rory out to make the rounds of the bars, while I hit the bunkhouse with the news that anyone who wants a flash tattoo can come on over and get the design of his dreams. I’ve got takers, too. I’m not sure if it’s the novelty or if Angel’s cowboys have been repressing their tattoo dreams for years, but Rory and I each do two tattoos.

Staying up all night bitching about the state of your life isn’t all that helpful. Inking centers me, and by late afternoon my shit may not make more sense, but I don’t want to kill Angel on sight.

Which is good because I’ve just waved goodbye to Dare when strong arms slide around my waist from behind. Because dignity is apparently out of the question, I squeal.

“You’ve been busy,” Angel growls in my ear.

What the fuck?

Before I can say anything—and I’m not even sure where to start, although I’m leaning toward Get the fuck off my lawn and out of my life—he kisses me. God, Angel can kiss. His mouth is hard and sweet at the same time, and my brain immediately short circuits. That has to be why I’m kissing him back like my life depends on it. He’s warm and smells like leather and male, which makes me imagine all sorts of things I could do with him or to him.

Damn it.

Yanking backward, I glare at him. “You left last night.”

Oops. My words aren’t subtle. I think about rephrasing, but then decide screw it. I’m pissed, and Angel needs to understand that.

“I’ve been climbing,” is all he says and lifts his hands. Honestly? Either he climbs badly, or he spent way too much time falling. His fingers are roughed up something bad, though. He’s got cuts on three fingers, and one thumb is red and abraded.

“You couldn’t wake me up and let me know?”

His gaze doesn’t waver from mine. “I fucked up.”

No. Shit.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he continues and I almost believe him. Okay. I actually, totally, completely believe him—but that claim of his doesn’t cover accidental damage. Our relationship is like a rental car. I thought everything was covered by the rental agreement, but now that I’ve had an accident, I’m realizing I’m liable for all sorts of damages.

“Good to know, but too late,” I tell him. I think he actually winces.

Angel being Angel, he tries to take control of our conversation. “I’m not letting you go,” he announces, as if that was in question. His cowboys are going to see the fireworks from the bunkhouse in a minute, because now I’m seeing red and about to explode.

“Does the caveman bullshit work for you, cowboy?”

“I need you,” he says and I try to pretend that my stupid heart isn’t doing a happy dance against my ribs. He must sense it, though, or maybe he’s just being arrogant Angel again, because he prowls toward me, slinging an arm around my waist and pulling me in close. “Tell me what you’re doing.”