All the Pretty Lies (Pretty 1)

Every morning over breakfast.

Only Hemi doesn’t do breakfast. Anymore. He said he hadn’t in a long time. Now I’m getting a feel for just how long.

“So,” I begin, clearing my throat, “how long does it take to get all this down? I mean, how long did it take you to teach Hemi?”

I hope I’m being subtle. Please God, let me be subtle.

“A couple of years. But I don’t think it really took that long. I think we just drew it out, if you know what I mean.”

She laughs, a husky, suggestive sound that makes me want to die.

“Ohhh,” I say. If she’s gonna drop the act, there’s no reason for me to pussyfoot around either. “So mixing business with pleasure, about two years, but straight up business, a lot less. Is that about it?” I add a smile, so that I don’t seem envious. Or vicious. Both of which I feel.

“That sounds about right.”

“Well, I guess it won’t take me very long then.” It hurts to admit it, but I know when I’ve been beat. And I refuse to let this woman think I give a rat’s ass.

Even though I do.

“I wouldn’t count on it, sweetie. Hemi likes to mix business and pleasure. And he’s a hard one to resist.”

“Is that why you’re back?” I ask bluntly. When she jerks her head toward me, I smile again. “I mean, I’m sure he is hard to resist.”

“I don’t think I introduced myself, did I?” she muses, ignoring my question. “I’m Sasha. I’ll be filling in for a little while.”

I could hug Hemi when he walks through the front door. I’m not sure I could keep up pretenses for one more second. If that’s what I was even doing. Whatever it was, I feel sure she saw right through it.

“Sorry I’m late, Sloane,” Hemi says, heading straight for his cubby. “Come on back. I’ve got an appointment in a few minutes. She wants an original. Thought we’d work on it before she gets here.”

“Sounds good,” I say, standing and pushing my stool back out of the way. I glance down at Sasha. She’s eyeing Hemi. I’m wondering if she’s insulted that he didn’t acknowledge her. Just the thought of that makes my smile a little brighter. “Nice to meet you, Sasha.”

“You, too, sweetie. I’ll see you around. I’m not going anywhere.”

If I’d been inclined to think for even a fraction of a second that Sasha was no threat, I would’ve been wrong. But I was also wrong about not being able to compete with a girl like that. Not that Hemi coming in and ignoring her means anything—maybe he saw her before he left. It’s her reaction that gives me hope. Why would she feel the least bit threatened by me if there was no reason to be?

Is that crazy logic? I think to myself as I slide my purse under the counter where Hemi told me to put it.

Maybe. But it’s logic that makes me feel a little better about being here. And about my chances. So, flawed or not, I’ll take it.

Maybe Sasha doesn’t have this all wrapped up after all.

********

It’s been three weeks since I started sketching at The Ink Stain. Three weeks of being around Hemi. Three weeks of run-ins with Sasha. Three weeks of seeing whatever might have been blossoming between us…stall.

Tonight, I’m gonna try to kick it back into gear, though. Or at least see if there’s anything to kick back into gear. Sasha isn’t working, Hemi said the schedule is light and, if there aren’t a lot of walk-ins, he said he would work on finishing my tattoo. Just the thought of his hands on my body again…

Ohmigod!

It’s the first night I’ve been anxious to get to the studio since that very first one, the one that began a downward spiral of disappointing nights. But not tonight. Tonight it’ll just be me and Hemi. I’ll get to see where we stand and how he acts when Sasha isn’t around.

He doesn’t flirt with her even when I’m there. It’s more like he’s just grouchy yet polite. She takes it in stride. I’m sure she knows why he’s grouchy. After all, it didn’t start until she showed up. I don’t know what’s going on between those two, but it seems more like history and baggage than anything current.

Of course, that could be wishful thinking on my part, too.

Frick!

When I arrive, Hemi is waiting for me at the counter. “How would you feel about sketching out here for a little while? Maybe fielding anyone that comes in? I’ve got a client in back that I need to do some color touch-ups for.”

I try not to feel too deflated and I give him a smile. “That’s fine. Anything particular you want me to sketch?”

“Yes. The one that you drew on my side. I want you to sketch it out so we can make a stencil. I’ll be your first subject.”

My mouth falls open. “You’re joking, right?”

He smiles. For the first time in forever, it seems. “No, I’m not joking.”

“Tonight?”

“No. Tonight maybe I can finish yours.” Yes! “Maybe the next time you work you can start it.”

“Okay. If you’re fine with it then…”

I grab some paper from beneath the counter and scoot up onto the stationary stool that sits back there. Hemi starts to walk off, but then stops just this side of the doorway.

“Sloane,” he begins. When he doesn’t continue, I look up. He holds my eyes for several long seconds before he speaks. “Take it as a compliment. It means I trust you.”

“Thank you.” I don’t know what else to say.

Hemi winks at me and then disappears into the next room. One more time, like a stubborn phoenix that refuses to stay burned to ash, hope rises.

********

It’s finally time. Everyone is gone from the shop, clients and artists alike, and it’s just me and Hemi. Alone.

And he’s going to finish my tattoo.

I’m nervous. I don’t know why this feels like so much more than a tattoo. I guess, in my head, I’m giving him one last chance to show me he still wants me before I kill off any and all hope I had for us. And I’m praying he comes through.

“So, where do you want me?” I ask.

“Oh, right. Your butterflies. Ummm,” he murmurs, wrinkling his brow in thought. “How high do you want them to go?”

“Well, my last one is right here,” I say, pointing through my clothes to the area right at the lower edge of my bra strap. “I think maybe three or four more up to here.” I indicate the place just south of my arm pit. I know what I’m asking. The question is: Will Hemi?

“Okay, to go that high I’ll need you out of your clothes on that side. I can’t move straps and material aside to work up in there. It’ll crowd my hand.”

His tone is matter of fact. My stomach is not.

“And we want those hands free to work,” I tease. Hemi says nothing, but he raises that one pierced brow. A shiver runs through me. I clear my throat. “That’s fine. I can just take off my top and use a drape, if that’s all right with you.”

There’s a long pause before he says anything. “That’s fine. However you’re most comfortable.”

I nod and smile before I turn around and head for the dressing room. I take off my shirt and bra, and slip the loose-fitting drape over my head. It’s split up both sides so that it’s basically just a big flap that falls over my chest and back. I check my reflection, hoping that Hemi doesn’t make note of my flushed cheeks and dilated pupils. I take a deep, calming breath before I open the door and make my way back to Hemi.

“Okay, ready when you are,” I announce to Hemi, who is standing at the table with his back to me. He glances over his shoulder, his eyes drifting over my upper body. I see the muscle in his jaw flex before he turns back around.

“Hop up there. On your side please.” I do as he asks, my gut jittery with nerves. I stretch out, baring my right side, tucking the drape around my breast modestly. When Hemi turns back around to face me, he stops and just watches me for a few seconds before he comes forward to take his seat in front of me. I see his eyebrows come together in a small frown and I wonder what put it there—me, the situation? Is he resisting? Is he just not into it? Not into me anymore?

I close my eyes and stretch my arm up over my head, pushing all those doubts aside as Hemi preps my skin. One way or the other, I’m about to find out.

“So,” he begins, making my heart thunder inside my chest. Here we go… “tell me more about your brothers. You said the one at the bar was…was it Steven? He’s the oldest, you said? He must be pretty protective.”

My hopes and my heart plummet. This isn’t at all what I’d hoped for. “Uh, yeah. He’s very protective. They all are.”

“Seems like he’s the only one without an unusual name. Doesn’t he have a nickname or something?”

“No. He’s too straitlaced for that kind of thing. I don’t think his partner even has a nickname for him.”

“What’s his partner’s name?”

“Duncan.”

“That’s pretty normal, too. Very interesting.”

Hemi falls quiet as he gets ready to start working. I don’t quite know how to react to this—the lack of response, the devastating disappointment, the humiliation. And yes, there’s plenty of humiliation. I feel like I’ve been tricked, like he flirted with me just enough to get me hooked and then he just…left. Emotionally. And now I’m left…wanting.

I say nothing. I can’t seem to drum up the enthusiasm for small talk. I just want this to be over so I can go home and bury my face.

“You must know a lot of their cop friends, I bet,” Hemi says when he finally starts to talk again.

“Yeah,” I answer vaguely. I feel like screaming!

“Did I hear one of ‘em call the other ‘Tumblin’ one night?”

“I don’t know. The only Tumblin I know of is the street where my brother used to live. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a cop being called that.”

“Oh, shit! A street,” Hemi exclaims oddly. “Well, I guess that makes more sense.”

I don’t respond. I have no idea what the hell he’s mumbling about, and at this point, I don’t really care. I’m torn between being upset over rejection and being really pissed off over being misled. It’s not making me very keen on chit chat.

Hemi hits a particularly sensitive spot and I yelp. “Ouch! Holy shit, that hurts!”

Hemi stops inking immediately. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “Are you all right?” He’s standing over me now, leaning down to look at my face where it’s half-covered by my raised arm.

“I’m fine. I just…I think you just hit a tender spot. Maybe this should be the last one. My skin might be too sensitive to go up any farther.”

Oh, how true those words really are!

Hemi rubs his palm along my arm. “Hey, are you sure you’re all right?”

His dark lagoon-blue eyes are searching mine. For the first time all night, he seems to really see me. And it only makes things that much worse.

“I’m fine.”

“Can I finish shading this one last butterfly? I’ll be as gentle as I can. I think you’ll like it much better if you’ll let me finish.”

After everything, he still makes me feel like putty. “Okay. Just this one.”

He bends his head and kisses my forearm. “I’ll be easy. It won’t hurt. I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Hemi smiles down at me. “I don’t.”

Yes, you do. Everyone does. Except me.

He sits back down on his chair and resumes shading. I’m braced for it to sting, but it never does. Maybe Hemi really doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.

Or maybe he just doesn’t make many promises at all.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Hemi

Impatiently, I listen to the muted ring at the other end of the line. “Dammit, Reese, pick up!”

When I hear the click of the voice mail picking up, I hang up and hit redial. I’m gonna bug the shit out of him until he answers.

“Hello?” a sultry feminine voice greets after the second ring.

“Uh, is Reese there?” I ask, wondering if I’ve been dialing the wrong number all along, but knowing I haven’t because I selected it from my list of contacts. No, this has to be Reese’s number.

“He’s in the shower. Can I take a message?”

“Just tell him—”

I stop, mid-sentence, when I hear my brother’s angry voice in the background. “What the hell are you doing?”

I hear the woman explain. “I got tired of listening to it ring.”

“Get your clothes and get out,” Reese demands coldly.

Ouch!

My brother has an unquenchable thirst for women, just like I do (just like all the Spencer men do, in fact), but he has no tolerance for any of them getting close to him, or dabbling in his business or his life. If I keep them at arm’s length, he keeps them at football-field length. He’s a cold bastard, but he’s my brother and I know what made him that way.

After a minute or two of listening to her apologize and beg, and then hearing her muffled crying (Reese put his hand over the mouthpiece), I finally hear his voice and only his voice. No more woman.

“What is it?”

“It’s me,” I say briefly. “It’s him. I found him. I know it’s him.”

“You did? How do you know?”

“I made the connection. His younger sister, Sloane, the girl I was telling you about, told me he used to live on Tumblin Street. That’s the missing piece. It’s him, Reese. We finally found him.”