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  Dave snorts and closes the door swiftly behind him, then cracks a grin at me. “Your bodyguard. Right.”

  “Well, you did act a bit macho just then.” I sweep the card into the trash without inspecting it. Another one for the pile.

  “I can throw down with the best of them when the moment calls for it.” He holds up his right hand to display swollen knuckles.

  I suck in a breath. “What did you do?”

  “Chief’s face got in the way of my fist. A bit of payback, maybe.”

  I roll my eyes. Macho shit. “So you’re telling me you sorted your stuff out?”

  “Fired our manager? Check. Figured out a new one? Maybe; Gavin’s making a call. Confronted Kristina? Done. But she won’t go without taking half my bank account. Half of everything.”

  I shrug. “That’s all?”

  “That’s all? Willa, I spent seven years working on building up Tattoo Thief, and Kristina was along for the ride for six of them. And it’s been a full ride, anything she wants. She should count herself lucky to be leaving with a closet full of expensive shit.”

  Again, I shrug. “There are worse things to lose than money.” Like your freedom, or your life, or love.

  I turn and walk to the break room for a coffee refill and Dave follows me. Something tells me there’s no love lost with Kristina. He’s angry from the betrayal, but I don’t see the heartache of someone whose true love has betrayed them.

  I pour a cup and pass him the coffee pot, forcing my tone to stay light. “It’s your call. Don’t let me tell you how to get rid of her.”

  Dave shakes his head, as if shaking away the problem of her. “I’ve wasted enough brain cells on that today. Can we talk about you? Your contract?”

  “As long as the shop’s empty.”

  He follows me back to the front counter, where I close my sketchbook and double-check the client schedule. We pull twin stools up to the counter and he sits closer to me than necessary. The warmth of his arm, the coffee, and the summer air sink contentment deep into my belly.

  It feels so … safe.

  It feels totally foreign.

  A girl on her own can’t be too careful, can’t go out without her guard up. I don’t have a safety net or a backup plan—I’ve always had to be my own sword and shield.

  So to have this man looking out for me on something as simple and complicated as a contract, to chase what’s-your-story Jeff Collins out of my shop, and to pull his stool close enough that he can rest his hand lightly on the small of my back … it’s nothing, but it means everything.

  It’s finding a ten-dollar bill in my jeans when I’m out of cash and payday is days away. It means living a bit, instead of just scraping by.

  Dave’s breath sweeps over my neck as he explains points in the contract and I turn to face him, our faces just inches apart. A slow smile curves on his lips and his dark eyes drop to my lips for a moment. His hand flexes lightly on my back.

  “Were you listening to me?” There’s humor in his voice, and more of that warmth I want to wrap around myself.

  “No.” I whisper my confession.

  Gentle hands flip the contract back to the first page where red lines strike out paragraphs in the contract and add new ones. “No problem. I just wanted to show you what I got from the attorney. Here’s the part where we’re limiting what the gallery can do with reprints.”

  He gives me a moment to scan it, then flips to the next page. “And this part talks about your commission split. Basically, it’s an accelerator clause that says the more you sell, the higher percentage you make on each piece.”

  I nod, painfully aware I’m out of my depth on this. But Dave’s quiet coaching soothes me, and through twenty-odd pages he patiently explains, answers questions, and talks me through what-ifs until I feel like I’m ready for this.

  When the last page is flipped over, he rotates his body on the stool so I’m surrounded by his thighs. One hand still makes little circles with his thumb on my back, the other rests on my knee, like he can’t help but touch me. Like it comes naturally.

  I raise my eyes from the contract to meet his gaze and it steals the breath from my lungs. His typical warmth has transformed into furnace-level intensity.

  Holy shit. My body freezes me in place, my nipples pebbling beneath my T-shirt, my thighs squeezing together with unexpected heat.

  Being with Dave is like jacking up the contrast on a photo until everything takes on a psychedelic vibrancy. And it’s too much, color overload, lust threatening to short-circuit my brain.

  I take a sharp breath and force myself to draw back, as far as I can move without toppling off the stool. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” I whisper.

  “The contract? I thought you just said everything makes sense.”

  “That does.” My eyes flick to the paper, and then back to Dave. Even though my body craves him, my brain is sending run run run signals, a fierce instinct to protect myself rather than letting him protect me. Because he might fail. “But you don’t. We don’t. We shouldn’t do this.”

  I’m edging away as Dave moves closer, his lips practically screaming at me to take another taste. I feel myself tipping, unbalanced, and my instinct wins—I grab his arm to pull myself back from falling off the stool and it brings me a breath from his face.

  He doesn’t give back an inch of my personal space. His expression is open and tempting, waiting for me to take what he’s offering. I inhale his scent, mint and cut pine. It transports me from a sweaty August to the December tree lots, where I’d pretend to escape the city for a walk in the woods.

  With the exception of the one crazy plane ticket from Nancy that took me to Europe, I’ve never left the city.

  Dave’s lids lower, his mouth tilting a fraction. So tempting. So desperately necessary.

  My thoughts swirl and I try to remember why I’m resisting this warmth. I squeeze his strong arms, still holding me and preventing my fall, and he responds in kind, pulling me closer to his chest, bracketing me between his legs.

  I tip my forehead and feather my lips over his, soft but edged with stubble. I press closer and a heady rush takes over, thoughts of self-preservation disappearing like vapor as I just let myself feel.

  And feel.

  And feel.

  My heart expands in my chest, thumping to break free of my ribs. I’ve held my breath for far too long and it escapes as Dave tickles his way from the corner of my mouth to my jaw bone, kissing the soft space behind my ear, trailing his tongue down my neck to where it meets my shoulder.

  I sigh with pleasure as his stubble coaxes little sparks from my skin, building up so much feeling that I can’t be more alive than right now. I feel invincible.

  I’m held, protected, cherished. All this from a PG-rated kiss that speaks louder than a proclamation.

  He cares for me. This realization almost shocks me out of the moment. He isn’t taking—he’s giving. He’s teasing something out of me that I’ve fought to keep hidden.

  I want.

  I want more.

  I arch my neck to feel his lips on the hollow of my throat, his hands moving up my sides, thumbs brushing lightly beneath my tender breasts. And just as I’m about to lose myself entirely to this kiss, a bell clangs and we’re shot from this moment in the clouds back to earth.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Customers keeping you busy, Willa?”

  A wide-set biker, his black hair shot with gray, closes the front door of the shop with a laugh.

  Willa struggles to extract herself from my arms and runs her hands through her spiky hair, sending it in wild directions. Her face is flushed, her lips bee-stung and wet from our kiss. There’s no doubt that his man saw enough.

  “Welcome back,” she says shakily. “How was Sturgis?”

  “‘Bout the same. Skulls and fire tats still keepin’ me in business.” His motorcycle boots and leather cut over a T-shirt scream tough guy. Full tattoo sleeves creep down to his knuckles and up his neck.<
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  The man sizes me up and Willa recovers enough to introduce us. “This is Thomas, the owner of Righteous Ink.” She nods at her boss, and then turns to me, fumbling for words. “And this is Dave. My … friend.”

  Thomas wags unruly brows at me, part appraising, part playful. “Looks like a pretty friendly friend.”

  I extend my hand and he takes it, a hard shake, but not a threatening one. “I’ve been helping Willa with some contract stuff.” I pick up the papers on the counter like they’re my alibi.

  “My art,” she adds quickly. “There’s a gallery that’s going to sell some.”

  Again, Thomas’s eyebrows do an expressive dance. “Sounds fancy. Good for you, lady.” The fondness in his expression seems like that of a kind uncle, despite his hard-edged look. He shuffles to the back room and I hear coffee pouring. “How was business while I was gone?”

  Willa slides off her stool and gives him a recap of clients and bookings while she straightens the counter and he circles the shop. Her eyes never meet mine and I take it as my signal to leave, so I stuff the contract in my bag alongside Kristina’s extortion papers.

  “I’d better go,” I say quietly. “I’ll have the attorney get these back to the gallery if you’re OK with that.”

  Willa finally looks at me and there’s a tightness in her eyes, her raw honesty replaced by the same guarded expression I saw right before our kiss.

  How can I tell her she doesn’t have to be defensive around me? Even though everyone else who walks through the door of this shop wants something from her, I don’t. I just want her.

  I suspect Thomas’s return has snapped her back into her me-against-the-world survival mode. I move toward her for a goodbye but she steps back, out of my reach, and it’s like a fog descends between us.

  I hoist my bag over my shoulder to hide how much that rejection stings. I didn’t force that kiss. I came close to the edge, but I let her close the gap, and she wanted me.

  I’m sure of it.

  But now she’s shifted so fast from hot to cold I don’t know where I stand with her, or how to make it right.

  I stuff my hand in my bag and pull out a pen, then scribble my phone number on a scrap of paper and slide it across the counter to her. “Text me later, OK?”

  She tucks the paper in the back pocket of her jeans and nods, her blue eyes clouded with something left unsaid. It’s not enough, but it’s all I’ve got for now.

  ***

  Task one accomplished: go over the contract with Willa.

  Task two: meet with the attorney. Anyone who tells you a rock star’s life is all glam and parties has never sweated it out in a recording studio or sat through interminable meetings with the suits.

  I brave the heat and hoof it downtown to the law offices of Leverda, Maloney and Probus, one of the only entertainment firms in the city where people seem to remember they’re lawyers first and in showbiz second.

  My counsel is a laid-back, no-bullshit guy named Eric, an amateur drummer who doesn’t tote around a mile-wide ego. We shoot the shit for a while, talking about the new kit he just bought, and then we speed through the few things that need changing on Willa’s contract.

  Eric flips his laptop closed, assuming we’re done.

  I take a breath. “There’s another thing.” I hand him the stack of papers that Kristina gave me and watch his practiced poker face dissolve.

  Eric whistles low when he’s flipped the last page. “You want to give me the backstory on this?”

  “No.” My lips twist into a wry smile. “But I’d probably better.”

  “Damn right you’d better. You’d be paying her a lot to just walk away. More than most spouses get. This could take more than half of your net worth.”

  I nod miserably and give him the short version of what’s happened.

  Eric scribbles notes in the margins. “This amounts to a paid gag—she can’t sell your story or photos, or do interviews, positive or negative, with any media, or pretty much anyone else.”

  “You see any loopholes?”

  “Some.” Eric appraises me. “She could talk to the police. She could claim you beat her and take out a restraining order, and if that leaks to the media, things could go badly for you.”

  I wouldn’t put making stuff up about me past her, but considering she’s got real dirt on me, she doesn’t need it.

  “Why can’t you just walk away and let her have her fifteen minutes?” Eric asks. “I promise you that gossip channels and magazines aren’t going to pay her nearly what you’d have to pay to keep her from selling your story.”

  “Keeping the secrets locked down is worth more.”

  Eric leans forward. “Worth more than three million?”

  I cringe at the number. “A lot more.” I give him as few details as possible. “But if she reports that I’ve committed a crime, wouldn’t that make her an accessory?”

  “It could, or she could seek immunity in exchange for her confession.”

  Shit. “Then what can I do?”

  “You’d probably have to sell your place. And sell off a lot of assets to transfer them to her.”

  I bow my head and shake it slowly. “No other way I can think to do this.”

  “I can.”

  My head whips up and Eric’s eyes are bright. This is what turns his crank.

  “Let’s add a few more clauses. A poison pill if she takes the money and reneges on her promise to keep these secrets buried. Like she can’t pass information to someone else to sell it. And if she lies about you, she gets nothing and you get damages. And we can add a trickle clause that means she won’t get her hands on everything immediately. That’ll help you shave off some taxes and keep most of the money in trust as insurance.”

  The tight band around my chest loosens a fraction. “Will she take that?”

  “We’ll make it a limited-time offer. My guess is greed will win. If keeping these secrets is worth this much to you, I’ll write it up.”

  “Do it.”

  ***

  I wait for the text that doesn’t come.

  I watch my brownstone like a thief, and when I’m sure Kristina isn’t home, I creep in and pack what little I want to keep.

  Movers evacuate my boxes in less than two hours, heading for a storage unit until Kristina moves herself out of my brownstone. A few bags of clothes and a laptop are all I take back to Tyler’s, and my drum set lives there anyway.

  And still I wait for the text that doesn’t come. Willa’s.

  Other texts roll in, important ones.

  Eric confirms that Kristina signed the agreement after demanding a generous monthly stipend to rent an apartment in a fancy-ass new loft in Williamsburg. The fucking kicker is since I’m the one with income, I have to co-sign for it.

  But I’ll sign just about anything to have her gone for good. I sign away half of everything I’ve earned in the last seven years, but I promise myself the next seven will be even better.

  Willa’s words echo in my head: There are worse things to lose than money.

  Eric also nails down Willa’s contract with the gallery and tells me the clock is ticking for her to deliver her work to the gallery. I smile at my phone with that message.

  Still no text from Willa. My brain sets up and shoots down a dozen reasons why.

  In the loneliness of Tyler’s loft, on the makeshift mattress in a corner beneath Tyler’s raised-platform “bedroom,” I’m restless and painfully alone. I have no idea when Tyler and Stella will be home.

  There isn’t even Call of Duty to shoot out my anger—I stupidly sent my game system to storage.

  Porn on my laptop doesn’t hold much appeal with nothing but flimsy orange curtains dividing my “room” from the echoing loft.

  And I think gin already proved its point in terms of being a shitty problem-solver.

  So I pump iron. I throw another dime on the bar and lift until my muscles twitch and shake with exertion. I feel the sweat trickle down my arms as I lift, and th
e burn as I struggle to control the letdown without a spotter.

  At least the contract is one thing I can do for Willa. To show her … I could be here for her. If she’d let me.

  No, that’s too half-assed. I want to be with her. I don’t care if it’s a night out with spray paint or drinking coffee behind the counter of her tattoo shop. I want her like a rhythm that takes hold in my gut and won’t quit when the song is over.

  I want her like I want music.

  I might not be the most creative or talented in the band—fuck, I know I’m not—but I know that I’m passionate about music. And I’m passionate about building something out of it, a band and a career and the three friends who I’m closer to than brothers.

  I’ve thoroughly fucked them over by letting Kristina in like a cancer. So cutting her out is paying a high price, but if it buys them some peace, and my freedom, and keeps our band together, then it will be worth it.

  I can make more money. I can’t make a new band.

  I wince as I lower my last rep, remorse for the way I’ve treated my best friends creeping up my throat like bile. I’ve been an asshole—controlling, short-tempered—and I feel like even more of a heel because I’m just starting to get it.

  Maybe it’s feeling that I’ve been controlled, and so I let Kristina’s poison flow out from me. Or the fact that I’ve been scared shitless of telling them how deep I’m in, and how much danger I’ve put them in as well.

  I shower and change, my heartbeat quickening as I realize that this stupid piece of paper I’ve signed with Kristina isn’t the end. It’s the beginning. If I’m going to get out from under the ton of shit she’s piled on me, I’ve got to start shoveling faster.

  And unless my phone chimes with a text from Willa in the next five minutes, I know right where to start.