Beautiful Wreck Read online

  As if. She didn’t let anyone lead. Ever. Nope, she was the captain of this ship, thankyouverymuch. Letting anyone take the reins had trouble written all over it. Kind of like the big man guiding her with his strong body. His perfect body. Did all the guys in this damn group have to be so big? So fucking gorgeous? Seriously, it was ridiculous. Kind of like this stupid outfit Jami and Ella, her other close friend and co-worker at Quirk, talked her into. This ridiculous corset that was lifting from the skirt just enough for her to feel the calloused tip of one of his fingers breach the hem and make contact with her skin.

  Her skin sizzled; her nerve endings crackled to life and sent threads of electricity through her body. Was that normal? Was that what other women felt when a man touched them? It wasn’t normal for her. Not at all. She had no interest in any kind of sexual attraction to any man. Especially a man like the one who seemed to so easily control her body.

  “Yeah well. It’s an anomaly,” she said, proud she kept the uncertainty out of her voice.

  He bent forward close to her ear. “Call it what you want, but you’re dancing. With me.” The soft puffs of his breath on her cheek sent shivers down her arms despite the unusual warmth of the late afternoon.

  She looked up and was greeted with that damn smirk. She’d bet that mouth was responsible for melting the panties of half the women in Portland. His light blue eyes locked with hers. They were striking with his crazy-long dark lashes and his shaggy almost-black hair. No doubt, he was the most attractive man she’d ever met. Looking at him up close and personal only solidified that fact. And she almost forgot for a minute that she wasn’t interested in bad boys. Or boys of any persuasion for that matter.

  The song ended and she shifted, ready to pull away from him. She needed to escape, to breathe. Get some water. Maybe get the fuck out of this crazy place.

  But Bowen had other ideas. “That was only half a song. One more.”

  Rihanna’s “Stay” started to play over the tent speakers. Really? It had to be that song?

  Bowen started singing the song to her in a silly singsong voice, making her laugh. “Don’t care for pop songs, but I like this one,” he said pulling her up against his body with a tug so swift she had to put her hand on his chest for balance.

  Oh shit. He was rock hard under that tux shirt. The temptation to run her fingers over his pecs was almost overwhelming. Almost. But not quite. Gabby did not touch men, let alone rub herself up against them like a cat in heat.

  “I hate this song,” she blurted.

  He pulled back and raised a brow as he looked at her. “Hate’s a bit strong, don’t you think?”

  Nope. Not at all. Stupid song about a stupid co-dependent woman.

  “Just don’t like it.”

  “Yeah? There’s a story there. Spill, Gabby.” He shook her hand and waist a little. “And relax for fuck’s sake—it’s just a dance.”

  Maybe for him. But she hadn’t been held by a man like this in a long time. Hmm, or maybe ever.

  “I told you I couldn’t dance.”

  “You’re doing fine.” He rubbed his hand in circles at the small of her back, shooting arrows of desire straight to the pulsing bull’s-eye between her legs. “Just relax and let me lead.”

  She snorted. Maybe because he was so irritating. Or maybe to hide the fact that she liked the way he talked to her. The way he said that—let me lead—sounded so sexy, so in control. She shouldn’t find it hot, but she did. So sue her. It wasn’t like they’d do more than dance.

  “So what’s the story, little one?”

  Gabby bristled, and took a deep breath. “No grown woman likes to be called little. And there’s no story.” And she wasn’t sharing any stories with him.

  Instead of dropping her hand and walking away—which she half expected, which she more than half wanted—he spun and dipped her, holding her over his arm—which felt strangely more solid than flesh, like a downed tree or a steel fricking girder—as he peered at her with those eyes. “I don’t mean anything derisive to your womanhood, Gabby. You’re smaller than I am. Slender. So tiny I could pick you up and carry you around on my shoulder if I wanted to. So my petite and prickly friend, why won’t you share your stories with me? I’m a good guy.”

  He continued moving their bodies across the dance floor like a pro and not like the metalhead she knew he was. That, and his damn hand on her lower back, made it hard to focus. Hard to follow their ridiculous conversation. “Pretty sure we covered the whole bad boy thing.” Dusk was teetering on the edge of evening and, for the first time, she noticed little white lights that wound romantically around every pole and blanketed the ceiling of the white tent. If she was any other girl she’d probably think they looked lovely. But she wasn’t any other girl despite her girly costume.

  “Reformed,” he insisted, spinning her slowly. She risked a look up into his face, his pretty, pretty face.

  “No such thing,” she nearly whispered. His casual, almost lazy, tone and demeanor were not reflected in his gaze. His eyes snapped and crackled, drew her in with their heat.

  “You don’t believe people can change?” The song segued into another and he stopped dancing and stared at her. Like her answer mattered. Like he needed her to say she believed in change. But she didn’t. She didn’t believe because the opposite had been proven to her again and again. But the look he was giving her made her reconsider her sometimes too blunt honesty.

  When Kevan hip-checked Bowen and broke his intense gaze, Gabby released a long breath and pulled from his embrace. She ran her hands over her hair and smiled at Kevan.

  “Hey, kiddos, how’s it hanging?” Kevan grinned broadly and Mason twirled her, her gorgeous antique dress swirling around her like she was some kind of rockabilly princess. “Having fun?” She looked back and forth between Gabby and Bowen.

  “Great wedding, Kevan. Beautiful. Thank you for inviting me,” she said and moved forward to hug Kevan and then get her ass home. And away from this awkward interlude with Bowen. Get away from this whole social thing where people were expected to act in a certain way, laugh at certain things, converse and share information. It was all so confusing. And exhausting.

  Kevan wrapped her in a hug, but pulled back with her arms still on her shoulders. “So did you talk to Bowen about the tattoo?” Shit. Gabby had been hoping that wouldn’t come up. In a vulnerable moment at Kevan and Mason’s combo bachelor-bachelorette party, Gabby had mentioned she had a scar she’d like covered one day. Jax, Bowen’s best friend and Jami’s fiancé, had been giving Jami her first ever tattoo on her ankle and Jami had asked Gabby, Kevan, and Ella to come along for moral support.

  Kevan had nominated Bowen since he’d done most of her ink and Gabby had admired it on more than one occasion. But after spending about ten seconds in his presence with all that fierce attention solely on her, she’d decided no. The work she needed done would take several sittings, and she didn’t want to think about what it would do to her head to have his hands on her for all that time. She’d prefer to have a woman tattoo artist do the work anyway.

  No thank you. She’d find someone else. Or, fuck it, not get it done at all. No one saw the damn scar except her anyway. And no one ever would.

  “Gabby did not mention wanting a tattoo by yours truly.” Bowen flashed that damn smirk again, and after quickly hugging his sister, grabbed Gabby’s hand. “But I’m all ears.”

  When he led her off the dance floor, weaving through the dancers and partiers, to a table near the back wall of the tent, Kevan called after them. “Don’t go far—Manix and Toast are going to play soon!”

  Of course. How could she forget? The two hottest rock bands in Portland were going to play at the wedding. And the guitar player for one of them, Toast, was holding her hand at that very moment. And all the members of Manix Curse were either in the wedding party or at the reception since Kevan and Mason managed both bands’ marketing and public relations’ efforts.

  The party had barely started. She real
ly needed a better exit strategy. Hopefully, they’d play soon and she could sneak away. She’d dressed up, brought a present, had dinner, and even danced. She’d made small talk with people she didn’t know even though it almost killed her to do so. Now it was time for her to get the hell out and back to her quiet little world that did not include blistering-hot tattoo artists.

  Chapter Two

  Bowen should go tune his guitar. He should go hang with his friends. He should mingle and act like the brother of the bride instead of a horny teenager. But he couldn’t force himself to let her go. Not yet. Because as soon as she could, she’d bolt like a frightened mouse. And spending time with Gabby was the most fun he’d had in…since…God, like forever. Her surly, laconic attitude did something to him, lit a fire under his long-dormant enthusiasm. Made him want to taunt her, make her smile, pluck that plump lip out of her teeth with his mouth.

  And it wasn’t like he wanted to fuck her or anything. Well, maybe he did, but he obviously wasn’t going to act on it. He had one goal, one singular focus. It didn’t include screwing anyone, especially his cute, but cranky neighbor.

  He parked her at an empty table, decorated in purple flowers and a lavender tablecloth, with a firm admonition to not move. He quickly grabbed a couple bottles of water from the bar and plopped down next to her. “Didn’t see you drinking anything else so I got you a water.”

  An unreadable expression shadowed her face for a moment. Then it was gone and she smiled. “Thanks.” Maybe it hadn’t really been there.

  Yeah. She was a wordy one. Okay. Keep it simple. Talk about the tattoo.

  “Tell me about the ink you want. Is this your first tattoo?”

  She crossed her arms and shrugged. “No. I have a few. But I changed my mind about the new one.”

  Sure she did. “Yeah? Hmmm. Too bad because I have a big promotion going on right now—half off.”

  Nothing. No smile. Not even a weak one.

  “And my schedule is wide open.” Which, of course, was total bullshit. He’d been busier than ever the last few months since word had gotten around that he was back at Tatuaggio and sober. His waiting list was currently several months long and growing.

  She scoffed…fucking scoffed at him. Why was he trying so hard with her anyway? Because Bowen loved a challenge and it had been a while since he’d found one in the form of a woman…a woman with such a great form.

  “Let’s see what you have.”

  She shrugged again. That was starting to get annoying. But instead of sitting there ignoring him she unwrapped a thick black leather bracelet from her right wrist and held her arm out to him. On the underside of her wrist she had three small flowers and scrollwork, and delicately written in purple and burgundy: “Dum spiro, spero.” The colors contrasted perfectly with her golden skin.

  He held her small hand in his and rubbed his thumb across the words and flowers. Her skin was beautiful, so soft. Suddenly he knew he had to put his art on her, add his mark to her body. At that moment he wanted it more than anything.

  “Pretty. Like you. What does it mean?” When she didn’t pull her hand away he continued brushing his thumb back and forth over that same spot…because he couldn’t not. It took everything he had to not lean down and kiss the sensitive tissue of her wrist and continue up her arm.

  “‘While I breathe, I hope.’”

  He sucked in a breath and his eyes snapped to her face. She stared down at where her hand met his, her voice sounded distant. Like she’d gone somewhere else. He wanted to know where. Desperately wanted to know more about this beautiful, odd woman. He wanted to ask her why that phrase. What it meant to her. Because it meant a whole lot to him.

  Another time. If he wanted to do the work on her tattoo, then he better not frighten his little mouse away.

  “What else you got?”

  “I’m gonna need my arm back.” She smiled that time. Shyly, she finally looked up at him with those eyes that drew him every time. Her gaze was almost a glare, at the very least a challenge. And he found he wanted to accept her silent dare. Very badly.

  Reluctantly he let Gabby’s hand go. She pulled the shawl off her shoulder in a move he found sexy and she twisted in her seat to reveal a set of stars surrounding a sliver of moon. The work was simple and in shades of blue and gray. It was familiar although he was sure he’d never seen it before. Beautiful and obviously done by a skilled artist.

  “Wow. Who did that?” he asked and slid his finger over her satiny shoulder. Because. Because he liked seeing her shiver when he touched her. Because her glowing skin called to him. Because, because, because.

  She turned, letting her shawl move back into place, and crossed her arms against her chest, but not before he could see her hard nipples through the material of the corset. “Bob Little.”

  “No shit?” She had to know someone to get in to see the master Bob Little. A person didn’t just walk in from the street to see if there were openings. The dude was booked at least a year in advance.

  “No shit.” Her face didn’t show any emotion, but she held his gaze firmly. Almost daring him to disagree.

  “You know I gotta ask, right?”

  She shook her head. “No. You don’t.”

  “Oh come on, Gabby. No one just gets Little ink without a story to go with it.”

  “I did.” She broke eye contact and looked out on the dance floor. He watched her as she watched everyone he loved, everyone who meant something to him, dancing and drinking and having a good ole time. He sighed and his chest felt tight. What was it that was pulling at him? Was it that he couldn’t party with them anymore? Was it this strange girl?

  “Fine. But I’m not giving up.”

  She shrugged one shoulder and continued to stare at the dancers where Jax had just spun Jami so many times she was wobbly on her feet and stumbled, laughing, into his buddy’s arms. Jax kissed Jami on the nose and then climbed up on the stage behind his drum kit.

  “Is that it?”

  She turned in her chair, her legs daintily crossed at the ankles and her hands in her lap. Those cautious green eyes stared at him, taking in everything as if considering whether to continue the conversation or finally dismiss him.

  Then she nodded, a tiny tip of her chin. Perhaps she’d made her decision. “On my hip I have silhouettes of blackbirds in flight.”

  The mention of her hip and the natural instantaneous progression to envision was like sending lightning straight through his dick. He really wanted to see that tattoo. Wanted to see her slowly shimmy her hips and hike up that sexy skirt until her mysterious tattoo came into view one bird at a time. Then he’d like to trace each of the birds on her hip with his—

  “Bowen.”

  “Huh?”

  “They’re calling you,” she said.

  “Who’s calling me?”

  Jax jumped from the drum kit onstage and shouted into the mic. “Hey, Bo, you gonna play or what?” By then everyone at the reception had turned and stared at him.

  He stood and looked back at Gabby with the bossiest, sternest look he could muster and whispered loudly, “Do not leave. I mean it, Gabby, we’re still talking.”

  She rolled those gorgeous eyes of hers and crossed her arms again, but he didn’t miss the slight tremble of her hands before she tucked them in under her breasts. She didn’t say anything, but lifted her chin and pointed it toward the stage. He started walking backward in the direction of the stage and said, “I’m serious,” before turning around and stepping up onto the platform.

  The tent was open on three sides and a light breeze fluttered the gathered netting and white lights wrapped around the poles as evening finally took hold. Long strings of tiny purple lights now mingled with the white lights, giving the tent an otherworldly, magical glow. It was exactly how he would have pictured his little sister’s wedding.

  Well, unless it had been a year ago—then he would have been a totally different story and probably would have ruined her day instead of walking her down
the aisle and handing her off to the man she loved. He shuddered and pushed the thought aside. Grabbing his guitar, he threw the strap over his neck and shoulder. He loved the way everything changed, became hyper-focused, when he held his guitar or bass. Music was the one thing in his mess of a life he could control. The one thing he thought he couldn’t screw up no matter how wasted or high he got. Turned out that hadn’t been exactly true.

  He took a deep breath and looked around at his friends. Jax high-fived him before taking his spot behind the drum set again. “You got this, bro.”

  It astonished him that they actually trusted him again so soon after all the bridges he’d burned. Burned. Right, more like nuclearly incinerated. He’d been practicing with his band, Toast, for the last couple months, but he hadn’t been onstage in a very long time. It was one thing to practice with your buddies and another to get up in front of people and play. Not embarrassing yourself or your bandmates was a definite bonus. This time he wasn’t just up there with his Toast bandmates—Declan and Nathan. This time Nathan and he had joined the members of Manix Curse. And Manix Curse was no longer just a local favorite. Manix was a fucking juggernaut in the metal and hard rock world.

  He plugged his guitar into the amp and looked up in time to see a certain green-eyed hottie turn and sneak out of the tent. When Mandi started playing the opening chords to Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters,” Bowen took one last look at the empty table he’d been sitting at just minutes ago before turning to his friends, his family, and started playing on that stage.

  His conversation with Gabby would have to wait. Good thing he knew right where she lived.

  *

  The sharp knock on Gabby’s door snapped her out of the programming-induced wormhole she’d been in for at least the last hour. She glanced at the laptop’s clock before closing it—11:21 p.m. Who the hell would be at her door this late? Or ever, for that matter?