Good Girl Gone
Page 4

“Thank you for the invitation, but you’re not quite my type.”
His gaze hardens. “I was your type a few hours ago.”
“I was drunk.”
He nods and pushes himself into the other room. He turns on the sports station on the TV. I follow him, because now I feel bad, taking my cup of coffee with me.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He looks up for no more than a second. “For what?”
“For inconveniencing you.”
“I got to hold a beautiful woman for hours. I consider it a fair trade.”
“It wasn’t fair,” I complain. “It was rude and inconsiderate.”
He shakes his head. “No, rude and inconsiderate is telling me I’m not your type. You don’t even know me.”
“You think you’re my type?”
He shakes his head again. “I don’t think you are my type.”
Well, that’s irritating. “Why not?”
His eyes roam up and down my body slowly. “You’re a little high maintenance.”
“I am not high maintenance!”
“Yes, you are.”
I set my coffee mug on the end table. “Take that back.”
He snorts. “What are you? Twelve?”
“I am not high maintenance,” I grumble. “I just like to look nice.”
Like he can judge my appearance when he has tattoos on his face.
“Stop looking at my teardrops,” he says.
“Well, they’re right there on your face.” He has a cluster of teardrops tattooed right below the outside corner of his eye. “What possessed you to get a tattoo on your face?” I blurt out.
His gaze drops to my boobs and he stares at them.
“Stop looking at my boobs!”
He smirks at me. “Well, they’re right there on your chest.”
“Nature gave me these.” I look down and realize I’m holding them. I drop my hands and heat creeps up my cheeks. “I didn’t put them there.”
He fingers his cheek. “Nature gave me these too.” He looks away from me and suddenly he’s way too serious for comfort.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that sometimes you can’t get away from your past, no matter how fast you run.” He swipes a finger across his teardrops again. “They’re a reminder of things I can’t change.” His eyes meet mine and I feel it deep in the center of me. His gaze narrows. “So, what set you off last night?” he asks. He looks all jovial and shit. But I get the impression he’s setting me up. “Boyfriend dump you?”
I shake my head.
“Did your new single get a bad review?”
I shake my head again.
“Your past catch up with you?”
I nod.
He shifts and moves to the couch. He pats the space beside him. “Come here and tell me everything.”
“No, thank you.”
“You licked my neck earlier. I think you owe me.” He tugs at the collar of his shirt. “I think you might have given me a hickey. Come and check it for me.”
Now I’m curious because I don’t remember giving him a hickey. I settle on my knees beside him and tug on his shirt collar. “You do not have a hickey.” I slap his shoulder. Suddenly, he snakes an arm around my waist and yanks me down beside him. He flips me over and I’m on my back with my head on his lap. I try to get up, but he flings an arm across my chest. “This isn’t funny.” I struggle against his hold.
“Talk to me, Star.” His voice is strong and firm, and it stops me cold. Well, stops me warm. Hell, it just stops me.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” he asks softly. “Because I look like a thug? Thugs have hearts too.” Looking up at him, I realize he’s really handsome. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before. His hair is dark and cropped close to his head and he has a five o’clock shadow that I want to scratch at with my fingernails. His lips are full and red and his face is soft as he gazes at me. He looks so hard the rest of the time.
“Am I hurting your legs?” I ask. Then I realize that’s a dumb question and I wince.
He chuckles. “I can’t feel my legs, so I wouldn’t know.”
“You can’t feel anything?”
“My issue wasn’t my spinal cord. I broke my back. So, sometimes I can feel my toes. And I have some phantom pain, occasionally. But there’s not enough motor control for me to walk.” He suddenly looks uncomfortable and I’m sorry I asked.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
His hand hovers over me. “Can I touch you?” he asks. His voice is as soft as his pillow was earlier.
I freeze. “Where?”
He takes a deep breath. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “I like touching you.” He lays his hand on my stomach, on top of my shirt. He’s not being weird or anything. “I forgot how nice it was touching someone. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until you climbed in my lap last night. I never wanted to let you get up.”
“Oh.” His hand moves up and down my belly with my breaths. But he’s comfortable and he’s just resting his palm there. I lay my hand over his. “How long has it been?”
He scratches the top of his head with his free hand. “Since before my accident.”
“When was that?”