Rock Chick Regret
Page 54

Boy, my plans never really worked out, did they?
“Okay,” I agreed.
He didn’t grin, look amused or glory in his triumph. He pushed up, kissed the top of my head then slid away.
I sat up, holding the blanket to my front and watched as he walked across to a dresser, pulled open a drawer and yanked something out.
I stared in fascination at his brown-skinned, muscled back. It had a tattoo too, this one on his right shoulder blade, bigger than the other one. It was a skull, wearing an elaborate crown, its grinning teeth clenching a beautiful rose. The skull and crown were all in black, the petals and stem of the rose, though, were in full, striking color. Although I was no tattoo expert, I had an art degree so I felt safe in saying the rose was exquisite, you could see the artist had taken their time and they were skilled at their craft, it was, quite simply, stunning.
It was way cooler then the broken heart.
He slammed the drawer, turned and walked back to me. He gave me a white t-shirt, wrapped his hand around the back of my head, leaned in and kissed the top again. Then he walked away, went to another drawer, got something else and headed to the door.
He stopped, put his hand to the knob and looked at me. “Get changed, mamita, I’ll call the boys and I’ll be back.”
I nodded again, he closed the door and I heard the floorboards creak as he walked away.
I stared at the doors and rewound the evening wondering how I got myself in this latest predicament. Without lemon drops to blame (I had diet with my spicy beef burrito), I could only blame the power tools.
Now what normal girl got turned on by power tools? I was so weird!
Then I realized he could be back any second. It didn’t take a year to call Ralphie and Buddy.
I threw the blanket back, tugged on the t-shirt (which was huge on me, by the way), undid my bra underneath it and squirmed and contorted until I pulled it off. I snatched up my clothes, folding them, my bra between my shirt and skirt, I put them on the dresser and dashed back to the bed which, I noticed belatedly, was unmade. I rearranged the pillows that were slightly scattered but partially stacked so that they were evenly placed. I sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, pulled the covers up around my waist, tucked them tightly around me and I stared at the door.
When it didn’t open immediately, I looked around the room.
I noticed a dresser, closet (one door open, one Hispanic Hottie that clearly hadn’t been taught how to properly hang clothes), boots and running shoes scattered against one wall and a laundry hamper overflowing in a corner.
Incongruous to the room, an expensive, flat screen TV sat on a handsome, dark wood, heavy, masculine TV stand that rested at the wall opposite the bed. It had electronic equipment and stacks of DVDs on display on shelves underneath it.
Boy, g*y or straight, rich or poor, men really liked their TVs.
The room hadn’t been refinished. The once utilitarian cream of the walls was grubby, the white skirting boards chipped, the wood floors notched and needing sanding and refinishing.
Did a man bring a woman to such a room? Such a house?
If that man was Hector, a real man who didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him, the answer was yes.
My stomach pitched and it hit me for the first time just how profound it was what Ricky took from me.
Because a normal, free New Sadie, fresh from a life under her father’s thumb, should have had a different end to a “just the two of us” date with Hector.
On that dismal thought, the door opened and Hector was there.
He was carrying his clothes and boots and wearing a pair of pajama pants, a thick, navy elastic band at the waist, plaid flannel legs. The thing was, he’d cut them off at mid-thigh (and, to be honest, had not done a great job) so the hems were ragged, they looked like they’d been worn about five million times and the waist hung low so I could see his defined abs and hip bones.
Oh my blooming my.
His head came up, he saw me sitting in his bed, his body jolted to a halt like he’d hit a wall and he froze.
I blinked.
Now, really, how bizarre was that?
I stared at him. He stared at me.
The way he was looking at me made me feel funny, really funny, seriously funny (but in a good way), so I blurted, “Is everything okay with Ralphie and Buddy?”
His chin jerked back, he came unstuck, walked to the laundry hamper and answered my question with a, “Yeah.”
I watched him move. He moved well.
I tried to stop thinking about how well he moved.
“Um…” I muttered. “Isn’t it kind of early to go to bed?”
And it was early, at the latest nine.
“Yeah,” he said and dumped some clothes on the hamper. They immediately tumbled off the top and fell on the floor. He apparently didn’t notice this. He twisted and tossed his boots into the pile by the wall. I watched them sail and land with a thump.
Then my eyes went back to him, I caught the crowned skull again before he turned and came to the side of the bed.
“Should we watch TV or something?” I suggested.
He was carrying his jeans. His eyes came to me as he dropped his cell on the bedside table and then emptied his pockets.
There was something immensely weird but very lovely, snugly, comfy, warm about sitting in his bed and watching Hector empty the pockets of his jeans. Before I could plumb the depths of this weird, lovely, snugly, comfy, warm feeling, Hector spoke.
“Yeah,” he said again, his eyes lazy on me and that made me feel weird, lovely, comfy warm too!
“Do you have to move furniture around?” I asked him. “Because, if you do, I can help.”
A glamorous smile hit his mouth and my breath caught. “Move furniture around?”
“You know, downstairs.”
He laughed softly, shook his head and jutted his chin to the wall. My eyes moved to where he was indicating.
Oh boy. We were going to watch TV in Hector’s bed.
This was not good. In fact, how was I here at all? Why did I agree to this?
I rewound the night frantically (even though I’d done the same thing only moments before), it came back to me in a humiliating rush and I swallowed.
I was there for a reason and there I had agreed to stay.
Blooming heck.
“What if we want popcorn? We can’t eat popcorn in your bed,” I told him, sounding maybe an eensy bit desperate.
He twisted, I got a look at the King of Skulls on his back shoulder again, he tossed his jeans in the general direction of the hamper (they hit the target but also rolled off and fell to the floor and he didn’t care about that either). Then before I knew what he was about, he’d turned around, doubled at the waist and put his fists into the bed, close to my thighs.