13. Tess
TESS
A fter Art drops me home, I go to bed early, confused and despondent.
What the hell is going on with him? One minute he’s acting all loved up and tearing off my clothes, and the next minute he’s pushing me away.
His reaction when I mentioned going to his place sends alarm bells warning.
Why doesn’t he want me there? The thing about the flatmate not liking him bringing people back doesn’t ring true.
Is there a chance there’s no flatmate? Is Art actually a married man, and he can’t take me home because his family is there?
He doesn’t seem like the marrying type, and I’m sure there’d be hints at him already being in a relationship—what’s to stop his wife or girlfriend coming into the shop to see him?
Surely he wouldn’t have sex with me on the stairs if he thought there was any chance whatsoever of being caught.
I don’t know, but I know something isn’t right between us again.
When he drove me back to the shop, he didn’t even kiss me goodbye.
He just muttered something about getting a new t-shirt, and then I heard the roar of his bike as he must have left again.
Something’s definitely going on with him, though I have no idea what.
I fall into a restless sleep, only for something to wake me again, not long after.
I jerk upright, my ears straining. Shit, that sounds like someone moving around downstairs. What if Art forgot to lock up the shop? Someone might have found the door open and entered the property, trying their luck for what they might find.
My heart beating hard, I slip out of bed, silently getting to my feet.
I snatch up my cell phone. Should I call the cops?
No, it might be nothing, and then I’ll look like a total idiot.
I need to make sure I actually heard something, and the noise hadn’t just been part of a dream which I brought into my waking life with me.
I realise I have no way of defending myself if I do find someone downstairs who’s up to no good.
Sneaking into the kitchen, moving on tiptoes so as not to alert anyone to there being someone upstairs, I pull open the drawers, looking for something I can use.
My fingers wrap around the solid wood of a rolling pin.
It isn’t quite a baseball bat— my weapon of choice when I’d been living in the States—but it will have to do.
I edge open my front door, and slowly, and silently, creep down the stairs.
Stopping at the door dividing the tattoo studio from the rear part of the building, which houses the stairs, a toilet, and the small room the men use as a staff room, I listen hard. I don’t hear anything. Had I been imagining things?
I put out my hand and slowly turn the handle then push it open.
Movement passes in front of me. I let out a cry, swinging the rolling pin. A hand shoots out of the dark and grabs my wrist.
“What the fuck, Tess?”
I exhale a sigh of relief. “Jesus Christ, Art! I was about to bash your head in with a rolling pin!”
“No, you weren’t. I’d already stopped you. And that’s not exactly a great use of a rolling pin. A knife would have been better.”
My eyes adjust to the gloom and I take in the sight of him standing there. “I wasn’t going to stab someone! Anyway, what the hell are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”
“I just needed to get something.”
“You did? At this time? Couldn’t it have waited until morning? You scared the crap out of me.”
I glance down and spot a rolled up sleeping bag under one arm, a toothbrush in his other hand, his feet bare. Frowning, my mind pieces things together.
“You’re sleeping here tonight?”
He gives a sharp nod. “Yeah, just for tonight.”
“Why?”
“Umm, I lost my keys.”
“But you still had the keys to the shop? Why didn’t you just call me?
You know I’d have let you stay with me if you couldn’t get into your place.
” I suddenly think of something. Had he gone home only for his wife or girlfriend to kick him out again?
Maybe they smelled my perfume on him. “Or was that difficult roommate giving you problems again?”
His face grows taut with anger. “Just stop talking for one fucking minute, Tess! I didn’t lose my keys. I’m sleeping here. I don’t have a flat to go to, or a difficult flatmate. This is where I’ve been staying for the past few months.”
I jerk back in surprise. “What? Here, at the shop?”
His gaze casts down. “No, I’ve been staying in the flat.”
“You’ve been living in the apartment? My apartment? But that wasn’t in the contract.”
His jaw tightens. “Yeah, I know that, Tess.”
“So why would you be living here? Don’t you have a place of your own?”
It dawns on me that some of the stuff we cleared out on the day I arrived had actually been his belongings rather than just junk from the shop as I’d thought.
I knew the guys had been hanging out here, but this had actually been his home.
The memory of tossing the old bed sheets turn my face crimson.
No wonder he’d been so put out at me turning up early.
He’d thought he had more time to get sorted.
I’m still confused. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“Tell some American I didn’t even know that I didn’t have anywhere to live?” He snorts. “Yeah, right.”
“But why don’t you have anywhere to live? You have your own business. Surely you can get somewhere.”
He shrugs, and I hate to see the colour in his face, knowing that just speaking about this is embarrassing him. Art isn’t the type of guy to be self-conscious, and I hate I’ve made him feel that way.
“Why do you think I couldn’t get a place, Tess?”
I shake my head, baffled.
“I lost money on the flat I was in before—there was damage that wasn’t my fault and they kept the final month’s rent and the deposit.
I didn’t have any extra cash to find a new deposit—landlords literally want thousands before you can rent in London.
Not that you need to worry about that, considering you’re on the other side of the fence. ”
My defences go up. “It’s not my fault you didn’t have anywhere to live!”
“No?”
“No! I inherited this place. I’m allowed to live here if I want to. I might have done things differently if I’d known you were already staying here.”
“Would you? You didn’t even know me. Would you really have just said, ‘hey, that’s fine, stay a few more weeks’ rent free? No problem.’”
I remember my reaction when I first met him, how he appeared rough and dangerous, with that London accent and almost permanent scowl.
If I’d found he’d been living rent-free in the place I not only owned but was also moving into, I’d have been furious and unforgiving.
I hadn’t known him back then, not like I do now.
My lips twist as I admit it. “Okay, you’re right. I wouldn’t have been happy.”
His arms fold across his chest, and I try not to be distracted by those annoyingly perfect muscles in his forearms.
“But,” I continue, “I still don’t understand why you weren’t able to just find someplace else. You have your own business and I’ve seen how busy the shop always is. It’s filled with customers. Surely you could have taken some money out of the business to find your own place?”
“There isn’t any extra money in the business. Your increase in rent didn’t help that.”
“You didn’t know about the increase in rent a few months ago.
” I frown. “I don’t get it. Why isn’t there any money from the shop?
There are always clients waiting to get work done—the place is packed.
Aren’t you booked up for weeks? I’m sure I overheard Rocco saying that to someone on the phone the other day. ”
“Yeah, we have plenty of clients,” he says, not meeting my eye.
“So why aren’t you making enough money to put a roof over your head?”
His cobalt blue gaze snaps to mine. “Is that all you care about, making money?”
His sudden anger confuses me. “No, of course not! I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on with you.”
“Nothing’s going on with me. I was doing just fine until you showed up. You’re the one who came along and messed everything up.”
Tears of anger and frustration fill my eyes. I don’t know why he’s being like this. “I’m sorry, I just felt bad that you didn’t have anywhere to stay.”
“I don’t need you feeling sorry for me. I’m more than capable of looking after myself.”
He turns and storms away, leaving me standing there, doing my best not to cry, and failing.
T he following day, I linger at the doorway of my flat, watching down the stairs. Only, it isn’t Art I’m looking out for.
Finally, one of the other men who work in the shop emerges, crossing the bottom of the stairs. I recognise the shaved head and scruff of beard.
I lean out of my door and hiss at him. “Hey, Rocco! Have you got a minute?”
He turns to me with a smile. “Sure, Tess. What’s up?”
I jerk my head back into my apartment. “Up here.”
He frowns slightly, but doesn’t question me, instead climbing the stairs to join me.
I shut the door, enclosing us both inside the apartment. I turn to Rocco. “I might be completely out of line here, but I’m worried about Art.”
His frown deepens. “Art? Why? Art can look after himself.”
“Yeah, I know, but I hate the idea of him being homeless, and I kind of feel responsible, even though I had no idea he was living here. But now I’ve moved in and basically thrown him out, even though I didn’t know...”
I’m rambling and Rocco lifts a hand to stop me.
“Just wind back a minute. What do you mean he’s homeless?”
“Oh, shit. You didn’t know?”
He rubs his hand over his scruff. “No, of course not.”
“He says he’s broke and can’t afford to rent anywhere, but how can that be when the shop is packed and he’s booking up clients months in advance?” I hate myself a little for telling him this. Art won’t be happy about me giving away his secrets—he’s too proud for his own good—but I need the truth.
Rocco glances away, remaining silent, his teeth digging into his lip.
I point a finger. “You know something, don’t you?”