Chapter 22 Naomi #2
We stand there for a beat too long, the air between us crackling with hot static.
"Wanna get a drink before dinner?" Ty finally asks, gesturing to the bar with a tilt of his head.
I bite my lip, thinking of all the times I've seen Adri hanging around here. "I’m not sure that’s a good idea." I glance over my shoulder as if my brother might materialize out of nowhere.
Ty raises an eyebrow, curious. "You hiding from someone?"
I fidget, feeling like an idiot. "Adri's here a lot."
"Ah, got it." Pause. "Wanna drive to Palm Springs?"
I take a breath, forcing myself to say the words. "I got a room."
"A room?" One eyebrow punches up. "I only asked you out to get a meal and talk." He smiles—that crooked grin that always did me in. Still does.
"Well, my brother isn’t exactly fond of you.
If he sees us or if someone tells him, I’ll never hear the end of it.
Plus, you’ll be in real danger. I need to figure this out myself.
Without his involvement. And I’m not comfortable with us being out in public.
I’m sure you know why. And most people ignore casino no photo or video rule when see a celeb. "
Ty chuckles. "Celebrity status might be pushing it a bit."
"Who said I was talking about you," I huff out.
"Fair enough." He nods, understanding entering his blue eyes. "Sucks to be on the TMZ radar."
I shake my head. "I was kidding, you dummy."
He offers me a small smile. Then there’s another awkward moment of silence between us.
"It’s on the fifth floor," I blurt out and turn toward the bank of elevators.
"Lead the way," Ty says, falling into step beside me as I start walking.
We’re the only ones there waiting for the cabin to come down. It’s empty when it arrives and no one else approaches to get on, and that makes me happy. I don’t want to be seen with Tyler Brady going up to a suit inside the Sageview Casino.
We stand clumsily apart until the doors close.
The ride stretches out, neither of us talking, but the quiet is charged. It's like we're both waiting to see who'll make the first move.
And then Tyler whips out his hand and stabs the red button.
The cabin stops moving with a tiny mechanical squeal.
"What the hell, Ty?" I turn to face him, a little shocked.
He doesn’t reply. He takes a step in my direction. Both hands cradle my cheeks, and then he kisses me. Hard and demanding.
I’m too stunned to react, too lost in the moment of this sudden physical intimacy with him. My body is abuzz, filled with thousands of tiny sparks. My cheeks burn from his touch, gentle but firm. Such a strange, overwhelming combination.
My feet falter and I lose my balance, then stumble and almost fall back. He quickly snakes one arm around my waist and pushes me against the wall.
I don’t know what’s going on anymore.
His kiss is deep, insistent, a mix of old and new that has my heart racing. I kiss him back like I've been waiting forever, my fingers tangling in his hair. It’s wrong, and it’s not what I wanted to do, but that’s what happens because my traitorous body can't control itself in his presence.
"Wow, you’re not wasting time," I breathe out when we pull apart to get some air, but he shuts me up with another kiss.
Our lips can’t seem to get enough of each other, our tongues chasing the high, our hands touching and fingers brushing. This kind of intensity—mind-numbing and all-consuming—only happens when I’m with him.
"Ty," I whisper eventually, shoving him back gently. "This is a public elevator."
"It’s not if no one can see us," he supplies as he leans close to my ear, his voice a little raspy.
"I’m serious."
"You always are, Nomes."
Gosh, he hasn’t called me that since high school.
My knees almost give out from the onslaught of memories.
I hate it and I love it, and I have no idea what to do with it.
So, I do the one thing a woman in my situation probably shouldn’t—I reach into my purse and pull out my lipstick.
Because now it’s definitely smudged, and it’s a pretty dark shade, so anyone seeing me like this will know what caused this mess on my mouth.
The elevator’s still stopped, and Tyler’s still pressing himself to me like a blanket. I swallow, brush my index finger over my bottom lip, then apply the lipstick while looking at my reflection in the glossy elevator wall.
"What are you doing?" he asks, reaching for a loose strand of hair to tuck behind my ear. His fingers linger for a moment on my earring.
"Can’t you see?" I avoid looking at him. "Trying to cover up the traces of you."
"I thought we were past that phase," he husks out cockily.
I meet his gaze, but I have to tilt my head back a little to be able to face him head-on. That height—it’s always been a turn-on. The Medinas are a tall family. Being a few inches above almost everyone—including boys—in middle school really drove me nuts. And then Tyler moved in next door.
"I don’t know if you realize, but I did get a room to talk because I don’t want people to see us together," I tell him flatly.
"You said that already."
"And you’re not getting it, are you?"
Tyler takes my wrist with one hand and then attempts to pluck the lipstick from me with the other hand. I squeeze the tube, not willing to give it to him.
He cracks a smug smile.
Asshole.
And I can almost taste the audacity in the air. It's bitter with a hint of irony and smells like trouble wrapped in expensive cologne.
The cabin buzzes softly with tension, as if expecting us to explode into laughter or an argument at any moment. But not today—I'm holding my ground on this one.
This silent lipstick battle lasts maybe a few seconds, where both he and I wrestle for the tube, and then I get the upper hand and yank it away from him.
"You win," he whispers.
"I sure do." I bring the lipstick to his lips and paint it all over them.
Tyler’s dead frozen, with his mouth now the color of merlot. It’s not my best work, but that wasn’t my intention. I don’t know what it was—maybe my desire to own that rockstar persona of his that he hid behind all those years.
I have to confess, when I found out Tyler Brady was picked to replace Chance Hollowell from The Deviant, I was conflicted. He wasn’t a drinker. He was from a good family. He hated scandals and TMZ. He cared about music, not about theatrics. He was much younger than the rest of the guys in the band.
He didn’t fit in.
But the first time I saw him in all black with his face covered up by makeup, I had this strange gut feeling that he was finally in the right place.
After that, his career took off. People talked about what a refreshing addition newcomer Tyler Brady was to the band, how their management made a smart decision by picking an unknown guitarist so he could build up his own character and not use the shattered legacy of a dead man.
And now, all these years later, Tyler Brady is standing right in front of me, his lips covered in lipstick and his eyes wide and wandering, and I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to get over him. I don’t want to ignore the emotions inside my chest.
"You want this?" he rasps, pointing at his lips, his eyes never leaving mine. "The version of me that everyone else knows?"
My pulse is a loud whoosh in my ears, and I reach up to place my thumb on the corner of his mouth. The lipstick drags on over his skin as I brush it up his face toward the middle of his cheek.
He doesn’t move. He just stands there watching me as I make the merlot grin symmetrical by moving my thumb from his lips to his other cheek.
He’s got that weird clown-like mouth now that shouldn’t be sexy at all.
It is on him.
It’s how I saw him for years, on TV and online and on all the posters.
"You’re the only woman allowed to do that," he chokes out.
"I don’t need your permission to do things," I come back.
He smirks, swings around, presses the buttons again, and the elevator starts moving.
We almost miss our floor, stumbling out of the elevator and down the hall like teenagers. I fumble with the key card, my hands shaking with sick nerves.
When we finally enter the room and he turns on one of the lamps in the corner, I can no longer contain my laugh.
"You look ridiculous."
"And you love it." He tosses his jacket on the couch while scanning the room. Then he disappears into what seems to be the bathroom while I walk over to the minibar. I’m not a big drinker, but I need something to settle my nerves.
"You still like those wine coolers?" Tyler asks, reappearing moments later. He’s rubbing his lips with a makeup remover, which I assume could be the compliments of the Sageview Ridge Casino resort management team. Koda did think through everything.
"Actually, I haven’t had one in a while," I say, twisting the cap off a glass bottle with a strawberry-flavored drink.
"Remember how you used to steal them from your mother?"
"Yeah. She loved them." I take a small sip and let the alcohol do its magic. "What about you?" I watch him rummage through the minibar as he reads the labels. "Still not much of a drinker?"
"Not really." He finally settles on some brand of beer I’ve never seen. He pops the cap off and takes a swig.
"Refreshing?" I ask.
"Yep."
Our eyes meet.
"So is that why you got a room?" he finally asks. "To drink with me?"
"You can order room service if you’re hungry."
"I’m fine. You?"
"I’m fine too. I’m around food all day."
Anxiety aside, I’m tired. I’ve been on my feet since lunch, so I’d like to sit down.
I don’t know why I sit on the bed with my feet tucked beneath me.
There are two chairs and a couch. Still, I choose the bed.
Maybe because it looks comfortable, or maybe because, deep down, I already know what will happen.
I’m clearly not thinking straight. Or with my brain.
Ty makes it impossible to think in general.
"So?" I speak.
"So what?"
"Why did you insist on having dinner?"