11. Wolf
I don’t know why I agreed to come into the building, follow her up to her apartment, and ride in a metal deathtrap elevator, but here I am, doing shit I never should have agreed to. Not because I don’t want to, but because it feels too good to be in this awkward, intelligent, beautiful woman’s presence.
I keep reminding myself that I’ve got too much going on in my life and that she’s at the stage where she’s figuring her shit out, while I’m in the season of settling down. It doesn’t stop me from leaning in and smelling the vanilla perfume that lingers under the sticky-sweet chocolate, nor does it stop me from mapping the freckles on the back of her neck where my jacket meets her skin.
I open my mouth to ask how she’s doing after her first bike ride when the elevator doors open, and two guys step inside. They reek of weed and sweat, and I feel Serena press her body against mine, the only place she can go to get further away from their presence and stench.
“Hey, Serena,” one of them says with an appreciative look over Serena’s form. She moves impossibly closer to me.
“Hi.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“You ever going to come down and hang out with me? We had fun the last time.”
“Mhm, yeah. I, uh,” she stammers, sounding like she has no idea how to string two words together. “Have you met Wolf? He’s a tattoo artist.” I jolt back in surprise at her introduction, not just because why the fuck is she introducing me to some random guy, but also because she introduced me as an artist and not an MMA fighter.
Both guys turn to look at me, and I watch as their eyes widen, the realization of who I am slackening their features. “Holy fuck, you’re Wolf McCleery,” one of the guys says. I don’t bother responding because they know who I am, and it’s not like there are many other six-foot-six gingers covered in muscles and tattoos.
To deny would be useless, and to confirm would be a waste of words.
“Holy shit, I saw your fight against Guero last year. You were fucking epic. Can I have your autograph, man?” I look down at Serena, whose back is plastered to my chest like a coward, and scowl at the attention she’s called to me. The fight against Victor “The Warrior” Guero, a bloodbath that had both Vic and me stitched up and bruised, was the fight that convinced me to retire. I won—barely—but had to cancel all of my tattoo appointments for three weeks while my body recovered from the brutality of the match.
Turning my attention back to the guys who are both annoying and high as fuck, I grumble, “I don’t have a pen or sheet of paper, man. Sorry about that.” The elevator doors open with another group of people waiting to be let on, and I don’t hesitate. Grabbing Serena’s hand, I pull her out of the elevator and into the hall.
“Wolf, this isn’t my floor,” she says behind me, her hand still clasped in mine. I look down at our connection and curse, dropping it like it’s burned me.
I won’t linger on how soft and delicate her hand felt in mine. And I definitely won’t think about how she looks like she’s about to fall over in those heels that make her legs look endless.
“What floor are you on?”
“Twelve. This is…” She pauses, peering behind her to read the floor plaque. “This is the sixth floor. We have six floors to go. Should we go back to the elevator or…?” Her voice trails off, uncertainty threaded through her words, and I shake my head, rejecting her question.
“No, we’re using the stairs. That moron couldn’t decide if he wanted to be a creep to you or beg to suck my cock like an obsessed fan. I’m not in the mood to deal with idolatry tonight. Can you walk?” I don’t miss how she wobbles in her shoes or walks with a slow gait as though she can’t get her balance.
Red coats her cheeks, and she looks down at her feet. “My ankle hurts a little from when I fell. I don’t think I noticed it before because I had so much adrenaline, but now it’s a little sore. I’ll be fine, though.”
Following her gaze, I see that her right ankle and foot are slightly swollen. “I’m going to pick you up. It’ll be faster than watching you struggle down the hall and up the stairs.”
“No, you don’t need to—” Her words are cut off as I bend down to scoop her up and cradle her against my chest. She struggles in my hold. “Wolf, I can walk. Please put me down.”
“No.” My legs eat up the distance between the hallway and the stairwell door. Lifting my foot, I kick the door and stride up the stairs, practically running up until I reach the door that reads “Twelve.”
“Can you get the handle?” I ask Serena, bending my knees until she’s able to reach the knob. Once we’re through the doorway and stepping onto the stained carpet of the hallway, she speaks up.
“You can let me down now. My apartment is the first door on the left; it’s right here.” She motions with her hand. “Really, I’m fine. I promise.” I grunt in response, not fully believing her, but place her feet gently on the floor before stepping away.
I watch her closely as she hobbles to her door, limping slightly as though she’s trying to hide her pain. Without inserting a key, code, or card, she presses her door lever and walks inside.
“Did you just open your door without a key?” I call from behind her, following her into her small apartment and shutting the door behind me. I reach for the lock and twist it, making sure that there’s no chance of someone getting in from the outside.
She turns to look at me and furrows her brow. “You look angry.”
“Answer the fucking question, princess.”
She swallows, an audible gulp that lends sound to the silence of her apartment. “I want to say no, but that would be a lie. And I feel like lying to you would make you madder than the truth, so I’ll tell you the truth, even though you’ll be mad at that, too.”
I shake my head at her words. “Serena, can you just answer the question without adding more syllables than necessary?”
“Oh, right. Okay. Yes, but this apartment building is very safe. There have been no break-ins or robberies. It’s fine.”
I run a hand down my face, groaning at her response. “For someone who is supposed to be a fucking genius, you’re a goddamn idiot if you think leaving your apartment door open in the middle of the night is safe. What kind of bullshit is that?”
“I-I,” she starts, looking at the floor and stumbling over her words.
“No, save your excuses; it’s fucking stupid. Go wash that shit off your body. I’ll wait until you’re done, and then I’ll head out.”
She moves her gaze from the hardwood to my face, biting on her lower lip as she examines me. I feel my body stiffen at her expression, and I clench my jaw to keep the blood from rushing to my groin.
“Can I wash you?” she murmurs, and I cough, sure I didn’t hear her correctly.
“What?” I rasp out.
Her eyes widen, the golden irises glowing in the dull lamplight of the apartment. “Oh my God. I meant your clothes. Not you. I don’t want to wash you. I mean, if you needed help, I could.” She groans, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head as though to collect her thoughts. “I mean your sweatshirt. It’s covered in chocolate, and I feel bad because you went to that party to help me.” She gestures down her body to the syrup smeared all over her torso. Without my permission, my eyes trail over her.
Fucking hell.
“It’s fine, I’m going home.” The last goddamn thing I need is to be naked in Serena’s apartment while she’s wet.
“Please, I would feel so much better if you would let me take care of your clothes. Maybe you can shower first, and I’ll hand wash your things and then throw them in the dryer.” She stops to look at me with her big, expressive eyes, and I know at this moment that I’m a fucking goner. “Please, Wolf. Let me take care of it.”
Bringing my hand to my face, I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger and close my eyes. There is no question I should say no. I performed my service toward Celeste and made sure Serena left the party and got home safely; nothing and no one is forcing me to stay here.
So, despite the knowledge that I should abso-fucking-lutely go home and finish prepping for my clients this weekend, I find myself saying, “Okay. But I don’t need a shower; just give me a washcloth, and I’ll wash this shit from my face.”
Holding out her hand, Serena steps forward, so close that her cinnamon and vanilla smell invades my senses. “Give me your sweatshirt, and I’ll wash it.”
“Let me see to your ankle and battle scars first,” I respond, gesturing to her myriad of cuts, scrapes, bruises, and swollen body parts.
Her blush is instant, and she backs away as though I’m about to throw her over my shoulder and force first aid down her throat. “It’ll just take a minute, and then I’ll put some antiseptic on my elbows, but just—” She wriggles her fingers and jerks her arm in a “give me” motion. “Please, just give me your shirt.”
“You’re letting me do more than put hydrogen peroxide on those lacerations. But fine, you want to wash my sweatshirt so fucking badly, here.” Gripping the bottom of my gray sweatshirt, I drag it over my head until I’m left in a T-shirt with my sleeves on full display. I watch her face as I hand her the article of clothing and take notice of the attention she’s paying to my forearms. It’s early February, the weather is cold, and most people would leave the house in a winter jacket, but I can’t have my mobility restricted while riding my bike. Had I known how the night would end, I would have brought my truck to the event tonight.
Diverting her eyes, Serena unzips my leather jacket and shrugs it off before heading into her small kitchen.
“I won’t get too much water on the leather, but I want to wipe off the lining and the stains on your jacket. Your sweatshirt doesn’t seem too bad, and I don’t think the stains set yet, so it shouldn’t take long to get it out.” I expect her to walk to her sink, but instead, she walks to a small closet and carefully opens the louver door. On one side of the closet is the most disorganized pantry I have ever seen, with cans, bottles, and bags shoved in with no regard to functionality or order. On the other side is a stacked washer and dryer and ironing board that looks like it’s about to fall and hit her in the face.
I must be a fucking psychic because as soon as thoughts about the ironing board leave my head, I see the dilapidated piece of shit start to come down.
“For fuck’s sake, Serena,” I huff out, lifting my arm to catch the board before it hits her on the forehead.
“Thanks, that board won’t stay put.”
“It’s shoved in there, maybe have some organization. Christ, this closet looks like a tornado blew through it.” She spins away from me, but not before I see the twist of her lips and the redness bloom on her cheeks.
“‘Organized chaos,’ my mom calls it. To anyone else, they would see this closet and think that I have no semblance of organization, but I know where everything is. It may look messy, but for me, it’s functional. I have the cans of tomatoes next to the rice and canned vegetables and the cereals next to my protein bars. My snacks are thrown in by sweet and savory categories, and the containers of broth are just shoved in wherever they fit because I didn’t have much room remaining.”
“And the ironing board?”
She huffs, and I watch her shoulders drop. “No one likes a smart ass.”
I can’t help but laugh as I watch her get to work on cleaning my clothing. Pulling out a spray bottle and a bar that looks like soap and smells like lemons, she sprays the stains and begins scrubbing the fabric with an aggression that concerns me.
“Please, go take care of yourself. This will be done in a minute, and I promise, I feel okay,” she tosses over her shoulder, not breaking her cleaning frenzy. “The bathroom is the first door on the right. Towels and washcloths are in the closet inside the bathroom, and there’s soap in the shower and another one under the sink in the vanity. If you decide to shower, the water takes a few to heat up, so don’t be alarmed that it stays cold for roughly six minutes and thirty-four seconds.”
I raise my eyebrow. “Have you timed it?”
She pauses in her ministrations. “Uh, no?”
“I’m not taking a shower. Don’t worry if the stains don’t come out; I have six sweatshirts that look the same, and I can give two shits if I have to throw this one away.” I leave her in the kitchen/laundry room and make my way to the bathroom. Unlike her bizarre directions to her apartment building, these instructions are easy enough to follow, and I find myself locked behind a surprisingly dark bathroom. While the rest of her apartment is a study in bright, light colors mixed with neutrals, the bathroom boasts dark gray walls, a heavy mahogany vanity, and chipped black tiles inside the slim shower stall.
I scowl at the construction, knowing damn well that a man of my size could barely fit one leg and his dick inside that shower without feeling claustrophobic. As it is, bending down in this miniature bathroom makes me feel like a bull in an antique shop, and I have to contort my body not to hit my head or knock anything over on the shelves next to the vanity mirror.
Opening the vanity, I push aside feminine hygiene products, hair shit, and spare rolls of toilet paper. Just like in her pantry, the interior of this cabinet looks like a bomb exploded, and I try not to reorganize the mess that she claims is a form of organization.
But I can’t help it; there’s no rationale behind the placement of the contents, and my organized brain can’t handle the disorder. Within five minutes, I have neat little rows lined up like soldiers beneath the sink and a bullshit first aid kit placed on the Formica countertop. She must have just two band-aids and expired hydrogen peroxide in the way of medical supplies. Shaking my head, I pull out my phone to place an online order for the local pharmacy, stocking up on shit she should have in her home kit: bacitracin, ibuprofen, hydrogen peroxide, gauze, alcohol swabs, and other basic necessities that seem to be unimportant to Serena. I pay extra for expedited delivery and stuff my phone back into my pocket before glancing up at the mirror. I take in my appearance and can’t help the scowl that comes to my face.
What the fuck am I doing here, playing doctor with Serena while she plays house with my clothes? I need to get my shit, get the fuck out of here, and forget about the pretty girl with the sad eyes and chaotic categorization. And I still have chocolate syrup on my goddamn face.
“Fucking college,” I grunt before turning the faucet on. If my cousin were here, she’d probably tell me I’m acting like an old, grumpy man. But who hosts a party and thinks to themselves, Let me make every person in my vicinity as uncomfortable and disgusting as possible while wasting as many food products as I can?
Grabbing the hypoallergenic body wash from the cabinet, I squeeze a drop in my hand and massage until suds form. I use the unscented soap to scrub the stickiness from my skin and sigh in relief when no trace of chocolate remains.
“Wait for her to clean herself up, get the shit from the pharmacy, clean her wounds, and get the fuck home,” I mutter. “Get the fuck out of this apartment and stop organizing cabinets and obsessing over the smell of a woman we barely fucking know.” Nodding to myself, I grab the band-aids, pull open the bathroom door, and take long strides back to the kitchen. I’m not surprised that Serena is no longer bent over the washing machine, tending to my shirt. But I am surprised to find her clean and dressed in a black tank top and oversized sweatpants. There must be another bathroom in this small apartment, and I must have taken longer to right her cabinets than I thought. She’s facing away from me, reaching up to a mess of a cupboard to grab God knows what.
My gaze trails over her back until it gets to the top of the flimsiest fucking shirt I’ve ever seen. I’m praying that there’s some kind of built-in bra in the front because the material looks thin, and I don’t think my willpower is strong enough to resist glancing at her tits if her nipples are front and center. My gaze moves from her clothing to her skin, and a sliver of black teases me from the center of her back.
What the hell is that? Leaning closer, I see a small patch of inflamed skin and wonky linework, like an inexperienced apprentice stabbed her back with ink and continued the piece, even after her skin rejected the application. The ink and infection seem too fresh for it to have been an older piece, and I’d bet my ass she got a botched tattoo within the last few days.
“What the fuck is on your back?” I growl, my voice taking on an edge I usually reserve for the cage.
She stops reaching for whatever it is she is searching for and settles back on flat feet. Turning around slowly, I don’t miss the wince on her face—either from pain or discomfort at my question—but I’m too angry to care.
From where I’m standing, it looks like a tattoo artist ruined a canvas with no regard for the person—the young, beautiful person—who would have to carry it around like a fucking shackle for the rest of their life.
Serena clears her throat and folds her hands in front of her waist, like a child about to be scolded by the principal. “I got a tattoo.”
“No fucking shit, you got a tattoo. Where? When? I saw a piece of the infection and shitty application, so don’t even pretend that it’s a fucking masterpiece.”
“Royal Ink, on Lexington and Fisher Blvd.”
I jerk back as if slapped. “You went to a fucking gang parlor for ink? You realize DeSilva provides the initiation tattoos for the Bógar and Killet crews, right? You could have been in there with fucking members who wouldn’t think twice about taking advantage of a pretty girl in a vulnerable situation. What were you thinking?”
“I—”
Shaking my head, I cut her off. “Save it. I’m not trying to be a dick, but you put yourself in danger for a tattoo you could have waited for. And from the little I’ve seen, your impatience wasn’t worth it. I fucking told you to call the shop when you decided. Why did you rush it?”
She drops her hands and forms fists at her side like she’s getting ready to hit me for my comments.
“Because I didn’t want to wait. When you refused—no, you had your chance to speak, do not interrupt me. When you refused, I decided to go elsewhere to have it done. The only shop with availability was Royal Ink, so I made an appointment and went. No, to your asinine question, I had no idea that it was affiliated with gang tattoos. I’m not a moron and would never willingly put myself in danger.” She sucks in a breath, shaking her head vehemently. “My God, you act like all tattoo parlors are dens of iniquity and depravity, as though you don’t own one yourself. Yes, I went and got a tattoo that I had to stop because of the incredible amount of pain and the sketchiness of the establishment. No, you cannot order me around or dictate to me like you’re anything other than my friend’s cousin. So kindly see yourself out so that I don’t need to kick you out.”
My eyes widen at her speech, shocked at her words. Shaking my head, I clear the surprise and order, “No. Turn around.”
Her eyes narrow into slits at my words, and she laughs without humor. “‘No?’ You don’t have the right to tell me no. Get the hell out of my apartment.”
“No. I’m sorry for being a dick, but I know you’re in pain, and I know that your tattoo is a fucking hack job, and both of those things piss me off. Now, turn around and pull up your shirt so that I can take a look at the damage.”
She stares at me, her stunning face pinched in a mixture of annoyance and contemplation, before responding to my order. “The only reason I’m doing this is because it hurts, and nothing seems to be helping.”
“If you’re using the hydrogen peroxide in your hall bathroom, it’s water now, so there’s no surprise that it didn’t do shit.”
“Stop being a jerk—” Her voice cuts off at the sound of her doorbell. Her brows furrow as she asks, “Did you order something?”
Pulling out my phone, I check the delivery app to make sure that the items I ordered arrived. “Yeah, shit for your first aid kit because you have less useful things than in a kid’s doctor bag.” I leave her silently fuming in the kitchen and go to the front door to retrieve my purchase. Walking back into the kitchen, I hold the bag up and lift my other hand, twisting my fingers for her to turn around.
“Insufferable jabroni,” she mumbles but follows my silent command and turns until her back is facing me. Grasping the hem of her shirt, I open my mouth to tell her she doesn’t need to take her top off but clench my jaw when I see the fucked-up wings of butterflies from her right hip to the center of her back as she whips her shirt off. There aren’t many insects on her body, but what’s there is fucking terrible. Her skin is puckered and red, and obvious infection aside, the tattoo looks like shit. The lines of each butterfly are shaky, and I can spot more than one blowout among the four illustrations.
“Fucking hell, princess. What did they do to you?”
She goes quiet at my words, no longer mumbling insults at me. “I know,” she breathes out so quietly that I almost don’t hear it. I drop the bag on her peninsula island and walk up to her, taking a closer look at the redness covering her skin.
“My shop can fix the work, but we need to get you healed first. Let me take care of your open wounds right now, and then I’ll see how I can help with the healing process for the infection. I’m warning you, Serena…” I reach out and grab her jaw, turning her face until her profile is in view, and she can look up to meet my eyes. Her expression is pained, and I grind my teeth, anger bleeding into my motions. Tightening my hand on her jaw slightly, I continue, “If these don’t heal with topical ointment, you will need to go to the doctor and get an antibiotic. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to help, but you need to take care of this before it worsens. Do not wear tight clothes, keep the areas of infections clean and free of harsh chemicals, and do not use anything abrasive.”
She nods, dropping her eyes.
“Hey,” I whisper, gently squeezing her jaw until her eyes meet mine again. “I’m sorry I raised my voice. I’ll fix this.”
“It’s okay. You were right; I shouldn’t have gone to that place. I knew that it was a bad idea, but, well…” She pauses to shrug. “I wanted the tattoo, and the original artist I found wouldn’t cooperate.” She bites her lip, drawing my attention down to the plump flesh. I swallow, steeling myself against the wave of lust that rolls through me at the action.
“So your botched tattoo is my fault, princess? That seems like a stretch.”
She shrugs again, a dainty hitch of her shoulders. “I wouldn’t have gone to a dangerous part of town without your refusal to work with me on a design I very much wanted. So, the way I see it, my blood is on your hands, Wolf.”