Chapter 4 Keely
Chapter four
Keely
I woke to a blistering hangover—head pounding, stomach roiling with nausea. My skin felt too tight from my smudged makeup. And the sheets…
I frowned, gliding my hand over the fabric. Stormy dark blue cotton.
My sheets were supposed to be a decadent, burgundy satin.
I got them after my wedding was cancelled, a small treat to look forward to after everything blew up in my face.
I spent far too much of my paycheck on them, and sometimes I still scolded myself for being so frivolous on an extravagance like that.
But when my body ached after a long shift at the diner, wrapping myself in those sheets was heavenly bliss.
These sheets…were definitely not mine.
Cracking my eyes open, I surveyed my surroundings. The bed was just a mattress on the floor. Towers of boxes were stacked in one corner. No pictures or decor adorned the room at all.
Then my gaze landed on the leather jacket, draped over a nearby chair. Black leather, worn and cracked. With a familiar Prospect patch stitched onto the front.
“Oh, God,” I whispered, clutching my aching head.
Was this Tarzan’s room? Was this his bed? Did we sleep together?
For three days, I waited on Tarzan to call.
And there was nothing but silence. Terrible, awful, damning silence.
I felt like an idiot for giving him my number, for thinking that maybe there was a spark between us. The giddiness I had experienced after seeing him suddenly seemed foolish and stupid in hindsight.
I needed a distraction, and that’s how I ended up drunk off my ass at a summer concert.
Memories of the night before finally came flooding back—fuzzy at the edges, but clear enough that I remembered my surprise at bumping into Tarzan. And then…
Come on, Tarzan. Kiss me.
I groaned and buried my face in the pillow.
Tarzan’s pillow. It smelled like him—masculine, a trace of leather, earthy soap, and whiskey.
Fuck, my dignity would never recover from this.
Although, I had to admit, the fact that he had hoisted me over his shoulder so easily was hot as hell.
Crawling out of bed, I realized that I still wore the same clothes from last night. So, at least I wasn’t waking up naked.
I spotted my purse on the nightstand, and snatched it up with a sound of relief. My everyday purse was much bigger and too clunky for the concert, loaded with everything from tampons, makeup, perfume, and hairspray, to snacks, my e-reader, and an array of painkillers.
For the concert, I’d opted to travel light, choosing a rose-gold little thing with a sparkly beaded strap to match my dress. It was just enough to cover the bare essentials.
Stumbling to the bathroom on wobbly knees, I did my best to wash up. My curls were a tangled, flattened rat’s nest. And my mascara had smudged, making me look like a raccoon.
After scrubbing my face clean, I used my finger as an impromptu toothbrush and stole a swig of Tarzan’s mouthwash. Fussing with my hair for nearly fifteen minutes, I finally gave up and pulled it into a messy ponytail.
I didn’t bring enough makeup for a full refresh. But at least I could do my signature wingtip eyeliner and red lippy. Otherwise, I didn’t feel like myself without them.
Emerging from the bathroom, I searched for my wedge heels and found them tucked together neatly by the door. Just as I took a step to retrieve them, the door opened and Tarzan entered.
My heart skipped a beat.
Fuck, he looked so good. Wearing gray sweatpants and a snug black T-shirt clinging to his muscles, he had more ink on display than I’d ever seen before and it was mesmerizing.
I was supposed to be mad at him for not calling me back.
But one look at him and I folded like a house of cards.
Maybe my dad was right. My romantic streak would be more trouble than it was worth. Chasing men who didn’t want me back, who were too skittish about commitment to take me seriously.
“Room service,” Tarzan said, holding up a tray with eggs and toast, coffee, orange juice, and a bottle of painkillers. He nudged the door closed with his foot. “How’s your hangover treating you?”
I grimaced and rubbed my temples.
“It’s killing me.”
“Thought so.” Crossing the room, Tarzan set the tray on the nightstand and twisted open the ibuprofen lid, shaking two pills into his palm. He passed them to me, along with the glass of orange juice. “You were really enjoying those mai tais last night.”
I groaned and popped the pills, chasing them down with the juice.
“Please don’t remind me.”
“For what it’s worth, you seemed to be having fun,” Tarzan replied.
I wrinkled my nose. “I remember…some of it. Enough to know I want to crawl into a deep, dark hole for a thousand years with mortification for the way I behaved.”
He chuckled and settled on the end of the mattress.
“Sweetheart, I’ve seen bikers behave far worse when they’re drunk.”
Sweetheart.
Those damn butterflies swarmed to life in my stomach again. I fiddled with the glass of orange juice, shifting in place. I wished I had some of that mai tai bravado left over.
I cleared my throat and gestured between us.
“Did we…? You know…last night?”
“Sleep together?” Tarzan shook his head.
“No. I slept on the floor. You were pretty close to passing out in the parking lot at the concert. I wanted to take you home, but I didn’t have an address.
So, I figured my brother’s house was the next best option.
I’m new in town, and I’m staying with him until I can find my own place. ”
I sighed, studying my orange juice. If only I had been sober, I could have handled this whole situation with more dignity and finesse. And I wouldn’t look like a desperate wreck, throwing myself at the guy I was crushing on.
“For the record,” Tarzan continued. “My brother doesn’t know you’re here.”
“Oh.”
Disappointment mingled with relief in my chest. I didn’t blame him if he was embarrassed to be seen with me. On the other hand, I was grateful that Tarzan hadn’t bragged about the drunk girl who kept trying to make out with him.
“If my brother knew that I brought a girl home,” he said. “He would never let you have a moment of peace. I thought you’d prefer some privacy this morning instead of getting pestered by a million questions. Teddy can be too nosy for his own good. Especially when it comes to my personal life.”
Whoever she is—the woman that broke your heart—it’s her loss. You’re one helluva catch, Tarzan.
I remembered that, clear as a bell. The gut feeling had been nagging at me ever since I first saw Tarzan. Loving someone so deeply and then suffering a broken heart because of them was a special kind of torture that changed you. It left a mark that most folks would miss.
Unless you went through that kind of heartbreak yourself. Then you recognized it on sight.
Inching closer, I perched on the mattress next to Tarzan. Setting aside my orange juice, I took two pieces of toast from the tray and handed one to him. He accepted it with a brief smile of gratitude.
“What was her name?” I asked. “The woman you loved before.”
He paused for a moment. His throat worked, as if it pained him to say her name.
“Stevie. It could never happen and I knew that.”
I nodded, nibbling on my toast.
“Just because your head knew it wouldn’t happen doesn’t mean your heart got the message.”
Tarzan breathed a faint laugh.
“Someone should tattoo that on my fucking forehead. What about you? The asshole who ditched you a week before your wedding. What was his name?”
The toast turned dry and tasteless in my mouth. Tossing it back on the plate, I brushed the crumbs off my hands.
“Royce. He was some rich kid from New York, looking to escape his controlling family. He made the prettiest promises of traveling the world together, raising a family, and being in love until we were old and gray.”
Tarzan frowned, pressing his lips together as if he was physically restraining himself from saying something insensitive.
“I know, I know,” I said. “I was naive and gullible and I fell for his charming lies. It turned out that he met a rich girl from another rich family. And the thought of having rich babies together was more exciting than…marrying a chubby diner waitress from a small town.”
Tarzan’s frown deepened even further. Leaning past me, he placed the last of his toast on the plate next to mine. For a brief moment, he was so close that I could have pressed my lips to his neck with no effort at all.
Then he straightened up, putting a respectable distance between us again.
“Don’t do that.” His voice was gravelly and rough. “Don’t discount yourself because that prick couldn’t see how lucky he was to have someone like you.”
I huffed with amusement. “Says the guy who didn’t call me back.”
Tarzan winced. “Look, I can explain—”
“You really don’t have to, Tarzan. I get it. If you wanted to, you would. But you didn’t.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Of course it’s that simple—”
Tarzan cupped my cheek in his palm and kissed me so hard that it took my breath away. I could taste the need in the greedy sweep of his tongue and the sharp, hungry pinch of his teeth on my lower lip.
I gasped, stunned for a moment. Then I kissed him back, twisting my fingers into his T-shirt. He grabbed my hips, pulling me onto his lap as if I weighed nothing at all. My dress rucked up around my thighs, almost exposing my panties.
Tarzan curved his hands over my hips and slid lower, squeezing my ass. I whimpered, grinding against him, driven by that rapidly hardening bulge in his sweatpants.
“This,” he said, breathless, barely breaking away to speak. He fisted his hand in my hair, pressing his forehead to mine. “This is why I didn’t fucking call you.”
I smoothed my hands up his arms, mapping muscles and ink. Down his chest. Gliding under the hem of his T-shirt. My fingers wandered over the softness of his stomach, up the firm planes of his pecs.
“This is exactly why you should have called me,” I protested.
“It’s too fast, sweetheart,” he said. “For both of us.”