More Than Lies (More Than #1)(10)

“I wouldn’t say, ‘seeing’, but I guess it all depends on how you define that term. Hooking up on occasion? Yes. Dating? Certainly not. After all, Taralynn is and has always been hopelessly in love with your stupid ass.” That last sentence came out flat. His carefree and playful tone, gone.

So that scene was for my benefit. Yes, I’m fully aware of the way Tara feels about me. I’m not blind nor have I ever been. Tara wears her feelings and heart out in the open for everyone to see. Does that mean I’m going to let her make the mistake of sleeping with me? No. I’m a selfish bastard, sure, but I’m not heartless. The sweetness that is the essence of Taralynn couldn’t handle me.

Without acknowledging Mason as he chants, “Spank that ass . . . spank that ass . . .” I leave, stalking off upstairs to take a scalding hot shower. There is a pair of long tan legs that I need to forget about seeing this morning because the same pair nearly killed me last night. And the only way to forget is to replace it with another image.

Every dress she owns should be burned.





Today was brutal.

The longest day of my life!

I’m never missing another day of work. I don’t care if I have the mother lovin’ flu. I barely had a chance to scarf down a bite to eat the entire day. One of my appointments ran much longer than I anticipated, pushing every other appointment that followed back two hours. Had my mind been clear and focused, I would have realized before I starting working on the chick that she didn’t possess the endurance needed for the tattoo process.

I have one rule. If I think the person is unsure, can’t handle the process, or isn’t ready, then I will not tattoo them. I don’t care if they’ve waited seven weeks just to have me do a piece on their body. I won’t be someone’s regret, ever. A tattoo is a commitment for life. You need to be damn sure it’s something you plan on sporting around when you’re ninety.

The girl from earlier today, my two o’clock appointment, not only wasn’t ready, but her pain tolerance was lower than low. I’ve inked a ton of pansies before, but today took the cake. Had my mind not been clouded with a certain blonde that’s been a thorn in my side since I was five years old, then I would have realized this before I was ten percent into the outline. The start of a good tattoo is much worse than a finished colossal fucked up one. I had no choice but to make the girl continue on. Pretty sure she hates me more than the devil himself after today.

So here I am, walking into Level at a quarter to eleven on a Saturday night to drown out the visions of what I’ll never have. The same ones I’ve tried for years to rid myself of, but never succeed. I could kick Mason’s ass for putting images of Tara and Jared in my head. What the hell is wrong with her? Him? For fuck’s sake. Doesn’t she remember how mean he was to her in high school?

No, of course she doesn’t. Why? Because he talked shit behind her back, and I dealt with him without Tara’s knowledge of anything.

Senior year he told all his friends—I was one of his friends back then—that he slept with Tara. I knew it wasn’t true the moment the lie left his lips. I could always tell when the dick-face was lying. But that didn’t stop me from losing my shit and getting in a fight with him.

Our friendship came to an end that day.

He’s a douchebag, and she deserves better. I’m not saying I deserve her, because I don’t. She deserves better than me as well. The only thing I’ve ever—or will ever—offer a woman is a quick and meaningless screw. I’m fine with that fact, and it works for me.

I walk up to the bar. There are no available seats, but I’m still able to catch the attention of one of the bartenders. I yell over the crowd and live band, telling the guy I’d like a Corona. While I’m waiting on my beer to arrive, a brunette sitting on the stool in front of me turns and flashes her pearly whites up at me. She’s attractive. The woman is dressed like a slut, but definitely not bad to look at. Most importantly, she is the opposite of the conservative little twat I’m trying to remove from my head.

Yes, she’ll do all right.

“Hello, darlin’.” I flash my own seductive smile down at her. It hooks women on the line every time. Not that I need to. I know I’m quite nice to look at. I take damn good care of my body. Sure, I drink a lot, but I also work my ass off in the gym five days a week to keep in top shape. I have ink covering my left shoulder all the way down to my wrist. On my inner forearm is an image of a beautiful woman. The art is done in all black, except for her dress, which is a deep purple. The masterpiece covering the majority of my back is a work in progress that will be completed within a few months. I guess I would describe it along the lines of a Jackson Pollock painting. The design is my own and not near as busy as one of his paintings. Each line is made to look like someone took a paintbrush and started slinging colors in all different directions on the surface of my back. Currently the only colors I have completed are black and red, but I plan on having my buddy and boss, Adam Manning, finish the design with a dark blue and a little purple.

“I’m Misty Lawrence.” Damn, even her voice is the opposite. Tara breathes out a melody of sweet musical sounds every time she opens her pretty little mouth. This bitch sounds like she is speaking through her nose. With enough alcohol, though, I’ll be able to drown out that sound.

“Well, Misty, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I reach past her, sliding against her arm as I reach for my beer. I don’t take my eyes away from hers as I lift the bottle to my lips, tip it back, and swallow.