Hide Me Read online

  “They’re over there.” I motion to the stack of black books piled on the small table and order my body back under control. Lust is a little bit new for me. I guess I never really went through that horny backseat craziness that defined the locker room talk back in high school. But I have to get used to the race and thrill because this is who I need to be now. This guy isn’t the first or the last who’s going to make me feel this way…and that’s definitely a good thing.

  “Thanks.” He nods and raises one eyebrow to match his crooked smile. Is he always smiling?

  He grabs a couple off the top of the stack and plops onto the worn sofa. I cringe a little. Surfer boy may be responsible for keeping me here late, but he definitely isn’t bad to look at.

  I slide open the top drawer of my desk and pull out my cell phone.

  7:05. Crap.

  There’s no way I’m going to be out of here in time to make it to Ryan’s by nine. I send him a quick text, telling him I’m going to be late, and toss my phone back into the drawer.

  “Hey,” I call. “Come here.” I wave the appointment-less guy over.

  He looks around confused and presses his hand to his chest as if he’s asking, “Me?” The front of the store is empty apart from the two of us, so, obviously, I’m talking to him.

  “Yes, you, come over here. The weather’s fine,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  He closes the book and walks back over to my desk. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt, nice and tight on his biceps, with a pair of Ray-Bans tucked into the V-neck. Casual. Easy. I like.

  “You can sit here,” I say, pointing to an extra office chair next to mine.

  “You missed me when I was all the way over there? That’s seriously flattering.” He winks.

  “Hardly, just trust me on this one. It’s a better option.” I wrinkle my nose at the couch and try not to imagine all the diseases crawling around in the cushions like loose change after too many of Rocko’s after-hours conquests.

  “All right. You have a trustworthy face, you know. Anyone ever tell you that?” He smiles wide and plays along, taking the seat at the end of my desk despite his confusion.

  My eyes keep flicking over to him, more often than I should let them. I take in his long frame and taut muscles. I attempt to go back to organizing the day’s receipts, but forget what I’m doing long enough to notice the strands of dark hair that are matted together, most likely from the seawater.

  “Do you, um, need me to fill out some forms or something? This looks like a respectable shop that’s all about the paper trail.” His grin is cocky and laid-back all at once.

  I blink several times to draw myself out of my lust-induced daze.

  “Uh, I just need your name. For the book, I mean.” I open the appointment book with jerky, clumsy hands and curse under my breath. I’m not usually this asinine.

  He doesn’t try to be coy about watching me. “Deo,” he says.

  “Deo? Is that short for something?” I ask before I can stop myself. I know how annoying it is to have your name questioned.

  “Nope, just Deo. D-e-o,” he spells for me. “Last name is Beckett.”

  “Okay.” I write it down even though I don’t really need to. Rocko wouldn’t care if his name was just Deo. Or Ginger. Or Jesus Christ of Nazareth, as long as he’s getting paid. If you skip back several months in this book, you’ll find Wakefield Conrad’s name. I’ve traced the letters more times than I’d care to admit.

  I clear my throat before saying, “So, Deo, you came to get a tattoo, and you really have no idea what you want?”

  He runs his palm across his scruffy cheek and shrugs.

  “No, I’m not real sure. I have these two bad boys already,” he says. He pulls one shirtsleeve up and reveals a heart with the word “Mom” through it, then, as if it can’t get any worse, he turns and does the same to the other arm, showing off an eagle with the flex of his bicep and a low chuckle.

  “You have got to be shitting me.” He doesn’t seem offended in the least when I laugh at him. Actually, his smile is conspiratorial, like we’re sharing an inside joke. “How unoriginal can you be?”

  He pushes his sleeve back down, and I feel an embarrassing disappointment.

  “Trust me, my mom is original enough for the whole damn town. Getting these was like an act of total rebellion.”

  His big, easy smile is so freakishly white and straight and handsome, he can’t possibly be human.

  My phone beeps from inside the drawer.

  “Excuse me,” I say before grabbing the phone, because I may be far away from home in this crazy, hippie town, and I may have thrown half my conservative morals to the wind, but I still have some manners.

  No problem. 9pm or 2am,

  I’ll still be having my way with you.

  I feel my cheeks ignite, even though Deo has no idea what the text from Ryan says. This side of me is so new, I sometimes feel like everyone, even strangers on the street, know. Not like there’s any way they could possibly know that I went from being home by midnight every night so that I could ensure I had plenty of rest before school the next day, to dragging myself into my apartment just long enough to shower and change before running to class. There’s technically no way they could know that this person sitting behind the desk at this tattoo shop used to work as a bank teller. And no one would ever come close to guessing that up until three months ago, I had only been with one other guy. And now…well, now I was staying far on the other side of committed.

  I run a hand through my hair that used to cover my shoulders. The hair I chopped off, like Wakefield had done to his. Cutting it off helped show—it helped to remind me that I’m no longer that person. Because the old me is dead and has to stay buried.

  “Everything okay?” Deo asks. His eyebrows are raised and the glint in his eyes is 100 percent conspiratorial.

  He knows. I squash back the panic that rises up. There’s no way anyone knows the real me, the me I ran clear across the country to become… Definitely not this charming stranger. He’s just being flirty. I need to get used to that.

  I slam the phone back into the drawer and answer lightly. “Yep, everything’s great. About this tattoo, though?” I wheel my swivel chair over to his side. “Where were you thinking of getting it?” I’m close enough now that I can smell him. He smells like a guy, in all the wonderful ways that only guys can smell. Musky and sweaty. But also like the ocean. And something sweet. Vanilla?

  “I’m thinking right here.” He points to a spot on his forearm. “Maybe. Maybe something that wraps around?” He says it like a question. Like he wants my opinion.

  I nod. “That’d be nice, especially with the placement of your others.”

  Without thinking, I rub my hand across the spot on his forearm. It’s tan and smooth and feels warm like the sand that’s been baked by the sun all day. He glances down at my hand on his arm and gives me that freakishly perfect smile, and I pull my hand away in a knee-jerk response.

  “Do you live around here? Or are you just visiting?” I ask to offset the awkward jitters I’m currently trying to control. The answer is obvious from the olive color of his skin and his sun-lightened hair, both side effects of a vast abundance of Vitamin D. I bet there’s even sand under his nails.

  “Born and raised. Never lived anywhere else. Never wanted to, either.” There’s something in the way he says it, something behind the simple words. Like he’s trying to convince himself more than me that it’s true.

  There are a few beats of comfortable silence that get interrupted by the beep of my phone. I’m poised to ignore it when two more beeps chirp one after the other, making my skin prickle with annoyance. I tug the drawer open and silence my phone, tucking my hair behind my ear with irritation when I hear the vibrating hum of yet another text.

  When I look up, I’m caught off guard by the serious way Deo’s staring at me. He leans forward, his dark brows pushed low over his eyes, like he’s about to ask a question he’s not sure he has an
y right to ask.

  “So, is that your only tattoo?” He zeroes in on the place no one has ever noticed before. At least, no one has ever brought it up and asked me about it before.

  I reach up and touch the delicate skin behind my left ear, trying to conceal it, even though there’s no point now. How did he even notice that?

  I nod. “A ‘W’? Is that for your name? Talk about unoriginal,” he teases, bumping my shoulder like we’re old surf buddies. “So, what is it? Willow? Wendy?”

  “Whit,” I say. “My name is Whit.” I leave out the fact that the W behind my ear is not for my name, but for my younger brother, Wakefield. The brother I miss so goddamn much it aches with every fiber inside of me.

  “Whit? Is that short for something?” he asks. Just like I knew he would.

  “Whitley.” I clear my throat before I continue my reply, trying to dislodge the boulder that’s now crammed sideways in my airway. “I know, it’s odd, but Deo isn’t exactly mainstream.” I try to preempt the usual questions. My parents had this weird idea that they should use their mothers’ maiden names as their children’s names, despite the fact that they weren’t even all that close to either set of their parents.

  “Cool. I gotcha.” He doesn’t dig for any more information, which is a relief and somehow still a disappointment. “So, this tattoo. You got any ideas? I want something with meaning. Something that I won’t regret, you know? This one’s for my mom, so no more lame rebellion ink.”

  Before I really know what I’m saying, words I never expected to utter are tumbling out of my mouth. “Well, there’s this one. I sort of drew it up for myself, but I think I’m done with getting tattoos. One is enough.”

  I slide a piece of white paper toward him. He turns the paper every which way, trying to read the tiny script I’d written out to look more like a thin band than actual letters.

  “This is part of me now?” he asks, his golden-brown eyes crinkling at the edges from the smile that takes over his face. The rough skin on his index finger scratches over the paper with a rasp.

  “Yep.” I’m now regretting showing him the drawing.

  “What’s it mean?” His eyes lock on mine, and suddenly, that no-worries surfer-boy vibe vanishes. It’s replaced by something sweet and deep that cuts right through me and clean to the root of my heart, to the place no one can see because it’s still too raw and fucked up.

  “It can mean whatever you want it to mean. Like, maybe it means that you can’t change the past. You can’t right wrongs. But, I don’t know, you can try to make something meaningful of the future, you know?”

  I feel exposed.

  He can see inside of me. See the real me, the part I ran two thousand miles to hide. He sees that the tattoo actually means that the guilt and the grief are all part of me.

  I start to snatch the paper away from him but notice he’s nodding like he gets it. Really, truly gets it.

  I can see the tendons in his neck stand out when he swallows, and his nod is tense. “Sold.”

  Chapter Three

  DEO

  Rocko isn’t half bad for a guy with a soul patch and ironic hipster tortoiseshell glasses. Even if he does have the hots for my mother.

  Or maybe I’m high off all the endorphins the relentless prick of the tattoo gun always releases in me.

  Or maybe, just maybe, that girl at the reception desk, with all the right curves and her mysterious tattoo and her fucking irritating phone and saucy-as-hell-on-the-outside, mushy-on-the-inside attitude, is making this whole experience something way more meaningful than even my mom anticipated.

  Whit. I like her name. I really like the way her hips sway in her tight little skirt when she marches around in those hot heels, putting things in order with this sexy military precision. I like the way her eyes flick over to me, once, twice, and a third time, and how her cheeks go pink when she realizes I’m still watching.

  “So Whit designed this one?” Rocko clears away some blood and excess ink from my rib and I curl my damn toes so I won’t wince, on the off chance she’s stealing a look my way. This is a tearing, open flesh wound on the raw skin and muscle of my ribs and it’s been the most agonizing half hour of my life. I thought I was tough-nuts because my arms were no big deal, but I didn’t know what it felt like to have the gun shooting straight pain onto my goddamn bones.

  “Yeah.” I watch her tuck a shiny piece of the dark hair that just reaches her chin behind her ear. The tattooless ear. She bites her lip, and I have to suck my next breath through my teeth. I always thought girls only did that to flirt, but she’s narrowing her eyes at some receipts that are screwing with her, and that bite is all real, sexy frustration. And I want a nip bad.

  I focus on Rocko, the pain, anything that will keep the threat of a raging boner at bay. “I thought it would be cool on my forearm, but something this badass needs to go where it hurts.”

  “It’s a good spot for it. She’s got an awesome eye for detail, among her hundreds of other talents. I hope she decides to stick around the area, because I seriously don’t know what I’d do without her.” He glances up and catches sight of the clock on the wall, one of those black cats with a tail pendulum. My grandpa has one like it in his office and thinks it’s the funniest shit.

  Rocko raises his voice and calls in her direction, “Whit, I’m sorry, babe. You know you can say the word if I go over. It’s late as hell. Go, have some fun. Get.” He waves her away, and I make a frantic attempt to look down at my tattoo. It’s six tiny-ass words. What’s taking so damn long? If this girl leaves before I get her number, there will definitely be more tats in my immediate future.

  Rocko said he hopes she sticks around. Where is she from?

  She’s got this little uptight walk, like she’s at some debutante ball, all straight-backed with these careful, graceful steps. But those hips… They’re hypnotizing, and no stiff-spined walk can stop the pure sexiness of those gorgeous hips. “Rocko, it’s fine. Last time I left you alone, we had to call the lady to come in and fix the register.”

  Relief floods through me, and then something hotter and better. She dips her head and looks at the ink on my skin, her dark eyes squinting while she studies it.

  “This one’s on the house, nothing to ring up. Go ahead. A beautiful girl on a Thursday night in this college town? C’mon, I know you must have plans. Enjoy your youth.” Rocko notices Whit’s concentrated stare and switches gears, which is good, because the idea of her going out and enjoying her gorgeous, wild youth without me there to help her out is making my vision blur. “First time you’ve seen your own design in ink?” She nods, and it’s weirdly shy for a girl so in charge. “It’s a gorgeous design, Whit. Simple, elegant. You’ve got a real eye for this.”

  “Glad to know my art elective is good for something practical.” The shy sweetness vanishes, and she goes all iron-spined again. “So, you’re sure you don’t need me?”

  “Much as I love and adore everything you do, I promise I can close the shop up on my own. Fun. You. Now.” When she hesitates and wrings her little hands, he pulls the gun away and says, “Look. I’m all done. Now Deo can be a gentleman and walk you to your car, and you don’t need to worry about the shop falling down around my ears. Okay?”

  I hop off the table and inspect the black lines, almost too graceful and neat, but just jagged enough to be badass. And meaningful.

  “Thanks, man.” I try a simple shake, but Rocko walks me through a whole complicated hand gesture thing that leaves me trying to hide my smile at his corniness. He’s a good egg. A dope, but a good egg. “You gonna snap a shot for your portfolio?”

  “Good idea.” Rocko looks around, confusion all over his face.

  The soft footfall of Whit’s steps contrasts with her jangly laugh. “I got this, Rocko. Stop before you hurt yourself. If you want to double check my count on the register, I’ll take care of the pictures.” She comes back with a camera. “Say cheese.”

  She’s got a mouth that makes me think di
rty thoughts, all pouty, deep pink lips that can’t completely manage to look stern or serious no matter what expression she has on her face. Right now, she’s trying to look all business, but that mouth and those sexy dark eyes and her perfect curves are all conspiring to drive me out-of-my-damn-mind insane.

  To the point where I’m standing to get a picture done of my new ink, but I don’t bother to show my new ink. I scramble to turn in the right direction when she raises a dark eyebrow.

  She sighs, trying to look irritated, but her mouth curls up in a soft smile. She reaches a hand out and lays it on my hip, her fingers warm on my skin. She slides her hand along my back and shoulder, and follows the line through, propping my arm up, letting the tips of her fingers skim the inside of my wrist and along my palm. Swallowing, blinking, breathing, all suddenly become very difficult.

  She snaps a few pictures, says, “Let me do the bandage for you,” and I’m positive this girl will wind up in my bed tonight.

  I slide back onto the table and watch her collect the little pot of Udder Butter, the gauze, and tape. I can do this all myself, but I’m not about to point that out.

  “Thanks for the tat inspiration.” I look at her from under my upheld arm, her hair all glossy, and when I lean closer and take a breath in, she smells like something citrus and clean, crushed leaves or spring or something I can’t quite put my finger on. “I feel like I kind of stole a piece of your soul.”

  Her eyes flick up at me, and I can see the panic she’s wrestling to control. Her voice slices out quick as lightning. “It’s just a tattoo. I sketch designs constantly. It helps pass the time.”

  It’s like I can hear the clatter of all her shields going up at once. There’s something bigger than the tattoo that she needs to guard, and I respect that. We haven’t known each other long enough for me to deserve her trust. But I have a feeling she opened up more to me than she expected to. And that gives me a crazy hope she might trust me with more of her secrets in the future.