Chapter 4

Teddy

“You didn’t say anything about the flowers.” Kip Riley stood in front of me with a dimpled smile and his Justin Bieber hair, his hands shoved in his pocket in an effort to appear nonthreatening. His light blue eyes did their best to have that ‘aw shucks’ look that had made him so popular.

“What...you?” I shook my head and let out several deep breaths, curling my hands into fists until deep crescents dug into my palm. “That really was unnecessary and I don’t appreciate it. At all.”

One flinger slid up my arm and I smacked it away. “It’s just a little gift to show you my appreciation.”

And this guy was the reason I didn’t dedicate more than a few hours in bed to any man. “You’re paying me, and giving your bride the wedding of her dreams is enough for me. Don’t ever fucking do it again.” I pointed a French manicured nail between his eyes. “If you do, I’ll back out at the absolute last minute. Got it?” He nodded and I turned to the producer behind the camera. “You better get it too, because I’m not fucking around with you people.”

“Yeah, we all got it,” the woman said and rolled her eyes. Bitch.

“Good. We’re done here, so please get the fuck out and have a nice day.” I flashed the smile I used at the end of every runway, which usually made people forget their good sense.

Once I was free of the camera crew, I locked up the office and jumped in my Mercedes, cranking up the air conditioning and Jay-Z, because sometimes that was what a girl needed to calm down after the slimy Kip Riley and to steel myself for my consultation with Tate. Big, blond and too charming, Tate. I wouldn’t think about those searing gray blue eyes that seemed so much more intense than his brother’s, and the fact that he was so big he took up all the space in every room. He was just too much damn man and I wasn’t in the market for one of those, at least not for longer than a night or two.

There was a parking spot open right in front of GET INK’D, behind a red, black and chrome bike and I pulled in and took a few breaths before stepping out of the car. The window had big black gothic letters bearing the name of the shop, giving it that badass tattoo parlor feel. “Just a minute,” Tate’s familiar voice called out when the bell sounded over the door.

“Sure thing, I’ll just look around while you finish...your afternoon self-love session, I assume.” He chuckled as I looked around at the framed oversized drawings. They looked like pencil and charcoal, and they were done with a very skilled hand. “Did you do these drawings, because they are fantastic?”

He grunted, clearly in disbelief. “Don’t blow smoke up my ass, darlin’. I was just starting to like you.”

I jumped at his proximity, turning to him with a laugh. “I don’t blow smoke except with my brides, and believe me I don’t want anything from you to make the effort to blow smoke. You’re a talented artist. That’s a fact, not a compliment.” I poked my finger in his chest to punctuate my point, ignoring how hard his muscles were. Or at least trying to.

He laughed. “Glad we cleared that up. Now should we get down to business?”

“Might as well.” I took a step away. “Damn, do you have a furnace under your skin?”

His deep chuckle echoed in the empty shop. “What can I say, I’m just hot as hell.”

Damn straight. “Yeah, yeah. You’re totally irresistible. The cat’s pajamas and all that.”

He frowned and motioned me toward the long red seat. “So, what you’re saying is that I’m a catch in the 1940’s?”

“Totally.” My gaze focused on the golden, corded muscles of his forearm and I licked my lips unconsciously, totally oblivious to the pages he’d spread out before us.

“Well, what do you think?”

“I think they’re damn good, Tate.”

“But?”

I blinked. “But, nothing. They’re really great.”

Tate grunted and shook his head. “This is a tattoo, Teddy. That means its permanent so you should make damn sure you like it. Where is this art going on your body?”

My frown deepened and I wondered if he was trying to be funny. “Are you for real?”

He froze, gray eyes darkening like thunderclouds. “Yeah. Is this one of those crazy girl things where I’m just supposed to know? Because if so, I vote tramp stamp.”

Damn Tate and that handsome face. “No,” I sighed. “It’s not that, but...shit, now I’ll sound like a dick. But remember, you asked Golden Boy.” He nodded and I took a deep breath. “I used to be a model, a pretty famous one actually which is why I thought you knew, not because I’m an egomaniac. Anyway, I did it all, runways in Paris and Milan, covers on every fashion magazine from Toledo to Tokyo. From the age of sixteen until about three years ago.” I looked at Tate just to see his reaction. There was usually pity or disgust, both fucking pissed me off.

“Really? I mean you’re hot, but you’re not all stuck up like I expected a Paris and Milan model would be.”

“Former model,” I corrected him with a smile. “One day I was crossing the street on the Upper East Side, headed to a lunch meeting to be the new face of Chanel when a fucking cab jumped the curb and plowed right into me and nine other people. I took the brunt of the hit, leaving my left leg shattered in multiple places and resulting in a limp that pretty much ended my career.” I let out a long, slow breath, my gaze fixed on the black and white tiled floor.

“Shit, what about like magazines and shit? Plenty of models don’t have to walk.” He frowned and in that moment, I liked Tate a lot more than I realized.

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” But like me, he would have been wrong too. I lifted up the wide-leg black linen pants I wore until the whole scar — from the middle of my calf all the way up to my hip — all twenty-one inches of it, was exposed to his gaze. “I want to, not necessarily cover it but …” I trailed off, not sure how to explain it.

“Decorate it?”

I smiled. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

He nodded, letting out a breath of relief, probably since he hadn’t been expecting such a show of emotion from me. “Okay. First, what do you need? A hug? A drink? A primal scream therapy session?”

“If I say yes to all three?”

“I’m in. Always up for two out of three of those.” When he smiled like that, Tate looked like a little boy, so light and carefree. Such a contrast from the shadows he constantly wore.

“Not much of a hugger?”

He shook his head and stood. “Look at these, smartass.”

I did, taking a look at the various designs. Some were vines done in a Celtic style, others were thorny vines with roses that hadn’t yet bloomed and a few others were similar in theme. “This is beautiful,” I said out loud as I took in the long peacock feathers.

“Take this,” he said gruffly to cover up the sweet gesture of him bringing me a drink.

“Thanks, Golden Boy.”

He smirked but bit back whatever comment was on the tip of his tongue. “You like the feathers?”

“I do, but I’m not sure how that can work with all this,” I told him, gesturing to my leg.

Tate sat on the stool and motioned to my leg, which I laid across his lap. “I’m a fucking pro. Peacock feathers are long so we can start here,” the pad of his finger began two inches below where the scar started, and I got goose bumps at his touch. “And they can fan up to here,” he stopped at my hip. “What do you think?”

“You’re being very not weird about this, Tate.”

He let out an unamused laugh. “I’ve seen a lot worse than a long skinny scar on a great pair of legs. Honestly, your legs are more distracting than the scar.”

A laugh bubbled up out of me. “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“That’s me,” he rolled his eyes. “Sweetest motherfucker around.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Golden Boy. You’d be surprised at the shit people say to me.” I took the drink and then, feeling uncomfortable, changed the subject. “How long will this take?”

“I could do it in one session if you’re okay with that, otherwise it’ll take two, about four hours each.”

“Four hours! Each? Is this surgery?”

“Not quite, but it is art.”

Right. “And art takes time. Got it. Now I have another question and I need you to promise you won’t judge me.”

“You wanna know how bad it hurts?”

I shook my head. “Yes and no. I want to know if it will hurt when you go over the scar tissue.”

“Shit, of course. It depends on how fresh the scars are, Teddy.”

To me they always felt brand new, like it happened last week, not three years ago. “Well, I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

He flashed a smile that I felt all the way down to my long neglected pussy. “As soon as you set a date.”

“I’ll let you know.” I wanted the tattoo. I needed to get it, no matter how much time it took. Or how bad it hurt. We sat there in a comfortable silence for several long moments, me staring at the peacock feathers and imagining the end result. Tate stared at the tiles, lost in his own thoughts. “So, can I ask you a question without you getting your panties in a twist?”

He grinned, looking every inch the big, tough, biker he was. “Guess it’s a good thing I left my panties at home.”

That was another thing I liked about Tate, he didn’t take things too seriously. “Self-defense. What do you know about it?”

“Uncle Sam taught me to fight. Hand to hand combat, plus a little martial arts. I can help you. If you can help me.”

I stiffened, ready to slice him open with my tongue as soon as he made the inappropriate comment.

“Calm down, Teddy. I want you to help me plan a wedding for Max and Jana. That’s your thing, isn’t it?”

Damn, I was right back to liking him. “Yeah sure, I can help you with that. But be prepared for details. Lots and lots of details. Okay?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

“No problems. Thanks for the awesome artwork, Golden Boy.”

He grinned. “Anytime, Cover Girl.”

I smiled as I left the shop because when he said those words, it didn’t feel like a reminder of who I used to be. It just felt...amazing.

***

“So you want the cornflower napkins and roses to match?” To me, it sounded like the tackiest shit I’d ever heard, but it wasn’t my wedding.

“That’s right. I found the most adorbs cornflower blue lingerie and it totally matches Kip’s eyes, don’tcha think?” Gillian Frye, most recent winner of I Wanna Fall in Love, gushed over her slimy groom to be.

“Sure. And you still want Elvis to marry you?”

She nodded, bleach blonde ponytail bobbing up and down. “My dad loves Elvis and he’d never be able to afford this kind of wedding, so this is kind of for him.”

“I have a few in mind, do you want to audition them?”

Her green eyes went round and wide. “We can do that?” She looked from me to the producer behind the camera.

“Sure, it’ll be great for the show!”

I rolled my eyes as Gillian popped up and sauntered off, her mute by choice bestie tottering after her in matching bubblegum pink heels. “I guess we’re done here,” I mumbled to myself, ignoring the camera aimed at my hands since I refused to sign a consent form to be filmed. “You guys can go now.”

“Why would we do that?” Kip asked as he appeared from the smaller office used by my assistants. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again.” I stood as he came closer because I wasn’t a fool. It was a hard lesson, but being trapped in a room with one too many pervy photographers and grabby male models had taught me to be aware.

“Well the meeting is over, so you can all be gone.” I made a shooing motion that only made the bastard smile. He let his finger trail up and down my arm, laughing when I smacked his hand away. “Keep your fucking hands to yourself, Kip.”

He grinned again and stepped closer, I pushed him and he stumbled. “Come on, babe. No need to play hard to get.” He did a quick spin and was steady on his feet wearing a shit-eating grin.

Behind my desk I kept a bat. A big aluminum bat that I reached for and smacked the edge of my desk. “Touch me again motherfucker and I swear to God I’ll quit. I will fucking walk away and leave you to do this yourself. Got it?” He nodded, his smile gone as he held his hands up defensively. “Got it?” I asked the producer too. The last fucking thing I needed was to have the bride labeling me a home wrecker on national TV.

“Yeah, we got it.”

“Good. Now get the fuck out of my office and don’t come back without the bride.” When they were gone, I locked the door and let out a long, tense breath. Kip was an asshole and that producer chick was a fucking prick, but I didn’t throat punch anyone so to me, today was a complete success.

And since my day was over, I kicked out the last two assistants and locked the place up for the night. I picked up some sushi and a bottle of gin before heading home.

Where another damn package sat on my porch. I took a few deep breaths and got out of the car, phone in hand as I approached. It was a ticking bomb, I knew that, but who knew with Kip? The box was pink and white, almost like Victoria’s Secret but not quite. Inside was trashy, lacy lingerie, and it was shredded to pieces.

A fucking threat if I ever saw one, so I called the police. Which I immediately regretted.

“What seems to be the problem ma’am?” The uniformed officer was blond and looked to be about sixteen years old.

“Are you kidding? Someone sent me shredded lingerie! No, not sent, apparently they dropped it off.”

His partner snickered and I glared at them both. “Perhaps an angry lover?”

“Doubtful since I don’t have a lover and if I did, he wouldn’t know where I live. I don’t play that game.” I never brought men home and the house was in my old name, so it wasn’t easy to find. “Am I to understand from your little girl giggles that you’re not going to do anything about it?”

“Not much we can do,” the blond one said, still trying to stifle a laugh.

“Thank you for fuck all. But if I end up dead, you’ll have to live with it.” His face paled. “Thanks for nothing, officers. Goodbye.” So angry, I shook. I slammed the door before they even turned around to leave.

Why did I call the cops? Not one time in my life have they ever come through for me. Not when my mom was dying of an overdose right in front of me, because they “didn’t have gloves.” Not later when a foster brother got a little too close, because of course being in foster care somehow means you’re defective or promiscuous. And certainly not when my last foster dad tried to take what didn’t belong to him. They were as useless as tits on a bicycle, so it was up to me to protect myself.

I promised to call Tate soon for those self-defense lessons, but first I sat down and began to research gun laws in the state of Nevada.