“You have no idea,” he says darkly.
“Then why push her away?”
“Why do you think? Didn’t you hear a word I’ve told you so far? I’m a black sheep. A bastard. I don’t deserve her. And she deserves better.”
Well, fuck. That was the last thing I expected him to say. It sure makes me look at him in a different light, although it doesn’t change what he did. He’s still a son of a bitch for hurting her.
Like you did? By running away?
Damn…
What if Ryder knows what to do? He’s the last person I should ask about this. Yet… he doesn’t really know me. Doesn’t seem to give a fuck.
Which makes him the perfect candidate.
“I can hear those gears turning inside that blond head of yours,” he drawls, taking a drag of his rolled-up cigarette. “You’re trying to decide if you want to deck me or trust me, am I right?”
“What are you, a mind reader now?”
“Touchy.” His grin is crooked. “You’re damn young.”
“I’m not too young to punch you in the dick.”
He laughs. “Right. Feel free to fuck off. I don’t have all day to baby you, boy.”
He’s pushing all my buttons and yet I don’t walk away. There’s something about him, something dark, beautiful… and familiar.
He reminds me of myself, and I don’t know why. There’s a hurt there, covered up with tattoos and spikes, hidden in the curling smoke from his cigarette.
He doesn’t hate me, I realize. He isn’t annoyed with me, despite his acting. He’s… cautiously interested. He kinda likes me, for some obscure reason.
“It’s…” I puff out air. “It has to do with Coco.”
“You have a hard-on when it comes to her. I can see it. She’s such a pretty girl.”
“The prettiest,” I say.
He nods as if he expected this, or thought the same. “Yeah. An omega unlike most omegas. So vibrant.”
“So full of life.”
“And sass.”
I snort. “Yep.”
“So what’s wrong? Tell your tattoo artist. I take confessions on Fridays.” He throws his cigarette to the ground and steps on it. “Better come on in. From your hesitation, I doubt it’s something you wanna discuss on the street.”
“You guessed right,” I mutter, following him into the shop. We walk past a few seated customers and into his cubicle. I barely remember it from that night. It’s a small room really, the walls reaching the ceiling, giving real privacy. Probably to keep the noise level down inside the shop.
He parks his ass on the counter, folding tattooed arms over his broad chest, which only leaves me the leather chair to sit on.
“Are we playing doctor?” I ask drily, sitting down.
He smirks. “We’re overdressed for that.”
He looks good in his black tank top and ripped jeans. All that ink, swirling over his hands, his muscular arms, his neck… it suits him.
He nods at me. “Did the tattoo heal okay?”
