Page 61 of Tuned To Break
The table cheers again, and someone starts chantingKinky Batmanloud enough that even the bartenders pick it up.
By the end of the night, Jake’s got three nicknames, Parker’s drawn a mock-up logo on a napkin, and I’ve lost count of how many times someone made a joke about utility belts.
And somehow, I don’t care.
Because Jake’s arm never leaves my shoulders. His eyes keep drifting to mine like he still can’t believe we’re real. And every time our fingers brush, it feels like a secret just for us.
Yeah.
This might’ve started as a random hookup.
But somewhere along the way, it became something real.
And if that means I’m dating Batman’s kinky cousin?
Honestly—
I’ve had worse ideas.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JAKE
The glow of the television dimly lights Stella’s living room, some action movie playing that neither of us is really watching. She’s curled up against my side on her couch, her head on my chest, one leg thrown over mine. We’ve been like this for hours, just existing in each other’s space, and it’s the most content I’ve felt in... well, maybe ever.
It’s been two weeks since the infamousKinky Batmanincident at Grumpy’s, and the nickname has stuck with embarrassing persistence. Even clients have started using it after overhearing the guys—though Stella insists it’s endearing rather than mortifying.
“This movie is terrible,” she murmurs against my chest.
“Mmm,” I agree, running my fingers through her hair. “Want to change it?”
“No. I like this.”
“Bad movies?”
“This. Us. Being here with you.”
Something warm spreads through my chest at her words. I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in that caramel scent that’s become my favourite smell in the world.
“Can I ask you something?” she says quietly.
“Anything.”
She shifts slightly so she can look at me. “The tattoo on your hand. The noose. You said you went through some shit, but you never told me what happened.”
My hand automatically flexes, the black ink stark against my skin even in the dim light. It’s not something I talk about often—well, not something I talk about ever, really. But something about the way she’s looking at me, the genuine concern in her green eyes, makes me want to tell her.
“My dad,” I start, then stop. “Fuck, this is harder than I thought.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“No, I want to. I want you to know.” I take a deep breath. “My dad wasn’t exactly Father of the Year. Drank too much, had a temper, thought the best way to solve problems was with his fists. I used to think that was just how men were meant to be—angry, loud, impossible to please.”
Stella’s hand finds mine, her fingers tracing gently over the tattoo.
“When I was seventeen, things got bad at home. Mum was working double shifts to avoid being there, and I was basically raising myself. One night, Dad came home absolutely pissed and started laying into me about something—I can’t even remember what. Usual stuff about how I was worthless, how I’d never amount to anything.”
The memories are still sharp, even after all these years. “I snapped. Told him exactly what I thought of him, called him every name in the book. He went mental—came at me with a beer bottle.”
