Page 22 of London Inked Boys: The Complete Trilogy
“Hmm… that wasn’t how it looked to me.” The older officer’s frown deepens as he takes in the sight of Art’s naked chest. “And you really should wear a shirt in public places.”
I hold up the remainder of his shirt and wave it like a white flag. The officer gives a tusk of disapproval and rolls his eyes, before moving on to the next offender.
Art and I fall together laughing, half holding each other up as we run away from the fountain and the cops who’d given us a warning. Hand in hand, we hurry through the busyLondon streets, Art’s half naked body getting more than enough attention. I’ve never been one to like people noticing me, but I can’t help the swell of pride that rises inside me that Art’s the one holdingmyhand. I still don’t understand why he’s chosen me to be with, when we’re clearly so very different. But you’d have to be either stupid or blind to not notice that Art is both ridiculously hot, and half dressed, as we walk through the streets, back to where he left his bike.
“I guess we’re going to need to go back to your place.” I motion at his bare chest.
He catches up my hand and pulls me in closer. My palms meet the warm skin of his pectoral muscles and a thrill goes through me. I tilt my face up to his and his lips find mine, so we stand kissing like a couple of teenagers in the street. I’ve never touched a man with pierced nipples before, and I run my fingers down over them, my breath catching as I feel the hard pieces of metal embedded into the tight nubs of his nipples.
Holy shit, he is sexy. Heat pulses between my thighs, and I press myself up closer, wanting him again. But we’re out in the open, and I’m sure we’re already drawing disapproving glances from people walking by.
I break the kiss, breathing hard, my cheeks flushed with heat. “Your place,” I gasp again.
But he shakes his head. “No, we can’t.”
I frown. “Why not? Don’t you want a change of clothes?”
“I’ve got a spare shirt back at the shop.”
“Oooh.. kay,” I say slowly, trying to piece together what’s happening. Why wouldn’t he want to go back to his own apartment? I try again. “But wouldn’t it be easier to go back to yours? I don’t even know where your place is.”
Art’s face hardens and he steps back from me, putting space between us that I miss instantly.
“I’ve got a real dickhead of a flatmate. He works shifts, and the slightest bit of noise makes him kick-off.”
“Seriously? It’s only about five. He won’t let you have a friend back?”
“I said no, didn’t I, Tess?” He snaps out the words, and I jerk back.
“That’s fine.” Something in my chest turns cold and solidified to ice. “I think I just want to go home anyway.”
The tension has returned between us, like a screen going down, dividing us.
What the hell just happened?
13
TESS
After Art drops me home, I go to bed early, confused and despondent.
What the hell is going on with him? One minute he’s acting all loved up and tearing off my clothes, and the next minute he’s pushing me away. His reaction when I mentioned going to his place sends alarm bells warning. Why doesn’t he want me there? The thing about the flatmate not liking him bringing people back doesn’t ring true. Is there a chance there’s no flatmate? Is Art actually a married man, and he can’t take me home because his family is there? He doesn’t seem like the marrying type, and I’m sure there’d be hints at him already being in a relationship—what’s to stop his wife or girlfriend coming into the shop to see him? Surely he wouldn’t have sex with me on the stairs if he thought there was any chance whatsoever of being caught.
I don’t know, but I know something isn’t right between us again. When he drove me back to the shop, he didn’t even kiss me goodbye. He just muttered something about getting a new t-shirt, and then I heard the roar of his bike as he must have left again. Something’s definitely going on with him, though I have no idea what.
I fall into a restless sleep, only for something to wake me again, not long after.
I jerk upright, my ears straining. Shit, that sounds like someone moving around downstairs. What if Art forgot to lock up the shop? Someone might have found the door open and entered the property, trying their luck for what they might find.
My heart beating hard, I slip out of bed, silently getting to my feet. I snatch up my cell phone. Should I call the cops? No, it might be nothing, and then I’ll look like a total idiot. I need to make sure I actually heard something, and the noise hadn’t just been part of a dream which I brought into my waking life with me.
I realise I have no way of defending myself if I do find someone downstairs who’s up to no good.
Sneaking into the kitchen, moving on tiptoes so as not to alert anyone to there being someone upstairs, I pull open the drawers, looking for something I can use. My fingers wrap around the solid wood of a rolling pin. It isn’t quite a baseball bat— my weapon of choice when I’d been living in the States—but it will have to do.
I edge open my front door, and slowly, and silently, creep down the stairs.
Stopping at the door dividing the tattoo studio from the rear part of the building, which houses the stairs, a toilet, and the small room the men use as a staff room, I listen hard. I don’t hear anything. Had I been imagining things?
