CHAPTER 3
Erica
CRAP.
No. This was bigger than crap. This was definitely worthy of an f-bomb.
Fuck.
This wasn’t happening.
He wasn’t in front of her. There was no way she was staring into the same pair of striking green eyes she’d fled from two days ago after she’d taken a bat to the glossy black exterior of his car. It wasn’t possible. The odds were too great. Mathematically, in a city this size, she should have never crossed paths with him again.
Yet, there he was, sitting comfortably in the VIP booth, dressed in a tailored suit that fit his muscle-laden body to perfection. His arms were splayed across the booth like he owned it while his gaze raked up her frame with an intensity that almost made her drop her tray.
God, she wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. The one time she sought revenge, karma’s bullcrap knocked her square in the teeth.
It was the guilt, she reasoned with herself. She’d felt so bad for destroying his car that she’d expected the police to show up at her doorstep at any moment to cart her off to jail. This was her penance.
Get it together. He’s not in front of you. Just close your eyes, take a deep breath and it’ll all go away. Closing her eyes, she inhaled slowly. This was nothing more than a hallucination. It had to be. A patron must have slipped something in her drink. There was no other rational explanation for him being ten feet away from her.
When she opened her eyes, every strobe light in the room found him at once. Slack jawed, she stared at the gorgeous face of the man whose car she’d beaten to smithereens. It was clear that this was real. Hewas there.
Her stomach turned inside out and lodged in her throat.
She needed to run. She glanced at the stairs. Big Rig, the VIP’s private bouncer for the night, blocked the entrance at the top of the stairs. The only way past him would be to either make a scene or hoist herself over the balcony and risk plummeting to her death on the dance floor below. She’d rather do the latter if she had to explain to Stick why she couldn’t serve his VIP.
There had to be a way out of this.
Think, Erica, think.
Her thoughts raced. She glanced behind the bar to her best friend’s vacant station; Marie would know exactly what to do. She could talk her way out of anything. Like that time they were caught street racing on the highway. While she hyperventilated in the passenger seat, Marie remained calmer than the underside of the pillow.
“There’s a three-step process to this,” she’d reassured her as the cop’s red and blue lights whirled behind them. “First, act clueless. Next, deny everything. And when all else fails, come up with a plausible excuse to explain it away.”
If her friend could convince a police officer that they were merely driving fast to move out of the way of some crazy fool who was weaving in and out of traffic, then she could convince the VIP in front of her that she had nothing to do with the shiny car she’d beaten into oblivion. Easy.
She gulped.
“Hello Vandal,” he said. His deep voice had no trouble finding her ears over the harsh synth beat playing from the speakers. A smirk played against his full lips as he stared at her like a lion who’d sunk his claws into a gazelle. Her heart thumped hard against her ribcage, but she tried to gather as much courage as she could and channeled her best friend.
Step One: Act clueless.
“Vandal? I’m sorry?” She laughed nervously, offering him a sweet smile. “My name is Erica.”
His eyebrows set into a hard line. “Oh, I know what your name is, Vandal.”
“Vandal? Is that some kind of thing they say where you’re from?” She tried to keep a saccharine smile plastered on her face as she put the drink tray down on the table in front of her. It wobbled all the way down, hitting the glass with an unpleasant screech. “Can I get you a drink?”
“So, this is the kind of game you want to play?”
“Game?” A thick lump formed in the back of her throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sure the fingerprints on the bat that destroyed my car knows exactly what I’m talking about.”
Her hand faltered when she grabbed for a bottle of chilled vodka to set it on the bottom rack of the à la carte service table in front of him. The man let out a noise that sounded like triumph as he rested his thick forearms against his knees and leaned in closer to talk to her.
“So, we can drop the pretense, Erica,” he finished, his breath hot against her ear.
Her heart threatened to explode. Frick, why didn’t some divine act save her? Was it too much to ask to have the roof cave in? A sinkhole to open up? Something?
Then, her best friend’s advice skyrocketed from her memory. Deny everything… again.
“I-I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered, hoping the music dwarfed her quaking voice.
When his eyes narrowed, it was clear he’d heard and wasn’t pleased. Her instincts to flee kicked in.
She stood, but he was quicker. A large hand grasped her wrist and kept her pinned in place. A jolt—one that felt suspiciously like desire instead of fear—shot through her at the heat of his touch.
“I am not one to be trifled with.” His voice was as hard as he was intimidating. A firestorm of bees erupted in her gut.
Don’t let him get to you. Get yourself together, Erica.
When he leaned in, the scent of his cologne clouded her mind in a foggy haze. He smelled like the crisp morning air. It was intoxicating. He even smelled expensive. His cologne must have cost more than her whole life. Like his car.
“Do you want to try that again, Vandal?”
She tried to search for something—anything—to say but, her head emptied of everything except cobwebs and pocket lint.
Biting the inside of her cheek, she glanced over her shoulder, trying to locate her boss. Stick was invisible within the sea of partiers. She glanced at Big Rig again. With his back facing them, the oversized bouncer was focused on keeping unwanted guests out of the VIP area and oblivious to what was happening inside of it.
“I-I don’t want any trouble,” she stammered.
“That’s funny. Neither did I, but my car was destroyed all the same.”
“It was an accident.”
“Which part?” he asked. “The part where you shattered my windows or the part where you cost me forty-seven thousand dollars in damage?”
The air left the room.
Forty-seven thousand? Her chin dropped to her chest. Karma hated the hell out of her. How did teaching Max a lesson turn into causing nearly fifty thousand dollars in damage to a stranger’s car?
“Um. Wow.”
“Yeah, wow,” he mocked. “And someone has to pay for that.”
Pay for it?
She didn’t have that kind of money. After forking over her life savings to enroll in art school, there was barely enough in her account to cover her half of the rent for next month. “I-I can’t.”
“Then, it looks like we’re at an impasse, Vandal.”
Her legs wobbled when she took a step back. He stood in one fluid motion of his own, recapturing her wrist like he was afraid she’d bolt away again if he let go. When he reached his full height, her jaw dropped a second time.
Whoa. He was tall. Next to her five-foot-six frame, he seemed like a giant. She licked her dry lips as she watched him with curiosity. Sure, he was intimidating as all heck. But there was something else. Something alluring.
The shadows of the VIP area bounced off his angular face. The light found him in all sorts of interesting ways. It shadowed his eyes and laced around his chiseled jaw and full lips. Everything about him was virtually flawless. Heck, even his teeth seemed polished to perfection. It was as if God had hand-carved the man in front of her himself before delicately placing him on Earth with the rest of the poor mortals. It made her want to paint his likeness.
He moved into her personal space. At first, she thought he might crush her. Instead, he grabbed a glass from his à la carte station and poured himself a drink one-handed while holding on to her wrist with the other.
He wasn’t hurting her, she realized, staring at his hand in wonderment at how large it was. His fingers overlapped around her tiny wrist. His piercing gaze traveled down her arm, as if he were curious to see what caught her eye. He dropped her wrist like she’d burned him. A chill fanned across her skin at the loss of contact.
He cleared his throat. “Someone needs to pay for the damages. Whether it’s monetary or penitentiary, it makes no difference to me.”
Immediately, she stopped thinking of the multitude of color swatches she’d need to capture the beauty that resonated in his eyes when the club’s multicolored strobe lights flickered in them and focused on his words.
“Penitentiary… As in jail?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders and cocked his head to one side as if to say ‘if it must come to that.’ She couldn’t go to jail. Not when she had a career defining showcase to prepare for.
“That’s extreme isn’t it?” her voice cracked.
“You know, I spoke to an officer who gave me his card and, funnily enough, he asked that I call if anything else came up.” He plucked a business card from his pocket and let it dance between his fingers. “I’d planned to throw this away, but I’m glad I kept it.”
“I’m sure that’s not necessary. W-we can come to some sort of arrangement,” Erica pleaded, eyes darting over to Big Rig, who’d probably hold her until the police showed if the VIP demanded it. “I-I’ll make it up to you.”
“You’re going to make it up to me?” He chuckled. At least he was no longer furious. “I thought you didn’t have that kind of money.”
“Money isn’t the only currency. I can pay another way.”
A smirk settled on his lips. “I have to hear this.”
From the look on the man’s face, she realized what he must’ve thought she was insinuating. “Oh my God, not that!”
“Not what?” He asked, his smirk growing wider.
“I mean—” She cleared her throat before turning to the only possible way out of this. “I’m an artist.”
“How does that help me?”
“I do—” her voice caught. “Custom originals. Of anything.”
“It will take a lot more than a custom original to ease the hurt of that car.” He looked amused.
“Picassos sell for millions.”
“You’re comparing yourself to one of the masters?” he asked incredulously.
“I can rival him.”
“Cocky?”
“Confident,” she said, even though her rolling gut said otherwise.
“Now, I have to see this. Show me.”
“You can stop by my studio—”
“You misunderstand me. Show me, right now.”
“I don’t—” she began but he was already explaining.
“It was said that Picasso could sketch something exceptional in twenty minutes. Do it in ten, and I’ll consider your offer.”
“R-right now?” The heavy bass of the music pounded in her ears.
“Right now.” His brow lifted in challenge. He dug into his breast pocket, found a pen, and held it out to her. “Surely his rival wouldn’t take issue with it.”
She bit the inside of her cheek and studied him. The man in front of her made her want to please him—to prove to him that she could rise to any challenge he set. By the time the strobe lights dashed into their corner again, she plucked the pen from his hand and moved over to sit in the booth. He followed.
“What do you want me to draw?”
“Anything that delights you. Whatever you’re strongest at. I’ll play fair.”
That wasn’t playing fair. It was harder to work to a blank canvas with infinite possibilities. She shrugged and thought of what she could draw in ten minutes that wouldn’t look like a fourth grader drew it. Once she settled on an idea, she rolled up his sleeve.
“What are you doing?” he asked, but made no move to stop her.
“I need a canvas,” she studied the smooth skin of his forearm, then his hand. Thankfully, not a hair was in sight. “This will do.”
“I’m glad I’m to your liking,” he mused wryly.
“Remember, you asked for this.” Her grip tightened on his hand as she examined it before glancing back at him. “So, if I draw something, and you like it, you’ll book me for a commission. The commission sets us clear.”
“If I’m impressed.” He nodded in agreement, an encouraging smile gracing his lips. Even smiling, the man was devastating. Why was she always attracted to his type? The domineering, strong-willed, always-knew-their-power-and-went-after-it types. Like Max.
Max. Her heart deflated.
“Everything alright?” The VIP asked, his dark brows collapsed together in concern. Probably because she was staring at his hand longer than necessary.
“O-of course,” she said quickly, pushing the thoughts of Max and why he still hadn’t called her out of her mind. Instead, she focused on the ridges of his hand and examined the bone structure. When her fingers grazed over his knuckles, he cleared his throat and shifted.
“What do you have in mind?” He took a long swig of his drink before settling back into the booth.
“I can’t give away all my secrets.” She smiled, hoping it exuded more confidence than she felt. His large hand would provide plenty of space to draw, but skin was tricky and skin over bone was unpredictable. She prayed for the muscle memory of her high school days when she’d draw patterns all over her arms at school.
“Good. I like surprises.” He settled back into the booth. “Ready?”
“I’ll set a timer.” She pulled out of phone.
“I’ll keep time also,” he said with a quirked brow. “I don’t want you to cheat.”
“I don’t need to.” She tossed him a playful wink that came from nowhere.
“I like your confidence.” His deep voice, rich with approval, reverberated just over the music.
As he fiddled with his own phone, she set several alarms to buzz in her pocket to keep her on track. The last thing she needed was to run out of time.
When she was finished, she guided his hand to lay flat on the thick meat of his thigh and pulled the man’s warm hand into her lap and ran the black ink pen over his smooth skin to test the ink fluidity. The ink glided over his skin effortlessly and stayed exactly where she put it. She smiled inwardly. Thank goodness for small miracles.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Always,” he purred. They set the timer.
Using large strokes, she got to work.
The club faded away as she held the man’s strong hand in her lap and drew on the back of it. After a few minutes, her creation took shape. The line work was effortless, but the heat of his gaze on her every movement was intense. A flush crept into her cheeks as he watched her work.
The first buzz went off on her phone. She was halfway through. Her nerves ignited. Having only ten minutes to extinguish a fifty-thousand-dollar debt was the hardest thing she’d ever done.
“A raven,” he mused softly next to her ear. A shiver of relief cascaded down her spine when his deep voice vibrated beside her. At least he could make out the blob on the back of his hand as she shaded in what would have to pass for feathers.
Her phone buzzed again. Two minutes left.
Her nerves spiked, and adrenaline soaked her hands. With her hands shaking, Erica forced the pen to dash across his smooth skin, hoping her vision would come to life.
In no time, her phone buzzed again.
One minute.
Her breath caught in her throat as she clutched his forearm in a white-knuckled grip and willed her hand faster. She wasn’t nearly finished with her rendition of a sleek olive-black raven.
“That’s time,” he said too soon, just as the final buzz went off in her pocket.
“Five more seconds.” The pen in her hand dashed frantically across his skin.
“I see what you’re trying to do.” He made no move to stop her, but his words forced her away from him. She didn’t want him to think she was trying to cheat her way to a win. Not that it mattered. Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed the slashes of black ink across his hand. It looked like a house instead of a bird. Heck, it didn’t even look like a house. More like a funny-shaped blob with feathers. This raven wouldn’t even rival something a kindergartener could produce, let alone one of the great masters of art. What was she even thinking, talking herself up like that?
A sick feeling, rough like gravel in her gut, made her sink back into the booth. She’d never failed so badly at something before.
The sting of tears threatened to run down her face. He didn’t say anything for what felt like an hour. He was probably trying not to laugh at the monstrosity she inked on his skin. She looked up at the VIP in trepidation, eyeing every inch of his beautifully angular face, hoping to catch a hint of his feelings.
He stayed neutral; his face seemed made of stone until his jawline flexed. He made no other movement, just stared at the splotch of ink on the back of his hand. Her heart threated to tear a hole in her throat.
Nerves thrust her back out of the booth and over to the balcony overlooking the crowd. But she didn’t look down at the pit. No. She may have been at the balcony, but she was completely focused on the VIP. He was unreadable. Did he like it? Was he going to call the police?
There was no way to know if she didn’t ask. Swallowing a thick lump, she steeled her courage and stepped toward the VIP. He was too focused on his hand to notice. “So,” she fished for his attention even though it felt like her stomach was going to flip inside out. “Do we have a deal?”
Author’s Note: These two!!! Right from the beginning, they have a little something that is addictive.
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