Tyed Page 7

  Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

  Brain yells at Hormones, But what about what’s-her-face? And those three girls? And his tomcat reputation? Hormones wave Brain off and order me to say yes.

  I’m nodding my agreement. There is something liberating about admitting it. I want him to kiss me, even if I’ll hate myself for it later.

  I mentally prepare myself for a French kiss, taking a deep breath and parting my lips.

  But Ty has other plans. Before I know it, he’s disconnected our bodies completely. I almost fall forward, unprepared for his withdrawal.

  “Told you, you’d be begging for it.” He chuckles “Your ass will be mine for two hours. I won't touch you if you don't want me to and won't call afterwards unless you'd ask, but you're taking a chance on me, valley girl.” He strolls out of the locker room before I have the chance to reply.

  “I'm not a valley girl. I'm not a Barbie,” I whisper, staring at the now closed door.

  On TV, a very sweaty and bruised Ty is giving an interview to a hot girl who nods enthusiastically at him, holding a microphone to his lips:

  Mental foreplay is one of the most important things about this sport. I wanted to get into his head, and I did. I kept him on his toes throughout, and it paid off. Psychological preparation is half of my job, and I excelled today, as I always do…

  I'm pretty sure he only denied me this kiss because I asked him not to kiss me the last time I saw him.

  And now I'm positive that if I'd let my guard down, he will crush me. Just like he does in the ring.

  Chapter Seven

  “Izzy.”

  “Sissy,” she answers, but without her trademark squeal.

  “Where’s your skinny ass today?” I blow a cloud of soap bubbles I hold in my hand while in the bath. Izzy sounds tired and not her usual, cheerful self.

  “New Zealand,” she grumbles.

  “What, no summary?” This is unlike my sister, who previously described Paris as “chic, beautiful and impossibly romantic,” London as “gorgeously cultural and interesting” and New York as “the reason why foreigners still have faith in America."

  “It looks like a sleepy Midwest town begging to be hit by a zombie apocalypse. Speaking of the apocalypse. Heard about Nana pulling a surprise wedding?”

  “Yeah. Hopefully she isn’t rushing into this because Simon knocked her up.” I bite my lower lip, and Izzy oinks a laugh.

  “Okay. My love life is in the toilet, along with a few of my last meals. Bad case of food poisoning. So let’s hear what’s up with Mr. Fight Club.”

  It’s weird how Izzy never had much luck with men. In fact, guys don’t even approach her that much. I’m probably getting hit on more than she does. Guess being frighteningly gorgeous comes with a price tag. She pays for her beauty with extreme solitude. No one thinks they stand a chance.

  “Let’s see. Tyler had the chance to kiss me in the lockers today…but didn’t."

  “So you’re saying my chipped nail varnish is still seeing more action than your vayjay?”

  “Well, he also asked me out and I said yes, but he is going all hot and cold on me. He didn’t even take my number, and I have to get a move on with my assignment. Oh, which reminds me—Shane called you. You need to get back to him.”

  I step out of my bath and start preparing for bed.

  "Ah...yeah, I saw." She sounds solemn all of a sudden.

  "It's a school thing. Don't ignore him. You know he's a good friend of mine."

  "Just tell me what he needs. I'll help him through you. I don't have time to talk to him."

  "Bullshit." I start playing with all the moisturizers and beauty crap that's on our marble countertop while listening to my twin.

  The peaks and perks of the Jack-and-Jill bathroom we share: Face mask. Botanical pore cleaner. Cheek refiner. Eye miracle cream. Lip miracle balm. By the time Izzy's done with these, she's applied enough skin care products to prep the Statue of Liberty. I try and use moisturizers in the summer but, alas, always end up neglecting the tedious routine. Izzy, however, is all about the beauty regimens.

  "Just, please, I don't feel like talking to Shane. Let me know what he needs and I'll get it done. I promise. Now, back to Tyler. I googled him. You hit the friggin’ motherload, sissy,” Izzy approves.

  I squeeze toothpaste onto my toothbrush with slightly too much force. “Trust me, he is just an arrogant tool who shoves his you-know-what into anything he can squeeze it into.”

  “Sounds fun to me. Let me know if he has any single friends. Your twin sister is heading home soon and she’s in desperate need of some action.”

  I laugh. Just as I slip into my blue Cookie Monster pajamas, the doorbell chimes, and I’m so startled by the visiting hour, I accidentally bump my head into my bathroom door. It’s freaking 11 p.m.

  I’m not expecting anyone. I hope it’s not Shane.

  Izzy is still on the line when I peer through the peephole.

  “Holy hell. I gotta go.” My heart flips, practicing its Cirque du Soleil moves in my chest. How did he get past security? Oh, right. Being a local celebrity, he was probably ushered straight to my floor.

  “Who is it?” Izzy demands.

  “It’s him!” I squeak. All systems in my body clash simultaneously. Am I excited? Yes. Am I scared? Yes. Am I wearing my least sexy and inviting pair of pj’s? Abso-fucking-lutely.

  “Is it really him, or is it like the scene from Taken? Because I can totally call the cops. Cough twice if it’s a kidnapper.”

  “Izz, it’s him.”

  “So jealous. I’d cut a bitch for a steamy booty call right about now. Do him, Blaire. Do him for the both of us. I hear twins sometimes have a physical connection that allows them to feel the pain and pleasure of their sibling. Have a chain orgasm and teleport it to me, okay?”

  I stare down my phone, half-disgusted, half-confused, and hang up on my sister.

  Come on, it was a long time coming.

  I open the door in my pj’s and wet hair. Ty stands there, in tight black jeans and a matching leather jacket, looking like an advertisement for bad boys.

  “What are you doing here?” I aim for a grunt, but my voice is smiling, betraying me completely with its high-pitched volume. I sound like Izzy.

  “Taking you on that date.” He drops his dark-eyed gaze to my unintentional cleavage, entertained. "Diggin' your outfit, by the way."

  I'm wearing a blue onesie with huge Cookie Monster eyeballs on top of my blue hoodie. That's it. I'm never going to live through this humiliation.

  “Why didn’t you call first?”

  He shrugs, as if to say what for?

  “You know, to ask if I was available,” I clarify.

  “I already told you, Barbie. I don’t do question marks.”

  I crack a can of beer for him while I get dressed. I have no idea where we’re going, nor do I care. He wants his two hours now? That's what he'll get. But I'll be milking my interview with him to thirty minutes, and he better give me great answers.

  The thought of Nicole sneaks into my mind again, but I shake my head and make it disappear, exchanging the blonde bombshell with a picture of my fragile grandmother, who is probably sinning out of wedlock on a regular basis while I’m stuck here, price-matching new pocket rockets on the Internet.

  Considering Ty’s casualwear, I opt for a Grumpy Cat muscle tee, black leggings and my denim chucks. I have no time to fix my hair and makeup, so I quickly draw on thick, black feline eyeliner and squeeze nude lip gloss onto my lips. When I walk out of the bathroom, ready for my date, Tyler isn’t there.

  And I have no way to contact him, seeing as I don’t have his number.

  I blink twice to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Maybe he finally realized he isn't going to get some and gave up. Or maybe my peculiar onesie broke his spirit? I walk across the living room and pick up the half-empty Bud Light. It is still cold and leaves a ring on the oak coffee table. I lean back into the sofa and glare at it, my only real proof of
Ty ever visiting this place. The beer can, and his scent—that hot-guy smell that's stuck in my nostrils days after I met him.

  I fall back onto the sofa with a sigh, determined not to let this affect me. I pick up my phone and text Shane, blocking all the questions running through my head.

  I decided I'm staging an intervention for you and Izzy. You'll work out whatever this is that happened between you two, and boy, this is going to be fun to watch.

  My mouth curls in amusement, knowing how ticked off Shane's going to be.

  Then I hear the doorbell chiming again.

  This time, I sure as hell expect someone.

  I open up without even checking who it is. (I know, I probably would be the first victim if this was a B-grade horror movie.) But it’s not a guy with a chainsaw. It’s Ty.

  “What is wrong with you?” I seethe, visibly cross. I’m not sure what kind of game we’re playing, but I know I’m on the losing end.

  “A ton of things, but I don't think we can cover it in two hours. Maybe a whole weekend? Anyway, I forgot something in my car. Here.” He thrusts a black velvet box with gold letters on top at me.

  He follows as I place it on my coffee table, right next to his beer, and eye it like it’s a ticking bomb.

  “This doesn’t look like flowers.” My tone is still hostile.

  “Pretty and smart.” His husky voice matches the devilish look that's on his face.

  Seeing as he brought a gift, my pissed-off level shouldn’t be plunging by the second. Gifts are not my thing. In fact, I hate to be on the receiving end. Izzy pays for my stuff, my parents pay for my stuff. Sometimes it feels like I'm being held hostage by my relatives’ capability to offer me everything I can't get for myself. But with Tyler, I somehow feel like I don't owe him anything back. He doesn't know me, and I'm guessing by the nickname he's given me that he assumes I feel like I belong in this glitzy apartment.

  Wrong, hottie. Very wrong.

  I reach for the box and open it hesitantly. I take out a pair of pink-leather boxing gloves. Slick, new and glossy.

  “I got you these babies when I was shooting the promotional video for the fight in San Francisco. Passed ’em by, did a U-turn and walked right into the store. They made me think of you because they're stupid-pink, like Barbie, but they hold a promise to something darker, raw…like you.”

  A grin slips through my frown.

  “She’s cracking. I can see a smile.” He takes hold of the gloves and insists I try them. Once he’s helped me push my hands inside, he kisses the thick material of one pink glove and pulls me to my feet, twirling me in my spot like I’m showing off one Izzy’s designer dresses.

  I’m caving in this moment. Hormones are on a break, and Brain is dead right now. But you know who is rocking it like a badass? Heart.

  “Listen up,” he says. “For this date, I want us to start over. Forget the parking lot, forget kickboxing class and forget the shower. This is just a boy-meets-girl scenario. No prejudgment or reading into shit, alright?”

  I give him the eye-roll treatment, way too embarrassed to admit that I like his braveness and new no-bullshit policy.

  “I’m Ty Wilder. I’m twenty-six. A Libra, if you’re into this kind of crap. Favorite food is probably BBQ beef ribs. I'm a cage fighter. Fun fact: I had my tonsils removed when I was twelve, and I’ve been losing small bits of other body parts pretty much ever since in the ring. Your turn.”

  “I’m Blaire Stern. I’m twenty-three. I’m a Scorpio, and not into that kind of crap. I’ve been a vegetarian since I was eight for moral reasons. I’m a college student and a part-time bartender. Fun fact: My older sister is supermodel Isabelle Stern. And by ‘older’ I mean she is four minutes older, because we’re twins.”

  Ty’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting one of his boyish smiles. “Hot damn, you mean I got myself a date with a supermodel?”

  “With a sister of a supermodel, not really the same thing,” I correct. “But I prefer not to talk about it."

  “Talk about apples and oranges. Isn't she some sort of a style icon or something?"

  Was that a dig at me?

  "I like your style better, just for the record."

  "I remotely recall saying that I don't like talking about this just a few seconds ago." I squint my eyes at him, and he laughs, a real, belly laugh.

  "Fair enough. Let's go, Barbie."

  ***

  Ty’s Hummer lumbers up to the freeway toward Lafayette. I slouch down in my seat, praying no one I know will pass us and recognize me in the monstrous vehicle, with flame-shooting skulls painted on both sides and a huge self-promotional bumper sticker that says Mind The Zombie. His license plate reads XZOMBIEX.

  His profile is glorious, even more so with his slightly crooked nose, ruddy pout and strong, devilish eyebrows. I’m getting lost in his face, like another one of his groupies, and I loathe it.

  Gotta. Stop. Staring.

  "You do you realize your ride looks ridiculous, right?" Conversation that includes criticism. The kiss of death to a guy's libido. Let's try and see if I can kill Ty's.

  "You're one to talk." He smirks, still watching the road.

  "That's different. You actually have a choice." I pick up the iPod lying next to the gear shift, flipping through his playlist connected by Bluetooth to his stereo. "Just like you have a choice not to listen to crappy music, but you still do. Oh my God! Eminem? Soulja Boy? Mos Def? What are you, eleven?"

  We’ve left the freeway, and he takes a sharp right turn, heading into a narrow labyrinth winding through the woods. He is laughing again, a sound I'm growing to like more and more.

  "Gimme your phone, you little music snob." Ty shifts into a lower gear but doesn't stop driving, flipping through my playlist, his lower lip pulled into a pout. "Neck Deep? Belle and Sebastian? I don't even know...no, wait, found one I recognize." He swipes the touch screen and “Easy Lover” by Phil Collins fills the air.

  "It's a classic." I giggle and blush simultaneously.

  Ty is singing to the lyrics loudly and bobs his head, pretending to be into it. It's ridiculously cute, so I duck my head, looking away.

  "I feel like I've got enough ammo on you for a lifetime,” he says. “One day, when you're this hot-shot journalist everyone knows about, I'll use this info against you. Just wait."

  "Oh, you charmer." I grin, staring at the wooded area we're driving through, not even slightly uncomfortable at the isolation surrounding us. I wonder if he truly believes I can become something big. The butterflies in my stomach are fluttering in full force.

  "I'll have you know, I can be charming when I want to be."

  "I thought bad boys don't do romance."

  “Me? A bad boy?” He pretends to look shocked, his mouth forming into an O while he stabs his chest with his finger, his gaze turning from the road and back to me. “That's just hateful. Besides, romance is my middle name."

  "What is your middle name, actually?"

  "Raymond. Close enough, no?"

  "Rad name, dude." I chuckle as he pulls to a stop in the middle of nowhere.

  "I admit, it's not as cool as a twenty-three-year-old listening to Phil Collins, but I can live with that. Unbuckle yourself, Miss Cool. We've arrived."

  Ty holds my waist as I hop out of his Hummer, and then he turns on his iPhone’s flashlight. The air is fresh and warm and it’s pitch black. I should be scared, but for whatever fucked-up reason, I trust him. He leads the way, his fingers brushing mine in a semi hand-hold as we walk wordlessly.

  We arrive at a timbered wooden cabin, about the size of my living room, located far from civilization. Outside, there’s a stack of chopped logs and an old, beat-up truck. It looks like someone occasionally lives here, but rarely takes care of the place.

  He opens the door and walks in, and I follow. The cabin is full of scratched and lumpy furniture, but I also see a huge flat-screen TV with XWL’s fight night dancing on the screen. A few lit candles flicker next to a big fluffy rug cente
red between a faded sofa and an ash-filled fireplace. Right next to the rug there’s an expensive bottle of 25-year-old scotch. The smell of old wood and fresh herbs wafts through my nostrils.

  "What's your poison?" His eyes are roaming my body despite my best efforts to look casual, and I quickly glance at my watch. Twenty minutes have passed since we left my apartment. An hour and forty to go.

  "Take a guess." I settle on the rug. The bartender in me is curious as to how he sees me.

  "No cocktails or girlie shit for you, Miss Cool." He grins. "Beer, probably. Though you wouldn't mind something stronger from time to time."

  He pours a generous glass of scotch, hands it to me and pivots to the little kitchenette behind him.

  "And you like expensive scotch. Unless...you just got this to impress me, in which case, mission failed." I take a sip of my drink, making a point of telling him I hate this kind of flashy behavior.

  Ty comes back with a tray full of sushi. Colorful, delicious, perfectly rolled sushi. With wasabi and salmon and sweet potato, avocado, and black and red roe and asparagus.

  My mouth falls open. “Where did this come from? It looks yummy.”

  “I made it.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “I don’t lie.” He eyes me with pure ferocity.

  He did this all by himself? I’ve never known a guy who knows how to cook. In my family, even the females have pretty limited culinary skills, mainly the occasional burnt omelet.

  "But I can't eat anything with fish,” I say, “being vegetarian and all."

  "Then stick to this side of the plate." He motions to the sweet potato and asparagus side, his hand briefly brushing my knuckles and sending a delicate shiver across my skin.

  He joins me on the rug, getting in my personal space again. I inch away, trying to put some distance between us. He stirs something inside of me every time we're close. I don't need this right now. I just want to fulfill my part of this deal and walk away. No need to freaking snuggle.