Tyed Read online

  "This is delicious. Do you bake, too?" I pop a sushi into my mouth.

  “Now you're pushing it. No, I don't, and I never really eat sweets. Anyway, I’m cutting weight for my fight in June. Sushi is the guiltiest food I’m allowed to eat.”

  “You need to lose weight? That’s insane. You’re all muscle.” I instantly turn crimson red.

  Ty grins a busted beam at me and crashes his shoulder into mine. “I have to weigh in before every fight to prove I meet my weight class."

  "And if you can't make it?" I ask.

  He shrugs. "Then you can't fight. There's a penalty you have to pay, blah blah. But that rarely happens. Fighters know how to cut weight. If things get desperate, you sweat it out, running laps, wearing plastic bags."

  "That's crazy."

  "It is. And it makes you weak. I plan ahead and I don’t go easy on my competitors who don’t. Which reminds me…what's up with you and the blond guy?”

  He can't possibly mean Charlie Hunnam, right?

  "You mean Shane?" I wash the sushi down my throat with a big gulp of scotch. “We’re just friends.”

  "And he's good with that, with you just being friends?" Ty’s eyes are probing mine, looking for the truth.

  Well, no...

  "Well, yes." I lift a defiant chin. "We grew up together. We go to the same university. We hang out, but that's it."

  “I don’t like him,” he says simply. Like he has the right to. Like he even knows the guy.

  “That’s okay. I doubt he’ll be asking you on a boys’ night out anytime soon.”

  “His motives aren’t pure. He wants you.” Ty takes a small sip from his scotch, throwing a piece of gum into his mouth. I continue munching the sushi. He hasn't touched it, and after our little conversation, I doubt that he will.

  “And you took me out on a date purely for my intellectual abilities,” I drawl.

  “No, I took you out on a date because I want to fuck your brains out, among other things, and I know that the feeling is mutual. Unlike your buddy Shane, I don’t sugarcoat my intentions. I don’t want to be your friend. I have no interest in hanging out with you at the mall or choosing outfits with you or crap like that. I crave you. I want all of you, every single inch of you. And call it an only-child syndrome, but I. DO. NOT. FUCKING. SHARE.”

  The scotch glass slips through my fingers. He doesn’t even acknowledge my clumsiness. I pick up the glass and dab at the spilled scotch with a napkin from the sushi tray while he just continues to glare.

  A part of me wants to knock the rest of the bottle of scotch down my throat, then jump on his body and tear every single item of clothing off of his unbelievably muscular physique. A different part of me wants to slap him hard for being so rude. A third part of me wants to hug him for making my heart swell inside my chest, telling me what I wanted to hear ever since I laid eyes on him.

  Bottom line? Every single part of me wants to touch Ty Wilder. Bad.

  “You're rude."

  "I'm direct." His eyes wander to my lips, and something shifts in the atmosphere, making the room incredibly hot all of a sudden. I look away quickly.

  I have to change the subject.

  "My turn to cross-examine you. So who is Nicole, and how many Nicoles are there? I overheard her talking about you the other night at Ned’s, and let’s just say your female fan base will be thinning out pretty quickly if you keep fucking it up. Literally.”

  He looks impressed by my assertiveness, but his jaw tenses. "Any chance we can change the subject back to you being a vegetarian?"

  "No chance in hell," I retort.

  He sighs. "You're not going to like it."

  I take a big gulp. What happened to Mr. Fuck-Your-Brains-Out? "Try me."

  He shrugs and runs a hand over his head, an it's-your-funeral look plastered on his face. “There are countless Nicoles. I’m not even sure who the Nicole you’re referring to is. It's all just a bunch of sloppy one-night stands. Though sometimes they stretch into a few weeks of fuck-buddy-ism."

  “So these women just have sex with you and want nothing more?” I snort my condemnation. I shouldn’t be judging. Sleeping with a guy without emotional attachment doesn’t make you a whore. It can even make you a feminist.

  Ty gets into my face, gathers my hair into a ponytail and grazes his five o’clock stubble near the sensitive area at the back of my neck. “Jealous, Barbie?"

  I snort my amusement. “Please. It's just that I heard Nicole saying that you were with three girls at once. Is it true?” I not try to choke on my words, to look indifferent.

  Please deny this. Please say it isn’t true. Pretty, pretty please.

  I mean, really? A foursome? A threesome is a stretch. A foursome is a Bourne Ultimatum mission.

  Ty drops his hands from my face and bites his inner cheek, looking away. "This is not a good first date topic," he says evenly.

  I have my answer.

  I choke back my anger. “So what’s all this crap?” I motion around us with my hands.

  “You’re different,” he replies.

  “Bet you never used that one before.” My legs push me upward. School assignment or not, this dude just told me in the middle of our first date that he’s hooking up with a shitload of girls, sometimes four at a time, and Brain has had enough. It’s getting ballsy.

  “Sit down,” Ty orders calmly.

  “Take me home.”

  “You’re mad because I told you I sleep with other girls?” He is mumbling to himself, almost as if it’s the first time he’s met a girl who isn’t okay with this.

  “Wow. You worked that out quickly. Are you sure you want to stay in the XWL and deprive the world of science of your incredible brain?”

  I grab the scotch bottle by its neck and zigzag my way toward the door.

  What the hell was I thinking? He is a famous, probably semi-rich, athlete. His whole reputation rests on the premise of his alpha maleness.

  I push the door open and stride for the trees. I have no idea where I’m going, but I have to get away. Everywhere he touched me stings like fire, his skin infected with so many past girls who dirtied him up for me.

  The black night swallows me, and the wooden cabin disappears from my sight. But worry is for calculated, levelheaded people. My head’s a giant mess right now. I’m expecting him to storm out, to stop me, to explain himself. But with every step I take, I realize that this may not happen and that I'm ultimately screwed.

  My chucks smack the ground, the decaying leaves, my body and face whacked with branches and mist. Brain shuts down, Hormones are gone, and Heart is pouting in the corner. Legs are the only ones who seem to work, and I have no freaking clue where they’re taking me.

  I stop dead when the earth curves into a hill, surrounded by nothing but blackness and chirping crickets.

  My fingers wobble as I tug my cell out of my jacket pocket. The screen lights up before my eyes, but there’s no service, seeing as I’m in the middle of nowhere. Worry converts to panic. I turn on the phone’s flashlight and explore my surroundings.

  Knee-high grass. Creamy fog. And the unmistakable scent of fear oozing from my pores.

  I know there’s a country road right in front of me, but even drunk I recognize that staggering onto the dark pavement is not the brightest idea. I take another sip of expensive scotch, squatting down and sitting on the damp grass beside the road. I polish off the rest of the bottle with a few gulps and pluck a blade of grass in frustration.

  What am I doing? Who goes on a date with a scummy MMA fighter who has STD written all over him? Actually, this is probably one of the few things he hasn’t inked on his body yet. I’d like to think I have more respect for myself than to become his flavor of the week, but thinking is not really my strong point right now.

  I mentally bark at myself, Hormones, you stupid idiots! Brain, you gutless nerd!

  I balance myself into a standing position. I need to try to find my way back to the cabin, despite the unsteadiness from the
liquor. Then I feel a warm, strong hand on my waist. I turn around, surprised, and before I know it, two firm hands grab me by my midriff, swooping me up into a cradle hold.

  “What the hell!” I scream, kicking my legs like a toddler.

  “Shut up, Barbie. I’m taking you home. You were a bad first date.” I hear Ty’s familiar voice and let out a relieved groan.

  “You aren’t getting your own Bachelor season either,” I sniff.

  Ty laughs as he continues carrying me, striding briskly as if he is carrying a case of beer and not a 125-pound grown human being. I feel his iron-hard chest beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. His flexed biceps rub against my back; his defined six-pack presses against my waist.

  But most of all…I feel drunk.

  “Live by yourself?” I slur.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Your clothes smell too good. Someone else does your laundry, right?” I hiccup.

  He offers me a You’re-Crazy-but-Cute smirk.

  I thrust my face directly into his chiseled face. “I love your dimples.” Another hiccup. “But I’m not gonna date you, cause you’re a manwhore. What kinda stupid name is Tyler Wilder, anyway? It rhymes!”

  “You will date me,” he states quietly, walking and looking straight ahead at the road. “But right now you need a bottle of water and an Advil. I recommend you stick to girlie cocktails from now on.”

  “Thanks, doc. Hey, did ya’ read what they wrote about you online?” I nuzzle his neck brazenly. He smells damn good and even though I’m not drunk to the point I don’t know what I’m doing, I take advantage of my own disastrous condition. Who knows if I’ll ever get the chance to be so close to him again?

  “Someone said she wanted to sit on your face,” I announce. Ty kicks the door to the cabin open and places me carefully on the rug.

  “Your point?” he asks.

  Hiccup.

  “Must be fun being you.”

  “Not so much right now.”

  Hiccup.

  “You can kiss me now if you want.” I close my eyes and relax backwards, resting my head on the arm of the old sofa that sits in front of the fireplace. I let out another hiccup, and this time pepper it with a sneeze.

  “As much as I find you irresistible right now, and trust me, there’s nothing sexier than a woman hiccupping her way to a drunken coma, I’m going to pass.”

  Wounded from his rejection, I pretend to fall asleep on the floor. It’s late and I have enough alcohol in my blood stream to supply a frat party. Besides, anything else I say is bound to count against me. I’ve already been embarrassed—twice!—by asking him to kiss me and not getting kissed.

  So I keep my eyes shut when he envelops me in a fleece blanket and picks me up again, as if I’m light as a feather. I keep my eyes shut as he places me in the backseat of his Hummer and drives me back to my apartment. I keep them shut when he lifts me up, opens my door with my keys, flops me down on my bed, removes my chucks, and pulls the comforter all the way up to my chin.

  I peek for a second when I hear him rummaging through my bathroom drawers, but then I shut them again when he places a bottle of water and ibuprofen on the nightstand beside me and plugs my phone into its charger. I keep them shut as he kneels down and places his warm, full lips on the bridge of my nose and kisses it for a few long seconds.

  And I keep them shut even when I hear the front door bang shut.

  I keep my eyes shut, but I’m not at all blind to the magic that is Ty Wilder.

  Chapter Eight

  I’ll never. Drink. Again.

  My head feels like there’s a rave party inside, the DJ is smashed, and everybody is wearing heels.

  I wipe my eyes wearily and reach for the water bottle, taking a long sip before the pieces of last night’s puzzle fall into place. When they do, horror surges through my veins, like ropes of pain chaining me to watch a slow-motion replay of the train wreck that was my last night’s behavior.

  He admitted to having a foursome and to participating in endless one-night stands.

  I ran like a little idiot because he admitted to fooling around with other women while single.

  I asked him to kiss me.

  I hiccupped like a moron.

  He rejected me.

  I sneezed on his face.

  He took me home and ran for his life.

  I sneezed on his face!

  Then I remember him taking care of me—the sweet way he tucked me in, the ibuprofen, the kiss—and that makes me feel even worse.

  I bury my head under my pillow and burrow deeper into my sheets. If only I could disappear beneath my covers and pop back out with someone else’s life (preferably Jenna Dewan Tatum’s), all would be well. There is no point crying. I have an early class today and I promised Nana Marty I’d drop by and congratulate her about the wedding. I have no time for self-pity.

  Reluctantly, I peel myself from my bed and sit up, holding my head in my hands so it won’t explode all over the carpet (but only because that would ruin Izzy's chances of getting her deposit back). I see my cell phone on my nightstand beeping with light and check it.

  Two missed calls from Shane.

  One from Mom.

  One text from an unknown number.

  You owe me that date.

  I don’t recognize the number, but I sure as hell recognize the commanding tone. I want to punch myself in the face for the woozy sensation swelling in my stomach, but I can’t help it. He actually took the time and effort to take my number and save his on my phone under the contact Ty Wilder. Even after my little drunken scene.

  I type back too fast and too eagerly for my own good. You owe me that interview.

  A moment later, I receive his reply. I said I’d give it to you if we had a date. That wasn’t a date. It was an open invitation for rape. At best.

  Ignoring his criticism, I text, I need your interview. The assistant to the XWL president has already sent me some quotes. You’re the only person I have left. Stop being a diva.

  What are you doing tonight?

  Just hangin’. I hit send and then add, With my grandma.

  Sounds wild. I’ll pick you up from her place.

  So you can tell me more about your sexual conquests? No thanks.

  You asked. And I've already told you, you're different. I'm waiting for granny's address.

  Keep waiting, I type and immediately erase. You can keep asking me on dates. We'll never be a couple. Erasing again and puffing out air aloud, I finally write, Don’t be late.

  Oh, Blaire, you stupid little girl, Heart reprimands.

  Why am I going on a second date with this guy? His ego is the last thing I need right now. Then again, I must admit he was nothing but sweet to me.

  My fingers move on the screen again. Hey, thanks for being a gentleman. I hit the send button before I can change my mind,

  Don’t get used to it. Next time I won’t be.

  ***

  Shane and I are basking in the sun on our favorite red bench, drinking coffee.

  He steals another sideways glance at me, messing with his phone and avoiding looking at me directly. He wears an “I Hate Being Bipolar. It’s Awesome!” tee. I know I look like a hungover mess because my hair is wild and my eyes are bloodshot, but he doesn’t ask what I was up to last night, and I don’t bring the subject up either.

  “Who are you texting?” I eye him suspiciously, taking a long sip from my double-shot espesso.

  “No one.”

  “Hi, Bullshit, I’m Blaire. Nice to meet you.” I smirk at him.

  He looks embarrassed, pulling his hoodie all the way down his nose so I can’t see his face.

  “Shane Panty-Creamer Kinney! Tell me who you’re texting right freaking now.” My smirk widens. Maybe he’s got a new dip. Maybe it’s serious. Maybe I’m out of the doghouse.

  He looks around. “I’m not texting anyone, I’m looking into reporting a crime. Someone slashed my tires and keyed my Mustang. And they did a hella good job.” />
  “Shit.” I jump up from the bench to face him. “You should definitely file a report. Show me what they did.”

  “Slashed tires, remember,” he declares gravely. “I had to take the bus.” His voice hints at something more serious, like I have stage 4 cancer or World War III is coming.

  “You still lived to tell the tale.” I pat his arm. “Instead of throwing a pity party, you can just go to the police.”

  "I think it's the MMA guy."

  "Which one?"

  "Wilder," he says, touching his cheeks absent-mindedly, as if he's contemplating this. "I think I saw his Hummer after my car alarm went off."

  I'm tempted to say this could be any Hummer, but Ty's car is pretty unique, with the skulls, flames and all the other atrocities.

  "Why would Ty do that to you?"

  Shane shakes his head. "No clue. I know he had some beef with my roomie Josh, but that was a long time ago. Maybe he thought my Mustang was his."

  I put my hands on his shoulders and look into his eyes. “Hey, buddy, trust me, it’s probably some punk kids. Where you live in Oakland, you should be thankful it’s just your tires they butchered. I’ll give you a ride back home today.”

  This rewards me with a tight smile. It's not much, but I'll take it. I hate seeing Shane so down. It's unlike him.

  "Oh, and good news. Izzy said she'd be thrilled to help you out." I bend the truth just a tad, babbling on. "She asked exactly what you need and promised she'll get you everything you ask for."

  "Really?" He eyes me suspiciously, his nose wrinkling to disguise his gut-punched reaction.

  I go out of my way to look enthusiastic, but I'm not exactly known for my convincing poker face. "Yeah. Whatever you need! Let me know and she'll pass it through me."

  Shane offers me a knowing smile and we make our way back into the university building. "Of course you will. By the way, you never answered my text message."

  What text message? Oh, shit.

  I hurriedly tug my phone out of my pocket and scroll to my incoming messages. For some weird reason, the text under Shane’s name looks like I've already opened it. It says, Don't make me hurt you, B. You'll regret the day.