Luke Read online

  this is how life would be all the time."

  "If you went pro," Abel said. "You'd be training and living clean so you didn't lose everything you worked for."

  "Shit, man," Trigg said, gesturing down the length of his body. "This body is a damn machine. It can handle anything I throw at it."

  Abel laughed. "Whatever, dude," he said. "Give it a few years. Wait until you're thirty. Shit, even twenty five."

  "That's forever away," Trigg said. "Right now, I'm in my motherfucking prime. All of us are."

  "Yeah, man, look at me," Abel said, gesturing to his leg in the cast. "I'm like the definition of prime, right here."

  I happened to look across the room as they laughed. And suddenly, everything faded into the background.

  It was her.

  Tempest.

  She was standing there in the entrance to the restaurant, wearing this little black dress that skimmed over her curves, the material shimmering in the candlelight. She should have looked conservative, elegant in the dress she wore -it was that kind of a dress- but she couldn't have looked edgier if she had tried. The strapless gown did nothing to conceal the tattoos that twisted around her forearms and biceps, snaked across her shoulder, and peeked out from underneath the tiny straps.

  Of course, she could have been wearing a fucking paper bag, for all it mattered to me - I couldn't take my eyes off her.

  When her eyes met mine, her lips parted, just slightly.

  It was like everything in the world stopped, in that moment.

  I stood up.

  I knew I should feel angry at her for leaving. I knew I should want nothing to do with her. She was a fucking thief who made promises, ran off with things that were precious to me.

  Like my seventeen-year-old heart.

  But I just couldn't help myself. I wanted her.

  I crossed the room, hearing Abel protest from where he sat at the table. "What the hell are you doing, Silas?"

  "Holy shit. That's that TV producer," Trigg said, hooting. "He's got some balls. She's out of his fucking league. She's with the rich guy, the one who bought our drinks."

  Behind her stood a group of men. They were unassuming, nondescript, didn't look like they belonged together as a group in any way. One wore an expensive suit, like some kind of male model. One wore a hoodie and sneakers, black-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose. And the older man, the one who'd invited us up here to begin with, stood there behind them in a cardigan, holding a cane.

  I felt a rush of something I couldn't quite place, seeing her with them. These men had to be the people she was working with, the people she'd chosen to be with.

  Her crew.

  A wave of jealousy washed over me, this feeling of possessiveness I couldn't shake. She'd been mine once.

  Or, rather, once upon a time I thought she was mine.

  I told myself I had no right to her anymore. I'd never had a right to her, even back then.

  I stopped, a few feet away from the group, looking at the old man. "You."

  Tempest turned to look behind her. "Oscar," she said, her voice soft. "What did you do?"

  He shrugged. "I'm simply an old man, looking for a meal," he said, taking the sleeve of the man in the suit and calling for the host. "I think a table at the far end, over there by the window, will do nicely. For three."

  The nerd with the glasses looked up from his phone. "There's four of us."

  The man in the suit patted him on the back and cleared his throat. "I do believe it's just the three of us for dinner, Emir," he said.

  The group followed the maitre'd across the restaurant, and I stepped forward, close to Tempest.

  I had the nearly irresistible urge to slide my hand up to the nape of her neck, grab a handful of hair, and draw her against me.

  Or to fucking throttle her.

  I wasn't sure which feeling was stronger.

  Instead, I stood there, looking at her. "Tempest Wilde," I said. "Or should I call you Maggie?"

  She stood there, expressionless for a moment. "You found me," she said.

  I wasn't sure if she was disappointed or pleased.

  And then a smile played on the edges of her lips. "Silas Saint," she said. "It's been a long time."

  She tilted her head down, swept a strand of brown and purple hair over her forehead, and looked up at me, eyes twinkling. Her hair was different from the way I remembered. But the look she gave me was familiar.

  That part, I hadn't forgotten.

  ***

  PART TWO

  When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving oneself, and always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.

  ~ Oscar Wilde, Picture of Dorian Gray

  CHAPTER TEN

  TEMPEST

  "What are you doing here, Tempest?" Silas asked. He stood so close to me that I couldn't think about anything except the way his lips would feel as they dragged across my skin.

  "A girl gets hungry," I said. As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how much they sounded like an innuendo. Silas made a sound in his throat, low and guttural.

  I stood there motionless, drinking in his presence.

  I wanted to stay there forever, life on hold.

  "You were at the fight," he said. "Maggie. Jameson, is it now?"

  "Tempest," I said. "It’s Tempest. It always was."

  He laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. Instead, it was just bitter. "Your name was real, then?" he asked. "That's the only thing about you that wasn't a lie."

  "You know that's not true, Silas," I said, my voice soft. "With you, it was real. We were real." He thought I'd deceived him, ripped out his heart and left West Bend - left him - without a care in the world.

  He couldn't know how hard it was for me to leave back then. His mother had been right. I would only drag him down.

  He had no idea how hard it was now, standing here before him.

  "Do I know that, Tempest?” he asked. "You don't know the meaning of the word real."

  "I did love you once," I said, honest. For once. “Back then. That was real.”

  Something flickered across his face, painful and intense, and I almost regretted telling the truth. It was wrong, telling him something that would cause him more pain, years later.

  Silas stepped forward, so close to me I could feel his warm breath, his face inches from mine. I heard him inhale, and every cell in my body responded to his nearness, anticipating his touch.

  Desperate for his touch.

  I wanted to know if his lips tasted the way they used to. I wanted to know if he felt the same way underneath my fingertips that he did years ago. I wanted to know if our bodies would meld together, fitting like two puzzle pieces, the way they did when we were teenagers, initially fumbling and naive.

  But he didn't kiss me.

  Instead, he slid his hand up my arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps in his wake, until his hand reached the nape of my neck. He clutched at my hair, grasping a handful, and pulled me close to him. The movement sent a shock of pain through my body that made me wince.

  Followed immediately by a rush of arousal at his touch.

  "Outside," he growled. "Now."

  Only barely loosening his grip on my hair, his hand still on my neck, he led me around the tables in the bar, past his friends, and through the tinted glass doors that opened onto a balcony, empty of anyone else. The cityscape stretched out in front of us, the twinkling lights of Vegas that went on for miles until they faded away at the edge of the desert. Music pumped softly over the speakers.

  Silas pushed me forward until he reached the far end of the balcony, where a canopy with white billowing fabric framed matching white cushioned lounges and glass tables. Without asking, he took my purse from my hands and set it on one of the tables. He barely stopped moving. Instead, he guided me toward the edge of the space, his grip on me unyielding.

  He only stopped when we reached the glass wall that lined the balcony, finally le