Page 25 of Beg for You

Cal

She wasn’t coming.

Fuck.

I’d blown it. I’d pushed too hard, too fast, and I’d blown it. My chance to pay Lyall fucking Deighton back for what he’d done to Dane and Bull, to my family.

I growled and gripped the back of my neck. But that wasn’t what had me pacing the floor, close to tearing shit apart now, was it?

It was Cassy.

And that freaked me the fuck out.

The level of disappointment I was feeling was extreme. I was tense, bow tight, wanting to go out and hunt her down, bring her back here, and make her body sing for me like it had close to a week ago.

But I wasn’t going to do that. She wasn’t here, which meant she didn’t want a repeat. I’d messed everything up.

I flicked off the shop light and headed upstairs to my apartment. My feet felt like lead. That urge to go find her had not lessened, not at all. I took the stairs two at a time, not bothering with the lights. I’d moved in here not long after I was released from the hospital ten years ago.

I’d known Harvey through Bull even before my accident. He’d been a fucking good tattooist and had done most of my ink. He’d also been a lot older, close to retiring, and he’d taken pity on me when I found it hard being around people, around a lot of noise.

Bull had kept Dane with him, and I’d moved above the shop. The rent had been cheap, and the space was big and open.

I hit the top of the stairs and pushed my apartment door open, flicked on the lights, and strode in. Jesus, I felt like a caged lion. I’d thought about Cassy all day—shit, not just today—about seeing her again, touching her…

Goddammit.

I headed for the canvas and paints I had set up in one corner, tearing off my shirt as I went and flinging it aside. Creating, drawing, painting was my stress relief. You’d think after inking people all day I would have fed that need, but this was different. This was for me.

Every wall in this apartment was painted with a different mural. After the accident, I’d had this urge to create. Painting had just…fit. I’d always drawn, but painting had felt so right. I’d started on my apartment walls. It helped. A lot. Became therapy for me in a way. Harvey saw what I was doing, told me I was talented, and made me his apprentice.

He became like a father to Bull and me.

I owed the man everything.

Several years later, he died and left everything he had to us. The shop and this building had come to me. His bank account that had made my fucking head spin had gone to Bull and me to split. Apparently, Harvey had come from money, and because of a strained relationship with his family, he’d never spent a dime. I couldn’t bring myself to either. It didn’t feel right.

I looked at the painting I’d been working on, but wasn’t feeling it, so I leaned it against the wall and put a fresh canvas on the easel. Shapes, colors danced through my mind as I mixed my paint. I took a wide flat brush and started layering on color.

I’d been at it for thirty minutes, throwing color onto the canvas in a kind of trance, a frenzy, before I stood back and took a look at it. It was nowhere near finished, of course, but it was taking some sort of shape. A woman. Naked. Her head thrown back, white-blond hair hanging over one shoulder. I hadn’t painted her face yet. I didn’t need to.

Cassy.

I threw the brush in a jar of water and paced away. Jesus, I had to be losing my mind…

Someone banged on the door downstairs.

I paused, muscles tightening, pulse picking up speed.

More banging.

I was moving across my apartment and pounding down the stairs a second later. When I hit the shop floor, there was an unmistakable silhouette at the door. Gut suddenly in knots, heart trying to beat its way out of my damn chest, I strode over to answer it.

She was here.

I hadn’t scared her away.

I worked the locks and yanked the door open, biting back a growl when I got a look at her.