“I know you couldn’t make it out last night, but I’m having some after-show cocktails at my place.”
She glances up at the stage, and though I don’t follow her gaze, I know whom her eyes focus on. I struggle to keep my smile in place. It’s all I can do to not say something negative, knowing it would damage Wyatt and Cal’s relationship with Hazard Anthem.
“I hope you and the boys can make it out.”
“We’ll try,” I promise before leaving her to join Heidi.
***
For the next forty-five minutes, I think of ways to avoid going to the after party without offending the rest of the band. When none come to mind, I decide that I can deal with Terra eye-humping Wyatt—at least for a few hours.
When the band’s set is finished and they’ve loaded their equipment, Wyatt finds me in the crowd. He pulls me to him, looking at me like I’m the only person in the bar, even though Ben and Terra are only a few feet away from us.
“You know what I said about you being mine tonight?” he asks in a low voice. I nod. “That starts right fucking now.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Where are we going?” I demand as he pulls me toward the Suburban. It’s located at the far end of the bar’s parking lot, and I find myself glancing around cautiously to make sure Dillon’s not waiting out here with a crowbar, wanting to start a fight with Wyatt. Fortunately, we make it to the SUV without running into trouble.
He presses the unlock button on the remote and opens the door for me. “You’ll see when we get there.”
I cross my arms over my chest, glancing at the entrance to the bar. “Should we at least tell Heidi and Cal?”
“You really think either of them care? Trust me, Ky, they’re big kids. They can take care of themselves.” He points to the leather passenger seat and gives me a wicked smile. “Now, get in.”
He’s quiet as we leave The Twisted Keg. He speeds past our hotel and the restaurant where Heidi and I ate this morning, continuing his silence.
As we exit the city limits of Albuquerque, my eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t like surprises.”
He tilts his head slightly, his blue eyes burning into me, as he grips the steering wheel with one hand. “But it’s taking your mind off of Lucas’s newest bullshit.”
Well, yes. Tonight has been so hectic that I haven’t had time to think about what’s going on with my older brother. “So, you think that taking me to God-knows-where will keep me from reality?”
“Of course it will, Bluebird.”
“It might help if you at least clue me in on where this escape is going to take place,” I reply. He responds by lifting his shoulders, and I sit back in my seat, letting the sound of whatever’s playing on Octane, my favorite Sirius station, fill the silence inside the Suburban.
I’m humming along to an Evans Blue song, staring out my window, when Wyatt drives past the Welcome to Santa Fe sign. Turning to look at him, I scoot as far as I can toward the center console and lean over so that my lips graze his ear. “Babe?”
His back straightens, and he glances at me from out of the corner of his eye. “Hmm?”
“Why the hell are we in Santa Fe?”
He twists his face to mine, leaving less than an inch between our mouths. As he accomplishes this, I’m amazed at how he manages to stay on the road. “Because I want to fuck you in every city I can before we go home in a couple days.” When he laughs after he says this, I know he’s screwing with me.
At least, I think he is.
I quickly find out what his plans are when he takes a series of turns. He finally swings the Suburban into a parking lot that’s hardly large enough to fit the massive SUV. One corner of my mouth quirks up as I glance at the fluorescent lights on the building right in front of us.
“Piercings and tattoos,” I say, and he grants me a nod. “So, which are you here for?” My eyes automatically dip down to his crotch, and I think of his Prince Albert.
He touches his right hand to the left side of his chest. “And before you ask...” He opens his door and gives me a cocky grin. “No, this isn’t one that can wait until we get back to L.A.”
“I wasn’t going to ask,” I say as I get out of the SUV. I join him at the front of the building where he slides his hand into my back pocket and stares down into my brown eyes. “It’s late. You sure you want to do this tonight?”
“Corey’s already expecting us. Best fucking artist I’ve ever met, beautiful, and he’s only available right here.”
He holds the door open for me. The second I step inside the tiny parlor, I’m immediately greeted by the aroma of green soap, fresh ink, and witch hazel. I inhale and exhale several times, letting the intoxicating familiar scent wash over me.
Wyatt lowers his mouth to my ear. “Does it to me, too, beautiful.”
As I glide the tip of my tongue over my lips, he draws in a deep breath.
“Know what you’re getting?” I ask.
He nods confidently just as a short man with surprisingly very little ink darts out from behind the curtain across the room. “Wyatt!”
Wyatt quickly introduces us. “Kylie, this is Corey. Corey, this is—”
“Bluebird,” Corey says simply.
I swear I flush all the way down to the tips of my toes. When did Wyatt tell this man about me? More importantly, what did he say?
“Nice to meet you, too,” I reply. I glance back and forth between them, hoping that Corey will tell me what Wyatt’s said about me.
He doesn’t, and while they talk, I wander to the lounge area and sit in a plush suede chair. Every few moments, I catch Corey or Wyatt glancing over in my direction, and it’s unnerving. I pluck a giant binder from the coffee table and begin to flip through it, running my fingertips over each page of intricate tattoo designs.
After several minutes, from across the room, Corey asks me, “See anything you like?”
My lips curve into a smile as I nod my head. He’s prepping the ink on his worktable, but he takes a moment to shoot me a curious look. “Too many. Your work is absolutely amazing.”
Wyatt makes a little sound in the back of his throat that resembles a chuckle, drawing my attention to him. He’s already in the chair with his shirt off, and his blue eyes rake over me.
“Want to watch?” Corey asks as he cleans Wyatt’s skin.
I shake my head. For me, watching lost its novelty years ago, and besides, no artist wants somebody staring over his shoulder while he works. I reach for the next binder, and when I’m done with it, I pick up the next one. Once I’m out of photos to look at, I flip through the pages of Inked while listening to the soothing hum of the tattoo gun as Corey runs it across Wyatt’s skin.
I’m on my fourth issue of the magazine, admiring a tattoo of a skull surrounded by orchids, when Wyatt finally calls me over. Glancing up, I realize that the sound of the machine has stopped.
Standing, I stretch out my legs, which have gone stiff from sitting so long. I cross the linoleum floor slowly, squinting at the design on the right side of his chest until I come right up on it. At the moment, it’s just an outline. His skin is splotchy, but this is something I’ve seen before. It always heals.
What stops me from immediately saying anything is the design itself. It’s a bird descending, and I study it carefully, starting from its tail feathers close to Wyatt’s muscled left shoulder to its beak in the center of his chest. At first, I think it’s a crow because of the creature’s fierce features, but then I notice where the color is partially filled in along the wings.
And I realize that it’s a bluebird.
An aggressive and powerful and utterly sexy bluebird.
Words finally find me. “It’s gorgeous.” I look up from the tattoo into Wyatt’s eyes, feeling my throat swell at just how vulnerable they suddenly look. “It’s my favorite.”
And that’s the truth. Out of every mark of ink on his body, this bird is the one that has the most significance to me. It’s the one that I’ll dream about.