Seaside Nights Page 2

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  THE LAST NOTE lingered in Sawyer’s lungs, weighing heavily on his heart and in his mind. He didn’t want to stop strumming his guitar or open his eyes. He needed this release—to live in the center of this dusky bar, surrounded by people who didn’t know him and who didn’t know what had led him there. But when he’d sung his last note, he had no choice but to end the song and open his eyes to a loud round of applause. Still thinking of the meaning behind the words, he looked past the tables to the window across the front of the restaurant, which looked out over Commercial Street. People walked by outside, oblivious to the storm brewing inside him, like everyone else in this damn place.

  He’d found himself looking for answers—more so in recent months as his father’s illness progressed. And in that moment, as the crowd clapped, he conjured up the image of his father’s face from his childhood, before the remnants of the war had claimed him. His lips curved up at the memory of his father’s bright eyes smiling upon him—that was the part he still couldn’t accept. He’d never again see his father smile. Parkinson’s had stolen so much of his father’s abilities to be the man he once was, it seemed unreal to Sawyer. Even though the illness had taken root several years earlier, the loss of those pieces of his father that he’d taken for granted for so long still haunted Sawyer on a daily basis. And now, looking at his father was like looking into a mirror of what his future might hold. Sawyer was running from that truth, trying to dodge it like a bullet, because it wasn’t Agent Orange that might steal Sawyer’s cognition like a thief in the night. Sawyer’s fate wasn’t being driven by the country he served. Sawyer’s nemesis was the one thing that he’d lived and breathed since he was thirteen years old. It was his chosen career.

  Sawyer had boxed competitively since he was eighteen. He was a formidable competitor, a monster in the ring, and boxing was the perfect outlet for his anger toward the disease that was stealing more of the man he loved each and every day. Boxing had not only been his emotional savior on too many occasions to count, but now it was going to be his parents’ financial savior as well. Sawyer was challenging the current Northeast Boxing Association champion for the title, and the match carried a seven-hundred-thousand-dollar purse—enough money to pay for in-home health care for his father for the next thirty years. That goal kept Sawyer training harder than ever before and had him even more fiercely determined to win.

  After a grueling training session for his upcoming title fight, he’d gone to see Dr. Malen, his physician, for his quarterly checkup. Damn doctors. They were always covering their asses, warning about worst-case scenarios. Brains weren’t meant to take beatings, the doc had told him. He’d painted the grimmest picture—one or two more blows and Sawyer could sustain permanent brain damage. Sure, he’d had a few concussions, but didn’t every fighter? They’d been giving him the same warning since he was a teenager, and he knew from his boxing buddies that they’d all received similar warnings, too. But this time the doc told him something that he’d never said before—Think about it. This is your future. You’ve only got one.

  How could one sentence pack more power than an uppercut to the jaw?

  Even if the doc was right, how was he supposed to decide between ensuring his father’s financial future and well-being and his own?

  As the applause died down, Sawyer pushed those agonizing thoughts aside. He was invincible. Too good of a fighter to end up with a head injury. He looked out at the crowd and held up a hand in gratitude as he rose to his feet. His eyes shifted to the dark-haired beauty sitting off to his left. He’d seen her looking at him from across the room earlier, and now her eyes were on him again even though the guy beside her had his arm around her. Sawyer disliked people who disrespected those who cared for them and to do it in plain sight rubbed him the wrong way. But something in the way she was looking at him made it impossible for him to look away.

  The exotic-looking woman with olive skin and long, windblown dark hair intrigued him. So much so that words sailed through his mind—languid, peaceful, wounded. Words were as much an outlet for Sawyer as boxing was. He poured his emotions into songs, scribbling them on whatever he could get his hands on when the feeling hit. And now, as he drank in her mismatched necklaces, the word enchanting sounded in his mind. She had the look and presence of someone who was comfortable in her own skin, and that was something Sawyer had always been attracted to. In a few short seconds, he took in her almond-shaped eyes, the slight uptilt to her nose, and the sweet bow of her lips. He’d been watching her for only a few seconds, though it felt like several minutes had passed, and her eyes were now focused on a book, making him even more curious. Who read a book at open mic night?

  Sawyer felt his muse pulling, taunting, vying for his attention, and the songwriter in him began putting a song about the woman together in his mind.

  He’d come to the bar tonight because life was pressing in on him and he’d desperately needed to get out of his own head. The song he’d just played had practically exploded from his fingertips earlier in the evening, and the longer he’d played it in his house on the dunes, the worse the ache that had accompanied it had become. He’d moved outside, but even the sounds of the bay, which usually soothed the chaos in his mind, were no match for the doctor’s warning and the other pressures whirling around inside him.

  Being out tonight should have calmed his thoughts, but now his mind was racing again. Only this time, bits and pieces of the beautiful woman’s fictional life were tumbling into verses he had to write.

  He picked up his guitar and headed to the bar as the host announced the next act. Sawyer pulled a pen from his shirt pocket, grabbed a stack of napkins, and climbed atop a barstool to let the words flow.

  Chapter Two

  SKY CONCENTRATED ON tattooing the Gothic font that the girl lying on her table had chosen for the line she’d found scribbled on a piece of paper and had to have etched into her skin. In your eyes I found myself. Sky had done all sorts of tattoos over the last few years, and some of the most beautiful were the lines of text that people found lying around Provincetown, like this one. Obviously someone hadn’t been careful with their poetry to continually leave pieces all over town. Customers came in with poetic lines written on napkins, crumpled receipts, and one girl even had a picture of something written in the sand. Of all the tattoos Sky had done, it was the sayings that touched her the deepest.

  She thought about the song Sawyer Bass had sung last night, of the passion in his voice. Each word sounded as if it had been drawn straight from the blood in his veins. Darkness isn’t enough. Miles are too close. Nothing can erase you, wipe you clean, take away the pain you left behind. The way he’d closed his eyes during the entire song made her wonder if he was hoping the words would wipe his memories clean or bring back whomever he was singing about. A woman, she imagined.

  She’d watched his eyes before he’d left the stage. He didn’t look to see who was watching him or try to catch the eyes of the prettiest girls. For a brief moment he’d looked as if he wasn’t seeing anything at all. And then his eyes had shifted to her, and she’d quickly averted her gaze back to her poetry book. She wondered what he’d seen when he’d looked at her. Sky was a free spirit, and she’d learned over the years to love herself for who she was, rather than comparing herself to others. She rarely gave too much importance to what people thought about her, but something about his voice, his eyes, and the song he’d sung had spoken to her, and she wondered...Did he see what she felt? That the girl who used to be happy to go to open mic night and sing and dance with anyone who asked had taken some strange turn over the last year, seeking something more? Or did he see the girl she’d been? Or someone different altogether? She’d changed so much over the last few months—finally spreading her wings, moving out from her brothers’ houses, where she was living to save money while she ran her father’s shop, and finally buying her own shop. She’d also noticed other changes in herself, like a feeling of restlessness. Loneliness? She didn’t t
hink so, but maybe. Seeing her best friends fall in love, get married, and now start their families had definitely affected her.

  How could someone with so many friends be lonely?

  She let that thought fall away to focus on the tattoo again, taking comfort in the hum of the tattoo gun and the beauty of each line she created. When she finished, she cleaned up the customer’s newly inked area and helped the raven-haired girl off the table.

  “I think I saw you the other night. Do you work at the Governor Bradford’s?”

  “Yeah, nights. Did I wait on you? I usually remember my customers, but I don’t remember you.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t order. My brother did—as he checked you out, of course.”

  “Really? Well, if he’s as hot as you are pretty, maybe I’ll have to look for him next time.” She laughed. “Thank you so much for fitting me in for the tattoo. My name’s Cree, by the way. Well, it’s Lucretia, but everyone calls me Cree. I’ll definitely be back.” She followed Sky to the register. “Can I throw this in your trash?”

  “Sure. I’m Sky, by the way.”

  “Sky, as in Inky Skies. Love it.”

  She handed Sky the paper that had the tattoo written on it. Sky set it in a basket, where she’d been keeping the tattoos that had spoken to her since she started working for the previous owner. She kept passages written on slips of papers, receipts, and napkins. She’d begun thinking of whoever had written them as the P-town poet. Shouldn’t a poet be more careful with his or her poems? Was the poet some type of bohemian who meant to leave a few lines around town? They weren’t ever full poems, just snippets found in odd places like restaurants, bars, and in one case, in the sand.

  “That’s seventy even,” she said to Cree.

  Sky moved her poetry book to the other side of the register as Lizzie popped her head in the front door, looking cute in a pink miniskirt and white tank top. Her hair was pinned up in a high ponytail. “Hey, Sky. Lunch?”

  Sky looked up from the register. “Can’t, sorry. I have some painting to do, and I want to organize the back room.”

  “Okay, no worries.” Lizzie waved as Sky gave Cree her change.

  After Cree left, Sky went to clean up her workstation, thinking about the grand opening celebration. She still had several weeks before the celebration, but she had a list of people to talk to about it. She envisioned music and balloons, a festive event.

  “Excuse me?”

  A shiver ran down her back at the sound of the familiar deep voice she’d heard in her dreams last night. She turned and found Sawyer Bass standing just inside the front door, wearing a pair of faded jeans and a white T-shirt and looking even more striking—rugged, manly—than he had last night. She tried to fit Hunter’s description—rough—to the man, but he had a warm and friendly smile that reached his dark eyes and softened all those hard elements. No wonder his eyes had caught her interest. They were deep-set, with lashes so lush they looked lined and mysterious, and held the shiny darkness of obsidian rock. He closed the distance between them while Sky tried to find her voice.

  “Hi,” he said casually. Then his gorgeous eyes widened with surprise. “I saw you at Governor Bradford’s last night, right? With your boyfriend? You were reading.”

  Sky set down the towel she was using to wipe the table, trying to quiet the thoughts running through her mind. You’re even hotter in the daylight. Look at those abs pressing against your shirt. Wait. What did you ask me? Governor Bradford’s, right.

  “Yes. No. I mean, I was there, but I wasn’t with my boyfriend. I don’t have a boyfriend.” Ramble much? Her brain refused to fire properly, which was stupid, because she saw good-looking people every day in the shop. This guy shouldn’t throw her off her game like this. Why did he make her feel like she had a mouth full of nails? He fidgeted with something in his hand, appearing slightly nervous himself, which made her feel a little better.

  Which was also stupid.

  “My mistake. The way you were sitting, I just assumed…” He glanced around the shop.

  “The bane of my existence. Being overprotected.” Maybe Blue and Hunter did cockblock her after all.

  “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.” He held her stare, and there was no mistaking the spark of interest in his eyes. “I’d like to get a tattoo.”

  “Sure. Come on back. What did you have in mind?” She led him to her workstation, hoping he wanted a tattoo on his forearm, because if he wanted it on any other part of his body, it would be way too hard for her to concentrate.

  His eyes slid over the back of the shop. Inky Skies was small and still a little gritty while the renovations were being done. Sky had tried to liven it up, covering the scuffs in the walls with scarves and pictures, and she’d put up folding screens in the back of the room to mask the unfinished shelves that ran across the back wall. She had even draped a few of her colorful scarves over the black panels of the screens, giving the area the look of a makeshift dressing room, like they had in the Himalayan shop around the corner. She liked the comfortable look of it, even if it wasn’t yet ideal.

  Sawyer’s gaze returned to Sky, and her pulse quickened. He handed her a slip of paper, then reached over his back and pulled his shirt off. Sky’s mouth went dry at the sight of his muscular pecs, ripped abs, and those incredibly sexy muscles that made a perfect vee and disappeared down the front of his pants. She loved creating tattoos, but the idea of putting anything other than her hands or mouth on his gorgeous body made her almost as weak in the knees as the idea of putting her hands or mouth on him did.

  “This is what I’d like.” He handed her a slip of paper and pointed his thumb at the chair behind him. “Is that where I should sit?”

  She blinked away her stupor. “Yes. Where do you want the tattoo?”

  “On my back. Anywhere you can fit it is fine.”

  Sky dropped her eyes as she unfolded the paper to look at the design. It wasn’t a design at all, but words. Liquid to dust, shattered not broken. What was it about this place that brought all of these random phrases into her shop? She heard him sitting in the chair and lifted her eyes. He was straddling the chair, leaning on his arms, which were crossed over the back of it. His back was covered with words, from the ridge of his shoulders to the waist of his jeans. It was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen—such passion inked into the sculpted contours of his smooth skin. Words arched across his scapula and stretched over his flanks. Sky had tattooed all sorts of body parts, and she’d seen tattoos that ran the gamut from sweet to gruesome. To each his own had always been her motto. But this…The mixture of harsh and tender words on such a powerful man momentarily stole her ability to function.

  Without any forethought, she reached out and touched his skin. It was hot and smooth. Flawless, save for the inked words. Her eyes slid slowly over the words: Fluid like the wind, hard as stone. Unconditional. Stolen. Transparent. What did these words mean to him? Down his spine words were strung together like a ladder, the taller letters touching the ones above, tying them together. Lies, rage, tenderness, alone, forever, fragile—

  He looked over his shoulder, his eyes heavy, as if he were tired, and a smile on his lips, softening the sharp edge of his darkly whiskered jaw.

  “Wherever you can fit it in. I’m not picky.”

  She looked down at the paper he’d given her and read the words again. “Where did you get this?” She had to know if he was the one leaving things like this all over Provincetown.

  He shrugged and looked away again, his voice going cold. “Picked it up somewhere.”

  She was surprised when disappointment washed through her. After hearing him sing, seeing his back, and seeing the P-town poet’s signature scrap of paper, she thought maybe she’d solved the mystery. She pulled up her stool and looked more carefully at his back, noticing the different sizes and fonts. Now that the awe had worn off a bit, she saw that there was plenty of room for her to fit these, and many more words, if he so desired.

 
“Do you have tattoos only on your back?” she asked.

  He turned and looked at her again, his eyes darker, more sensual, sending a surprising rush of heat through her. “Only those that tread the landscape get to find that out.”

  Yes, please. “Oh…Sorry.” She picked up her tattoo gun to give herself something to focus on besides that before trying to respond again, then managed, “Do you have a font in mind?”

  “You pick.” His thick dark brows knitted together. Then he turned away, leaned his cheek on his forearm, and closed his eyes, as if he hadn’t made her hot, then flustered, then hot all over again.

  She was used to clients allowing her to choose fonts and even designs, but she had so many more questions for him. She tried to tamp them down as she moved closer, spreading her legs so his hip was between them, allowing her to lean in closer with the hopes of her hand remaining steady.

  “Don’t you have to make a copy of the words or something, then transfer that to my back?”

  “I’m a freehand artist. Unless you want me to use a guide?”

  “No. Freehand’s better, actually.” His eyes opened and rolled down her body again. “You must be really good with your hands.”

  Wanna find out? Holy crap!

  “I’d like to think so.” She was not normally the type of girl who thought about touching and finding out things with guys she didn’t know. Sawyer was making her mind go in ten different directions, and she needed to get a grip before her sexy thoughts came streaming from her lips.

  She was thankful when he rested his hand on his arms again and closed his eyes, allowing her racing pulse to settle. She looked over his back for the right place for the tattoo, forcing her mind into artist mode. He’s a canvas. A very delicious-looking canvas.

  “Between your shoulder blades okay? With a script font? I want to soften the words, unless you want me to go the other way—blocky or Gothic?”