Three

Raven

Walking around without a wallet makes me feel as naked as those hippies on Wreck Beach. I hop off the bus, tug down my mini skirt, and check for the millionth time my purse is still zipped, all belongings safely inside. (Helloooo, paranoia.) I scan the restaurants for street numbers until I get my bearings, then I move into step with the other locals out for their Thursday night.

Shay and Lily both offered to pick me up, but I like finding my own way. I ride different buses when possible, mapping out the streets as we bump along. I’ve already found a bagel shop that bakes fresh, doughy bread all hours of the night and a biker store filled with all things black and leather. Even after today’s fiasco, Vancouver is feeling like home.

I spot the restaurant Shay booked and push through the door. An attractive Asian man approaches as I adjust my strapless top. Like me, he’s dressed in black, his smooth cheekbones striking in the soft light. If I had my camera, I’d snap a close-up of that chiseled line; the slope of his cheek is as sleek as a sand dune.

He checks a book on his counter. “Do you have a reservation?”

The bar is hopping, all surrounding tables full. When I see Shay’s unruly hair, I nod toward the group. “I’m meeting friends.”

He motions me on, and the girls wave when I catch their attention. Kolton has his arm over Shay’s chair, and Sawyer’s hand is on Lily’s knee. Both guys are in their usual jeans and T-shirts, like they should be lounging on deck chairs, sipping beers.

Kolton stands. “Nice to finally see you.”

“Nice to be seen.” I walk into his outstretched arms and sink into his hug.

He rubs my back. “Sorry about the wallet.”

“Yeah.”

“Looking hot, Hunt.” Sawyer winks as he stands to kiss my cheek.

“Save the sweet talking for your girlfriend.” I round the table and sit next to Lily. “This place is cool.”

She fixes her hair band in place. “Don’t you love the walls? Such a fun design.”

Bicycle wheels line the top half of the space, all painted lime green. The same color as the naked dude’s fanny pack. “Yeah, it’s different. Is this for me?” I point to the glass of red wine by my plate.

Shay turns the bottle toward me, and I salivate. Last time I had the Penfolds Shiraz was at her going-away party, along with several blue shots and an obscene number of cupcakes.

“It is,” she says. “Tonight’s a celebration.”

I sip the deep purple wine, thankful my friends can afford the steep price, and I savor the spice and pepper that coats my palate. “If I get to drink this, I’m happy to pass on dinner. And what are we celebrating? My stolen wallet and potential identity theft?”

“That kid better hope he never sees me again,” Shay says, practically snarling. “But tonight is a fresh start, which includes celebrating our new business. And don’t even joke about skipping dinner. The charcuterie here is ridiculous.”

“The business is all she talks about.” Pride sparkles in Kolton’s brown eyes. “She’s even claimed the office in the basement as your headquarters. And—”

“I’ve thought of a name,” Shay interrupts, talking over him.

Lily squeals. “Let’s hear it.”

“Three Hot Chicks Do Vancouver.” Sawyer’s usual humor earns him a glare from each of us. “What? If you slap your pictures on a brochure, every dude in the city will be calling for your services.”

I reach in front of Lily and punch his shoulder. “It’s an event business, asshole. Not an escort service. I’m pretty sure you don’t want a bunch of sleazy men propositioning Lily.”

He slides his hand up her thigh. “Only this sleazy guy gets to solicit my girl.”

Blushing, Lily plays with the ring on her necklace, her newest tic. If she’s not picking her cuticles or chewing her nails, she’s twisting Sawyer’s promise ring in circles. Better that than falling into her old patterns—shopping to calm her nerves. If I had to guess, that ring is what has her tangled in knots. To say yes to Sawyer’s proposal, or not. To trust he won’t be a coward and hurt her again, or not. The way he’s looking at her now—stars in his eyes, one hand on her thigh, the other at the back of her neck, playing with her white-blond hair—he seems intent on proving his love. If he’s not, I’ll go for the jugular.

“Ignore him,” Lily says, still fiddling with the ring. “Let’s hear the name.”

Shay holds up her hands as if silencing a crowd. “Painted Heart Events.”

I almost snort out my wine. “Are you serious?”

Lily drops her head forward. “The humiliation.”

“What am I missing?” Sawyer squints at us.

Shay leans back, pleased with herself. “When we were in high school, we spent a night at a friend’s ski chalet and got drunk.”

“Annihilated,” I cut in. “Someone spiked our vodka with vodka.”

Lily sinks lower on her seat. “Please don’t say any more.”

“No, please do.” Sawyer leans closer, as though he’s about to be told the Caramilk Secret.

Unable to contain herself, Shay beams. “Our sweet Lily danced around the room in her bra and underwear, and although none of us can hold a tune, we formed a girl band. We called ourselves the Painted Hearts.”

God, that night. Growing up in a small town north of Toronto, everyone knew everyone, which meant getting served underage was a no-go. On the evening in question Shay’s brother smuggled us booze, and umpteen shots later, we had smudged black eyeliner under our eyes. Shay set up pots and pans and smashed away on them with a wooden spoon. Lily found a recorder and screeched out notes that could shatter glass. I, of course, played air guitar, hopping around the room like the lead singer of the Slits, head banging to my imagined punk tunes.

We were horrible.

I grin at the memory. “As much as I loved our band, the heart part makes it sound too wedding specific. But whatever we choose, we could use that picture of us in our underwear and ski boots for the logo.”

Lily drops her forehead to the table, and Sawyer rubs her back. “If all it takes is some vodka to get you ladies skiing in your lingerie, then we need to book another ski trip.”

Ignoring him, Shay says, “My second choice is Over the Top Events. Less personal, but it gets the point across.”

Now that name works. “Catchy. I love it.”

Lily lifts her head from the table. “It’s actually pretty perfect.”

Kolton drums his fingers on the table, each tap timed to the hipster music strumming from the speakers. “Can we get back to that ski trip talk? How about Whistler next winter?” He nudges Shay’s side. “I’ll give you lessons first. Make sure you know how to merge onto a run so you don’t cut off any skiers.”

I settle into my chair, waiting for Shay to unleash her inner Mike Tyson. Kolton knows she can ski circles around him. He also knows she’ll never admit it was her fault when the two collided on Aspen Mountain. But he loves pushing her buttons, and she loves rising to the bait.

Her passive-aggressive reply: “It’s okay. I’ve forgiven you for skiing into me. We might not have met otherwise.”

Sawyer jumps in then, all four of my friends joking about how crappy their lives would be if they hadn’t met. The odd woman out, I keep my mouth shut. I’d erase that night if I could. I wish we hadn’t spotted the boys in their condo, or Nico, to be precise. The second I saw his massive frame, tight T-shirt emphasizing each inked muscle, I pushed the girls to be wild and crazy, to invite ourselves inside. The casual hookup I’d imagined was anything but.

“Shay said you saw Nico at the station today.” When I don’t answer Lily, she nudges my elbow. “How’d it go?”

“Fine.”

“Fine good or fine bad?”

“Fine, meaning: I’d rather stick my face in a termite mound than spend time with him.” I also wanted to crawl over his desk and stick my face somewhere else, but I keep that nugget to myself.

I pick up my menu, determined to let this day go. The wallet incident and being around Nico—all that’s in the past. Tonight is about hanging with my friends and celebrating our new business, in name, at least. Tomorrow I’ll hunt for a paying job, and there’s a chance I’ll find my sister soon. My future is bright.

Until a shadow falls across me. “This seat taken?”

At the sound of Nico’s voice, my heart flips, involuntarily. It shouldn’t flip. It should stay exactly where he left it, incinerated on his condo floor in Aspen. Instead of replying, I aim a missile glare at Shay. She shrugs as if she didn’t know he was coming. All eyes are on me—expectant, waiting—leaving me little choice.

“The seat is not taken.” I lift my menu higher and study the main courses. Chicken something. Shrimp something. The words blur, like I’ve left my camera’s shutter speed open too long.

The chair across from me scrapes along the wood floor.

Flip goes my traitorous heart.

My table wobbles as he sits, and I clench my jaw. He’s probably leaning on his inked elbows, probably staring at me, forcing himself into my space. My world. My body temperature spikes, along with my anger. Not wanting him to ruin this night, I put down my menu and focus on Shay and Kolton. “How’s Jackson?”

They share a look and burst out laughing. When Kolton recovers, he says, “Good, but thanks to Sawyer, his latest quirk has us questioning our sanity.”

Sawyer pulls back from whispering to Lily. “Every kid should have a drum set.”

Shay makes a show of rubbing her ear. “Tell that to my hearing.”

“He’s actually not half bad,” Kolton says. “But he won’t put down the drumsticks and insists on smacking everything in whacking distance. Including Shay’s ass.”

Sawyer beams. “The kid learns fast. We should put on a talent show. Jackson could write a song, my nieces could choreograph a routine, and Nico could roll his hips. We’d rake in the cash.” Sawyer picks up his phone and shakes it, taunting Nico with the video he took a while back.

Eager to embarrass his friend, Sawyer showed it to me one night in Toronto. So accustomed to associating Nico with anger, I surprised myself by laughing. Cackling, really. Nico dancing with five-year-olds is a sight to behold. Seeing how cute he was with Sawyer’s nieces, how willing he was to humiliate himself for a smile, melted a layer of my animosity.

Then I remembered Aspen.

That night I’d glimpsed what it would be like to feel open and vulnerable and cared for, how I’d imagined having family would feel—unconditional acceptance, an unbreakable bond you can’t explain. I had that with Rose, before she left. I had that with Nico, for a minute. And for some messed-up reason I can’t let it go. Can’t move on like usual.

“That video goes live, and I impound your car.”

They all laugh at Nico’s joke, but he slides his gaze toward me, and my breath hitches. His eyes, blue as the ocean, lock on mine. My neck tingles. My fingertips twitch. My ability to sit across from him and hide my hurt and anger evaporates. I also can’t hide my attraction. Still, sixteen months later, one look from him and my stomach drops and my blood boils and I itch to lick every inch of his body.

His large hand presses against my knee under the table. “Can we talk?”

Jesus, his touch. It’s the first time I’ve felt the weight of his palm on me since Aspen. It’s heavy. Huge. Callused. Instinctually I shift forward, my body no longer mine to command. He doesn’t move his hand. Just his thumb. It presses harder, dragging downward. I grip my armrests to keep from sliding to the floor. He stares at me, waiting for my answer.

Yes. No. Maybe. I choose silence.

The way our lives are entrenched with our friends, I’ll have to spend time with him, and I can’t keep pretending I can block him out. Moving here was about starting fresh, which means letting go of this grudge. But talking about Aspen could stir up more feelings, the same way the experience spurred my need to find Rose. If we talk about our time in the hot tub, it could unhinge me further.

Our waiter arrives to take our order, and Nico’s thumb moves again, a tiny brush, his skin against mine, sending a pulse between my thighs. My sanity plummets. I shout, “Chicken,” like a lunatic as I push away from the table.

Nico’s hand slides from my knee, but his eyes don’t waver. I feel his gaze on my back as I hurry to the bathroom. The second I get inside, I close the door and lean against it, thankful it’s not a public room with several stalls. I take a few deep breaths.

How can that bit of contact turn me inside out? The smallest touch?

Memories of his other touches flip through my mind, snippets of skin and ink, flashes of ecstasy.

My back arching.

His fingers exploring.

The curve of his inked shoulder.

His huge hands.

The sheer size of him.

We might not have had sex, and the details may be fuzzy, but there’s no doubt it was the hottest night I’ve ever had. What isn’t fuzzy is the time I spent with him in the hot tub prior, and how he took advantage of my vulnerability.

Goddamn Nico. And Goddamn Aspen.

We’d left the group that night, the two of us intent on privacy. Since I’d laid eyes on him, I was salivating to see Nico’s hulking frame in the flesh, taste his inked skin, so I suggested a hot tub. We met at his place and stripped down to our bathing suits, a bottle of tequila at the ready, and holy god of gods, that body. I’d seen fit men before—eight-pack, deep V, and carved muscles—but I didn’t know where to look first. Tribal tattoos followed the deep cuts of his biceps and triceps, the tail of a stylized phoenix landing in the groove between his pecs. The muscles of his thighs and calves twitched with each step, and his swim shorts were snug enough to show what I’d hoped.

Everything about Nico was huge.

He took an eyeful of me in my black string bikini, letting his hand drag over my ass as he passed me to slip into the outdoor tub. The water sloshed as he sank in. “We should get to know each other better.”

I licked my lips. “I’d like to get to know what’s under your shorts.”

I’m pretty sure he blushed, but the outdoor lighting was nothing but a soft glow, and Nico’s uninked skin was smooth and dark, thanks to his Polynesian father, making it hard to tell. He flicked his head toward the seat opposite him. “Sit. Let’s talk first.”

I wasn’t one for delayed gratification, especially being that desperate for oblivion. Talking led to thinking, when all I wanted was distraction. Wanted to pretend the news I’d learned before leaving home never happened.

Unprepared to walk away from him, I huffed out a breath then did as he asked. I sank into the warm churning water, my sore muscles relaxing on contact. Steam curled into the cold air.

I waited and waited until he said, “Tell me something about yourself.”

“Or we could do shots.” I grinned.

“Shots sound like fun, in a bit.”

Was this guy for real? There I was, my bikini practically nonexistent, a sure thing, and he wanted to talk. “I like long walks on the beach, collecting garden gnomes, and saving whales.”

He didn’t crack a smile, not even a smirk, so I nudged his knee with my foot. He caught my ankle and tugged me forward. That game I could play. That game led to release and nirvana and the amnesia I craved. I straddled his lap but couldn’t get close enough to feel him against me, to medicate my emptiness with his big, strong body.

The more I wiggled, the firmer he gripped my hips. “If you want me, tell me something real.”

It was a trip to be so tightly wound and forced to hold back. I dug my fingers into his shoulders, kneading the ropy muscle. “I don’t do real.”

“I don’t do casual.” He leaned forward and kissed my neck, his tongue darting out for a taste. My head dropped back, and I tried to shift forward, but he held firm.

Frustrated, I planted my feet on the bench to push away, but his vise grip didn’t budge. “You live in Vancouver, Nico. I live in Toronto. This is the definition of casual. If you’re not interested, that’s fine. I’ll find someone else to have fun with on this trip.”

He eased his grasp. “If you want to go, then go. I won’t keep you here. But if you want what I want, tell me something real.”

The heat from the pool and his body clouded my mind, my heart buzzing faster than a tattoo gun. I never did real. I did fun and easy and quick escapes. Real was a broken heart. Real was tearstained cheeks the day you turned nine and walked into your sister’s room to find everything gone. No note, no good-bye. Real was learning your grandmother had tragically died.

I should have taken Door Number One and left him sitting here, not played his game, but I looked into his ocean eyes, and I was drowning. The urge to share a piece of myself with him overwhelmed me, to release some of the turmoil simmering below my skin, but I didn’t know how.

“I don’t do real,” I repeated, quieter, hoping he’d convince me otherwise.

He tilted his head and brushed my bangs aside. “Why?”

The men in my life liked sex and good times, not searching conversations. They didn’t look at me like I was special or precious. They didn’t look at me like Nico did. “Real gets you hurt.” I gripped his shoulders.

He traced a line down my cheek to my chest, fanning his huge hand over my heart and breast. My nipples pebbled. I rocked forward again, needing friction, but this was his game, his rules, and he held me steady. “I won’t hurt you,” was all he said. He might have used his words sparingly, but they hit on target. He leaned in as if to kiss me—his wide lips too full, his narrow hips too close, the churning water too hot. “I promise,” he whispered.

I wasn’t one to share, to cry or whine or complain about my lot. Life was like poker: You got what you were dealt. Believing and sharing only led to disappointment.

But those eyes. That promise. I was a goner.

Confused and lost in the moment, I lifted my left wrist and looked at the rose tattoo over my pulse point. That was for my sister, but it was the feathers inked up my arm I found myself pointing to. “I got these for my grandmother. I only met her once. I was sixteen, and she showed up out of the blue at my house. She sat beside a fire and told me a person can only know who they are and where they’re going if they know where they’re from. She’d said if I stared at the moon too long, its energy would pull me into the sky. That the earth we take for granted grew from the back of a turtle.”

I sucked in a shuddering breath, entranced, reliving every word she spoke, once again greedy for knowledge—a history of my First Nations’ ancestry that was bigger than my small town and absentee parents and disappeared sister.

Eyes burning, I looked up at Nico. “She lived on the street and died a week ago, exposure to the cold. I can’t imagine what that would feel like, your blood turning to ice.” I shivered, still horrified over what she’d endured. “I never got a chance to thank her. To tell her what that visit meant to me.”

I didn’t dare mention what a mess I was at sixteen. That meeting her had changed my life in ways she’d never know. But that was more than I’d ever shared with a man. More than I’d even shared with my best friends. Then I told him about Rose. Not the toughest part, but enough.

He didn’t say he was sorry, didn’t look at me with pity. He pulled my arm to his lips and kissed the inked feathers, then the black and gray rose. The intimacy of the moment caught in my throat, my chest, reeling me in.

He pointed to part of the tribal piece on his left pec—two semicircles with repeated patterns like a candelabra. “This is enata, a Polynesian symbol of the sky guarding its people. I’ve had to help my mother raise my sister and brother, my father’s in jail, and my siblings attract trouble like bees to honey.”

I traced the lines, water dripping from my fingers down his broad chest. “You tell that story to all the girls?” I forced levity into my words, but even I could hear my uncertainty. My insecurity.

He shook his head, those blue eyes piercing. “No.”

The relief was instant. “Why me?”

“Don’t know. There’s something about you, Raven.”

He said my name low and deep, a quiet murmur that rumbled in my dark places, lighting them from within. Everything about him was big and safe and reassuring. He felt like…home.

Fresh tears pricked my eyes. “I don’t understand what I’m feeling.”

“Me neither.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “Is it okay?”

I nodded. “As long as you keep your promise.”

He kissed my shoulder, the dip at my throat, tender and sweet. “I’m a man of my word.”

The man is a fucking liar.

The memory scrapes at the scar tissue left in his wake, and heavy knocks thump on the bathroom door, bringing me back to the moment. Back to the awareness of Nico’s too-large presence once again thrust into my life.

The sound is followed by the fucking liar’s voice. “Raven, let me in. We need to talk.”

My heart accelerates, racing for cover. The air suddenly feels too warm, my throat too tight. Instead of pacing between the cream walls in this cramped room, I plant my feet firmly. “You are persona non grata in here. Not wanted. Go away.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Damn him and his stubborn self. Last time he forced me to talk to him, to share, I got steamrolled. But he’s best friends with Kolton and Sawyer. Not talking to him will be more challenging than having this discussion.

I yank the door open and face the Sexy Beast. “Talk.”

“Can I come in?”

I step back and he steps in, the small space smaller with his huge frame inside.

“I’m sorry,” he says as the door clicks shut behind him.

Tapping my toe, I cross my arms and study the pink tile around the oval mirror. I count the number of sticks poking out of the air freshener, the scent of eucalyptus permeating the room. Better to focus on that than the smells of man and musk and bad decisions that followed him in here.

When he realizes those two words won’t cut it, he inches closer. “I’m sorry. Really sorry. Our time in Aspen meant a lot to me. I think it was intense for both of us, and I should have called. Should have gotten in touch with you. But the stuff with my brother took over and other things went down. I couldn’t think straight. And part of me was ashamed.”

He studies a crumpled paper towel on the floor, then looks up. “I told you stuff about my family in Aspen, but admitting how bad things really were was hard for me back then. I was embarrassed, so I shut down. Once I realized I was being stupid, too much time had passed. I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me. Figured I’d fucked everything up and that was that. Then I heard you were moving here, and I thought about you more. Knew I needed to explain.”

I body-check him with my eyes. “You got the fucked-everything-up part right. You broke a promise to me and didn’t even apologize. Only a dick would do that.”

He winces and rubs his shaved head, his hurt and disappointment clear as day, and God, I feel bad. I know what his family means to him, how much of a burden he carries. In a few simple words, he shared that with me in Aspen. And embarrassment over family is something I’m intimately acquainted with.

I just wish my heart hadn’t gotten caught in the crossfire.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and his face brightens. “About the dick part,” I clarify, “not about the rest. Yes, you fucked everything up. I won’t trust you again on a personal level. But…” But your chest should be bronzed and your forearms rival the Rock’s. “But I need to move past this. We’re going to see each other a fair bit, and I’m tired of being angry.”

He stands taller, moves closer. “Friends, then?”

I shrug as if his proximity isn’t sending goose bumps up my arms, as if I don’t want him to pin me against the wall with his powerful thighs. But what I want isn’t what’s good for me. “Looks that way.”

He leans down to my ear, his hot breath ghosting over my skin. “Go out with me.”

Maybe he’s imagining my legs around his waist, too. My nails digging into his neck. Too bad he burned that bridge. And torched the surrounding villages.

I try to shove him back, but I’d have more luck moving a tank. “What part of ‘I won’t trust you again on a personal level’ did you not understand?”

That big and dumb thing really does go hand in hand.

He takes my not-so-subtle hint and steps away. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He lingers a moment, then pulls a piece of paper from his back pocket. “I really am sorry. I’ve thought about you a lot since that night. Haven’t been with another woman since.” He unfolds the paper in his hand, blinks at it, then passes it to me. “I’ve read this more times than I should admit. See you at the table.”

He leaves, taking the air in the room with him, and my mind whirls. Nico hasn’t been with another woman since Aspen—since me—for sixteen months? I look at his note. Scratch that, my note. My handwriting loops across the page, the familiar words taking me back to the morning after.

I woke up early and wanted to get changed at my condo. Thanks for the tequila. And the bed. But especially the hot tub. I’m still freaked out, but I trust you. I don’t want this to end when we leave. Can’t even believe I’m writing this down, but I’ve never felt this way. Text me when you get up and we’ll meet later. Can’t wait to see you again.

x Raven

Reading my words revives the sting of his betrayal as I checked my phone for days and weeks afterward. Normally I’d have no issue calling a guy. But he forced me to open up, promised he wouldn’t hurt me, then he vanished without a word. My pride was on the wrathful side of unimpressed.

I glance at the painful note again, and warmth worms its way under the hurt. He kept it. Reread it. The wrinkled page tells as much, and he hasn’t been with another woman since Aspen. I should rip the paper up and finally put the incident behind me, move on as I told Nico I would. And I will. The aftermath I endured wasn’t worth that fleeting moment of wholeness. Still, I fold the note into four so I can slip it inside my purse at the table.