Broken Boys Despise Deceit: A Second Chance Romance Read online

  “Umm, guys, I hate to break up your little love fest, but if you two could compliment each other while I’m taking the pictures, that’d be great. I’d love to get some shots of you staring into each other’s eyes; it would be great for the LGBTQ demographic.” Presley beams at us as we gape at her.

  “Yeah, that’s not happening,” Zeke says. “My boyfriend would flip his shit.”

  My mouth drops open, and I blink at him. “Your what?”

  “Boy. Friend.” He enunciates each part of the word like I’m slow in the head.

  “Yeah, I got that, bruh. But what the fuck? Since when are you gay? And how long have you had a boyfriend?” How did I not know this? I spend hours with this guy nearly every freakin’ day.

  Zeke shrugs, a pink flush creeping up his thick neck. “It’s new,” he says.

  “Which part, being gay or having a boyfriend?”

  “Both. And I’m not gay. I think I’m pan.”

  Well, damn. I mock-punch him again. “Congratulations, dude. Happy for you. You’ll have to bring your guy around some time.”

  He arches a brow. “You’d really be cool with that?”

  I frown at him. “Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  His smile is huge as he launches himself at me, wrapping his arms around me in a tight hug. “Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.”

  Presley clears her throat, and Zeke releases me. We turn to face her, and she scuffs her shoe against the concrete floor. “That was hella sweet,” she says, smiling brightly. “And out of respect for your man, I won’t ask you to do any shots like that, Zeke.”

  His cheeks pink up, and he grips the back of his neck. “Thanks.”

  “Okay, so now that we’ve established that Zeke and I won’t be putting on a show, what exactly are we supposed to be doing for you, Miss P?” I ask, sliding my hands into my pockets, her camera bag still slung over my shoulder.

  “Right. Okay, so I’ll need some shots of you two working out together as trainer and trainee? Is that right?” Her gaze flicks between the two of us.

  “Technically, Trick is Zeke’s main trainer. I just work him out and assist. But we can get in the ring if that’s what you want,” I offer.

  Presley shakes her head. “Maybe I can just stage you guys? Make it look like you’re in the middle of a session? Actually, yeah, that’s what I’ll do. My assistant will be here soon, and she’ll be able to handle the lighting and stuff. In the meantime, would you guys mind showering and changing into the first set of clothes?”

  Zeke and I nod. We’ve been working out for the last few hours, and we smell ripe. I can’t imagine Presley or her assistant would want to get too close to either of us right now. But I’m not entirely sure what clothes we’re supposed to be wearing.

  “Umm, Miss P, what exactly are we modeling for you today?” I ask.

  Her eyes widen. “Trick didn’t tell you anything about this at all, then. Not surprising,” she mutters. “I honestly don’t know which sets are supposed to be on the agenda for today. I should probably go ask him if he’s got the list from Elite Exposure. They’re the company in charge of his marketing campaign.”

  I nod. She looks nervous, though, so I reach out and touch her elbow. “You good? I can get the list or whatever if you want?” The idea of a woman feeling uncomfortable rubs me the wrong way. Even though I have no idea what her history with Trick is, it’s clearly something big if the expression on her face and his reaction to her earlier is anything to go by.

  “Thanks, Mase, but I’ll be okay. He’s all bark and no bite,” she says, an unconvincing smile tilting her lips.

  “His office is just up those stairs.” I point out the stairs that lead to the partial mezzanine level that runs around the upper outside edge of the gym. “Second door at the end there. If he’s too much of a prick, just say the word and I’ll handle the boss man.”

  “Thank you,” she says again, then heads for the stairs. I watch her for a moment, unsure if I should let her go alone or maybe go with her. But as she gets closer to Trick’s office, her posture changes. She straightens her spine and pulls her shoulders back, ready for battle.

  That’s when I know she’ll be just fine dealing with him on her own. I stroll to the locker room, place her camera pack on the bench outside my locker, then hit the showers.

  Who knew modeling was so freaking hard? Not me!

  I’ve got a crick in my neck that’s fucking killing me. I’ve been holding this same ridiculous pose for the last ten minutes straight, and I am not loving it.

  I didn’t think I’d mind prancing around in front of a camera for an afternoon, but fuck this shit. I hate it. It’s all, “Tilt your head down, but extend your neck and flex your abs,” and blah fucking blah.

  Oh, and to make matters worse, Chance is Presley’s assistant. I don’t know how the hell that happened, but here we are. She’s going to go home to Carter and tell him I’ve been a whiney little bitch, and he’s going to laugh his ass off.

  I’m still poised in a stupid pose, while Chance moves around me holding a silver reflective screen thing, when I get a killer cramp in my calf. It drops me to the ground, and I grab my leg, massaging the spot as hard as I can.

  “Holy crap, Mase, are you okay?” Chance asks, tossing her light reflector thingy to the side as she drops down next to me.

  “Fucking peachy,” I grumble, digging my thumbs into the muscle, trying to force it to release, and a few seconds later, it does just that. I sigh in relief and drop flat on my back.

  Presley rushes over to my side, concern marring her pretty face. “What happened? Are you alright?”

  I huff, “No, I’m not alright. I’m dying for your art.”

  An amused grin curves her lips, and she pats my cheek. She unhooks her camera from around her neck, then gently places it on top of her pack. “I think we can call it a day if you’d like.”

  Zeke overhears her and fist pumps the air, shouting, “Thank God,” before scurrying off to the locker rooms.

  “Don’t mind me. I’m fine down here,” I call after him.

  “I thought so,” he calls back, then the locker room door slams shut behind him.

  “Bastard,” I mutter under my breath.

  Chance laughs at me, smiling brightly before she shrugs. “What? You don’t expect me to feel sorry for you, do you? Dying in the name of art is a worthy cause if you ask me.”

  I glower at her. “Screw your art; I’m injured. Where’s the sympathy and womanly caring?” I demand.

  She snorts. “Womanly caring? What is this, eighteenth-century England? You’re a big boy, Mase. I’m sure you can handle a cramp on your own.” She presses to her feet and joins Presley as they peer down at the tiny screen on the back of the camera.

  Talk about rude. I roll to my front and push up to my knees, then stand up. My muscles are tight in a weird way that I don’t quite understand. I pretty much work out for a living, but striking a few poses for three hours has me feeling all delicate and tender.

  Yeah, this modeling gig can go screw itself. And that’s exactly what I plan on telling Trick…right after I stand under a hot shower for half an hour.

  Chapter Four

  I twirl a pen around my fingers while sitting behind the reception desk at The Parlor, the little tattoo shop I’ve worked at for the last four years. I’m waiting for Talia to finish with her client so I can ring her up.

  Talia had me sit in and help with some of the shading today. A lady had to have a full mastectomy and opted not to have the reconstruction surgery. Talia did up a gorgeous design that covers all the scars from the removal, and it looks absolutely stunning.

  The work she does blows my mind, especially her cover art. She specializes in cosmetic tattooing for cancer patients. She gives women back their sense of femininity after they’ve lost some of the things that define us as women. It’s powerful stuff, and I’m constantly in awe of her.

  When I’m done out front, I return to Talia’s bay and help her clean and sterilize her supplies. “Thank you for letting me help today,” I tell her as I wipe down the bed with antibacterial wipes.

  “You’re doing really well. You’ve got a natural gift.” She cleans the tiny ink pots. “Training you has been no hardship; I love watching your talent grow.”

  I smile at her and continue wiping down every surface in the room. I’m never sure how to respond to compliments. They make me feel weird and edgy. A little voice inside my head tells me to stop being stupid about it. Talia’s my boss; she’s not saying nice things to get something from me.

  We finish up in companionable silence, then her next client arrives just as I’m trashing the spent cleaning supplies.

  “Scout, hang back,” Talia calls as I’m exiting the room. I pivot and head to where Talia is leading Macy—one of her regulars—to the chair. “So, Macy and I talked before she arrived, and she’d like you to do today’s piece.”

  My eyes nearly bug out of my head, but Macy just grins. She’s no stranger to ink, with a full sleeve and intricate floral designs covering her entire back.

  “But… Are you sure, Macy? You’re one of Talia’s regulars.”

  “Everybody has to start on someone, honey. Besides, I’ve seen your sketches. And your work,” she pauses, eyeing the wildflowers I did on my left thigh. “You’re good. And you’ve worked alongside Talia on my back piece plenty of times before. I’ve got faith in you, girl,” she says with a wink.

  I lick my lips, my gaze ricocheting between the two women. “If you’re sure,” I eventually say, stepping farther into the room. I eye Talia as she holds out a copy of what I’ll be doing. Tattoo artists don’t generally share clients, be it because the client has a preference or because the artist doesn’t want anyone else fucking up t
heir work.

  Talia doesn’t seem fazed, though. She takes a seat on the stool beside Macy and kicks her heeled feet up on the edge of the bed. “So, what have I missed? How’re those beautiful babies of yours doing?” she asks Macy.

  Umm, okay… I grab what I’ll need and get to work, prepping while they chat.

  Macy isn’t the first person I’ve worked on solo. But I’m still nervous about it. My style and Talia’s are different. Every artist has their own way of doing things, and I don’t want this piece to stand out as different among the others.

  Once my supplies are lined up on the counter, I pick up the original sketch to examine it, make a couple of small personal adjustments, then double check with Macy that it’s okay.

  She beams at me and says, “Perfect,” before going back to her conversation with Talia.

  I scan the image into the computer, then print it on the transfer sheet. Within minutes, I’m lost in my work.

  The rest of the week flies by in a blur of color and ink, and I’m dead on my feet, pushing through my front door when my cell chimes from somewhere in the abyss of my bag. I’m too tired to dig it out, so I sling my backpack on the couch, collapse next to it, then flick on the TV.

  I choose something that doesn’t require any brainpower while watching, then kick my feet up on the little banged-up coffee table I scored on the curb a couple of years ago. My mind whirls as I try to figure out my next move.

  Talia can’t put me on full time; there’s not enough space to give me my own bay. Which has been fine the last few years while I was at college. Part time was all I could handle while studying my ass off. But now I need more. There is another shop in town, but I don’t like it. I get a gross vibe from that place, and I learned early in life to always listen to my gut.

  A loud knock startles me awake, and I sit up, looking out the window to find that it’s pitch black outside, and I’ve completely missed the sunset. I stumble to the front door in the dark, flicking on the light switch by the door when I reach it.

  Squinting to look through the peephole, Mase unsurprisingly leans against the porch railing, his head tilted back as he looks up at the sky. I open the door, and he lowers his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  “Hey,” he says, stepping toward me. His big hands snake around my hips, and he leans down to brush his lips over the pulse point in my neck. Moving down, his tongue flicks out to lick my dragonfly then he drags his teeth along my collarbone.

  A shiver rolls down my spine as he makes his way back up my throat, his teeth grazing my sensitive flesh. I rest my hands against his hard chest, and tilt my head to grin at him. Apparently, my little nap gave me enough energy to be into whatever he’s about to offer. I hook my fingers in the collar of his tee and drag him inside.

  He kicks the door closed behind him and trails after me to my room, where I strip him down to nothing but his tanned skin. He must have great genetics; the guy is a work of art. His dark eyes eat me up as he stalks forward, backing me against the wall.

  “Lose the clothes,” he demands.

  My teeth sink into my bottom lip before I pull myself together and smirk up at him. “Make me.”

  Mase slowly shakes his head, then reaches down between his legs and grips his dick. “I guess I’ll just handle this myself, then,” he muses.

  Oh, hell no. I narrow my eyes and get to work ditching my clothes. The second I’m naked, he’s on me, rough hands hauling me up by my hips as he pins me to the wall.

  “Good girl,” he purrs against my throat as one of his talented fingers slides inside me.

  I ride his hand as he ravages my mouth, moaning, writhing, and panting when he replaces his fingers with his dick, and I come so hard I see stars. When I open my eyes again, he’s moved us to the bed and is hovering over me, still buried deep inside my pussy with a cocky smirk curving his lips.

  “I fucking love watching you come,” he says, rolling his hips so that his pelvis grinds against my overly sensitive clit. I shudder, and he does it again. “Hard and fast tonight. You good with that?”

  I nod with a little too much enthusiasm for my liking, but whatever. Mase is a god with his cock, so who am I to get in the way of him using it the way he sees fit?

  He fucks me into the mattress, wringing another intense orgasm from me right before he throws his head back, his shoulders curling forward as he moans deep and loud. Then, he collapses half on top of me, careful not to give me his full weight.

  I close my eyes, deliciously spent and ready for sleep. He pushes a few strands of hair out of my face and tucks them behind my ear before gliding his tongue inside my mouth and coaxing mine to play along as he deepens the kiss. I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders and give myself over to his persuasive lips.

  I’ve never enjoyed kissing someone as much as I do him. Fuck, I’ve never enjoyed sex as much as I do with him.

  My eyes spring open, and I shove him away. “Time for you to go,” I tell him. “Thanks for that.” I waggle my brows, then give his dick a pointed stare.

  He frowns. “Uh, okay. You don’t wanna wait half an hour for him to rebound, go for round two?”

  We normally squeeze in two or three rounds when he comes over. But I can’t even look at him with a straight face right now. Not after having the thoughts that just ran through my head. Nope. He needs to leave.

  I pat his cheek and shake my head. “Not tonight. I had a huge week. I need sleep.”

  His thick dark brows are still furrowed, so I reach out and smooth the creases with my thumb. “Tomorrow?” I offer.

  Mase keeps his gaze locked on mine, seeing God knows what, then he nods and rolls out of the bed. I don’t fully relax until I hear the front door close behind him five minutes later. Now satisfied and tired, I close my eyes and drift into a deep sleep where I dream about Mase and his magical cock.

  This thing between us has to end soon, or I’m going to end up falling for him. I scrub my hands across my face as I hunch over my kitchen counter, waiting for my coffee to brew.

  I absolutely cannot have feelings for Mase—other than well-deserved appreciation for how he uses his dick, that is. But I’ve already become too attached to this arrangement we have going, even when I shouldn’t.

  I know better than most how dangerous it is to become reliant on another person.

  Fiddling with the silver rings on my fingers, I squeeze my eyes shut, seeing him behind my eyelids. His dark curls flopping over his forehead. His beautifully bronzed skin that makes me wonder about his heritage. His biceps… Ugh, he has amazing arms.

  It’s no surprise I fell into bed with him at the first opportunity, and I’ve continued doing so for far longer than I had planned. He’s gorgeous, objectively funny, stellar in the sack, and yes, he is a good and decent guy. Not that I’ll ever admit any of that to Chance.

  Plus, there’s that mouth of his.

  He makes it easy to be around him, which I both love and hate. Why couldn’t he just be an asshole? Then I’d have no problem keeping a wall up between us. But nooo, that’s too much to ask for.

  I spend the whole day wallowing in my own misery. I have to put a stop to this. To him and me. We’re getting too comfortable with each other. There’s no way I’d be cool with any of my other past hook-ups showing up at my house the way he did last night.

  I’ve watched—possibly—a lot of episodes of The Originals when a tantalizing aroma hits my nose. I frown, pause my show, sit up, and glance around, sniffing while trying to pinpoint the direction the smell is coming from.

  Getting up, I creep to the front door, my mouth watering the closer I get, then look through the peephole and see nothing. Weird. Cautiously, I open the door and poke my head out. A takeout bag from my favorite Thai restaurant sits on the mat, and as I reach down to grab it, Mase’s deep masculine chuckle freezes me in place.

  Half crouching for the food, I peer up at him leaning against the wall beside the door. He smiles and shakes his head. “I knew you’d come out as soon as you smelled it.”

  I glare at him and snatch the bag up, holding it tight against my chest. “Finders keepers,” I say, stepping back inside and slamming the door in his face.

  His big stupid foot stops it from closing, and he easily pushes inside. Not that I put up any kind of resistance. He did bring me food, after all.