"This is some kind of life," Trigg said. "Hell, if I go pro, this is how life would be all the time."
"If you went pro," Abel said. "You'd be training and living clean so you didn't lose everything you worked for."
"Shit, man," Trigg said, gesturing down the length of his body. "This body is a damn machine. It can handle anything I throw at it."
Abel laughed. "Whatever, dude," he said. "Give it a few years. Wait until you're thirty. Shit, even twenty five."
"That's forever away," Trigg said. "Right now, I'm in my motherfucking prime. All of us are."
"Yeah, man, look at me," Abel said, gesturing to his leg in the cast. "I'm like the definition of prime, right here."
I happened to look across the room as they laughed. And suddenly, everything faded into the background.
It was her.
Tempest.
She was standing there in the entrance to the restaurant, wearing this little black dress that skimmed over her curves, the material shimmering in the candlelight. She should have looked conservative, elegant in the dress she wore -it was that kind of a dress-but she couldn't have looked edgier if she had tried. The strapless gown did nothing to conceal the tattoos that twisted around her forearms and biceps, snaked across her shoulder, and peeked out from underneath the tiny straps.
Of course, she could have been wearing a fucking paper bag, for all it mattered to me - I couldn't take my eyes off her.
When her eyes met mine, her lips parted, just slightly.
It was like everything in the world stopped, in that moment.
I stood up.
I knew I should feel angry at her for leaving. I knew I should want nothing to do with her. She was a fucking thief who made promises, ran off with things that were precious to me.
Like my seventeen-year-old heart.
But I just couldn't help myself. I wanted her.
I crossed the room, hearing Abel protest from where he sat at the table. "What the hell are you doing, Silas?"
"Holy shit. That's that TV producer," Trigg said, hooting. "He's got some balls. She's out of his fucking league. She's with the rich guy, the one who bought our drinks."
Behind her stood a group of men. They were unassuming, nondescript, didn't look like they belonged together as a group in any way. One wore an expensive suit, like some kind of male model. One wore a hoodie and sneakers, black-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose. And the older man, the one who'd invited us up here to begin with, stood there behind them in a cardigan, holding a cane.
I felt a rush of something I couldn't quite place, seeing her with them. These men had to be the people she was working with, the people she'd chosen to be with.
Her crew.
A wave of jealousy washed over me, this feeling of possessiveness I couldn't shake. She'd been mine once.
Or, rather, once upon a time I thought she was mine.
I told myself I had no right to her anymore. I'd never had a right to her, even back then.
I stopped, a few feet away from the group, looking at the old man. "You."
Tempest turned to look behind her. "Oscar," she said, her voice soft. "What did you do?"
He shrugged. "I'm simply an old man, looking for a meal," he said, taking the sleeve of the man in the suit and calling for the host. "I think a table at the far end, over there by the window, will do nicely. For three."
The nerd with the glasses looked up from his phone. "There's four of us."
The man in the suit patted him on the back and cleared his throat. "I do believe it's just the three of us for dinner, Emir," he said.
The group followed the maitre'd across the restaurant, and I stepped forward, close to Tempest.
I had the nearly irresistible urge to slide my hand up to the nape of her neck, grab a handful of hair, and draw her against me.
Or to fucking throttle her.
I wasn't sure which feeling was stronger.
Instead, I stood there, looking at her. "Tempest Wilde," I said. "Or should I call you Maggie?"
She stood there, expressionless for a moment. "You found me," she said.
I wasn't sure if she was disappointed or pleased.
And then a smile played on the edges of her lips. "Silas Saint," she said. "It's been a long time."
She tilted her head down, swept a strand of brown and purple hair over her forehead, and looked up at me, eyes twinkling. Her hair was different from the way I remembered. But the look she gave me was familiar.
That part, I hadn't forgotten.
***
PART TWO
When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving oneself, and always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.
~ Oscar Wilde, Picture of Dorian Gray
CHAPTER TEN
TEMPEST
"What are you doing here, Tempest?" Silas asked. He stood so close to me that I couldn't think about anything except the way his lips would feel as they dragged across my skin.
"A girl gets hungry," I said. As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how much they sounded like an innuendo. Silas made a sound in his throat, low and guttural.
I stood there motionless, drinking in his presence.