The Vampire Diaries: Trust In Betrayal (Kindle Worlds) (In Time We Trust Trilogy Book 3) (15 page)

“Yeah, I’ve got a little,” she admits. “How come?”

“I used to have some. I didn’t pick them out, but at least they meant
something.
I kinda…I think I’d like to get one that I chose myself,” I decide suddenly. “Something new.”

Cali blinks at me. “I don’t understand half of what you just said, unless there was laser surgery involved, but if you want a tattoo, I know a good artist.”

She turns away from me and shrugs out of the soft wrap-around sweater she’s wearing, leaving her in a tight black tee shirt.

She pulls her hair forward over her shoulder. “Pull up my shirt.”

I glance around, but even though the motel should be getting busy this time of night, the only sign of life is the light coming from the office at the front of the property. I hook my thumbs under the hem of her tee shirt and tug it up a little bit, so intent on the feel of her skin that for a second, I forget to look for tattoos.

“Higher,” she says, hugging the front of her shirt down so it still covers her breasts as I move her tee shirt up past the line of her bra. It seems strangely personal for me to see that, even though I’ve seen much more of her, technically. I shift to a higher step so if somebody comes out of the hotel rooms above, they won’t be able to see past the spread of my shoulders.

The ink is dark against her unblemished skin.

The letters are graceful, foreign, and something about their shapes seems light and nearly weightless as they sweep down the line of her spine, from where her collar begins to just before the clasp of her bra.

“What does it mean?” I ask her, one finger tracing the first symbol.

She shivers slightly.

“Sorry,” I tell her, taking my hand away.

“No, it feels nice,” she tells me, and a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “It’s music. The names of the chords are written in Arabic, because I wanted it to look as beautiful as it sounds, if I am going to wear it on my skin for the rest of my life.”

I touch the second symbol, slowly, watching for a reaction. “What does it sound like? Is it from a song I might know?”

“I haven’t written it into a song yet,” she says, and swallows. “I will. Someday."

I frown, because if it isn't a song, then what is it?

She peeks over her shoulder and sees my expression. "So, you know when you meet somebody, and they have a certain feel to them? Or places, sometimes, too?”

“Uh-huh,” I agree easily.

“For me, those impressions come as sounds. And this one…” She nods her head back toward the tattoo. “Is me.”

I know I shouldn’t, that it’s dumb and sappy and I’ll be embarrassed about it later, but I don’t care. I dip my head and touch my lips to the third symbol, as gently as I’ve ever kissed anyone in my life. Her back is warm and it rises as she sucks in a breath. I want to lay my cheek between her shoulder blades, like I could feel the sound inside my head if I just stayed close enough to her, but instead I pull back and smooth her shirt back into place. I pick up her sweater and hold it so she can shrug it back on.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and when I slide back down next to her, her eyes are luminous. I go still, though I can’t quite read what she’s thinking.

Her lips look soft and her lip ring wiggles a little as if she’s toying nervously with it. I swallow and speak, because if I don’t I won’t be able to stop myself from kissing her and then she’s going to know exactly how much it’s killing me to wait, to try to seduce her into wanting me as much as I want her.

“What does it sound like?”

Her lashes sweep down and she smiles almost shyly. “I could hum it, I guess.”

A grin breaks out over my face. I don’t know how I managed to forget. “Be right back,” I tell her, and push to my feet.

Her hand flashes out and catches me by the front of my hoodie, and she stands up with me, her fist balling in the zipper. I suck my breath in as her knuckles graze my abs through two layers of fabric.

“Last time you said that, you didn’t come back for hours,” she says plainly, and it doesn’t look like she’s teasing. She tilts her head, the breeze sweeping strands of hair across her face. “Are you okay?” she says in a low voice, like she wants the words to stay just between the two of us.

I want to smile, but it puts a funny, fluttery feeling in my chest that she would think to ask me that, and I have no idea what expression I’m wearing right now.

I touch her hand, and her grip loosens under the brush of my fingers. “Don’t worry about me,” I say, and give her a lopsided smile. “Seriously, be right back. I have a surprise for you.”

“I have to admit I’m a big fan of your surprises,” she says, and lets me go. My eyebrows shoot up at her flirty tone, but she just grins.

I duck my head, fighting back a blush that makes no damn sense at all, and jog back to the Camaro.

I try to shield the guitar case with my body as I take it out, but Cali’s on to me and she shrieks with pure delight. There’s a scrape of shoes on gritty cement and then she hits my back full force and I have to throw out a hand to catch myself against the car to keep from crushing her new instrument.

She hugs me around the waist, squashing all the air out of my diaphragm so fast that for one horrible second, I think I might throw up.

“Oh my God, Jeremy freaking Gilbert,
tell me
that’s a guitar and you’re going to let me play it and I swear on my new snare drum I will be your slave for life.”

I manage to turn around, even though it costs me the end of that hug, because I want to see her beaming up at me.

“Would you still be my slave if I told you it was a lionfish?” I tease.

“Honey, I’ll call it anything you want if it has six strings,” she purrs, reaching past me to try to grab the case. I shift a little, using my longer arms to keep it out of her reach.

“What’s the magic word?” I taunt, trying to hold back my grin.

She catches my face between her small hands, her rings cool and nice against my jaw, and kisses me. She has to stretch up on her toes to reach and it sends her stumbling off balance against my chest. There’s a thump as the guitar hits the ground and I catch her around the waist, my forearm fitting perfectly into the curve at the small of her back, my other hand sliding up past the tattoo that I swear I can feel beneath her shirt.

She catches my lower lip between her teeth and I groan, dragging her tighter against me and as soon as my lips part she’s stroking my tongue with hers in something that feels like pure sex and the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted all at once. Her nails scrape against the back of my neck and a tiny growl escapes her as she arches her breasts into my chest.

“Karma,” Damon’s droll voice carries clearly across the parking lot, “is a bitch, little Gilbert.”

Cali pulls away, gasping, and it’s not until I feel her knees bump my thighs that I realize I’ve lifted her clear off the ground. I bend to set her down, smoothing my hand once over her hair as I look up to glare at Damon. He’s leaning his elbows on the railing of the second floor walkway, looking down on me with a cocky grin.

“Oh,” he says with a mocking look of concern. “Did I interrupt something?”

I roll my eyes, remembering the hotel in Denver and the look on his face when he stepped in front of my sister.

“We leave in half an hour,” he informs me with a wink. “Don’t forget to pack your teddy bear.”

I swear I’m going to have to live another hundred years before I learn to keep up with his mood swings. I turn to Cali, expecting to find her checking on the guitar I dropped when she kissed me, but the case sits undisturbed and she’s scraping a hand through her hair in a way I’m beginning to recognize.

“Wow, that was…inappropriate,” she says. “And jerkish, and misleading.” She winces miserably.

“And hot,” I say with a smirk.

She stops, her eyes jumping back to mine and laughter warring with guilt in her face. “I really didn’t mean to do that,” she confesses.

I catch her wrist, waggling my eyebrows. “You want to ‘not mean’ to do it again?”

She laughs, her cheeks pinkening a little, but she doesn’t move closer. I pick up the guitar with my free hand, still grinning. “Come on. You can pretend not to like me while you’re playing me your tattoo song. ‘Kay?”

She resists when I try to lead her back toward the stairs.

"Jeremy, I—”

I raise my eyebrow, interrupting her apology. “Unless you’d rather pack?”

She sags a little and then gives in, shaking her head. “Yeah right. Besides, all I have to do is zip my bag: it’s not like I took anything out.”

We grab a seat on the stairs as the porch lights of the hotel start to come on, and she flips the clasps on the case, pulling the guitar out and sighing as she settles it into her lap.

“I’m not even going to ask how you got this, or why, because it will only make me feel terrible and then I’ll have to think about making you take it back, and then my head will explode in sheer, selfish protest,” she tells me.

“Okay,” I agree.

She laughs. “You are really such a pain in the ass to get along with, you know that?”

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to room together,” I remind her, and she just smiles, looking down at the new instrument.

She goes quiet then, listening as she tunes each string. It’s making my throat go dry to watch the way she touches the guitar, but I don’t ever want to look away.

“Ready?” she says, and when I nod, she plays four chords.

A hint of them is still lingering in the night air when she plays them again with a different emphasis. Her eyes drift closed as she plays them over and over and every time they sound different. They start bold, then go soft, and sometimes they sound spicy and impulsive, sometimes almost mournful. The last time they sound jaunty and teasing and I find myself grinning at her even though she can’t see.

She’s right. They sound like her.

“I like it,” I tell her. “I like it a lot.”

She smiles then, her fingers toying with the strings as she keeps her lashes swept downward.

“What’s mine?” I ask, curious.

“Not sure yet,” she says. “I mean, I get the impression right away, but it usually changes over time, as I get to know a person better. Yours has already changed twice.”

“Would you play it for me, how it is right now, I mean? Please,” I add when she hesitates.

“Okay, but don’t blame me if it’s wrong. I’ve only known you for a few days.”

I realize I’m holding my breath as she positions her fingers, watching the way she moves as if her hands are touching me instead of an inanimate object.

I am four chords.

The first is gentle, smooth, and the pause after it feels relaxed. The second is bigger, stronger. Unyielding but not cruel. The third lingers, and it sounds dark blue, weighted like the night sky when there’s no moon to make you see how big it really is. And the fourth teases playfully at my ears, like a giggle that fades into the distance, leaving you with the hint of a smile on your face.

It takes her a moment to play it again, and every time she does, it sounds more familiar.

“Will you teach me?” I ask eagerly and she looks up quickly, almost surprised at the interruption.

“Sure.” She hands over the guitar and scoots closer to me. She moves one step higher, her right foot resting down by my knee and her left kicked up next to her so her thigh is soft against my back. It’s distracting as all hell, but there’s no way I’m complaining. “What do you want to learn first?”