Stealing Time

By S.L. Siwik

Delaney Beaumont is more likely to flip you the bird than she is to say hello. A workaholic during the week as a free-lance graphic designer, by weekend she's a partying alcoholic. Laney's MO is always the same: party and drink until she blacks out. Every weekend she wakes up in bed with a strange man and no memory of how she wound up there. But, she doesn't care. Because when she leaves his apartment, she'll never see him again. It's the way she's gone about it for years and it suits her needs just fine.

That is...until the day she wakes up in Jackson Turner's bed.

Jackson Turner is a tattoo artist and owner of four shops in the Colorado area. He wanted Delaney from the moment he set eyes on her. Their night together is nothing short of crazy, and Jackson knows that he has to have Laney in his life for good. Convincing her, while dealing with the consequences of their night together, will be easier said than done.

If you love someone set them free. Then get ready with a bottle of Jack.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.L. Siwik
• Release date: Mar 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310220838

S.L. Siwik

I'm a substitute teacher, graduate school student, mom, and wife by day. I'm a writer by night.I live in New Jersey with my husband, daughter, and dog. I enjoy finding new inspirational music to add to my playlist for writing.If you are awesome enough to review, then I always take the time out to respond.I consider myself a very friendly, outgoing person, so if you'd like to chat, send me an e-mail at SLSiwik @ gmail.comFacebook, tumblr., and Twitter accounts are all: S.L.Siwik

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Prologue

Delaney

Here’s a hypothetical for you: If you were stuck on a deserted island with no hope of escaping, what are the three things you’d want to have with you?

Now before you answer, think about this: a person’s choices tell a lot about them. Far more than twenty minutes of bullshitting with them will. Their reply tells you how they define themselves, what their priorities are, and what they really love in this world. Don’t believe me? Try it. I wouldn’t steer you wrong.

I’m still not sure what my three things are. For me, the problem is only having three choices. Three choices in an endless sea of possibilities and those three are what I’ll have for the rest of my life. Commitment issues? Guilty as charged.

See, the thing is…people hit the self-destruct button when they’ve lost something in their life that is so incredible; they can’t fathom a way to pick up the pieces and move on. So, we act reckless in hopes of feeling. Because those few moments of insanity make us feel alive again, they remind us that air still fills our lungs, that we’re still capable of feeling anything but pain. That we’re still here. It’s what happens to people who can’t end their lives, who are left in a limbo status- not quite alive, but not quite dead either.

It’s what happened to me six years ago, the night I realized too late that Bradley was The One. My self-destruct button has been engaged ever since, my routine pretty much the same weekly. Work all week, get liquored up on the weekends, and wake up in a stranger’s bed. Try to put the pieces together from the night before. Leave as quickly as possible. Never call or see them again.

How do I justify what I’m doing, you ask? Easy, no one wants a broken person. No one wants to realize six months down the road that they love someone who just can’t love them back. It may seem like what I’m doing is cruel, but I’m really saving them a lot of heartache and pain later on. I can’t give my heart to someone when it hasn’t been mine to give since I was a teenager. It’s always been his, Bradley’s.

And Bradley is dead.

The problem for me, though, is that when his heart stopped beating, so did mine. From the moment, I met him; he always took it with him wherever he went.

The only thing that I would want to take with me on that deserted island is Bradley. But, I’m pretty sure you can’t take a dead person, because that would just be creepy.

Club Indigo is a place I like to frequent on Friday nights. They used to play incredible live bands on the verge of making it. Denver’s music scene is amazing, and you have to know where to look, but the talent out here is unreal. Unfortunately, six months ago, they started bringing in DJ’s to play. Replacing live music that slipped into your ear and tightened its grip around your soul with digitalized, synthesized crap. There is nothing better in this world than live music. Anyone who tells you differently is full of crap and deserves to be kicked immediately in their junk for their stupidity. I keep coming here in hopes that the owner will return to his senses and bring back the bands, for his sake, I hope he does. Because if I see one more bitch in a tube top, flailing herself around and nearly spill out, I will go postal in this place.

Now let me get one thing straight, I’m not women bashing here. I’m not one to call a woman a slut, or put her down. The Women’s Movement happened. Thank fucking God. But, just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should- like wear a tube top that’s two sizes too small just because you’re in denial about your real shirt size. I wish when the feminists were busy burning their bras; they added this clause to their manifesto: Don’t blind the world with your delusions.

I’ve got Double D knockers, but I keep my twins under lock in a lace bra. I also happen to be wearing a Joan Jett t-shirt that’s split down the front showing a healthy amount of cleavage. But, not once when I leaned over tonight did I almost lose my shit. There’s a difference. Know your body, know how to dress it, and for God sakes’ if you don’t want everyone in the club seeing you naked, make sure it doesn’t happen. Because if you wanna let the girls out for a breather, then do it, proudly rip your shirt up and show the world your goods. But, don’t nearly slip out of your shirt, turn red as a tomato and then giggle. If that happens, don’t be surprised when people yell at you, Go home. You’re drunk. No one likes a tease. Okay, now that I’ve got that off my chest…

I glance around looking for the bartender that I paid to whip me up my drink. He’s around the curve of the circular bar, so I can’t see him. The lighting in this place is indigo colored, making every surface and person in the entire club have a purplish blue hue. It used to be serene when the bands played, almost calming. Now it’s just depressing.

Here ya go, the bartender says to me, sliding my Jaeger bomb down the stainless steel bar. At least the bartenders here still know how to make a drink the way a woman wants one. Strong enough to grow hair on her chest. That’s the shit. He brings over the shot, holding it up.

I try to grab for it.

Nope, Dean, or Luke, or Jack- I always forget his name-says, pulling it out of my reach.

I frown. What do you want?

I’m already in a bad mood. I’ve had four drinks already, and there are no good looking men in this club tonight. Absolutely none. It’s like they sprayed the place down with anti-hottie repellent. How in the hell am I going to get laid tonight when I can’t even look at the guy for more than ten seconds? Put a paper bag over his head while I fuck him? Dammit, I hope it doesn’t come to that.

The bartenders here have been watching you kick these back, Delaney, and they’d like to make a little wager. He swings the shot glass back and forth between his fingertips like a hypnotist using a pocket watch. How he doesn’t spill any is beyond me.

If you drink that entire Jaeger bomb without spilling a drop, we’ll give you back your night’s worth of drinks. Forty bucks.

I’m not a girl who can resist a challenge, especially when I can do Jaeger bombs in my sleep, so I nod. You’re on.

She’s game, boys! he calls out.

The DJ is playing some song by Usher about a woman getting cheated on, and everyone on the dance floor is losing their shit over this crap, flailing their arms, dry humping each other.

It’s my cue then to make short work of this drink.

Now everyone drinks a Jaeger bomb differently. What you put into the glass is entirely up to you. I like to drink a Hurricane. Now some people pour only half the Jaeger shot in, some a third of the shot. Me? I’m an all or nothing kind of gal. I pour the whole damn thing in. Releasing the shot glass into the tumbler, I wait until it clinks against the bottom. What a beautiful sound- music to my ears. It’s difficult to see the pinkish colored drink darken to brown as the two drinks mix together, because of the lighting. But, it looks dark enough.

Holding the drink up, I shout, Here’s to lucky drink number five tonight!

The bartenders have crowded around to watch me as they chant me on. Some shout, Choke!

To them, I reply with my middle finger raised in the air.

As I take my first few gulps, the world goes dark.

Chapter One

Jackson

The days that change your life forever usually don’t appear different from any other when they start. It’s not until you reach that moment in time that you know what the day is- one you’ll never forget.

I am privileged enough to share many of these life altering moments with people, customers who gladly let me into their lives as they sit in the booth of my tattoo parlor, Inked Up.

People tattoo many different things on their bodies for many reasons: names of lost loved ones, children born, pictures depicting a memory. The connection to people’s tattoos is their significance. Many tattoo something that is meaningful to them, a moment in their life that they want to hold on to forever. Frequently, these people tell me these stories as I ink them. For those, it’s a cathartic release, finding some closure. For them, I have tissues and take my time through the tattooing process. Some don’t want to talk about their story, but still knowing that they entrust me with their art concept and creating a permanent image on their body is humbling.

For many, their tattoos aren’t connected to a memory, but to something they love- like dolphins or butterflies. The experience of being in the chair of my parlor is the one they will later remember, and I, as the tattoo artist, am now inadvertently a huge part of that memory.

I help to create moments that change people when they leave my shop, and because of that it’s easy to get out of bed every morning. But, I honestly can’t tell you the last time my world has been rocked, shaken to its very core.

That is not until tonight…

Not until I meet her.

Hurricane Laney.

The tattoo parlor is quiet besides my client and me. I let my employees go home after their last customers, because it’s Friday night. Most were eager to get their plans started early.

Scrunched over my seat, I am currently tattooing a large black skull over a heart with the name Cheryl inside. I tried to talk Bob out of the tattoo, since he had only been dating Cheryl for three months when he came in for it. Two months later, Cheryl ran off with my customer’s best friend, and so now he’s in to cover it up. The three hundred pound biker has been blubbering in my seat for over two hours now as I do finishing touches.

I mean what kind of man runs off with his best friend’s girl? he sobs before blowing his nose loudly into a tissue.

One that you don’t want in your life, I reply. It’s hard to see it now, but you’ll be thankful for what they did later on. No one wants people like that in their life.

He blows his nose loudly. But, if it weren’t for him, she’d still be here.

I shake my head. No one is stolen from another man. If a woman runs off with someone else, then they weren’t yours, simple as that. But, I can tell Bob isn’t ready to hear that, so I hold my tongue.

Okay. All done.

He turns around and glances in the mirror, frowning. Not as great as the Cheryl tattoo, but…it still looks great.

I didn’t think I’d get a smile from him tonight. I smear the anti-bacterial lotion onto his skin after cleaning the blood away. Bob has been here so many times, I don’t need to remind him how to take care of his tattoo.

Glad you like it. It’s going to be there forever now. That’ll be four hundred, I say as I slap the gauze bandage onto his arm.

Sliding his hand into his pocket, he pulls out a wad of cash. Shaking my hand, he slips the money into mine. Thanks bud. You’re like a brother to me.

Surprise flashes across my face since even though I’ve done all of his tattoos, I’ve never spent a moment of time with him outside the shop. He pulls me into a bear hug. The air whooshes out of my lungs as he crushes me to his body. I love you, man.

I pat his back until he finally releases me.

Wiping away a tear, Bob walks out of the store, and I lock the door behind him. Shaking my head, I walk over to the phone. Every night I check in with my other three stores around Colorado before cleaning up this shop. I stay in this store because it’s the first one I opened, so it has sentimental value to me.

As I near the phone, it rings. Picking it up, I answer, Hello. Jackson speaking.

Hey, Jackson! The voice bellows on the other end. I hear club music in the background. It’s Teddy from Club Indigo. You remember that tattoo you did for me last month? The naked lady? Yeah, it’s not looking so good. Can I get you to come down and check it out? I’ll pay you for your time.

I rub my eyes in sheer exhaustion. I’ve put in over fifty hours at the store this week, taking over two of my employee’s clients who called out sick just to keep the customers happy. But, if a customer’s tattoo looks bad, it reflects poorly on the shop, on me. I also care about my client’s health.

Yeah, I’ll be there in ten.

Thanks. I’ll tell the bouncer in the club to expect you. Just walk in.

Hanging up, I grab my baseball cap- a flaming skull that I’ve personally created. It’s the first in the design line that I’ve started for a new clothing brand. I’ll have to clean the shop later.

Chapter Two

Delaney

A loud buzzing sound goes off, and I moan out in pain from my head pounding. Grabbing the silk wrapped pillow, I throw it over my head as I bury myself into the mattress like an ostrich into the sand. Hmm, I like the feel of the material against my naked body. So, I fucked someone last night with nice sheets. Score!

I searched my addled brain to remember what happened the night before.

Here are the facts that I remember: I drank a shit ton of Jaeger Bombs last night at Club Indigo before blacking out. Where am I? No fuckin’ clue. Who’s next to me? Your guess is probably better than mine. I’m not too worried though, because Double D, that’s Drunk Delaney, the person who comes out in me when I blackout, has never done me wrong. My pussy senses hotness in a five mile radius and Double D, she’s a deal closer. So, I’m not freaking out about all of my unknowns right now, because that’s part of the fun- trying to piece together the ‘what the fuck happened’ from the night before. Usually I don’t get answers, and I’m alright with that too. Because whoever this is next to me had his one night of glory, his five minutes of fame in my world, I don’t ride stallions a second time. I don’t do ‘do overs’ either. I don’t even bother with names. What’s the point? When I walk out that door, I’ll never see them again. This is how it’s been for the last six years, and it suits me just fine.

Turn that off! I grumble, smacking something hard next to me. I wince in pain, sure that my hand hurts more than whatever I just smashed into.

I hear a loud groaning sound before a warm body turns towards me, pressing up against me. A strong arm slides around my waist, pulling me even closer. Soft warm lips kiss my neck before a trimmed beard brushes against my shoulder, tickling me. Hard body, strong arm, soft lips…aside from the raging hangover, not a bad way to wake up.

Too early to get up, a low voice mumbles out. He has a sexy morning voice- rough around the edges like his words were sliced against a grater before they came out. My heart patters faster.

So, turn it off, I hiss back. The loud buzzing sound is rattling through my hung over brain like the metallic ball in a pinball machine. That noise is killing me!

Sorry, Laney, the voice grumbles back before shifting away from me. I hear a loud smacking noise and the buzzing is gone. I frown. This guy not only knows my name, but he called me by my nickname. Double D and I need to have a talk. She knows the rules. Lie your ass off about everything, especially real name, age, address, and profession. Give them nothing personal. She fucked up with this one for some reason.

I hold my hand out tentatively before making contact with his chest. I slide my hand around feeling the planes of his muscles beneath his skin. Even my hung over ass can appreciate this. All hard. All fuckin’ male. My hand continues sliding down to his defined abs before grabbing his morning wood. From the tip, my hand strokes down the length of him. Olympic runners have completed an entire event and received their medal before I reach his balls. That must have been some fuckin’ ride last night. I slide my hand back up, and my fingers touch against something metal. I give his pecker a light squeeze to try and figure out what it is.

Hey, easy on the Hammerhead Laney, he’s still raw from last night. Gotta give him some recovery time.

I pull the covers over my head to see what it is. Christ on a cracker, he’s got a dick piercing. A beautiful metallic rod rammed straight through his…what did he call it again- his Hammerhead? Oh, now I get it. With the piercing, it looks like a Hammerhead shark. My lips turn up in a smile. Intricate tattoos curve down his thighs. I blink the sleep out of my eyes to get a better view, intricate tribal markings make their way down his thighs, somehow highlighting and defining his muscles.

The sheet is ruffled, and I glance up to find last night’s conquest beneath the sheet, smiling at me. His eyes are a color that I could spend the rest of my life trying to figure out and never get right. If the grass and the sky met, had an all-nighter, and popped out a baby that would be close to the color of his irises. Close, but not quite. The warmth and affection emanating from him hovers in the small space between us, caressing me like an embrace. I blink, and panic sets in. Too much warmth, too much affection. I suddenly want to be anywhere but here. I’ll go to Antarctica if need be. Get a team of huskies to sled with. I could make it work.

I pull my head out from underneath the sheets, dispelling the weird magic he is trying to ensnare me in. He pulls his head up too.

Hey, Tats. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll be outta your hair. Thanks for letting me crash here.

He raises a pierced brow at me, and his lips curl into a smile, showing off his labret stud. I bet that trimmed goatee tickled my pussy last night as he ate me out. I smile at the thought.

Tats? he asks. He looks somewhere between mildly insulted and amused.

I give men nicknames on purpose. If you don’t ask them their name, you’re sending a very clear message: you don’t care to know it, because you never want to see them again. Most men read the message loud and clear, but some men…not so much.

I shrug. It’s not like you’ve got your name tattooed on your chest.

He doesn’t, right? I glance down at his naked torso. Stars, some swirly green things-Fuck, why am I so hung over? - Something with wings on his shoulders, and arm sleeves. No name.

His face falls. You don’t remember last night?

I shake my head. Sorry. I drank about five Jaeger bombs and don’t remember anything after that.

Black hair falls over his face like a curtain, covering one of his gorgeous eyes, and he sweeps it back behind his ear. I watch in awe because, at that moment, I realize he is beautiful.

His lips press into a tight line. Do you often drink enough to pass out, and then go home with strange men?

Yes, I want to answer, every weekend. But, I don’t think that response will get me out of here any faster.

Does it matter? I ask, offering a half smile.

He closes one eye, squinting, from the sunlight now pouring through the curtains behind me. Yes, it matters.

Shit. He’s not going to give up on this.

Then yeah, I do. Pretty much every weekend.

I expect some kind of lecture about my recklessness. If it makes me get out the door faster by losing his ‘respect’- not that I give two shits about having it- then I’ll let him have his say.

Instead, he just offers a sad smile.

Shit.

I’d rather he had lectured me, because now I feel…what is that tightening in my chest? Guilt? What the fuck do I have to feel guilty for? You see; Double D lies her ass off about everything, but she never makes promises. All she wants to do is get off, so I can get out the next day. So, even though she slipped and told this guy our real name, I know she didn’t promise him next morning pancakes and planning weekend vacations with him.

Now, it’s time to go…fast. This is the time in the morning where I dress as quickly as possible. It’s a mad dash to collect my clothes and get out, like the place is about to catch fire. Guys always say that it’s girls who get attached, who always feel hurt the next day after a hook-up when he isn’t interested in more. Let me put that myth to rest. Are there women out there who feel that way? Sure. But, I’ve only experienced it the other way around. I’ve come across the men who suddenly start planning future dates with me and want me to meet their mothers. I have a name for them: Clingers. When I wake up in the morning, I’m never sure what kind of guy I’m going to get. So, getting dressed and out the door gets me away from the Clingers ASAP. It also helps out the ones who are on the fence- guys who aren’t sure if they want to let me go or try and pursue me, based on my night’s performance of rocking their world between the sheets. And for the ones who are happy to let me go, getting dressed and leaving quickly avoids any awkwardness.

I stumble out of bed and look around for my clothes. Ow. I am so sore that I can barely walk- evidence of a great night. If I can walk just fine the next day, I know he wasn’t worth taking my clothes off for. Hobbling over, I find my red lace bra near the doorway and strap that bad boy on. As the bra strap snaps down on my shoulder, I howl in pain. I glance down above my breast and below my shoulder to find a huge bandage.

What the hell?

Slowly, I remove the bandage to find a crow resting next to a candle. The tattoo is all in black except for the flame that is bursting with red, orange, and yellow. It’s so realistic looking that it seems like the flame is about to leap up and burn me. The whole thing is smeared over with a clear looking