Chapter Three #2
We eat in silence for several long moments before Thanos interrupts, peering over the edge of the table like he wants to know why the fuck we're keeping the good shit out of reach.
"Here, buddy," Chloe says, laughing as she cuts a large bite of chicken and holds it out to him.
He rolls one eye in my direction as if to tell me to get my shit together and then paces around the table to her. He takes the chicken from her hand, oh so gently, and then pads back to his bed, happy with his treat.
She's watching him, but I'm watching her. The wine is definitely hitting her hard. Her eyes are a little glassy, and her smile is a touch fuzzy. Her cheeks are flushed.
She's so goddamn beautiful.
Christ, how am I supposed to survive living under the same roof with her for the next several days?
I can't. I know I can't. I'll snap, cross the line, and any hope I have of rebuilding our friendship will crumble to dust. She'll realize that I've been in love with her for most of my life, and then what?
If she doesn't kick my ass herself, her father will. Or mine. Or Wyatt. There are ninety ways this could end, and most of them are disastrous, not just for us but for the bonds our families have forged over the years.
"You should think about heading back to San Francisco tomorrow," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
Her smile slips as she glances across the table at me. "And here we go again," she mutters, her lips pursing. "You're human for all of five minutes, and then it's right back to telling me what to do."
"That's not what this is, but I know you, princess," I say quietly, holding her gaze. "You aren't the kind of girl who runs from her problems."
"Who says I'm running?"
"You ran all the way to San Diego."
She glances away, her chin thrust out in that infuriatingly stubborn way of hers, the one that says she doesn't want to hear a goddamn word I have to say. But she can't hide the way her hand trembles when she reaches for her wine glass.
"What happened, Chloe? Talk to me."
She stubbornly refuses.
"Please," I rasp, willing to beg at this point.
"He's been fantasizing about me."
"What?" My brows furrow. "Who?"
"My boss." She cringes. "Ex-boss."
"What the fuck?" Something dark and violent whips through me. From what I remember, that shady motherfucker is at least forty years older than she is. "What did he do?"
"Sent me a bunch of two a.m. texts detailing his fantasies," she mumbles before taking a big gulp of wine. "And then asked if I wanted to make them a reality so he didn't have to jerk off alone in his office while watching me."
Jesus Christ.
My hand tightens around my fork hard enough to bend the metal as rage courses through me. I'm going to hunt the son of a bitch down and kill him with my own two hands.
"I sent them to his wife and then went in long enough to pack my desk before I walked out," she whispers. "Before I even made it home, he was calling Dad, telling him that I just quit without explanation and that he was so worried about me."
"That grimy motherfucker," I snarl, breathing hard.
Chloe looks up at me, equal parts vulnerability and rage in her gaze.
"I know how my dad will react if I tell him what really happened, so I came here instead.
I figured it'd give me time to figure out what to do so my dad doesn't go to prison.
" Her bottom lip quivers even though her eyes are dry.
"He wouldn't look very good in orange, Trystan. "
"You need to tell him, baby."
"He's the one who got me that job. Donny was his friend." Her voice cracks. "He'll kill him if he ever sees those messages."
"Jesus." I drop my fork, reaching for my wine glass. I drain it, trying to think. I know Colton well, and he isn't an irrational man. But he is protective as hell. If the messages are bad enough that she's afraid to even tell him about them, it's a problem. A big fucking problem.
But it isn't one she should be handling alone, either.
"Do you want me to talk to him for you, princess?"
"What?" She gapes at me like she thinks I've lost it. "Why would I want you to talk to him?"
That shouldn't hurt, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't. It fucking kills me that I'm no longer someone she trusts with her problems. She's only telling me now because she's three glasses of wine deep and I pushed her.
"You're right," I mutter, holding up my hands in surrender. "It's not my goddamn business. I just thought you might want the help. My bad."
Her face falls. "I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it."
"Tryst, I…"
"It's fine, Chloe. Really."
She bites her lip and then nods, glancing away from me.
For long moments, neither of us speaks. She picks up her fork like she's going to resume eating, but all she does is push food around her plate instead. Every so often, she peeks up at me, her gaze conflicted.
I wait her out, trying to figure her out, but she's just as much a puzzle now as she has been for the last eight fucking years.
And despite it, she's always had every piece of me.
There's never been anyone else, not for a single fucking second.
I could never see past her long enough to see anyone else.
I doubt I ever will.
Eventually, she'll get married, have kids, and build a life. And I'll still be right fucking here, loving her from afar.
How the fuck am I supposed to survive watching her love someone else? I've been lucky so far. But my luck is going to run out eventually. And then what? I don't know. There isn't enough wine in the world to drown that question or the way it fucks with my head every day.
"I heard you today."
I blink at her, confused as hell. "What?"
"I heard you today," she says again, her voice firmer this time. "In the bathroom." Her fork hits the side of the plate before she quickly sets it aside and places her hands in her lap. "You said my name."
Fuck.
Fuck me.
Sheer panic surges through me. For a minute, my heart stops beating.
I can't think of a single defense, especially not after she just sat here and told me about her prick of a boss.
She probably thinks I'm no better than him.
Actually, she probably thinks I'm worse.
She's known me her entire life. I'm her friend, not her father's.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I finally say, my voice level. And yeah, I know I'm going straight to hell for lying. It's probably what I deserve at this point. But I saw the look of disgust on her face when she told me about her boss. I don't want her looking at me the same way.
"You're lying," she says, her voice shaking. "I heard you, Trystan. I know what you were doing. And you were saying my name."
"You heard wrong, Chloe."
Christ, I'm an asshole. I know I am.
"No, I didn't," she snaps, fire in her eyes. "I was outside the door. I heard you. I want to know what you were thinking about."
Jesus Christ.
I should stick to my story. I fucking know I should, but…
"Fine," I growl, knowing damn well I'm going to live long enough to regret this. "You want to know, princess?"
"Yes."
"I had you on your knees with my dick down your throat," I rasp, my hands clenched around the edge of the table. "You were choking on me while you rode your perfect fucking fingers."
Her mouth opens and then closes, no sound escaping.
I push myself to my feet, my cock so hard it hurts. I want to reach for her and make that fantasy a reality. I want her trembling and shaking beneath me. But…I fucking can't, not when she doesn't even know.
"It's not the first time," I mutter. "Doubt it'll be the last, either. It's always you, Chloe. Every fucking time I get myself off, it's you." I meet her wide-eyed gaze, holding it. "Is that what you needed to hear to feel justified in hating me? So you can lump me in with your boss?"
"I…"
"I'm not him, princess." I turn from the table, my heart pounding. "Maybe I'm worse. At least he's not basically your fucking family, right?"
"Trystan."
"Thanos, come."
I don't wait to hear what she has to say. I don't want to hear the condemnation from her perfect lips. I already know I deserve it, but I don't want to fucking hear it.
I stomp from the room with Thanos on my heels and my cock throbbing because even now, when she's probably horrified, I still want her. I'll never fucking stop.