Chapter 1 #2
The water turns on, and I slink back to the futon, stretching out on the grimy cushion, feeling guilty and ashamed.
Today is all about setting new personal lows, apparently.
I lie there, struggling to calm my breathing while Tristan bumbles around below.
It feels like a million years before a door opens and closes.
My plan is to lie here until morning and pretend I was asleep the whole time.
Unfortunately, the three margaritas I consumed and my anxiety over having to pretend for eternity that I didn’t just watch a professional hockey player whack off without his knowledge means I have to pee. Badly.
I distract myself by reading the message from Rob.
Rob
You sound drunk. Maybe you should call Essie. Text to let me know you’re safe, tho.
That was the opposite of helpful. I don’t bother listening to his voicemail. I don’t need to be kicked again now that I’m this far down.
I send him a thumbs-up so he doesn’t worry, or call again. I can’t take his brand of pity right now.
My bladder is screaming. I won’t make it until morning without peeing my pants, and I’d prefer not to hit that special low. Down is the only way. I’m sure Tristan passed out instantly, considering how wasted he is.
Decision made, my need to pee becomes a physical ache.
It consumes all my thoughts. I rush to the stupid fucking ladder and realize it’s retracted on its own.
To avoid making noise, I climb down to the last step, then hang from the rung and drop the rest of the way to the floor.
It’s only a few feet, but because today sucks a giant bag of assholes, I roll my ankle and land with a thud and an oof .
I clap a hand over my mouth. And pee a little in my pants.
I hop to my feet and sprint past Tristan’s bedroom, launching myself into the bathroom.
I close the door harder than I mean to and turn the lock.
I’ve barely flipped the toilet seat down before I unleash Niagara Falls.
The relief is almost on par with an orgasm.
Almost. I drop my head into my hands while my bladder empties.
Eleven years later, I’m finally done. I wipe and debate whether I should flush but decide against it because it could cause unnecessary noise.
The sink on the left is spotless, only a toothbrush holder and a pump soap sit on the counter.
The other sink clearly belongs to my brother.
The edge is rimmed in stubble, and toothpaste lumps and food particles sit at the bottom.
And probably some residual jizz. The cap is off his toothpaste tube, and two razors lie on his side of the counter.
Toothpaste and water spots dot the mirror on his side.
I wonder if it annoys Tristan the way it annoys me.
I put myself here, though, so I don’t have a right to complain.
Based on the lack of noise beyond the bathroom, I’m in the clear. I take a deep breath and channel stealth vibes so I can get back to the loft undetected. But when I unlock the door and throw it open, I realize I’m very wrong.
Tristan blocks the doorway—arms crossed, muscles bulging. He’s wearing boxer briefs, and that’s it.
I’ve seen Tristan in pictures over the years. He’s a professional hockey player, and a good one at that. His stats are amazing, and he’s one of the top players in the league. He’s also stupidly hot. Like, my underwear wants to shimmy down my legs and throw itself at his feet.
His dark blond hair curls around his ears and at the nape of his neck.
It swoops across his forehead, and the cowlick in front makes one unruly piece stick out in the wrong direction.
His forest green eyes are framed with thick, enviable lashes and a day’s worth of stubble decorates his chiseled jaw.
And don’t get me started on his chin dimple. Ugh.
He’s way bigger than I remember, which makes sense since I stopped growing my freshman year of high school, and he did not.
He must be six four or better, and his shoulders are ridiculous.
And his abs. God, his abs. He’s cut and rippling and hotter than any man has a right to be.
I also think he might be sparkling, and he smells like he jumped into a bottle of cheap women’s perfume.
“How the hell did you get in here? Did Flip give you a fucking key?” he demands, listing to the right.
“Um…Clarice, the super, let me in… I thought Flip checked with you.”
He narrows his eyes. “You look familiar.” He blinks and lists to the left this time.
He’s off-balance, so he uncrosses his arms and braces a hand on the wall, making all the muscles in his arm flex and pop.
“You brought your friend last time, right? Suzy the screamer?” His face lights up at the memory.
I throw up in my mouth a little. “Tristan, it’s me, Beatrix. Flip’s sister .”
He frowns, and his brows pull together. “Beat?”
I fight a cringe at the horrible nickname he gave me when we were kids. As in: “Beat it. No one wants you around.”
His slightly unfocused gaze rakes over me, assessing. “Shit. You were a gangly, pimple-faced nerd the last time I saw you.”
Ego: minus ten.
Tristan: one.
Turns out, I still really fucking hate Tristan. I cross my arms. “Still the same giant dick, huh?” I glance down for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough.
He smirks. “Still interested in finding out, huh?”
“Of course that’s your interpretation, you dirtbag.
” I roll my eyes even as my cheeks burst with heat.
I may or may not have had a crush on Tristan when I was a freshman.
And I may or may not have seen him completely naked once.
Mostly, sort of, not even a little not on purpose.
“Let me rephrase, still the same giant asshole .”
His smirk grows smirkier. “Sure, that’s what you meant.”
This conversation is stupidly juvenile, and I’m suddenly exhausted beyond belief.
“Look, today has been a giant bag of shit,” I tell him. “I get that it’s been a lot of years since you’ve had the chance to torment me, but do you think you can put a pin in it until tomorrow? I’m wiped, and dealing with your assholery isn’t high on my priority list.”
When I try to slip past him, he blocks my way. “How long have you been here?”
Oh, shit . I bite my lips together and blink up at him.
He narrows his eyes and steps forward, forcing me to step back unless I want my chest to brush his.
Which, let’s be honest, I kind of do. It’s so stupidly cliché, the whole having a teen crush on my brother’s best friend.
But dude was hot, and sometimes, when Flip wasn’t there to witness it, Tristan could be…
kind. Soft. Those moments were rare, but they ignited that stupid crush flame and kept it burning throughout freshman year.
Then Tristan was drafted to a farm team out of the province, and his hockey career exploded a few years later.
“I asked you a question, Beat.” He leans in closer, until his warm exhale caresses my cheek and his lips are at my ear. “I expect an answer.”
A shiver runs down my spine. I inhale the scent of cheap perfume. I wonder, briefly, why he didn’t bring home whoever was clearly hanging all over him tonight. Then I remember that as hot as he is, he’s still seventy-five percent asshole. “Not long,” I croak.
He pulls back, and his shrewd gaze locks on mine. “You’re lying.”
My swallow is audible. He’s not wrong.
“Why didn’t you announce yourself when I came home?
” His voice is deceptively soft. But I’m not fooled.
I remember how he used to cajole when I was a kid, and then he’d trick me into something stupid.
Sometimes it was harmless, like telling me he had a chocolate bar, but really he was holding an agitated toad.
When I got close enough, he would toss it in my face like an asshole and run away laughing.
Other times, though, he did things out of spite, or anger, or sheer dickish-ness.
Like the time I was all dressed up for my best friend Essie’s tenth birthday party and my dad was dropping Flip off at Tristan’s to swim.
We were early, so he went in to help Tristan’s dad with some handyman project.
I can’t remember exactly how it all went down, but Tristan threw me in the pool fully clothed.
My mom had done my hair and even made my dress.
I’d been so excited, and he totally ruined it.
I feel like that’s the version of Tristan I’m looking at. That version wasn’t my favorite back then, and I like it even less now.
“First, I was asleep until I heard you come in.” Or I would have liked to have been …
“Second, you’re wasted, and you can barely keep yourself from falling over.
I wasn’t super interested in dealing with my brother’s drunk-ass best friend at stupid o’clock in the morning after the shitty day I’ve had.
Third, what the hell was I supposed to say?
” My voice rises with irritation and indignation.
“So sorry for interrupting you, Palmela, and Fingerella? Maybe shut the bathroom door next time!”
“I thought I was alone!” he snaps. “You could’ve made yourself known at any point.”
“’Cause that wouldn’t have been awkward at all.”
He leans in again and drops his voice. “Maybe you kept quiet because you liked it. Did you just listen, Beat, or did you watch, too?”
Nothing like being accurately called out by a drunk jerk. Not that I’ll admit it. “Check your ego, Tristan, and back the fuck off.” I shove his chest, and he stumbles back a step, maybe not expecting it. The lights in the kitchen come on.
It’s tough not to admire all six-four-plus inches of cut, hot-as-fuck hockey player.
It’s unfair that someone as dickish as him can look as good as he does in only a pair of white boxer briefs.
And I can see his dick-print. My vagina approves, but the rest of me is disgusted.
Mostly. Especially when I realize there are lipstick prints on his chest and…
“Are you covered in glitter?” I glance down at my hand, which sparkles in the ambient light.
He’s totally glittering. I shouldn’t be surprised.
My brother is the most notorious fuckboy in the league, and Tristan is his wingman.
“You reek like cheap perfume and regrets.”
For a second, his expression flashes with an emotion I don’t quite understand, but a cocky smirk soon takes its place. “You sound jealous.”
“Not hardly.” I roll my eyes. “Get over yourself, King Douche of Assholeville.”
His smile grows dark, and he takes a step backward. “Liar, liar, panties on fire. I hope you enjoyed the show.” He turns and disappears into his bedroom, the door closing behind him.
I thought screwing up my life was punishment enough, but it seems dealing with Tristan is going to be my new penance.