4. Tristian
Chapter four
Tristian
By the time the rage bled out of me, exhaustion settled in its place, adrenaline crash making my head throb. I needed caffeine if I was going to make it through my shift tonight.
I dipped into a coffee shop, bell chiming softly above the door.
I didn’t plan on stopping but then I saw her. Ingrid.
She was sitting in a booth near the window, looking small and out of place. She was shivering, arms tucked tightly around herself. And she was already staring at me.
Ignoring the heat that pooled inside me from just the sight of her alone, I walked over, unzipping my hoodie as I went. She looked freezing. Without a word, I peeled it off and draped the heavy, warm fabric over her shoulders before sliding into the seat across from her.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“Didn’t think I’d find you freezing in a random café,” I muttered, watching a flush climb up the side of her neck.
“My coffee was supposed to warm me up…”
Possibly against my better judgment, I reached across the table to grab her hand. It was cold. I rubbed the back of it softly with my thumb, warming her skin.
“Judging by how cold your hands are, I’d say it wasn’t too successful.”
Her face burned brighter and I shook my head.
“I’m only joking.” I wasn’t, but it seemed to lessen her nerves.
Her eyes glued to the movement of my thumb against her skin. She was hyper-focused, like she’d never been touched with care before. And since she wasn’t pulling away, I continued the motion, my calloused fingers enjoying the soft feeling of her skin.
“You didn’t call,” I muttered. “Did you lose my number or something?”
The flush filled her cheeks. “No… I just…”
She trailed off, shrinking in on herself. I watched the discomfort rise and shook my head.
“It’s fine.”
It actually wasn’t. She’d stuck in my head ever since we met. I wanted her to blow up my phone. But I obviously wasn’t going to tell her that.
Ingrid’s gaze drifted to my hand. The swelling had gone down a little, but the bruising was obvious. I’d washed the blood off in a gas station bathroom before coming in here, but there was no hiding the damage.
“What happened to your hand?” she asked softly.
Telling her about Brandon seemed like too much. So I kept it simple. “I box. Busted my hands this afternoon at the gym.” Technically true, though missing a lot of context.
“Are you OK?”
“Sure,” I said. “Takes a lot more than a few bruises to get me down.” Easing back in my seat, I released her hand.
“So what have you been up to today?” I asked conversationally.
I wanted her to relax and keep talking. I didn’t know why I wanted to know about her, every little thing.
Regardless, this was the perfect opportunity.
She finally gazed up at me, her doe eyes guarded. “I finished my classwork, morning studies, harp lessons, and afternoon studies.”
I furrowed my brows. The way she fidgeted, picking at the hem of my hoodie, told me she wasn’t exactly thrilled about that roster. It sounded more like a schedule for a prisoner, not a young woman.
“You’re in college?” I asked.
Ingrid nodded. “Online…”
That was unusual. Most people wanted the full college experience: life on campus, crazy parties, nights that served them a lifetime of memories. But then, Ingrid didn’t seem like that sort of girl. She’d seemed shy that first night in the tattoo parlor. She only seemed shier now.
“Why online?”
“My mama and papa always wanted me to do school at home, and they haven’t changed their minds since I was in kindergarten.”
“Really?” I asked. It was strange—controlling, actually. But it tracked far too easily with the girl who couldn’t walk into a tattoo shop without shaking just the other day.
She nodded.
Then it was quiet. Again, she looked almost afraid. But I didn’t think she was afraid of me. She kept glancing in my direction, her eyes so innocent in that doll-like face, then away, then back again, as if she couldn’t help herself.
Her fingers tugged at the sleeves of my hoodie.
“Feeling warmer now?”
She nodded. “Thanks.” Then another rush of red flooded her face. “Oh, but it’s yours. You can have it back.”
She moved to slip it down her shoulders, but I reached over the table and stopped her.
“You can keep it.”
Her eyes widened slightly. When I pulled away, her mouth softened into the faintest pout, gone just as quick, but I caught it.
Something low tugged at me.
I shouldn’t have been happy she liked my attention, but oddly enough I was…
I also shouldn’t have wanted to pull her against me. To tuck her under my arm. To smell that faint vanilla heat in her hair again. But I did.
But I didn’t exactly have the time for that; my shift was coming up fast.
The idea of leaving her, though… it didn’t sit right.
Licking my lips, I said, “I’m heading to the shop. Got a shift this afternoon. You want to come?”
She was hesitant. Again, that little flicker of fear crossed her features. I was certain it wasn’t anything to do with me, now. What she was afraid of, though, I had no idea.
After a moment raging a war behind her eyes, she gave a timid nod. “OK.”
We slid out of the booth. I made sure she pulled my hoodie tight and put her own coat over it—she looked like a pile of laundry, but at least she was warm. I ignored the voice that said she now smelled like me too.
As we headed for the door, she looked up at me, “Oh, but didn’t you come in for a coffee?”
“I did,” I muttered, coffee forgotten. She was the only thing on my mind now. “Don’t need it anymore.”
It was a short walk to the shop. We made small talk on the way.
Ingrid seemed nervous throughout. She would steal glances at me when I wasn’t looking.
I caught them in the corners of my eye. When she did, she’d run her fingers across the sleeves of my hoodie again, slow and careful, as if imprinting each of the little contours of the sewing into her mind.
When we entered the shop, the smell of antiseptic and ink hit us.
I made eye contact with Kane and James. James was at work on a client, and he gave a small eyebrow waggle at the sight of Ingrid trailing behind me like a lost puppy.
Kane was disinfecting a station that had just been vacated.
He spotted Ingrid, frowned, then hurried over.
“You good, man?”
I gave him a short nod. Of course, he wasn’t asking just if I was OK; he meant about the assault, and my afternoon in holding.
He was smart enough not to mention it in front of Ingrid though, and I gave him a subtle look to indicate my appreciation.
She’d spotted my knuckles in the café, and seemed to accept my answer about them, but for now it was best to keep the altercation with Brandon on the down-low. Didn’t want to scare her off.
Kane didn’t push. We’d probably talk about it later. Instead, his gaze settled on the shivering woman beside me. “Nice to see you again, Ingrid.” He looked hopefully behind her, to the door. “Amber and May not with you?”
“It’s just her,” I said.
Kane looked disappointed. What he’d gotten up to with the girls after Ingrid and I left them alone the other night, I didn’t know, or want to know.
I made a move toward my station when Kane snapped his fingers. “Oh, dude. I forgot to ask, uh, earlier. Are you still on for Friday night? Organizers need to know.”
Ingrid looked up at me. “What’s happening Friday night?”
I shot Kane a glare and Ingrid’s brows furrowed as she looked between us, sensing the shift in the air.
The idiot answered, “It’s the gym’s boxing tournament. Tristian’s one of the gym’s best fighters.”
“Kane, you didn’t need to tell her that…” I growled, trying to suppress the anger rising in my throat. I didn’t want her part of that world.
Ingrid looked up at me, eyes wide. “Do you not want me to come?”
I sighed. “I would love for you to come, doll, but… I don’t think it would be good for you to go.”
“Really? Why?” She sounded genuinely curious.
Kane, sensing he’d stirred the pot enough, took the opportunity to slip away before I could rip into him.
“Boxing tournaments down at the gym are very… gruesome,” I said. “See these?” I held up my hands, the dark knuckles. “That’s what I got training. Now imagine the real deal. Much worse. A boxing match is nothing a sweet girl like you should go to see.”
“Oh… OK.”
She accepted it. She trusted my judgment. Good.
The truth was, when I fought, I wasn’t the guy rubbing her hand in a café. I wasn’t merciful; Brandon knew that well. I took out my anger on whoever was stupid enough to get in the ring with me. I made easy money because I never lost, but I didn’t want Ingrid seeing the blood on my hands.
Boxing tournament talk defused for now, I headed to my station and prepped for clients. Ingrid sat next to me, and I gave her a run-down of my equipment as I went. She seemed genuinely interested, and even began to look at ease.
The bell over the door rang. A client walked in, spoke to James, and then headed toward my station.
“Hey, Tristian, got anything for me today?”
I nodded and slid a few sketches across the table. I’d seen this guy a few times; he was a regular, harmless enough. He had enough tattoos as it was but I never minded the practice.
“Give me this on my wrist with my name,” he said, pointing to a small, intricate design comprised of interlocking, woven coils of rope.
I prepped the skin and started the line work. I worked fast, the buzz of the needle filling the silence. Ingrid watched in awe, her eyes tracing the ink as it settled into his skin.
The client looked over at her. “Your guy’s a good artist.”
I paused, the needle hovering just off his skin.
Your guy.
I slid a side-eye toward Ingrid. She was looking down, a furious blush staining her cheeks.
The client looked confused. “She’s not your girl?” he asked me. “Because I figured…”