9. Tristian
Chapter nine
Tristian
Ilingered at the curb, the engine of my car a low, restless hum in the quiet street.
I watched Ingrid’s silhouette retreat toward her front door.
The key turned, the door clicked shut, and for a fleeting second, I saw the living room curtain twitch open—a brief glimpse of her looking back—before it fell shut.
I stayed there anyway, staring at the window, my jaw tight, my brow furrowed.
Because something was pulling at me, and I didn’t want to leave her.
But I forced myself to shift into drive.
I hadn’t wanted to drop her off at all. The day had passed in a blur, Ingrid relaxing into my presence as I painted and we spoke, getting to know each other, and sometimes just occupying a calm, contented quiet together.
I hadn’t made any moves, though I’d wanted to. My mind was thinking things it probably shouldn’t have been. Caught myself watching the low rise of her jeans more than I intended to, the way her lips moved when she rambled. Imagining what she’d taste like. How she’d react if I took what I wanted.
But there had been touches, little lingering moments between us.
When she saw the canvas for the first time, she’d leaned close, and I’d found myself almost drunk on the closeness of her, her soft vanilla scent.
It had taken everything in me not to sweep her into my arms, press my mouth to hers—to push her back against the wall, pinning her to it, drawing one leg up my hip—
I shook the thoughts away. Too dangerous to think about. If I did for too long, I ran the risk of striding from the car to her front door, hammering on it until she answered, and dragging her out to have my way with her.
And I didn’t much think her father would approve of that.
He probably would’ve shot me on sight.
That was why I’d brought her back. I already despised the man. Was almost positive he was the source of those bruises I’d seen but it was too early to sweep in and fix Ingrid’s life by straightening out her father.
I closed my eyes. Rage threatened to boil, to tip over.
I needed to go.
Pulling off onto the road, I headed to the only place that ever managed to silence the noise in my head.
It was getting late, but that was fine. Didn’t care much about visiting hours. The nurses barely looked at me when I walked in. Maybe it was the bruised knuckles, or the hoodie pulled low, or the look in my eyes that said don’t fuck with me… Either way, no one stopped me.
When I reached the hospital, I bypassed the nurses’ station without a word. I pushed open the door to her room, the scent of antiseptic and stale air hitting me.
Mom lay unmoving, her breathing a rhythmic, shallow whisper that barely moved the sheets.
I sank into my usual seat, reaching out and taking her hand in mine.
Her skin was cold and brittle, but holding it was the only thing that made me feel grounded, could calm me against the anger roiling through me tonight.
I watched the monitor, the jagged green line of her heart rate spiking slightly at my touch before settling back into its slow, tired cadence.
I let out a long sigh. Sometimes I wondered if she was really in there anymore, but the silence of the room was the only place I felt safe enough to be weak.
“Hey, Mom...” I whispered, the words catching in my throat. I waited, as if expecting a squeeze of my hand that didn’t come. “I needed to see you… It’s been a rough week. I don’t really know where to start.”
I rubbed the back of her hand with my thumb. “If you want the good news… I won the match. Saving every cent of it. I don’t want to owe Noah anything. Speaking of the bastard, he got me out of trouble with the law again. Now he’s giving me an ultimatum.”
My hands began to shake. “I either join his business and get off the streets, or… he pulls the plug. He didn’t say it in those words, but I know him.
I know that’s the play.” I bowed my head, my voice cracking.
“I can’t bear to see you go, Mom. I know it’s selfish to keep you here like this, but you’re the only one making this life worth anything.
You—you’re the only reason I’m still trying. ”
The steady beep-beep of the monitor filled the void.
“…Do you remember the girl I mentioned? Ingrid? She’s starting to get under my skin... and I hate it. I don’t like how much it gets to me. We’ve only known each other a few weeks, and I don’t even know how to handle my own head, let alone the things she makes me feel. Am I losing it? Maybe.”
I let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh.
“She’s-she’s just so soft, and sweet, and scared of her own damn shadow.
I don’t fucking know what to do with that.
The other night at the match, someone spilled a beer on her.
A normal person would’ve been annoyed, maybe yelled.
She just... she broke. She cried like she was being hunted.
I got her back to the locker room, offered her some dry clothes, and do you want to know what my dumb ass did? ”
I looked at my mother’s peaceful face.
“I tried to take her shirt off. I just wanted to help, to make it better, to show her I wasn’t a threat. And she let me. But then I saw it, Mom. A bruise. A handprint on her arm. It was too big to be hers, and the grip... it wasn’t an accident.”
My gut twisted low, almost painfully.
“And I know who did it.”
I looked past my mom now, gaze lost in the distance as my mind turned back to that call Ingrid had taken at the tattoo parlor, the angry male voice rapid-firing at her in a language I didn’t understand but a tone I knew all too well.
The image of her flinching at his voice, the way she curled into herself like he was right in front of her…
Yeah. I knew exactly who the bastard was.
“She hasn’t told me,” I said, “doesn’t feel comfortable enough to yet, I guess. But I know who it was.”
And then I saw her walking to her front door tonight, as I sat helpless and watchful, my doll returning to a home ruled by the bastard who put his hands on her—a man who dared to put his hands on my girl.
Something cold and murderous settled under my ribs.
I leaned back, the weight of two different worlds—my mother’s fading one and Ingrid’s broken one—pressing down on me.
The room darkened around us as the sun began to set. My thoughts churned until they were nothing but silence.
Eventually, exhaustion yanked me under.
I drifted into a restless sleep in the plastic chair, still holding my mother’s hand, still thinking of a bruise on a girl I had no business wanting as badly as I did.