14. Ingrid
Chapter fourteen
Ingrid
It was already nine o’clock, and the house felt strangely empty without my father’s looming presence.
After I’d gotten back home, I hadn’t stopped thinking of Tristian’s kiss.
Just his name entering my mind sent butterflies fluttering in my stomach.
And when I thought of the way he leaned down, the air electrifying between us as his lips found mine—it was like those butterflies turned into bombs.
Exploding, fiery bombs that made heat pooled low in my stomach, a slow throb that hadn’t gone away since he kissed me.
My whole body kept replaying it. The memory of his mouth against mine was a constant, simmering heat beneath my skin.
The heavy thud of the front door swinging open broke my thoughts. I looked over my shoulder from the living room, my breath catching, but it wasn’t my father. It was Camila.
She was a mess, stumbling into the foyer, heels dangling from one hand, lipstick smeared across her cheek. Both straps of her dress had slipped down her shoulders. She blinked at me, swaying on her feet in a daze.
“Camila?” I whispered.
She squinted at me, then her face split into a wide, glassy-eyed grin. “Ingriiid,“ she slurred loudly.
“Shh!” I rushed to her side, pressing a finger to my lips. “Abuelita isn’t feeling well... She needs her rest.”
Camila scoffed, the sound wet and rough. “You really... care about that bitch? Oh, I’m sorry!” She let out a small burp, followed by a sharp hiccup, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Sorry! Papa said young ladies shouldn’t curse.”
I didn’t fight back against her mocking jab at me. There was no point when she was this far gone. I grabbed her hand, bracing myself as I began to haul her up the stairs.
She slurred some more, taking jibes at me and Mama and Papa and Abuelita all, but I just ignored the theatrics and fought her up the stairs. It wasn’t as though I’d never done this before.
Camila often came back drunk like this—or “shit-faced” as she liked to put it, smirking at how angry Papa would be to hear her.
I hated seeing her like this. Worse, I hated knowing there must be some reason for it.
Papa was overbearing, but surely that wasn’t why Camila pushed herself so far off the rails? What hurt was she trying to drink away?
Once I’d wrangled her to her room, I steered her toward the bed and let her flop down. I set her shoes aside, pulled the duvet over her, and began gently wiping the smeared makeup from her face with a wet cloth.
She watched me through heavy lids. “You know, Ingrid...” she grunted drunkenly, the smell from her mouth bitter, “if you weren’t such a perfect bitch… I might’ve liked you.”
I felt the sting of her words but I kept quiet. She didn’t mean it. Probably.
She shrugged against the pillows. “Then again... I act more like a bitch to you, don’t I? It’s all right though... eventually, Mama and Papa will finally get rid of me, and I’ll be free.”
I gave her a small, sad smile. I’d heard this anthem of rebellion a thousand times. I stood up, clicked off the light, and stepped back into the hallway.
I was halfway to my own room, ready to sink into my covers, when my phone vibrated in my pocket.
I pulled it out, wondering whether it might be Tristian.
He hadn’t called since he kissed me and I ran out.
I’d wanted to reach out and explain, but when I sat with my phone open, I couldn’t find the words to say why I’d fled, how the kiss had made me feel—how I wanted him to kiss me again—
But it wasn’t Tristian. It was his father.
“Good evening, Mr. Locke,” I answered, my voice tight.
“Ingrid, darling, how are you?” He sounded weary.
“I’m fine... Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I just got a call from the precinct,” he said, and my heart stopped. “They’ve got Tristian in custody at the station. Samuel and I are swamped here at the office. I was hoping you’d be able to retrieve him for me.”
“W-what? Why is he in custody? I-Is he okay?”
“Oh, Ingrid, it’s never Tristian who’s hurt when he’s at the station.” He let out a bitter laugh. “He took his anger out on the wrong person and got himself placed in time-out to cool off.”
“Are you sure he’s okay?” I pressed, my hand trembling.
“Ingrid,” he cut me off, his tone flat. “Tristian’s my son.
When the police tell me they’ve had to bring him in for fighting, I don’t bat an eyelid.
It’s typical. He gets into a dispute, it leads to a fight.
I ask how long they’ll keep him, they make me pay a fine for babysitting.
Do me a favor and take him home. I’ve dealt with this too many times.
It gets tiring after the third time in a month. ”
I nodded into the empty hallway, a hollow “Yes, sir,” escaping my lips before he hung up.
My mind raced. I knew Tristian had a temper, knew he was a fighter, but the thought of him in a cell felt heavier.
I grabbed my keys and shoes, rushing out the door before I could talk myself out of the fear.
The police station was a chaotic blur of fluorescent lights and shouting. I pulled my sweater sleeves down over my hands, trying to make myself smaller as officers hurried past me. I felt entirely out of place.
I approached the front desk, clearing my throat when the officer didn’t look up. He finally glanced at me, his brow furrowing. “Can I help you?”
“I, uh... I’m here for Tristian.”
The man checked his files, sighed, and stood up. “Did Locke send you?”
I nodded.
“Follow me.”
He led me through a heavy door into the back, where the air felt colder and smelled of stale coffee and industrial cleaner.
We stopped at a cell near the end. Tristian was sitting on the floor, his back against the bars, head tilted back and eyes closed.
“Hey,” the officer barked.
I jumped, but Tristian only cracked one eye, looking utterly bored—until he saw me.
The guard rattled the keys in the lock and swung the door open. “You’ve been bailed. Your father sent someone to get you.”
The officer walked away, leaving us in a heavy silence.
Tristian didn’t move at first as he stared.
“Tristian...” I whispered.
He stood, his movements fluid but heavy. “Ingrid.”
My eyes immediately dropped to his hands.
The knuckles of his unbandaged fist were split and bruised, the skin raw.
The bandaged one was bloody too, and poorly tied.
It looked like he’d almost torn it off in the fight that had landed him here, reopened the wound I taped closed earlier, and had maybe re-tied it while he sat cooped up in here.
“What did you do?” I whispered.
He let out a long, ragged sigh. “I didn’t want you to see me like this, doll.”
“What happened?” I pressed.
Tristian hesitated, his gaze shifting away. “I had a run-in with a guy I know from the gym. An asshole named Brandon.”
“What did he do?”
Tristian wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Talked shit. It’s what he does.
” He cracked his neck left and right. “Doesn’t really matter.
I was already worked up before he even opened his mouth.
” He stole a glance at me, then down the corridor.
Before I could ask what he meant, he said, “Let’s get out of here.
I’ve seen enough of this place for a damn lifetime. ”
He strode past me and out. I hurried to follow, not glancing into any of the other cells.
Tristian exchanged words with an officer leaning against the desk, who warned him not to get into any more fights as he handed back Tristian’s phone. Tristian growled something back and was out the door, me right on his heels.
He had the phone pressed to his ear by the time I had joined him on the street.
“Kane. Yeah, it’s me. Listen, can you pick me up?
I’m at the station. No, I’m fine… He deserved it anyway.
All right, see you in five… Oh, and Kane?
Ingrid’s here.” There was a pause then, and his gaze flickered to me briefly.
“She bailed me out.” Another pause. I couldn’t hear what Kane said but Tristian’s jaw flexed as he replied, “Drop it. And hurry up.”
He hung up and we waited in silence.
The evening air breezed by. I was glad I’d put on my sweater, because it at least kept some of the cold out, but I still shivered.
Tristian glanced at me. “Why didn’t you bring my hoodie?”
“I… I kind of left in a rush. Didn’t think about it.”
“You’ll catch a cold.”
Defensively, I said, “It was warm on the bus.”
Tristian pursed his lips. “I don’t have my jacket. How am I supposed to keep you warm now?”
I tugged at my sleeves. “I’m fine.”
He thought for a while, then he swooped in and drew me to his side.
I let out a little squeak of surprise, but I didn’t push away.
Not like I could anyway… He was so big and strong, and as he enveloped me at his side, the heady scent of man filled my nose.
I closed my eyes, nestling closer, feeling the heat radiating from him.
His arm cinched around my waist, firm and protective. The potent scent of him, sweat, cedar, something darkly masculine—I let myself melt into him completely.
And God… the butterfly bombs were back.
Not fluttering anymore—detonating.
Hot little bombs going off beneath my skin, pooling low in my stomach, making it impossible to think about anything but how good it felt to be here, pressed into him, held like this.
“There,” he growled. “Better?”
I nodded shyly. “Th-thanks.”
He was quiet after that.
“…What were you worked up about?” I murmured.
He looked down at me, as if I’d broken some trance. “Hmm?”
“You were worked up about something,” I repeated. “You said that’s why you fought Brandon. Or at least part of it.”
“Oh. That.” He looked uncomfortable. “After our kiss… you ran away. That reaction tends to leave a guy kind of… discombobulated.”
I smiled. “That’s a big word for the tattoo artist,” I teased, and his hand found my hip and squeezed in response.
Then my smile began to fade. “I—I didn’t run because I didn’t want it.”