15. Ingrid
Chapter fifteen
Ingrid
At some point as Tristian painted me, I fell asleep.
When I woke, he was gone. The room was silent, his canvas abandoned.
I blinked, bleary-eyed. “Tristian?”
I rose from the chair I’d dozed off in. Tugging Tristian’s hoodie tight to my shoulders, I padded through the studio, past the canvas. A palette covered in globs of oil paint sat on a stool nearby, blobs marred by impressions of the brush dabbing, taking, mixing new colors.
The painting had come on a lot in the hour or two Tristian had worked this evening.
The first layer of colors, the shape of me, was beginning to fill with detail and shading.
Lines arced, forming the basis of what would be my eyes and nose.
The crimson shadow of my lips was a distinct pout.
I’d have to call Tristian out on that: I don’t really look that miserable, do I?
His voice drifted to me from somewhere else in the apartment—the lounge, maybe, or his bedroom.
I moved into the hallway, opened my mouth to call out to him.
“It’s bullshit really, Kane… Noah is a fucking hypocrite,” came Tristian’s drifting voice. “He tells me that my job isn’t real and that I need to get into his business. Yeah, fucking right… we all know it’s a cover-up.”
I froze, my breath catching. A cover-up?
“What’s worse?” Tristian continued from the lounge, unaware that I stood in the hall, wide-eyed and listening. His voice dropped into a dangerous register. “Laying low, fighting, and being a tattoo artist—or bribing judges, cops, and politicians to do your fucking dirty work?”
My brows furrowed. Bribing? Noah Locke? The picture of respectability, a man of all things business… It didn’t make sense. But in a sense… it almost did.
“I know he’s still dirty,” Tristian muttered. “There’s no way he could get this much shit done while being a lawyer.” He paused, and then his voice softened in a way that made my skin prickle. “She’s fine… she’s asleep. I don’t know why Noah is getting her involved… It’s not with good intentions.”
Then, the words that turned my blood to ice: “We need to look into her father… figure out what the hell is actually going on. A lawyer and an accountant can’t be moving up in this city this quickly.”
My heart felt like it was about to give out. My father? Involved with bribery? I backed away, my mind spinning with images of me somehow being in the middle of this. Of me being involved.
Tristian’s footsteps thudded. He was coming my way. Panicking, I ran back to the studio quietly. Then, I fought to smooth my face out.
He was coming up the hall. “All right, see you tomorrow.”
I took a breath. Forced down my fear. Then, as Tristian was about to round the corner, I stumbled purposefully to the doorway. Hoodie slipping down my shoulders again, I rubbed my eyes, stifling a fake yawn.
I stepped out.
Tristian paused. “Hello, doll. Well rested?”
I nodded. “S-sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“No problem,” he rumbled. “I hope I didn’t wake you?”
I hesitated. If I said yes, then what next?
Would he ask if I’d heard anything? If he did, could I lie convincingly?
I didn’t think so. I was already pretty certain my tired act wasn’t convincing.
Tristian seemed to be looking at me very closely.
Did he know I’d overheard him? Or was his close look because he was hiding something, too?
“No, you didn’t,” I said, hoping it came out smooth. “I just woke up.”
He nodded. “Good.”
But still, I had to ask.
“Were you on the phone to Kane?” I breathed.
Tristian loomed down over me, his suddenly presence overwhelming. “…I thought I didn’t wake you?”
“You didn’t,” I said quickly. “I heard you saying goodbye to someone as I was coming to see you. I figure it was probably Kane.”
Another nod, another impenetrable look. “It was him. Thought we’d catch up. Busy day tomorrow, you know?”
“R-right,” I said.
We stood there for a moment, neither of us saying a word. Did he suspect me? Or did he think I bought it? Or was he wondering right now if I suspected him?
The silence was stretching too long. I cleared my throat, breaking it. “I-I’d better get home. It’s late, and…”
“Right. Your father. Of course.” A sour look crossed his face, and his words on the phone echoed back to me. We need to look into her father… figure out what the hell is going on. Then he smoothed it over, stepping back. “I’ll grab my keys.”
The drive back was quiet. I forced a conversation halfway through, desperate to cover myself.
I worried Tristian would notice, but he didn’t say a word.
When I glanced at him five minutes before we got back to mine, he looked distracted.
By the phone call? By the business with his father?
By something else? I couldn’t be sure—and right now, I wasn’t going to ask.
When we pulled up to my house, I expected him to wait in the car as he always did. But when I went to hop out, he was already there, opening my door. A cold spike of worry shot through me. He had never walked me to the door before. Was he checking the house? Looking for more things to look into?
“T-Tristian, you don’t have to,” I said, my voice small.
“I’m walking you in, Ingrid.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
As we reached the porch, the front door swung open. My abuelita stood there, her eyes widening as they landed on the tall, tattooed man looming over me.
“Ingrid, you didn’t tell me you were spending time with such a fine young man,” she said, her voice dripping with that sharp, observant sarcasm she saved for special occasions.
She looked at the hoodie draped around my shoulders—his hoodie—and a knowing grin spread across her face as she continued in Spanish. “That hoodie is a little big on you.”
I felt the heat climb my neck at her observation and quickly changed the subject. “Abuelita… this is Tristian. My… friend. Tristian, this is Mariana, my abuelita.”
Tristian stepped forward with a practiced, dark charm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mariana.”
My heart did a painful flip.
I practically pushed my grandmother back into the house. “Okay, Abuelita! I’ll be inside in a sec!”
Hurriedly closing the door on her, I turned to Tristian to see his expression had returned to that brooding, unreadable mask.
“Get inside, doll,” he said quietly. “I’ll call you.”
I watched him walk back to his car, his gait steady and dangerous. My attraction to him was growing, but as the door closed, and that phone call echoed back to me once more, the weight of his hoodie felt less like a hug and more like a warning.