Chapter 5
KATIE
Icurl my fingers around the cool porcelain of the bathroom sink and examine my flushed cheeks and my pulled-back hair.
I look like I’m freaking out.
My fingers tighten on the sink.
My job is to take care of other people, and right now, I am failing at it.
“Get your shit together, Katie Bailey,” I whisper to the woman in the mirror. She looks like she’s having a really bad time. She looks like she just realized how very desirable her best friend is.
She looks like a girl who has been lying to herself for three years.
“Fuck.” I push away from the sink and pace the private bathroom. I can’t do this. Not right now. I can’t want—I can’t even think the words.
Him.
My brain is a traitor. It unhelpfully serves up images and scents—Tristan fresh from a swim, water sluicing off his shoulders.
Tristan hugging me like he’s returning from war, and the warm evergreen scent of his bodywash that seems to concentrate at the base of his neck.
Tristan telling me that I’m just one of the guys.
Fuck.
This really cannot be happening. I’m back at the sink in two steps, staring at the wild-eyed, red-faced version of myself. This woman looks like she shouldn’t have a concealed carry permit. She looks like she should have her service weapon forcibly removed from her person.
I do my best to examine my features impartially. I am cute enough if I’m wearing makeup. Lucy Lander told me so in twelfth grade, and I’ve leaned into my plainness. It’s part of my job. I’ve cultivated it.
On a good hair day, I can smile at a guy and get a smile back. I’m not totally hopeless, even if it felt that way for most of my awkward adolescence and well into adulthood.
I don’t have body issues. I look down at my faded jeans. They are tighter around the thighs than is strictly comfortable, but I appreciate what is under them.
I can run a mile in under six minutes.
I’m the proud owner of way more muscle than most women my size. Enough to toss a fully grown man over my shoulder. Enough to toss Tristan over my shoulder.
I snort. It comes out sounding like a sob. Men so don’t want that.
I don’t get the opportunity to be elegant or beautiful or soft.
When I’m not on shift, I’m working out or shooting something or sparring with Emory.
I’m muscled in the way of someone who uses it for work.
I know for a fact that when I hang out with the House Davenport security guys, they frequently forget I’m a woman at all.
Even Tristan forgets. We joke around and go for runs and dive off the dock, and I’ve never caught him looking. Not the way he’s looking at Sarah tonight.
I might get his real smiles, but I don’t get the simmering heat of his interest.
It feels like a hot poker is being buried between my ribs.
I grit my teeth and stare down my reflection.
I am not one of those people who gets chosen.
No student body president nomination or prom dates for this girl.
No sleepovers or riding in cars with boys or group texts or makeup tutorials from friends or spin the bottle.
A vanishingly small amount of swiping right and enough decent sex to count on one hand.
I am fine with it. I am absolutely fine with it, because I have a kick-ass job and female friends I love, and I refuse to care about this.
Being in the background is my job. I don’t need to be sexy or feminine. My worth is not defined by my appearance. Not when I have 98 percent accuracy on a moving target. Not when I have two black belts.
But as my knuckles turn white from the force with which I’m gripping the sink, I wonder if maybe I’ve made things so safe, and spent so much time in the background, that I don’t even know what I’m missing.
When I reach the deck, Sienna is in the same spot, sipping her drink and watching me with raised brows.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m just—distracted.” I blow out a breath. “Tonight is a lot.”
She snorts. “As amusing as it is to watch the world lose their collective minds over my brother, I can’t imagine months of this.”
Months. Of watching Tristan on the dance floor.
I pull my lip into my mouth. Sienna’s way more worldly than I am. She’s traveled everywhere and she’s had a million boyfriends.
“Sienna, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Have you had twenty-four hours of sex?”
“What?” She chokes on the word, and I slap her on the back so she doesn’t actually choke. “Have I what? Who are you and what have you done with Katie?”
My face heats. “I just—those women were talking about it earlier. Talking about being insatiable and having twenty-four hours’ worth of sex, and I don’t know.” I lift one shoulder. “I’ve never had that. Have you?”
“If you’re asking whether I’ve felt insatiable before, then yes. I dated this Brazilian soccer player once.” She shakes her head. “It was wild. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other.” She shrugs. “It’s like that sometimes. For me, it’s always fizzled.”
“I’ve never had that before.”
She stills. “Never?”
I shake my head, my eyes still on Tristan. He’s keeping a careful distance from Sarah, even on the dance floor. His hips swivel and he laughs at something someone says, and I want to look away.
“You’ve had boyfriends, right? Or flings?”
“Yeah. I’ve had sex. Not a ton.” I finally look at Sienna. “You probably think I’m lame.”
“No way,” she protests. “I mean, totally different from me, but not lame. I’d never think that. You’re just—on the cusp of being more experienced. I mean, if you want to be.”
My eyes find Tristan again.
“I want to be.”
Sienna makes an excited sound. “It’s fun, Katie.
Being with someone for the first time. Feeling that excitement and newness.
That’s the best part. That feeling that anything could happen.
When you just want to sneak into the bathroom so you can have sex.
You’ve really never done that? Not even in high school? ”
“I didn’t even sleep with a guy until I was nineteen,” I protest. “David and I moved constantly. I never had serious boyfriends. Our houses were small and the thought of bringing a guy home? God, no way. David had way too many guns.”
Sienna giggles. “Fair.”
“I’ve slept with a few guys before, but it was never like that.” At her raised brows, I say, “Never a need. It was nice. Nothing more.”
She grabs my wrist. “You need better than nice. Come on.”
I let her drag me through the bar, past the low clusters of couches, then around the edge of the dance floor to a quiet side of the bar.
“Okay.” She folds her arms like a general. “You could get out on the dance floor. It’s a foolproof method.”
“I’m still working.”
She waves a hand in the air. “Fine. Take off your jacket.”
“What?”
“You have a hot body.” She purses her lips as she looks around. “Seriously, take off the jacket. Your tank top is cute.”
“Sienna, I literally have a gun on my hip.”
“Yeah, and someone here will definitely be into that.”
I sigh and take the jacket off, then drape it over a chair. “Trust me, that’s not what men want.”
A guy comes up next to me, glances over, then does a double take.
“Hi, Ryan.” Sienna gives him a small wave.
“Sienna Prince.” His smile is bright and even. “And who are you?”
“Katie.”
“Well, hi, mysterious Katie. What kind of gun is that?”
I give Sienna a look that tells her I knew this was coming. “A SIG Sauer. And no, you can’t fire it.”
He chuckles. “I’ve fired one before.” At my confused look, his smile grows. “I’m an actor.”
“Ah.” I don’t know what to say to that. I’ve never met an actor. I just want to get this awkward small talk over with and let this guy talk to Sienna. I glance at Tristan, who is looking at me with lowered brows. He tips his head in question. I shrug.
“Do you ever go to the firing range?”
“All the time. Are you looking for a recommendation of where to go? The range I use is for professionals only, but I could help you find one.”
He laughs again, like I’ve said something hilarious, before he gestures at the bar. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I don’t—”
“She’s leaving.” Tristan’s low voice sounds from behind my right shoulder, followed by the heat of his chest.
“We are?” I give him a confused glance. Sarah is gone. Tristan’s eyes are on Ryan. He’s looming, and he’s standing way too close. Insatiable. My stomach twists.
“Yep,” Tristan says. “I’m ready to go.”
Ryan gives me a small smile. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
I nod. “Sure. Maybe.”
Sienna waves us on, saying she wants to stick around and see some friends.
And then I’m shouldering through the crowd with Tristan next to me.
Phones are out, and instead of ducking his head, he flashes winks and grins and eats up the attention from the paparazzi who are always crowded outside the bar.
“Tristan,” they shout. “We heard you were here with Sarah Hawthorne. How did it go?”
“The Vegas line on her is twenty to one. Care to comment?”
“How much will your wife inherit when she marries you?”
Bulbs go off in our faces as I rush him toward the car, adrenaline pouring through me. Getting the principal into and out of locations is the hardest part of my job, especially because I’m alone. I scan the crowd for any weirdos and see nothing.
One paparazzo gets a little too close, preventing Tristan from getting to the car, and I growl, “Back the fuck up.”
His eyes widen before they slide down my body.
Tristan tenses, but I’m opening the car door and shoving him inside before anything can happen. As soon as I’m inside, the cameras swarm the car and I have to drive carefully to get us out of the parking lot. My hands are tight on the wheel until I turn onto the main road.
“Fuck,” Tristan mutters.
“All good?” I eye him in the rearview. He passes a hand over his hair, then starts unbuttoning the shirt at his throat. Heat washes over my face and I look quickly back at the red light.
“I was expecting bad, but not that bad. Are you okay?”
“It’s my job.”
“I don’t have to like it,” he says curtly. The breath he looses is heavy. I’m distracted as I drive, thinking about what the women said earlier, trying to square what I know of Tristan with the man they were describing.
Tristan is fun-loving. Reckless sometimes. Curious about the world. Always laughing. Always moving.
Use me for whatever you want.
I shift on the seat, trying to ease the squirming sensation in my stomach. The Crownhaven gate comes at us a little too soon, and I slam on the brakes.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong with you?”
We roll past the stately old oaks and the bushes that line the long gravel drive. I pull my lip into my mouth.
“I don’t know. I just feel weird.”
We reach the parking area and Tristan hops out first. He’s waiting when I get out, his eyes scanning my face, then my body.
“Weird how?” He tips his head. The moonlight makes his eyes look silver and his skin shine. There’s a deep vee of bare chest where he unbuttoned his shirt. “Did Ryan asking you out mess with your head?”
“Ask me out?” We start for the security center. I feel jittery and unsettled.
“He was asking you about the shooting range, right?”
“Yeah, because he wanted to go to one. He wanted a recommendation.”
Tristan stops in the middle of the path, his mouth ajar. “You don’t see it.”
“See what?” I fold my arms. “Don’t give me the all-knowing Tristan act.”
His grin is cocky. “You really think Ryan wanted to talk about guns?”
“Yes.” I raise both brows. “He, like every other man, sees me as one of the boys.”
“Bailey.” Tristan shakes his head before he loops an arm around my shoulder. I hold myself stiffly. “Bailey. Bailey. What am I going to do with you?”
I poke him in the side. “Explain.”
“It was a line.” We reach the steps of the security center. My apartment is right above it.
“A line.”
“He saw a girl, wanted to talk to her, and thought of the one thing he knew something about.” Tristan snorts. “Idiot. I wouldn’t talk about the thing I knew about. I’d talk about what she was interested in.”
A thread of excitement is curling in my stomach. “You really think he was into me?”
Tristan’s eyes flare. “You were interested in him?”
“I mean—he’s hot. I wasn’t not interested.”
Maybe he could help me be insatiable. The thought makes my pulse skip.
Tristan’s face tightens. “I’ll be sure to pass that along. If he asks.”
“Which he probably won’t.”
“Bailey.” Tristan shakes his head. “You are adorably clueless. I’m going to bed.”
I watch his retreating back before I sigh and mount the steps to my apartment.
I don’t want to be adorably clueless. I want to be hot and competent.
Dangerous. Respected. One day, I want someone’s jaw to drop when I walk into the room.
I want to look like Tristan’s date did earlier—womanly and mysterious and confident.
And then I want to have a twenty-four-hour marathon of sex with a man who is insatiable for me.
I kick off my sneakers when I get into my apartment and watch them thunk onto the floor.
Adorably clueless is probably the best I can hope for, but right now, the thought rankles.