Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DAPHNE
I don’t care if it makes me a basic bitch—when I get Indian food, I will always order butter chicken.
I take another bite, the creamy tomato sauce coating my tongue before I reach for my glass of Gewürztraminer.
According to Google, they pair well, but my real intention is to finish this bottle and drown my sorrows in gulab jamun and wine.
Tristan shakes his head at me from my phone screen, but from behind his half-skull mask, his lips tug into a smirk. “You’ve got sauce on your chin, Princess. Didn’t they teach you table manners at those fancy private schools?”
I check my reflection in the little top window of the screen and rub the orange spot away with my napkin. “Sorry, but I’m starving.”
Tristan shakes his head at me again. “Me too. I missed breakfast.”
“You what?” This guy can’t be serious. Hypocrite! “After all that grief you gave me over not having breakfast, you’re telling me you missed out on the most important meal of the day.”
Tristan rolls his eyes. “I slept in.”
“Late night?” I ask while I spear another piece of chicken with my fork.
Tristan sighs, his fork swishing around his vindaloo. “I’m still working on finding who left you that package.”
At the reminder of my uninvited guest, the chicken globs into a ball in my stomach. I refill my wine glass. Maybe I should grab the bottle of whiskey instead.
“Any leads?” I want an answer, but I’m also dreading one. How the hell did I end up on not one, but two psychos’ lists this summer? Is my dry spell so obvious that I’m starting to reek of desperation to the point where it’s attracting murderers?
I mean, at least one of them is attractive. Go me!
Tristan shakes his head and my heart plummets to my stomach. “No. But I’m not giving up. Have you asked for extra security while I work it out?”
I scoff. “Dad wouldn’t approve my request. He said one bad prank wasn’t enough to justify wasting another Secret Service agent. One patrolling my block at random times seems good enough for him.”
With the tricks Tristan has at his disposal, I doubt he’ll find the guy now. Not unless they pop their head up again, which I really hope they don’t. I’d love for all this to go away.
But working in politics, I know if you want something to go away, you have to force the problem to disappear. Otherwise, it’ll never leave you alone.
“So,” Tristan says, setting his fork down and sounding more businesslike. “About the Senate Committee?”
“Real smooth. Such a natural change of topic.” I roll my eyes but can’t stop the smile creeping on my lips.
Tristan chuckles as he clasps his fingers together and rests them on the edge of his table. He sets his chin on top.
No gloves this time. And no wedding ring.
God, I can’t even imagine what a Mrs. American Guy Fawkes would think of his hobbies. Maybe she’d be a serial killer too—one who kills rapists and pedos. She’d have her own list, her own agenda, and she’d take care of them without his help.
That’s someone I could imagine Tristan being with—a fierce and strong badass who doesn’t take shit from anyone—a real vigilante justice power couple.
Meanwhile, I take so much shit, I might as well be a Congressional toilet. Well, I used to take so much shit. I don’t have that job anymore.
“The Committee’s meeting next Thursday,” I tell him. “And they have a majority, even with Furt gone.”
“Fuck,” he snaps, loud enough for me to jump in my seat. His tone drops back down to normal volume. “I thought Furt’s death would slow the Committee down. With one Member gone, maybe they’d put it on hold for a few weeks.”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what I have to be sorry for, but I was raised to apologize for any little inconvenience people around me suffer, even when it’s not my fault.
I don’t know what else to say, so I take another sip of wine.
Hawkeye treads over, gazing lovingly up at the table where my food sits. He still hasn’t learned not to beg, so I ignore him when the whining starts.
“Is he alright?” Tristan asks with a note of concern in his voice.
“He’s fine. He wants F-O-O-D. I’m trying to train him not to beg at the table.” Hawkeye’s little paws reach up on the edge of the table as he stands on his hind legs, and I make sure the food is too far away for him to reach.
And I continue to ignore him.
“It’s hard being pissed when you have a puppy looking at you like that,” Tristan says with a grin.
“He’s pretty good at calming me down.” Hawkeye’s too adorable sometimes. It’s impossible to ignore him, especially with his snout twitching as he sniffs towards my food.
“So, why Hawkeye? Funny name for a dog.”
“Have you ever seen M*A*S*H?”
Tristan shakes his head. “No, we usually watched movies or whatever sport was playing. Dad was really into sports, and a bit disappointed that none of his kids really picked up any interest.”
I can picture a fuzzy image of a child-version of Tristan sitting on a couch watching a baseball game.
Mismatched eyes struggle to stay open as a commentator drones on about a pitcher’s stats.
Dark hair tousled on his little head. Wearing cartoonish pajamas like Spiderman or colorful dinosaurs.
And that fleeting image makes my heart pinch.
At one point, the killer on the other end of the phone was a child. So what had happened to make him do what he does?
I clear my throat to completely sweep away the image from my head before I speak. “M*A*S*H takes place during the Korean War. There’s a doctor they call Hawkeye. He used humor as a way of coping with tough situations. He’s kind of the main character. Hawkeye and Hot Lips were my favorites.”
“Hot Lips?” Tristan’s eyes widen in surprise.
I laugh. “Yes, my book account is HotLipsandHardcovers because of Major Houlihan from M*A*S*H. Her nickname’s Hot Lips, but she’s the head nurse, and most of the camp still had a lot of respect for her. She was never afraid to be herself. And people loved her for that.
“I loved M*A*S*H,” I say. “Dad and I used to watch it when I was a kid. We didn’t have much in common, but it was the one TV show we bonded over.”
Tristan pauses. “You know, that’s the first time you didn’t sound like you completely hated your father.”
“I don’t hate him. I wish I did. Believe me, my life would be easier.”
“It couldn’t have been easy to have the President as your dad.”
A scoff of a laugh escapes me. Hawkeye finally sits back on his haunches, his whining slowing to a stop.
“Dad’s a narcissist. No way would he ever go to therapy and get properly diagnosed, but he meets all the criteria.
And he works in politics. It’s not surprising.
” I don’t want to talk about Dad right now.
I’ve already had a shitty day, on top of that thinking about how my own father went out of his way to have me fired.
And I’m not entirely sure Dad’s not on Tristan’s hit list. As much as I hate my Dad, I don’t want him dead.
My stomach rolls, threatening to empty itself of perfectly good Indian food.
“What about you?” I jump in and ask. “What were your parents like?”
A soft smile plays beneath the edge of his mask as he says. “They were amazing people.”
My belly coils around itself like a snake. I hate the streak of jealousy that pierces me. I’m happy Tristan had good parents, but I’ll never know what that’s like. And, damn, it sucks.
He clears his throat before reaching for something off-screen. “They both died. Mom, when I was eight. Dad, when I was eighteen. I don’t remember much about Mom’s death, but I’ll never forget the day Dad died.”
He holds up his beer and takes a gulp while I wait for his story.
“I was working in our garage with Dad when he fell over, clutching his chest. I went to dial the ambulance, but he told me not to.”
As Tristan’s story continues, his words chill like lukewarm water freezing to ice.
“We didn’t have a lot of money. Dad knew he couldn’t afford the ambulance bill, so he asked me to drive him to the hospital.
I thought I’d get there in time. They put him on a gurney and took him, but a few minutes later, the doctor came out and said he didn’t make it. ”
Tension crackles like fracturing glass in Tristan’s voice. “The doctor said if I’d called an ambulance, there might have been a chance for him, but between dragging Dad into a car when he couldn’t stand and trying to get to the hospital in rush hour traffic…”
Tristan’s words die off.
“But it wasn’t your fault.” It’s not like Tristan gave his dad the heart attack after all. He did what his dad asked.
Tristan scoffs. “The doctor thought otherwise. He lectured me about how EMTs are equipped to handle medical emergencies like this, and I shouldn’t have taken the risk. He basically said it was my fault without saying it’s my fault.”
Anger slices through me, and I don’t know who the doctor is, but I want to pummel him. “That’s terrible. You’d just lost your dad. To lecture you like that. It’s… it’s…” I can’t even find a word to describe how fucking awful that is to do to a grieving son.
When Mom told me Paige died, I was shocked. But not long after the shock wore off, relief took its place. I never mourned my sister. Not having her angelic presence reminding my parents that I’m their demonic spawn was a gift.
I’ve never lost someone I loved. I can’t imagine the hurt Tristan would have suffered that day.
But I’m angry and hurt for him.
“That was ten years ago, Princess. I’m over it.”
The bottom of his face says he’s not at all over it. Deep lines etch from the corners of his lips to the tip of his chin, his lower lip puffed out in a frown.
“No, you’re not,” I tell him. “But if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”
Tristan tilts his head like he’s unsure. “Really?”
It’s too much to look at him. So, I hunt for the perfect piece of butter chicken. “Yeah. We’re friends after all.”
“Friends?” A small smirk plays on the corner of his lips.
“If that’s what you want, Princess. We can be friends.
” He’s agreeing… but the way he’s agreeing doesn’t sit right with me.
Maybe I really am just a pawn in his chess game—someone who’s only useful to him while he’s on the warpath to stop this bill.
“Well,” I start to say. “Since we’re friends now and you want information, Dad’s having a fundraising gala next week. Want to come with me?” And be my shield against the horrible people I really don’t want to deal with.
“A gala?” Tristan pauses, like he’s seriously considering it. “I don’t have a suit.”
“You could rent one,” I suggest. “Brent will be there. It’ll be the perfect time. You can drop a pill in his drink or something and finish him off.”
Tristan slowly shakes his head. “No, too many witnesses. And I can’t have my name on the guest list. It’ll be too suspicious. I’ll take care of it.”
I hide my pout behind my wine glass as I take a long sip, feeling silly for asking him to come with me. “Alright. I’ll go on my own.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. Once again, I have to handle everything on my own.