Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
DAPHNE
Daphne
Flowers and chocolates? You must be feeling guilty
Tristan
You’re not answering my calls I’m not sure what else I can do to show you I’m sorry
Daphne
Thank you. But splurging on Godiva does not mean I’ve forgiven you
Tristan
How about I buy you a chocolate factory?
Daphne
At least I’d be employed…
Tristan
I’m happy to help you. Money? Food? Chocolate? What about dog food? I’m behind in child support
Daphne
Hawkeye is not your child
Tristan
He has my eyes
Daphne
Bite me
Tristan
Tell me when and where, Princess
Damnit, I’m mad at him. He’s not allowed to make me smile when I’m annoyed.
He killed people and kept it a secret. What other secrets is he keeping? You know, besides his real face.
I’m not ready to forgive him. I will, but not yet. Let him sweat it out a little longer.
Setting the roses in a vase with water, I store the golden box of chocolates in my pantry, then feed Hawkeye before heading out to my massage.
If Tristan’s going to throw twenty-grand into my bank account as an apology, I might as well enjoy it. It won’t be long before I’ll need what’s left over for movers and the first and last month’s rent on an apartment anyway—if I can even get one without a job.
Job hunting has been pointless. Some of the friends I’ve made as a congressional aide told me my name was blacklisted from their offices, which I’m sure means every Congressional office in DC has me on a ‘no-hire’ list. This is why I hate politics.
It’s sloppy, and chaotic, and you never know who is playing what side, who has alliances with whom or what everyone’s end goal is.
I hate Washington.
I’ve tried every law firm, every non-profit, and even random sales jobs. Hell, I even applied to Target and McDonald’s, but those went unanswered.
I really don’t know what I’m going to do. Every week, I’ve been pouring my energy into my social media accounts, and while there’s been growth, it’s slow. Too slow for me to pay rent plus all of my other bills.
The drive to Dad’s country club is short.
Luckily, my membership hasn’t been deactivated yet, thanks to my oh-so-loving-yet-often-forgetful-of-the-little-things parents.
I wind my way through the club towards the spa services.
Yoga chants mix with nature sounds filtering through hidden speakers as a woman my age ushers me inside and to a room to change into a fluffy bathrobe.
I strip down and head into the waiting area while sipping chilled lemon water.
I crack open my latest spicy read about a baker who reunites with his old flame.
He’s licking frosting off her when I’m called in for my massage.
The hour-long massage is divine. The masseuse’s firm grip is absolute heaven. I rarely treated myself to massages in the past.
But seven people I knew died last week, so I guess I can say I’m in mourning and need to de-stress. Seems like a legit excuse to pamper myself for once.
Fully relaxed for the rest of the day, I head out. A man sitting by the bar calls over, “Daphne!” A few heads pivot towards the voice, including mine.
And fear ices my bones. My muscles tense and the knots in my shoulders reform.
Brent’s smiling with that charming grin as he strolls over. His footsteps echo on the polished hardwood floor.
My heart beats so hard I can hear my pulse in my ears.
Run. Away. Run. Away. Run. Away.
But my legs don’t move. I’m frozen until Brent stops in front of me.
“I didn’t think I’d run into you again so soon.” He kisses me on the cheek, and my skin prickles as the stubble of his five o’clock shadow scratches me.
Since when did Brent become a member here? Who vouched for this asshole?
Probably another asshole just like him, only twenty years older and a couple of million richer.
Brent slides his hand under my arm and steers me away from the lobby, where some people are watching us.
An old lady eyes him up and down, then gives me a wink of approval.
I want to call out for help, but my lips stick like they’re glued together. Brent guides me away from everyone else and into an empty conference room. The windows are shuttered with no view of the golf course. No one around to witness us.
I turn towards him, squaring my shoulders, ready for a fight.
But then his eyes glint in a menacing way that’s haunted my nightmares, and my fleeting bravery vanishes, leaving me hollow.
I’m cornered. My lungs can’t fill with enough air, and I’m struggling to breathe as he steps forward and traps me between an antique wooden table and his overpowering frame. His hands grip the edge of the table on either side of me.
Brent cups my head and tugs on my hair hard enough for me to stop.
“I think we have some unfinished business.” His words are soft, but his touch is rough as he slides his hand around to cup my cheek. “I know why your mom wanted me to talk to you.”
“Brent.” My voice shakes as my hands grip the edge of the table. Fear freezes my body. His minty cologne makes my heart thud against my chest, the only part of me that hasn’t been completely petrified by his touch.
“Your dad needs my help.” There’s a wicked chuckle in his voice. “He’s screwed if my party doesn’t push his bill through.”
I shake my head, but his fingers clamp down on either side of my jaw, keeping my head in place.
“Don’t.” I know it’s useless. It was useless last time.
“I’ll give your Dad what he wants.” Brent releases my face and balls my maxi skirt in his fist, raising it higher. “But first, I’m getting what I want.”
“No,” A burst of adrenaline floods my veins, energizing me enough to push against his chest.
But he expects it. He grasps my wrists and spins me around with one movement so my back’s against him.
“Stop it.” I try to stand, but Brent has my wrists caught behind my back, and he’s using my movements to pin me down against the table.
The balls of my feet lift, raising me off the ground.
My hips press painfully into the edge of the wood as Brent pushes my wrists hard against the small of my back.
My cheek sticks to the table, the overwhelming smell of lemon oil filling my nostrils.
“You sent someone to outbid me. To embarrass me.” The zipper of his pants whirs and I kick backward.
But I miss his leg, and he manages to stand between mine, out of kicking range as he shoves me harder against the table.
“I think you owe me for that. I deserve another hole this time. Did you give your ass up to that guy at the gala? The son-of-a-bitch who paid for you?”
I jerk to fight him off me, but my shoulders ache at the effort. My chest presses harder into the wood as Brent rests more of his weight on top of me.
“Fuck you,” I snap.
“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart. That’s exactly what—”
Crack!
Brent’s hands release me, and the moment I’m free, I slide sideways down the table until I’m out from under him.
A thump sounds behind me, and I spin on my heels, stumbling on the Persian rug.
A man’s standing over Brent, his arm still raised with an antique Tiffany lampstand in his hand. The ornate glass is shattered along the floor like parade confetti beneath Brent’s unmoving body.
My chest heaves as the man faces me.
“Are you alright?” Tristan’s voice reassures me as he drops the lamp on top of Brent and scoops me into his arms.
Relief floods me so quickly and so heavily that my body collapses into his arms. Tears spring to my eyes.
He’s here.
I can’t stop the tears. And he doesn’t ask me to stop them. He holds me, silently giving me permission to cry into his sturdiness. He lets my emotions crash over me like waves before a hurricane. All the while, he stays steady as a lighthouse, weathering my emotional storm.
I’ve never been so relieved to see him. Not the night he came over to try and find the person stalking me. Not the night he saved me at the auction. Deep in my bones, something relaxes at the mere sight of him, and I’m not ready to let go.
I don’t know how long I cry. Or how long he holds me. I don’t remember the soft words he coos into my ear.
But a low groan from behind us brings me crashing back to reality.
Brent groans from the floor, his hand reaching to clutch his head where a trickle of blood seeps against his temple, dripping onto the carpet in thick droplets.
Tristan releases me, and the toe of his sneaker collides with Brent’s temple. Brent goes still again.
Tristan crouches down, slips his gym bag off his shoulder, and crams the lamp stand into it.
“We need to go.” He stands up, and I take in the sight of him. A dark hoodie and grey sweatpants, like he’s left the gym, his bag slung over his shoulder. His brown contacts glint, and his prosthetic nose is wide and flat. His wig is pitch black.
Did he know I would be here?
I’m sure he did. I want to ask how, but there’s an urgency in his voice as he takes my hands and pulls me towards the door.
“Act natural. And put these on.” He grabs a pair of aviators from his hoodie pocket and hands them to me. “It’s obvious you’ve been crying. We don’t want to draw attention.”
Watch your face. Mom’s words haunt me. All those years in front of a camera—smiling, and waving, and acting like everything was right—are being put to good use.
Slipping on the glasses, I round my shoulders.
Tristan wipes both sides of the doorknob with his sleeves and walks down the hallway.
I follow him out into the parking lot, and he trails behind me until we reach my car.
It’s not until I’m sitting in the driver’s seat that he says anything.
“I need to wipe their security cameras.” He tosses the bag into my passenger seat. “Do you know the strip mall on Clover Road?”
I nod.
“Good. Their cameras don’t work at the back of the complex. That’s where they keep their dumpsters. Drive around, throw this bag in there, then leave. Don’t stop in the stores for anything. Go straight home.”
My stomach bunches in knots. “But what about you?”
“I’ll be fifteen minutes cleaning up their cameras,” he says. “Then I’ll go straight to your place.”
“Be safe?” It comes out like a question. What if he’s not? What if he gets caught? What if something happens to him?
“You worried about me, Princess?” He teases as he rests his forearm on the edge of my door, his lips rising in a smirk I want to kiss off him.
And not to thank him. No. Because I want him.
I want him.
“Get home safe,” I say. “Hawkeye’s going to be a wreck if his dad doesn’t make it back.”
My words hit as Tristan’s cockiness crumbles like the Berlin Wall. His arm drops, and he bends down to press a kiss against my lips that’s heavy with possibilities I’m desperate to explore. His intensity mirrors mine, but he pulls back.
Grabbing the seatbelt, he reaches across me and buckles me in, tightening the strap between my breasts as his gaze drops there.
“Drive safe, Princess. I’ll see you soon.”
He shuts my door and strolls over to one of the cars to retrieve another duffel bag from the trunk before heading inside.
Once the front doors shut, I find enough adrenaline simmering in me to get the hell out of here. He has a plan. I’m going to follow it.
Fifteen minutes later, the lamp’s tossed, and I’m sitting in my living room, Hawkeye gnawing at a stuffed alligator dog toy.
And I wait.
And wait.
But Tristan doesn’t show up.