Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DAPHNE
Tristan’s lost his mind. We’ve been driving in silence for twenty minutes. Not a single word. He hasn’t even put the radio on. I’d settle for a lame podcast—anything but the deafening silence that’s humming between my ears.
“You’ve been quiet.” My voice amplifies in the car over the purring engine.
“I just…” he pauses. “I didn’t think they’d whip up a new Committee together so quickly.” From the passing car lights and streetlamps, I can see him getting paler. “They’re really going through with it.” Soul-shattering dread blankets his voice.
“I thought you had other ways to stop it with Brent dead.”
Tristan slowly nods. “There are… ways. But I really don’t want to go that way.”
“What way?”
Tristan sighs. “Ways that involve me breaking more promises to you.”
More promises? I’m not sure what he means. Silence lingers until I finally have the nerve to ask, “What promise?”
Tristan runs a hand through his hair before gripping the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles stretched bone-white beneath his skin. “Your dad.”
It all clicks into place. If the Committee doesn’t stop the bill and it passes in the Senate, the President needs to sign it into law.
That won’t happen if my dad’s dead. The Vice President is a mouse of a man who wouldn’t upset the American people and risk ruining the chance of running his own full term as President.
The bill’s slowly getting traction in the media, and the people learning about it are angry at Congress.
Dad publicly says he wouldn’t sign it, but everyone with two brain cells knows he’s lying.
The Vice President has no attachment to the Bradshaw Bill and would be too damn scared of being killed himself to pass it if something happens to Dad. I’m sure VP Wilkinson would stop the bill if he became President.
“Would you do it?” I ask. “Kill my dad?”
Tristan jolts like my question electrocutes him. “I don’t want to talk about it, Daph. It’s been a long night.”
Maybe it’s for the best. Shouldn’t I be more upset at the thought of my boyfriend killing my father?
I’m not. I’m not surprised. I’m not upset.
Or angry. Or relieved. I’m indifferent, and if this is something Tristan has to do to literally save people, then maybe it’s truly for the best. Evil comes in so many forms, but it’s tragic when its demonic clutches take control of your own parents.
“Fine,” I say. “We’re almost back to my place.” I settle my hand on his thigh. Warmth radiates under my palm, and the luxurious suit fabric is buttery soft. Tristan grounds me like a lightning rod before my thoughts spiral.
He takes my hand in his. The movement triggers his cologne, and the smoky scent of him fills the car.
I don’t want to think about anything else tonight but him. But us.
“Do you want to stay?” I ask. “You know, for a drink or something?”
God, Daphne. Why can’t you have a fraction of a backbone and tell him that you want him to spend the night?
Any man with half a brain cell can read between those lines.
Men might need smoke signals and skywriting to take a hint sometimes, but every man knows that a woman asking him to spend the night is code for wanting sex.
Or, in my case, I want Tristan to blow my back out and make me come so hard I forget my own name. I don’t just need an orgasm. I need heaven-splitting, star-seeing, there-must-be-a-God-for-anything-to-feel-this-good sex.
“Would you prefer a hotel?” he asks. “I can get us a suite somewhere.”
A hotel? We’re past most of the touristy hotels in D.C. and deep into the rowhomes and Victorian houses, far beyond the towering hotels near Downtown. “What’s wrong with my place?”
“Nothing,” he rushes to say, a little too quickly.
“It’s something.”
“It’s just…” He pauses like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Your bedroom. It’s practically empty.”
“I have a bed. And pillows,” I point out.
“Compared to the rest of your house, it’s bare—a bedframe and mattress. No headboard. Used furniture. It doesn’t match the rest of your place.” His gaze flicks to me for a moment. “Why?”
“Brent,” I admit. “When it happened, I took a hammer to the bedframe. The dressers. The mirror. All of it. I painted the room and busted every piece of furniture in the bedroom. I couldn’t stand to look at any of it.”
Tristan’s hand rests on top of mine as he gives it a soft squeeze.
“My mom hired an interior designer to decorate the first floor so I could host dinners. She didn’t care about the upstairs.”
“And you don’t either?” he asks more out of curiosity than judgment. Though it kind of feels like he’s judging me.
“Of course I care. I didn’t earn a lot working in Furt’s office.
People think that because my dad got me the job, it was something prestigious and high-paying.
I was one of the lowest-paid schedulers in D.C.
But I don’t have student loans, and I don’t need a car, so I’ve been saving to buy my own place.
Far away from D.C. After that night, I wanted to wait until I had my own place before I decorated.
I hate the idea of designing a place that’s rented.
What if, when you move, your furniture doesn’t fit the new space, and you have to change a lot?
I want a blank canvas and to start from scratch instead of trying to fit a round peg in a square hole. ”
“So,” Tristan drags the word out. “What kind of bedroom would you want in your house?”
“One I get to pick out.” I have a sneaking suspicion that if I told Tristan about my dream of an antique four-poster bed with rich velvet curtains like in A Christmas Carol, he’d have one custom-made and delivered to my house.
His pout says I’m right.
“Well, when you get your own house, I’ll buy you your dream furniture set. It’ll be a housewarming present. We can break it in together.” He winks before looking back to the road.
“Do friends buy each other bedroom furniture?”
“Are we friends?”
I don’t know what the hell we are. Fuck buddies? We haven’t had sex yet. Dating? We haven’t been on a date. Friends? I don’t let my friends tie me up in bed or threaten to buy me bedroom furniture.
“I don’t know what we are,” I admit.
“You told everyone tonight that I’m your boyfriend,” he says with a lopsided smile as he squeezes my hand still on his thigh. “How about we give that a try?”
“You want to be my boyfriend?” The question seems juvenile after the things we’ve done together.
“I’ll settle for being your boyfriend. For now.” He releases my hand as he pulls into my driveway.
“Should we make it Facebook-official?” I joke as I step out of the car.
“I don’t have Facebook. And I don’t need a social media status for everyone to know you’re mine.”
Mine? One little word and I swear, my heart skips. That word steals my breath. I want to hear it again.
“Tristan?”
“Yes, my girlfriend?” He looks inquisitively at me.
A laugh escapes me. “Do you want to come in for dessert?”
“I’ve been waiting for dessert all night.” He winks, then nods his head toward the front door. “After you, my girlfriend.”
I groan. “Please stop.”
“Why, my girlfriend?”
“That’s it. I take it back. We can just be fri—”
Tristan swivels me around so sharply that I stumble on my front porch in my heels, but his strong arms catch me. His lips cut off the offensive word.
Friends don’t kiss like this. That’s for damn sure.
As he breaks away, he retrieves a spare key from his pocket while keeping me upright with one arm. When did he make a spare key? “If you say the f-word one more time, I’m going to edge you until you’re begging me to call you my girlfriend again.”
“I’d like to see you try.” The words come out breathless as his eyes glint with a mischief my body is eager to discover.
“Get in the house, Princess.”
“Miss Fox.” A voice in the dark calls out, and Tristan sets me back upright.
A Secret Service agent steps out from a black SUV parked across the street. The agent dashes across the street.
“Is everything alright?” the man asks behind his aviator sunglasses.
What kind of douchebag wears sunglasses at night? I’ve seen agents do that before and never understood why. Do they think it makes them look like Maverick from Top Gun or something?
‘Cause it really makes them look like idiots.
“We’re fine,” I say.
The man glances from me to Tristan and back. “You sure?”
I nod. “My boyfriend’s spending the night, Doug. If Dad has a problem, he can tell me himself.”
Doug’s lips twitch as he fights back a smile, but he nods. “Yes, miss.”
“And stay in the car,” I instruct. God, I don’t need some agent pressing his ear to my front door while I’m screaming Tristan’s name like an orgasmic broken record.
“Yes, Miss Fox.” He heads back across the street. Once he’s back inside his SUV, Tristan opens the front door and swats me on my ass as I step inside. Then Tristan flicks the lock shut, keeping the agent and the rest of the world out of our bubble tonight.
Hawkeye’s yap is a full-grown doggy bark now as his tail wags. He bounds over to me, not caring about my fancy dress as his paws land on my hip, his tongue lapping as he tries to kiss me.
“Who’s a good boy?” I ask, which makes his tail wag even harder.
Hawkeye shifts his attention to Tristan. “Were you a good boy?” he asks. Damnit, the way he coos at Hawkeye is too damn adorable. His black suit strains against his thick biceps as he hunches down to scratch Hawkeye behind the ears. “Did you keep the house safe while we were out?”
Hawkeye barks in response, and I swear those two have somehow developed a language between them. My heart swells as they look at one another with affection shining in their mismatched eyes. Okay, I was reluctant, but Tristan could be a great dog dad.
“Let’s get you outside before you potty in the house again,” Tristan says as he guides Hawkeye over to the door. He slides it open and Hawkeye darts out, does his business in record time, and hurries back in for more attention.
“Did you have dogs growing up?” I ask. “You’re a natural with him.”
Ignoring his fancy black suit, Tristan squats on the floor, and Hawkeye tackles him to lick his cheek.
“No, Dad was allergic. When he died, money was tight. I always wanted one, so when I had enough money, I started the shelter. Now I get to spend all day with dogs, and they get homes forever.” Tristan stands, dislodging Hawkeye and not bothering to shake the dog fur from his suit.
“How about a drink?” I offer. Even with the open bar, three glasses of champagne did nothing to help me during dinner, let alone give me a buzz. “You can tell me more about the dogs and the shelter.”
“Sure.” He trails behind me as Hawkeye follows him in a train over to the bar cart.
I take two Waterford whiskey glasses. “What’s your poison?”
“Whatever you’re drinking.”
“Bourbon it is.”
Tristan chuckles as I offer him a glass, and we clink our glasses together. We each take a sip, our eyes locking onto each other before his eyes coast lower. He’s totally undressing me with his eyes right now, so I lower my glass and give him a better view.
His eyes darken as they fall on my breasts and stick there. We’re not young and stupid. We know exactly where tonight’s headed. My body’s humming with anticipation. His multi-colored eyes lock onto mine, and I’m stuck.
His stare has me frozen to the floor, unable to move. I can barely breathe. The tension and electricity are so intense.
Tristan closes the gap between us until his chest touches mine. Thumping fills the air, and I can’t distinguish between his heartbeat and mine. His cologne pushes the oxygen out of the room until I’m dizzy and drunk on him.
He sets his glass on the bar cart and takes mine from my hand, settling it back down.
“I don’t want you drunk tonight.” His thumb tucks under my chin, forcing my head to tilt upward. I can’t escape him. Not those brilliant eyes or the cologne, or the warmth of his touch as his thumb skates across my jaw. The intensity between us sizzles like silent lightning.
“Tristan?” It’s a question and a plea. If he doesn’t do something to me, I might spontaneously combust.
But he kisses me. His kiss uncorks the bottle of lightning swirling in my belly, releasing it into the wild. Before my brain comprehends anything more than his lips on mine.
Tristan leans low and scoops me up, my dress adding another ten pounds, but he doesn’t seem to notice the extra weight as he bounds up my stairs two at a time.
I bounce with each harsh step until we’re in my bedroom and Tristan kicks the door shut, blocking out everything but Hawkeye’s sad whine at being left alone.
“Sorry, boy,” Tristan calls out over his shoulder as he sits me on the edge of the bed. “I’ll spend extra time with him tomorrow,” he promises me as he presses a kiss to my lips again. “But first, I need to take care of my girlfriend.”