Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-One
Tristan
As soon as I hear the shower start, anger and guilt swim through me.
I shouldn’t have kissed Michelle, let alone touched her.
“Fuck,” I snarl at myself, quickly locating last night’s clothes and throwing them on. They smell like sweat and spilled beer and regret.
I want to leave. It takes me no time at all to find my keys, and I’m at her front door before I realize there’s no way in fucking hell I’m going to leave while she’s vulnerable in the shower with an unlocked door.
By the time she’s out, glowing and smelling as delicious as ever, I’ve made her a pot of coffee.
Her eyes widen, her lips falling open with a slightly distressed look that disappears so quickly I’m positive my wishful thinking imagined it.
“I made coffee.” I muster as much nonchalance as I can manage. “I gotta go. Thanks for that. It was fun.”
Her shoulders curve slightly inward, like I’ve punched her in the gut, and I hate that I’m the one who planted the idea of casual between us, like whatever I could have with her could be anything but serious.
I know her too well for casual.
I’ve wanted her for too long for this to be anything remotely close to casual.
But she gives me a small smile and pushes a lock of dark, damp hair behind her ear. I open my mouth, but I don’t have the words to tell her what I want.
It wouldn’t be fair to her anyway.
She only wants sex from me right now, and I was the one who suggested it in the first place. This is progress for her, the whole reason she took me up on the stupid bet I made just so I’d have an excuse to spend time with her.
I’m a fucking idiot.
I must be even stupider than my mom insists I am, because I take a step toward her like I’m going to tuck her into my arms and kiss her forehead.
My hands clench.
“I’ll see you at work,” I hear myself say, and I back away from her.
The door opens and then I’m on the other side of it, waiting for the sound of her dead bolt to click into place.
It does, and she doesn’t text me, even though I must check my phone a dozen times on the short walk to my Bronco.
I make it to my house in a daze, a dangerous way to drive anywhere but especially in fucking LA, hardly remembering the route I took to get home as I park in my driveway.
I pull out my phone again, and still, nothing.
Tapping my messages app, I exhale through my nose, thinking maybe I didn’t have service. Her name’s right there, though, and there are no bubbling dots, no message waiting for me.
I scroll down the screen until I find Luke’s number, and I dial it before I think twice.
“What the fuck do you want at this hour?”
“I need help,” I tell him, neither one of us bothering with hellos.
“Which jail?” he asks immediately, and I hear Abigail in the background repeating the word in a sleepy voice.
Blearily, I notice the clock in my truck. Six a.m.
Great.
“No, I’m at home.”
“Hurt?” he barks, and I hear keys being collected, a door closing.
“It’s Michelle.”
“You hurt her?”
“Fuck no! Luke, dammit, let me talk.”
He’s silent, and it takes me a minute to realize he’s waiting for me to do what I just said.
“I like her, and she wants to be casual, but I don’t want to be casual with her. It’s a mess.”
“Fucking hell, Gold, it is ass-early for this shit, you know that?”
“I know,” I agree miserably. “Can you come help me with my project car?”
That’s not what I need help with, not at all. But I don’t want to be alone, and Wolfe, for all his mean-tempered shit, is good company.
He won’t judge me in silence, either. No, he’s never been one to hide his feelings about any of us.
“We’re on our way. Abigail’s coming, too. She wants to pick up breakfast.”
The phone goes dead, and still, I hold it up to my ear, not processing much of anything.
I can’t get Michelle out of my head.
The way she looked as she fell apart on my hand, the way she felt under me. The perfect taste of her mouth.
I thought I would be fine with taking whatever I could get when it came to Michelle.
I was fucking wrong.