Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Astrid
"It was a long time ago," I said, doing my best to downplay it.
"When you were a kid?" he probed. "High school?"
Why did he have to ask that? "Yeah," I admitted. I needed to change the subject immediately. "So—"
"What happened?" he interrupted.
"It was nothing." God, I nearly choked spitting out that lie.
"Nothing? I doubt it. It sounds like something that shaped your whole way of thinking, so I'd hardly call it nothing."
I inhaled through my nose and let it out through my mouth. He had no idea how terrifying this conversation was for me.
Maybe I should just tell him. Part of it at least.
"I was bullied for being fat," I finally said.
He sucked in a breath that I could hear through the quiet that followed my statement.
"Goddamn," he seethed. "People can be so fucking cruel. I'm so sorry that happened to you. If you give me names, I'll beat them to a pulp."
Clamping my lips together, it took everything inside me not to say something, and it might have been the hardest thing I ever had to do.
Wait, why was I doing this again? Why shouldn't I just confront him right now? This was absolutely ridiculous.
Revenge. My sisters' voices rang in my head... revenge is a dish best served cold. Something they'd both said repeatedly.
So I had an agonizing choice at this exact moment. I could either tell him who I was and how much he'd destroyed me, how he could just go to hell and stay there forever.
Or I could keep playing this game, keep drawing him in, try to make him fall hard for me, and then get my ultimate revenge.
I was never good at split second decisions. Never. So this was killing me.
Maybe I should just wait. There was no harm in waiting. I could always confront him later, because if I did it now, there was no going back. The cat would be out of the bag. Pandora's box would be open. The genie would be out of the bottle. All the damn metaphors would apply here.
"No names," I said. "No need. I'm over it now." How I managed to say that lie, I'd never know.
"I don't think you can ever get over something like that, baby."
Not the baby. Not at this insane moment.
My throat was so tight, I couldn't speak, and he filled the silence.
"Especially something that occurred to you at that young age," he continued.
"It fucking hurts. Something about high school, where every emotion feels magnified, where you're still figuring yourself out, it just amplifies everything we went through during those years.
It's more intense and cuts deeper. Way deeper. "
The odd softness in his voice was so strange, as if he was capable of feeling any sympathy toward what I'd gone through.
And there was something else in his tone I couldn't quite pinpoint. Vulnerability? Was that it? What on earth did he have to be vulnerable about during those years?
"You say that like you experienced bullying too..." I said, knowing full well he didn't. Who would have bullied the hottest, most popular person in the entire school? No one would have dared.
He sighed. "Not bullying. No. But..."
His voice trailed off, piquing my curiosity. I just had to know what sad tale Tristan D. Hawthorne would spin about his teenage years.
"But what? What happened?"
I held my breath, waiting to see if he might actually answer.
"Just my home life."
Ah, his home life. So he was obviously talking about his parents. "Your mom and dad I'm guessing?"
A heavy sigh came from his end. "You guessed it. There were constant battles at home. Any time they were together, it was just insanity. So I avoided it like the plague, did everything I could not to go home at night."
That explained why he'd thrown himself into sports and been on every student committee imaginable, not to mention a fixture at all the major social events.
"And that's why I've been so involved with Archie," he went on. "I'll never forget how that experience made me feel and how hard it was to go through it, so I'll fight to the death so it doesn't happen to him, so history doesn't repeat itself."
"I get that." If I ever had a child, I would do everything in my power to make sure they weren't bullied.
"But enough about me," Tristan said. "I'm really sorry that happened to you."
This was the strangest conversation I'd ever had. "Thank you," I whispered, dying to know if he would feel the same way if he knew my real name.
"You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"
"Um, yeah?"
He laughed. "And you must know how much I like talking to you, especially at the end of the day. It just feels right."
Did it feel right? Yes and no. And there was that weird conflict inside me rearing its ugly head again. "I feel the same," I said, because I was a master at playing this game. An absolute master.
"That seriously makes my day. No, my month, my fucking year, to hear you say that."
His voice was so earnest and sincere, anyone else on the planet would have believed him.
But not moi. I was too smart for that. So I smiled, then laughed a little, trying my best to move on from the weirdness of before.
For my own sake, I had to let go of the awful memories and all the feelings they dredged up.
"How did our conversation get so serious?" he asked, filling the pause that followed his last statement. "The last thing you need during such a busy, stressful time is to have such an emotionally grueling conversation."
"I'm okay."
Was I? Leaning back, I did a mental inventory and found that I was actually okay. Wow.
Hearing Tristan's apology—even if I had my doubts about his sincerity, obviously—had helped me. Weirdly.
And even stranger, he hadn't even apologized in the way that he truly needed to, only saying sorry that it had happened to me.
God, this whole thing was just so weird.
"Good," he said. "Maybe it's time to change the subject to something lighter like..."
Right. Remember the plan. I had to. "Like?"
"Would you rather get a paper cut on your eyelid or have a bee sting you on the tongue?"
"Ew, how about neither? Are these my only options?"
"Yep. It's Would You Rather, Archie's favorite game. You're not supposed to like either of them."
"Ah, I see." I thought for a moment, all the strange feelings bubbling up inside me until I came up with what I believed to be a brilliant answer. "Well, I'd rather knee you in the nuts then."
His laugh rang loudly in my ear. "Ooh, kinky."
Oh, my God, he did not just say that. "Kinky? That's so not what I—"
"Although now that we're on the subject, I have a better question for you..." His voice dropped and took on that gravelly tone that made me squirm. "Would you rather be kissed slow and deep and thoroughly until you forgot your own name? Or fast and filthy, with your back against the wall?"
My breath caught at the unexpected change in subject, completely caught off guard by my body's instant reaction.
"Um..." I said lamely, no idea what to say.
His low chuckle met my ear. "Don't worry, baby. I already know the answer to that particular question."
He did?
"I've been thinking so much about you lately," he went on in that soft voice. "About that night. The way you tasted. That little sound you made when I first touched you." A beat passed. "And especially the way you looked when my cock was deep inside you."
My mouth went dry. "Tristan," I managed to whisper.
"Tell me you still think about it too." His voice was a quiet dare. "Please tell me."
I shut my eyes, my body aching with want. I hated that he could do this to me, in a matter of seconds. Hated it. And wanted more at the same time. God, what was wrong with me?
"I think about it," I breathed out. All the time.
"Good," he said, his voice deeper. "Then maybe you'll let me make you feel that way again. Even if I can't physically touch you right now, I still remember exactly how you like it."
Sinking back into my pillows, my pulse took off at the possibility, the blood rushing around my body like a rocket about to blast off. The tension, the craving, the lust—it was all too much. Yet not nearly enough.
"Tell me what you're wearing," he demanded to know.
The words sent a zing straight to my core, almost like my pussy knew we were verging on foreplay and might get some action again soon.
Looking down at my fuzzy socks and flannel pajamas, I decided to embellish things a bit. "Just a tank top," I said. "And little sleep shorts."
He made a low, guttural sound in response, kind of like a growl under his breath. "What color?"
"Black," I lied.
"Black," he repeated. "And are they tight?"
I swallowed. "Of course."
"And what about underneath that? Are you wearing any panties?"
I hesitated, thinking about what to say.
"Please say no," he whispered.
That was easy. "No."
A sharp exhale. "Fuck."
Shifting on my bed, that ever-present ache between my legs became impossible to ignore.
"Touch yourself for me," he said. "Just over your shorts. Tell me what it feels like."
"Tristan—"
"Baby. Please." His voice dropped, so intimate to my ear it was like he could see me, like he was right there beside me. "I still remember how wet you were for me that night, how I'd barely touched you but you were already soaked."
Oh, my word.
"I bet you're wet now too, aren't you?"
Pressing my fingertips to my center, I closed my eyes. He was right. I could feel it even through the layers. Wow.
"Yes," I whispered.
"So do it. If not for me, for yourself. Touch that pretty pussy for me, beautiful."
He had me so turned on, I was willing to overlook everything and simply do as he said, the most primitive part of my brain the only thing operating in my head.
There was a rustle on his end of the line, the kind of sound that made me imagine him shifting in his bed, hand slipping lower.
"Are you touching yourself?" I asked, barely recognizing my own voice.
"Yeah," he rasped. "My cock's in my hand right now. So hard it hurts."