23. Elle
23
ELLE
T o my utter surprise, Tristan’s life is pretty ordinary. When John, or whatever his real name is, told me to follow Tristan around and report his movements, I kind of thought I would be sneaking into gangster meetings like you see in the movies or something like that. But Tristan hasn’t really done anything overly suspicious.
It has been two whole weeks, and so far, I have nothing concrete to report.
I flex my fingers on the steering wheel as I continue to discreetly follow Tristan’s car towards downtown Bercester. Worry flits through me like restless birds. I really need to find something soon. Otherwise, John might withdraw his protection.
And he has been protecting me. He must have. In the past two weeks, Tristan has done nothing to get me expelled. Absolutely nothing. Which isn’t like him. So it must mean that he has been doing secret things that John has managed to stop before they can impact me.
I squeeze the steering wheel hard as dread washes over me again. I can’t lose his protection. But at the same time, I can’t figure out what it is that he expects me to find.
If John told me to follow him, he must already know that Tristan is a member of the White Serpents. And everyone knows that the White Serpents own several nightclubs downtown. So he must already know that Tristan works there in some capacity, even though I haven’t personally seen him go into any of those clubs.
All Tristan has done these past two weeks is to go to class, to a gym downtown, or to campus parties with his friends. Though Tristan spends most of those parties standing by the wall and scanning the crowd. I’ve told John that Tristan’s housemates are most likely dealing drugs at those parties, but he doesn’t seem interested in that. Which once again leads me to wonder what it is that he’s actually hoping that I will find.
Apart from going to class, the gym, and the parties, Tristan does one more thing.
He studies.
A lot.
That, more than anything, surprised me.
Deep down, I know that it probably shouldn’t have. After all, he spent practically every day studying back when we were in high school. But that was back then. Back when Tristan was an unassuming nerd.
Now, with all his muscles and tattoos and gang affiliations, I thought he would be… I don’t know. Too cool for school?
But instead, he spends a disproportionate amount of time sitting at the desk in his room, studying. Which I know because I have been watching him through the window like an absolute creep. Oh well, the things we do for survival. Or for protection against expulsion, at least.
Tristan’s car suddenly pulls into a parking lot .
I was so lost in my own head that I almost forgot that I’m driving as well. Blinking, I give my head a few quick shakes to clear it. Then I flick a glance at the building next to the parking lot.
It’s the gym. Again.
Frowning, I continue driving past the parking lot so that Tristan won’t spot my car. After turning the next corner, I park my car along that road instead. Then I quickly scramble out, close the door quietly, and lock the car before I hurry towards the side of the building.
When I reach the edge, I draw myself up against the rough brick wall and glance around the corner.
Tristan, with a black duffel bag slung over his shoulder, is walking across the stretch of empty asphalt between the parking lot and the gym’s front door. Sunlight beats down on him, making the tattoos along his arms stand out in stark contrast against the bright light. Adjusting the bag on his shoulder, he shoots an annoyed scowl up at the clear blue sky, as if he is annoyed by how warm it is today.
And it is warm.
I can practically smell the asphalt and see the heat rising up from it in translucent ripples that make the air vibrate. Sweat slides down my spine, and I’m not even out in the sunlight. I’m hiding in the shade next to the building. But the warm air still presses against my skin and makes me want to drag a hand through my hair to push it out of my face.
Tristan must have had a similar urge, because he reaches up and does just that.
The move makes his t-shirt ride up his stomach a little.
A jolt shoots through me.
And I’m suddenly bombarded with the memory of how it felt to draw my fingers over his naked skin right in that spot. How it felt to slide my hands into his hair. How it felt to kiss those wicked lips. To feel his hands on my body. Around my throat. And to have his cock inside me.
Heat, that has nothing to do with the weather, sears through me.
Forcing in a deep breath, I press the back of my head against the rough bricks behind me for a few seconds in order to clear my head. I can’t be thinking about that right now. It was an impulsive thing that was stupid and dangerous and wrong… and so fucking hot.
I startle.
What am I doing? And when did I start swearing so much?
Shaking my head at my own idiocy, I shift my weight and glance around the corner again.
Tristan has reached the front door now. The muscles in his forearm flex as he pulls the metal door open and then disappears inside.
I heave a deep sigh.
This is all he does. Goes to class. Sits at his desk and studies. Goes to parties but only stands by the wall and watches. And goes to the gym.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing worth reporting.
But I still fish my phone out of my pocket and send a text.
Me: He’s at the gym again.
After about two minutes, a reply comes in.
John Smith: Which one?
Me: Fighter’s World. Same as always.
Another two minutes pass. It’s often like this. I reply straight away, but John usually takes several minutes between texts. And I can’t figure out if that’s because he’s just really slow at typing or if it takes him that long to decide what to say .
At last, a text appears.
John Smith: Can you get inside?
Surprise and worry flicker through me. He has never asked me to go inside before. Still holding my phone, I glance towards the front door.
It’s made of solid metal. No window for me to look through. And the windows around the building have been covered from the inside as well. It’s like a shiny reflective film that I’m pretty sure works the same way as a one-way mirror. Which I assume is because the people who train here want to be able to see out through the windows but don’t want others to stand outside and gawk while they spar or fight or do whatever it is that people do in a place called Fighter’s World .
And that makes it very difficult for people like me to spy on them too.
After checking to make sure that the parking lot is deserted, I draw in a bracing breath and then sneak around the corner and towards the front door. The only way to know if I can get inside is to actually open the door and look inside.
My heart patters in my chest as I close the final distance.
This is probably a really bad idea. What if someone is about to walk out the door right as I open it?
But John wants me to check inside, and since I have nothing else of value to give him, I have to at least try.
I grab the handle. My pulse thrums in my ears. But the longer I stand here, the more risk that someone will see me. So I quickly push down the handle and pull the door open a fraction.
The space beyond is very open. There doesn’t appear to be several different rooms, but instead just one massive one. Which means that it will be difficult to stay hidden. Unless?—
A guy walks right towards me .
Panic crackles through me.
I release the handle as if it had burned me and then sprint back to the edge of the building. I have only just managed to skid around the corner and press myself against the wall when the sound of the door being opened comes from the other side.
My heart pounds so loudly that I’m afraid he’s going to hear it.
Inching forward, I risk a quick glance around the corner. The guy I caught a glimpse of is walking away from the door and towards the parking lot. He doesn’t look around as if searching for someone. His gaze is simply on the cars ahead.
Relief washes through me, and I slump back against the wall.
Resting the back of my head against the bricks, I stare up at the burnt blue sky and draw in deep breaths while I force my heart to stop racing.
That was close.
I lift the phone still in my hand and unlock it again. Then I send a text back to John.
Me: No. At least not without drawing attention. But I’ll work on it.
As usual, it takes a couple of minutes for him to reply.
John Smith: See that you do.
I lick my lips nervously. He sounds disappointed. So I send another text.
Me: There’s a party tonight. I’m pretty sure Tristan is going to be there.
John Smith: Where?
Me: On campus.
John Smith: So nothing of value. As usual .
My heart sinks and worry spreads through my limbs like cold water.
For a second, I debate whether to send another text to apologize. But I don’t want to annoy him further by sending more useless messages, so I just lock the screen and slip my phone back into the pocket of my shorts. Then I start towards my car.
I’m still going to that party. It’s a massive event, to celebrate and have fun one last time before this semester’s first exam week starts on Monday. So there might still be something of value to report.
And if nothing else, the girls from my former sorority are going to be there, and I want to try to mend things with them. Now that it has been a few weeks, maybe Brandi will have had time to cool off. If I can get them to give me another chance, my dad might stop telling me how disappointed he is in me every time we talk.
Nausea crawls up my throat as I climb back into my car.
Dad is disappointed in me for ruining his public image.
Mom is disappointed in me for getting kicked out of her sorority.
John is disappointed in me for not producing any results.
My chest tightens, and I struggle to draw in a panicked breath as I start the car.
Everyone is disappointed in me.
I need to find a way to fix this.