Текст книги "Lovely Trigger"

Автор книги: R. K. Lilley

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

DANIKA

I found myself challenged with the issue of non-dressing up for his visit to my house.  Obviously, by the time he showed up after his show, it would be late at night, and I’d look like I was trying too hard if I was still dressed up for work.

I changed my clothes four times in the hours I waited for him.

Also, I typed out three texts to him, canceling our plans, because what were we thinking?  This wasn’t even dinner, which was bad enough.

This was straight-up booty call hours.

In the end, no texts were sent.

I was only human, and I wanted to see him.

Why did he have to be so much fun on top of everything else?  It was just so unfair.  And so addictive.

I put on a pair of gray sweatpants and a slouchy, off the shoulder gray sweatshirt.  This was outfit number one, my ‘It’s past my bedtime, and I’m not even trying to be sexy for you’ getup.  I put my hair up in a messy ponytail, put on makeup that made it look like I wasn’t wearing makeup, and then stared at myself in the full-length mirror in my bedroom for a solid five minutes.

I went into my home office and caught up on work for less than ten minutes before I headed back into my closet and changed.

I switched into some white cheer shorts, but left the sweatshirt on.  This was outfit number two, my ‘I’m dressing down, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a little bit sexy’ getup.

That one lasted less than five minutes.

I changed into a half shirt that barely covered my breasts (I had to dig deep in my closet to find this one) and rolled the waistband of my white shorts up, making them miniscule.  I took my bra off and my hair down.  This was outfit number three, my ‘Let’s see how long you can last until we’re fucking tonight’ getup.

That outfit lasted nearly an hour, and my vibrator got some serious attention just because of where my mind went when I thought of how he’d react to seeing me dressed in it.

I buried that outfit back into my closet after I took it off.

Next I changed into a loose, pale pink, lace edged camisole with a built in bra, and found (after much digging) my favorite old pair of shorts.  The ones that read ‘sassy pants’ on the butt.  I’d had them forever.  Tristan loved them, I knew.  This was outfit number four, my ‘Yes, it’s sexy, but at least I didn’t have to masturbate for a half hour after I put it on’ getup.  This one ended up being the winner.  I left my hair down, and glossed my lips up three times in the five-minute window when I was expecting Tristan, before he actually showed up.

I opened my door to him with trembling hands and a racing heart.

We smiled at each other, him looking too devastating, still dressed in his suit, me in my thoughtful loungewear that I could tell he appreciated at a glance.

He stepped inside without a word, heading straight into my living room, which was directly accessed from my small entry hall.

He shrugged off his jacket, his back to me, and tossed it on the back of one of a set of armchairs.  He rolled up his sleeves as he turned back around, then, looking up at me, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt.  It was baby blue today.

“How was your show?” I breathlessly asked.

He strode to me, hands going to my hips.  It was so unexpected that it made me jump.

He smiled that heart-stopping smile.  “Relax.  I’m just saying hi.”  With that, he pulled me closer, putting his arms over my shoulders, and kissed the top of my head.

Since my face was already there, I let it rest against his chest, rubbing my cheek against the swollen flesh of his pectoral.  I kept my hands at my sides, attempting some form of restraint, no matter how feeble.

He pulled back, then stepped back, shoving his hands in his pocket.  He watched me, keeping his expression neutral.

I wasn’t sure what to do.  “You hungry?” I asked him.

“If you’re cooking, yes.”

I led him into my kitchen, and started pulling various items out of my fridge.  I knew how much he ate, so I’d planned for feeding him, though I’d only prepped, not cooked, just in case.

He made an appreciative noise when he realized what I was planning.  He went and preheated my oven without having to be asked.

He’d been the one, after all, that had taught me the recipe.

He helped me stuff several jalapeños and then wrap them in bacon.  We didn’t talk much, I don’t know why, but I was just enjoying the company, even in silence.

After I’d put the appetizers in the oven and set the timer, we went into the living room.

He sprawled out on the couch, and I took an armchair.

We smiled at each other.

‘Tell me something’ was a game we’d played back in the day.  It had started out as a game we’d played over the phone when we were doing the long distance thing, and evolved into a bullshit test, where we lied half the time, only admitting it was a lie when we thought we had the other convinced.  The best get, though, was when you said something legit and got called bullshit on the truth.  I’m not even sure why, but we’d both decided that was the win of all wins.  It was the most fun, I supposed.

We were twisted, but it was so much more fun to be twisted when you had a partner.

“Tell me something,” he said fondly.

I propped my feet up on the coffee table, chewing on my lip.  We hadn’t played in so long; I didn’t even know where to begin.  I beamed as I thought of a good one.  “I’m a huge Josh Groban fan now.”

He barked out a laugh.  I’d known he’d get a kick out of that.  That kind of music was so not his cup of tea.  “You are shitting me.  This one is easy.  Lie.”

“I’m not joking.  Bev got me hooked on him last year.  I’m not a rock snob, like you.  I like all kinds of music.”

He shook his head.  “I call bullshit.”

“Is that your final verdict?” I asked cheerfully.

He squinted his eyes at me.  I’d stumped him now.  “Well, hell, now I can’t tell if you’re lying.”

“The man can sing his heart out.  There’s so much power in his voice.  Gives me chills.”

“Fuuuuck.  Okay, you stumped me.  Let me think, let me think.”  He started stretching his shoulders like he was prepping for a challenge.

I giggled.

He pointed at me.  “Name one Josh Groban song.”

I pretended to have to think about it.  “Um, hmm.  Oh, I know.  Remember When it Rained.”

“Well, shit.”

I grinned.  “You don’t know any of his songs, I presume.”

“No, of course not.  But that song has to be a fake.  It’s just the sort of thing that you’d come up with.  It sounds made up.  You are lying.  That is my final answer.”

I clapped my hands.  “Wrong!”

“Well, hell.  Pick your prize.”

“I’ll pick after your turn, in case I lose, we can cancel each other out.”

He shook his head, both dimples out in full force.  “Hell no.  I’m picking a prize if you lose, regardless.  You know I never mind paying up.”

“Well, I’ll have to think up something extra special for you, then.”

He winked at me.  “I’m counting on it.  Okay, hmm, oh yeah, I’ve got one.  I bought a painting of you, one of Bianca’s.  It’s hanging in my bedroom.”

That one did stump me.  “I call bullshit.”  It seemed too easy, because there was simply no way he had one of those paintings.  I’d put the show together, had handled the sale of each one.  There was no way I’d have missed it if he were a buyer.

“You’re wearing a vintage dress.  I know it’s called that, because a card with a long description came with the piece.  The dress has lots of beading.  It’s silver, the color of your eyes.  It covers you up to your neck, but it shows off your shoulders, and if I weren’t a pervert, I wouldn’t have to point out that it shows off a bit of side boob too.  The most spectacular side boob in the world, but your eyes in it were what slayed me.  You know which painting I’m talking about.”

I glared at him.  There was no way he should even be able to describe that picture, let alone claim to have it in his home.  “There’s just no way.”

“Is that your answer?”

I shook my head, back to glaring at him.  “I believe you; I just don’t know how you did it.”

“Dammit, you always were better at this.  You win that round.  It was the truth.”

“How?”

“Second party buyer.  Cost me a fortune.”

“That’s insane.  You weren’t even at the show.”

“He texted me all of the pictures, and I picked it out the second I saw it.  I picked out three, actually, but that was the only one he got before it sold to someone else.  The asshole was slow as hell, considering how much I was paying him to do it.”

“You do realize that’s insane, right?”

“Yes.  Now ask me if I’d do it again.”  His tone had gone from playful to so tender that I couldn’t look him in the eye for a long moment.

I looked down at my hands instead, wringing them restlessly.

I should have chewed him out, just on principle, but I didn’t seem to have it in me.

My heart ached.  What was I going to do about him?  About this?

“Your turn, boo.”

It took me a while, but I composed myself, reined in my reckless emotions.

“I think I’ll stick to my music theme tonight.  Fun fact about me.  I have three songs about eating pussy in my music library.”  I said it deadpan, and surprised a throw your head back, let loose kind of laugh out of him.

It was official, I still loved to make him laugh.

“I bet you can’t even name three songs about eating pussy.  In fact, that’s it: name three.”

“Hmm?” I played dumb.

“Name three songs about eating pussy off the top of your head.”

“Birthday Cake.”

“That’s one.”

“It’s a good one.  You love it, too. Admit it.”

“Eating your pussy?  Absolutely.  I fucking love it.”

That got a giggle and an embarrassed blush out of me.

“Two more, boo.”

“I Love the Pussy.”

“That’s not a real song.”

“It is.  I Love the Pussy by Alpa Chino.”

“Fake songs from movies don’t count.”

“They do.  It’s a song.  I know the words.  I could sing it to you.”

“I’d pay to see that.”

“I’d have to lose a round for that.”

“Noted.  Fine, I’ll give you that one.  One more pussy song.”

“Pussy by Iggy Azalea.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well look it up.  Real song.  Definitely about eating pussy.  So now we’ve established that I can name the songs.  The question you have to ask yourself is.  Do I have them on my iPod?”

He pursed his lips, but couldn’t hide his irrepressible grin, his irresistible dimples.  “Okay, I believe you.  I win this round.”

I tried to look innocent.  “I can’t remember, does that mean that you get to pick a prize, too?”

“Ha!  You’re full of it.  You know the rules.  There’s always a loser, which means I owe you two, you owe me one.”

I threw my arms up.  “Oh fine.  How about we cancel out each other for one?  Win, win for both of us.”

“Hell no.  We already covered that.  Quit backpedaling, and let’s negotiate.  I’ll go first.  Mine is easy.  You sing that Alpa Chino song for me.  Here and now.  Let’s hear it.”

I covered my face with my hands.  “I’m not doing that,” I told him.

He was closer when he spoke.  “And I get to record it.  I want to use it as my ringtone.”

“Oh Lord.  That’s messed up.”

I started giggling when he scooped me clean out of my chair, carrying me back to the couch with him.  He perched me on his lap sideways, tilting my chin up with his finger, his eyes so warm they left their permanent brand on me.

“I won’t hold back on you, if you make me do this,” I warned him, reaching up to touch a beloved dimple.

“Promises, promises.  Start singing, sweetheart.  And sing it sexy.”

I did sing it for him, but it was the opposite of sexy.  I couldn’t stop giggling for the entire stupid song.

And he hadn’t been joking, he really did record it, though I doubted he’d be able to hear me singing on the playback, we were both laughing so hard.

“Okay, okay, your turn.  Hit me with your best shot.”

“Only one appropriate prize comes to mind.  You’re going to owe me a dick pic.”

He hooted with laughter, spilling me out of his lap and onto the couch, and standing up.  “You don’t have to ask me twice.”  His hands went to his fly.

I slapped his arm.  “I’m not finished.  Not just any dick pic.  I’m going to text you, it could happen at any time, and no matter when it does happen, you have to run somewhere private, take a dick pic, and send it to me.”

“That’s evil.  What if I’m in the middle of a show?”  He sat down again, pulling me back onto his lap.

“This will count for both of my wins, both of my prizes, so even if you’re in the middle of a show, you have to do it.  You’ll get a ten-minute window.  And your face has to be in the photo.  And there has to be something in the picture to timestamp it.”

“You are one diabolical woman, but I suppose I have to do it.  You were a good sport about that song.”

His finger was tilting my chin up again, his warm smiling eyes making their mark on me.  Again.  I wished he would stop doing both.  One was distracting, the other riveting.

More weapons in his endless arsenal.

“What am I going to do with you?” I asked him, voice breathless, lungs breathless.

He took the air right out of me.  And the fight.

“It boggles the mind,” he said with a smile, though his hoarse voice contradicted the playful line.

He ran his nose along my jaw, breathing on me.  “We’re friends, right?  This is going well, don’t you think?”

The man was demented.  “By what criteria are we judging it?  If going well means we’ve both lost our ever-loving minds, then yes, I guess it’s going well?!  If we’re basing it on us being just friends, we’re failing epically.”

He pulled back from me and grinned, just looking tickled by my answer, the stubborn man.  “Don’t be so salty.  We’re getting along great, and we’re having so much fun.  Tell me you didn’t miss this.  I dare you.”

That I couldn’t do, unless I became a much better liar in the next five seconds, and as for the dare, psh, I wasn’t falling for it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

We ate bacon wrapped jalapeño poppers, and then, because he harassed me into doing it, I gave him a tour of my house.

I’d forgotten that I’d let the neighbor’s orange tabby in earlier, but I remembered as I was showing him my small home office, and we found him, passed out on his back, sleeping under my desk.

Tristan, who loved all cuddly creatures, went for him with a smile, picking up the cat, and stroking it without even seeming to disturb the animals limp sleep.  Magic hands and all that.

He looked up at me, cat cradled in his arms like a baby.  “What’s its name?”

My mind went blank.  It was over all the time, but I just called it kitty, and thought of it as the orange tabby.

I improvised.  “I call him Ginger, on account of the orange hair.”

He laughed, and sent me an odd look.  “Um, Danika, this cat is a girl.  How on earth do you not know that you have a girl cat?”

I chewed my lip, not wanting to tell him.  It was embarrassing, but oh well.  “It’s the neighbor’s cat.  I just let it hang out here when I’m around.”

He set Ginger down, laughing so hard that he stayed doubled over.  “Oh my God!  You stole your neighbor’s cat?”

 I was defensive.  “Borrowed.  And she has, like, thirty cats.  I doubt she even misses her.  I travel too much to get any of my own pets.”

He just kept laughing.

After a while, I was laughing with him.  Even I could see that it was funny as hell, and that was with the joke at my expense.

“See, this is why it’s handy to have a man,” he finally said, moving to sprawl out in the chair behind my desk.  He looked ridiculous in it, it was so small, and he was the opposite.  In fact, the whole room suddenly looked as small as a closet, with his larger than life presence dominating it.

“I’m not following,” I said wryly.

“Well, I’ll just throw this out there.  Crazy cat lady next door is single, right?”

I nodded.  “What, you think the cats scared all the men off?

“She’s not single because she has thirty cats.  The one happened after the other, I guarantee it.  And if she had a man, he would have stopped the crazy cat train after, like, four, five tops.  So you see, men can be handy to have around.”  He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, sending me into peals of helpless laughter.

“That’s an interesting way to look at it,” I gasped.  “Are you getting at something in particular?”

“Yes.  You should let me live with you.  I know you love pets, and I’ll stifle the crazy cat urges before they even start.  And I cook.”

I shook my head at him, still smiling, as I backed out of the room.  “You’re impossible,” I called out to him, as I moved down the hall, towards the next stop in the tour.

I didn’t even have to look, I could feel his presence behind me.

My mouth twisted as I showed him my room.  I hadn’t cleaned it, hadn’t made my bed.  I wasn’t messy, but it was messy tonight, due to all of the wardrobe changes and the masturbation session.

His eyes were glued to the bed from the second he stepped in the room.  I looked with him and knew instantly what had him transfixed.

They were cheap cotton sheets, but the wonderful thing about cotton was that, if you abused it with enough washing it got really, really soft.

And I loved those sheets.  I’d been using them for years.  Just how many years, I refused to think about.

I had other sheets, nice sheets, much nicer sets, in fact, than these, but those were only used when I laundered the good stuff.

Unfortunately, the cheap ones were also distinctive sheets, white and patterned with bleached out yellow rosebuds.

I’d known when he said he was coming over that we’d end up here at some point.  Why hadn’t I changed the sheets?

And of course, he’d noticed right away, the overly observant bastard.

“I remember these,” he said, reverence in his tone.  He moved right to the bed, running his hands over the fabric, bending down to bury his face in it.  “We were on these the first time we…” he trailed off.

“I know.”  I sighed.  I should have put the sheets away.  Now he was going to want to talk about things that I wasn’t ready to talk about.

“Come here,” he said huskily.

I shook my head, but he wasn’t looking at me, his cheek pressed to one of the yellow rose pillowcases.

“Come here,” he said again.

Biting my lip, I went to him.

Slowly but firmly, he pulled me down to lie beside him, both of us on our backs, the sides of our arms touching.  “Remember these sheets?”

I swallowed.  “Of course I do.  They’re my sheets.”

“Remember the first time we made love?”

I shouldn’t have indulged him in this, I knew it, but my mouth refused to listen to my brain.  “I remember being on top, and it pissed you off.”

He smiled, rolling on his side to look at me.  His eyes were so soft that my whole body went soft with them.   “I remember that.  God, you were riding me so good, and I knew that you were just trying to drive me wild, but even knowing it, it fucking worked.  Best fucking ride of my life.”

I blushed and started smiling.  I couldn’t help it.  And I also couldn’t help asking, “Yeah?”

“Up to that point.  You weren’t done blowing my mind, though, and you know it, because the next time was even better.”

“We put these things through their paces.”

He tensed suddenly.  “Have you been using these the whole time we’ve been apart?”

I knew what he was asking.  “Only when I was by myself.”

I’d kept the sheets faithful to Tristan.  Bully for me.

We were so freaking screwed up.

So freaking screwed.

His hand moved to my stomach, stroking with a light touch through my thin shirt.  “I love these sheets.  I’m going to steal them from you when you’re not looking, or, you know, when you are.”

I laughed.  “They wouldn’t even fit your bed.  They only fit a queen.”

“I don’t care.  I’ll use them like a blanket.”

I laughed harder, then stopped abruptly as he moved to loom over me.

I stared up at him, wondering when I had lost this fight.  It was likely before it had even begun.  No wonder Andrew had never stood a chance.  No wonder no one had.  Who could compete with this beautiful, larger than life specimen of a man?

He didn’t make a move on me, or at least, not in the way I was expecting.  Instead of bending down to me, he lifted the hem of my shirt, exposing my belly, and then pulling my shorts down enough to unearth my skin, from my navel down to my pelvis.

Several long, jagged scars marred the skin there.  They’d faded more than I had ever hoped for, but still, they were impossible to miss.

He ran his fingers over each one, his expression going very blank, but not as blank as mine was.  “Will you tell me what these are?”

I wasn’t happy to talk about this, but I was anxious to get it over with.

“They’re nothing.  Completely superficial,” I lied.

Not remotely superficial.

Just the opposite.

Profoundly detrimental, that’s what those scars were.

“From the accident?” he asked, face still blank.

“Yes.  I just got scratched up a bit.  Like I said, totally superficial.  Didn’t hurt a thing but my vanity.”  Slowly but firmly, I pulled my shorts up, and my shirt down to cover the marks.

He sat up, rubbing his palms into his eyes.  “I know it’s not your favorite thing, but there is some stuff we need to talk about.”

That pissed me off.  Couldn’t we go even a few weeks before we delved into that?  Couldn’t I just enjoy myself, for once?  But even as I had the thought, I recalled several things that I’d just been dying to have him clear up for me.

I stood up and began to pace.

“Okay you want to talk?  Let’s talk.”  My tone was tense, my arms folded in front of me like I was ready to do battle.

Because I was.

I kept pacing as I asked, “Did you beat up Milton back when I was dating him?”  I snapped my neck around to look at him.

He tried to give me a very innocent look, but I was not buying it.  “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb.  Answer me.”

“When are we talking about, exactly?”

“Oh, did you beat him up more than once?” I shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm.  “I went out with him on a Friday.  Some charity event.  There were photographers there.  The next time I saw him, on a Monday, he looked like he’d lost a fight.  Was that fight with you?”  I spoke slowly, sharply, determined to get a square answer.

“Oh, that…” He gave me an engaging sort of grimace that turned into an audacious smile.  “Yes.  That was me.  In my defense, I was provoked beyond all sanity.  And the next time, well, he was asking for it.  Don’t get all pissy about it.  He’s a big boy, he can handle it.  I was literally picking on someone my own size.”

I shook my head, beyond exasperated, because he clearly wasn’t sorry, and moreover, perversely, I found his shameless confession sort of endearing.

And worse still, I couldn’t keep myself from asking, “You weren’t hurt, were you?”

I was a stupid, stupid girl.  Hopeless really.

He stood and approached me, and I got the tightest hug for that one, his face buried in my neck.  “You’re such a sweetheart, you know that?  He didn’t hurt me.  Not at all.  It was kind of a letdown, really.  He looked like he’d be more of a challenge.  Do you know that second time was the last time I’ve been in a fight?”

“You beat him up a second time?”

“I knew he kept calling you, after you’d said to leave you alone.  Before you ask how I knew, I made a point of finding him and asking him.  That was the second time.  He stopped calling, right?”

I didn’t have a clue what to say to that, so I just stared.

“Okay, my turn,” said Tristan.

He pulled back and all of the happy bled out of his face as he pondered his question.  A twitch started pulsing in his temple, but he plunged ahead.  “Did you sleep with Milton?”  The words churned over in his mouth, like he didn’t have the stomach for them.

I rubbed my temples.  “Tristan,” I warned him.

How quickly we’d wandered out of safe territory.

“I’m not going to interrogate you about the last six years.  I just want to know about him.  Consider it my one free question.”

I stood and started to pace, getting more agitated by the second.  “He bothers you more than, say, someone more faceless?  Someone you don’t know?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Fine.  No.  I never slept with him.  It never got that far.  Now, my turn.”

“Your turn,” he agreed warily.

“Tell me about you and my sister.”

His brows shot together.  “Dahlia?”

“Yes.  That sister.  Tell me what happened between you two.”

“Nothing.  Nothing happened.  I tried to help her and Jack out whenever I could, tried to be a phone call away if she ever needed help, but that’s all.”

“Bullshit.  When Jack was three, he told me he’d seen you two kissing.  I confronted Dahlia, and she as good as confirmed that it was true, though she stubbornly refused to give me any more information.  I want to know exactly what happened.  Did you date her?”

His breath puffed out in an agitated sigh.  “No, of course not.  You really thought I’d do that?”  His voice was full of chastising affront.

I set my jaw stubbornly.  No guilt trip was going to keep me from hearing what had happened.  Not even a very good one.  “Tell me what happened.  Did you kiss her?  And if you didn’t, tell me why Jack thought you did.”

“I started checking in on her, as soon as I found out that she was pregnant and alone.  Like a big brother would do.  Because that’s what I was.  I’d married into her family.  You know I take family seriously.

And she, well, she always had that silly crush on me.  Frankly, it was annoying.  She never even knew a thing about me when she started with that nonsense.  But I always tried to be nice to her, because she was your baby sister, and I tried to look after her, because she was your baby sister.  I guess she was reading more into it.  One day she kissed me, planted one on me right in front of Jack.  I let her get it out of her system; let her see that there was nothing on my end to feed whatever delusions were happening on her end.  That was it.  She got the picture. The end.”

“Why wouldn’t she just tell me that?”

“Who can say?  She always resented the way I felt about you, the power you had over me.  Maybe she saw it as a small way of getting back.  The point is, there was nothing between us.  Of course there wasn’t.  I’d never do that to you.  Your baby sister?  Come on.  Never.”

I felt such a wave of relief I nearly staggered with it.

I believed him.  I just did.  Moreover, I wondered how I’d ever been so certain he could do such a thing.

Perhaps I’d wanted to believe it.  Perhaps I’d been looking for more reasons to bring him down in my esteem.

I had been in survival mode for a very long time.  And whatever was happening to me now, well, that could only be the opposite.

It had only taken a few questions to get Tristan out of his fishing for information mood.  I’d known that would work, had counted on it.

He wasn’t the only one with an arsenal in this war of ours.

What I didn’t plan on, though, was him behaving himself.  He left not much later without even kissing me, or even trying to, and I told myself that was good.  Maybe we were getting better.  Maybe my theory (Familiarity breeding self-control) had been correct.