The next few hours pass quickly as I keep busy with my tables. It also doesn’t hurt that I have Tristan’s presence to distract me. He eats two plates of pancakes and has three cups of coffee before doing some work, but every now and then I catch him looking at me, which makes my lady parts do somersaults.
“That poor boy looks like he’s about to pass out. He should be home in bed at such a late hour.” Nan clicks her tongue sympathetically.
“Sorry, he’s waiting for me. I told him I don’t get out until three but he insisted on staying.”
I feel bad when I see Tristan slumped over, his head resting on his arms. He’s trying to concentrate on his phone, but his eyes keep slipping shut before they spring back open. I look at the time. It’s 1:30 and the crowd just died down for the night. I still have an hour and a half left of my shift. Tristan usually wakes up around three or four in the morning to get to work by five or six, so he’s already been up for almost twenty-four hours straight. Would he really risk not getting any sleep just to make sure I wasn’t alone?
Before I have time to contemplate the meaning behind that thought, Nan says, “Why don’t you take off for the night, hon. I think I can handle the rest of the shift by myself.”
I look at her hesitantly. “Really? Are you sure you’ll be OK?”
She laughs. “Sugar, I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive. I know how to take care of myself. Plus Chet is in the back. Go on now. Get that boy home.” She winks and shoos me away.
I smile and remove my apron, then grab my things. When I approach Tristan’s table, his eyes are fully closed. I slide in next to him. He jumps awake as soon as he feels my leg press against his.
I try not to laugh. “Sleepy much?”
He stretches, shaking his head. “Nah, just resting my eyes.”
“You ready to get out of here?”
He looks at the clock. “What time is it?”
I pick up the truck keys on the table and jiggle them between us. “Time for me to give you a ride.” This time I don’t try to hide the seductive smile that forms on my lips.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Tristan’s tone is light, but by the way he grips the passenger door handle I can tell he’s nervous about me driving his truck. He took his keys back from me before we left the diner, and now he’s not giving them up so easily.
I scoff as I buckle myself into the driver’s seat. “It’s like riding a bike.”
Isn’t it? It has been a while since I’ve driven a car, but I’m sure it will all come back to me.
Tristan still looks hesitant. “Really, Hazel. I’m not tired.”
I hold out my hand. “I promise I won’t crash. Come on, you trust me, don’t you?”
I smile proudly but it fades when Tristan doesn’t smile back. He studies me with a serious stare before putting the keys in my hand.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Told you I wasn’t tired.”
Tristan lazily drapes his arm across his stomach, lying back in my bed. We’re both naked after having just spent the last hour making each other scream. After I drove us home safely, that is.
I lay my arm over my forehead. “Definitely not tired.”
I peek over at Tristan. He catches me looking and smiles, appearing completely contented. I roll on my side to face him, propping my head up on my hand.
“Can I ask you a question?”
His eyes roam down my body. “What kind of question?” He lifts his eyebrows suggestively.
“Seriously, I’m going to need you to focus.” I start to pull the sheet up to cover myself.
He quickly grabs for the sheet in protest. “OK, OK. I’ll answer your question. But only if you’re naked.” He grins widely.
I stare at him like he’s crazy, but damn if I can resist the excitement in his eyes. If this is the only way he’ll talk to me, I’ll take it.
I slide the sheet away and let him look his fill, then finally ask, “Why didn’t you tell me you own Charter Hill now?”
Tristan’s face reveals nothing. “It didn’t come up.”
I laugh incredulously. “Didn’t come up? I asked you if you still worked there.”
“And I do.” He yawns and looks up at the ceiling. The way he seems completely unfazed frustrates me.
“I’m going to need you to give me a little more than that, Tristan. Please?” My voice ends on a near whisper.
He turns his head to study me, and by the way his brow furrows I get the sense he’s debating whether or not he wants to talk. When he looks back up at the ceiling and closes his eyes, my heart sinks. I’ve pushed too far.
Just as I’m about to roll over to find my clothes, he says, “Honestly, I didn’t want you to know.” His eyes are still closed and his voice is gruffer than usual.
“Why?”
His eyelids open, but he doesn’t look at me. “I guess a part of me didn’t think you deserved to know anything about my life now. It was easier not to get into it.”
His words sting, but I appreciate the truth. For the first time since reconnecting I feel like Tristan is letting me in, just a small, tiny bit, but the amount of hurt I see in his eyes is almost too much to bear. I know it’s because of me, and I wish to God I could take it back.
“Tristan?” I say softly.
“Yeah?”
I look down at the sheet and play with a small thread. I’m scared to ask this next question, probably more scared than I’ve ever been in my entire life. “I know I don’t deserve it, but do you think you can at least try not to hate me anymore? I want us to be friends and we can’t do that if you hate me.”
I muster all the bravery I can to look back up at his face, but his eyes are closed again. I hold my breath.
After a minute he sighs, His eyelids open. With a piercing gaze he finally answers softly, yet firmly. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep, Hazel.”
His words aren’t cruel, just honest. I nod, trying to keep tears from pricking the backs of my eyes. It’s now painfully clear I can’t fall back in love with Tristan, but that doesn’t stop me from needing him. If my body is the only thing he’ll take, I’ll just have to learn to keep my heart out of it.
I instinctively move to snuggle into his side. I know this isn’t something we normally do, since it crosses our clearly defined sex-only line, but right now it doesn’t feel like we’re Tristan and Hazel: fuck buddies.
Right now we’re Tristan and Hazel: two broken people with painful pasts who are each trying to figure out how to heal.
He doesn’t pull away, so I have faith that it’s at least a start.
We made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
Hazel
“Hazel? Oh for goodness sake, are you still sleeping?”
The voice sounds faraway as I try to open my eyes, but immediately shut them again as the bright light shining through the curtains practically blinds me. I bury my face back into the soft mattress.
“Haze—oh my word!” The voice is suddenly much louder.
“Mom?” I croak, lifting my head up, but something heavy and solid weighing on my back prevents me from getting very far.
It moves, and I glance over to see Tristan’s naked chest nestled against me, his arm draped across my shoulders.
I roll over and shudder when I realize my mother is standing in the doorway and has just found Tristan and me in bed together. The flurry of movement causes Tristan to sleepily open his eyes, his arm still draped over me.
“Hazel, darling, are you going to introduce me to your guest? It’s quite rude not to,” my mother says in a clipped, calm tone. I can hear the disgust dripping from every word, but of course she’s not going to make a scene. That would be even more improper than walking in on her daughter and a half-naked man.
I groan and sit up, pulling the sheets tighter around my body. Thank God Tristan’s junk is covered.
“Mom, you know Tristan, right?�
� I squeak.
Tristan lazily rolls to his side so he can face her. With a quick lift of his fingers he coolly says, “Hey Mrs. B.”
Tristan’s hand falls into my lap. I’m literally caught between my uptight, judgmental mother and my laid back, casual fuck buddy.
The stark contrast between them couldn’t be more apparent, and if I weren’t so mortified, I’d find the situation funny.
My mother crosses her arms and stares at us icily. “I assume that’s your vehicle in the driveway, then. With all those tools in the back, I thought it was the gardener’s. You do something like that, right? Maybe while you’re here you can trim my bushes.”
She’s too busy being condescending to realize what she said.
Tristan smiles broadly. “If that’s what you want, but I’ve gotta be honest with you Mrs. B, I’d prefer to trim your daughter’s.”
I subtly pinch his leg under the covers, giving him a death glare, although it probably isn’t very convincing, since I can feel laughter bubbling up inside me.
Completely oblivious, my mother continues, “As long as my garden stays pruned, I don’t care who you say the bushes belong to. If you leave a card I’ll have Julio add you to our service list. You can never have enough help these days.”
“Mom!”
It’s bad enough she treats me like a child, but does she really have to passive-aggressively insult Tristan, too?
But my outraged frustration falls on deaf ears. “Hazel, when you’re done entertaining your . . . company here, can I please see you in the parlor?” Her tone leaves no room for argument. She doesn’t wait for an answer before turning on her heel and marching out the front door back to the main house.
As soon as she leaves I let out a deep sigh. Tristan just laughs, lying back on the pillows with his hands behind his head. The sheet drapes seductively over his stomach, exposing his chest and arms. A faint shadow of stubble covers his jaw. Despite the unfortunate circumstances, I can’t help but notice that his morning voice is throaty and deeply sexy.
“I guess we fell asleep,” I muse, choosing not to acknowledge what just happened. When we were younger, Tristan was around enough to understand that there is no explaining the enigma that is my mother. Instead I want to enjoy the idea that Tristan Sharp slept curled around me all night. I don’t remember the last time I slept so peacefully, even without any music to help me drift into dreamland.
I look at the clock and see it’s just after nine a.m. “Oh my God! You’re late for work!”
Tristan stretches, causing the sheet to slip farther down his stomach, revealing his perfectly sculpted right hipbone. It protrudes to form half of a delicious V and I have to resist the urge to bend over and trace it with my tongue.
“Yeah, my boss is going to be pissed.” His eyes sparkle. Sigh.
A playful Tristan is hot enough at night, but if this is what it’s like to wake up to him, too?
Life can be cruel.
Thankfully (or unfortunately), the realization that my mother is currently waiting for me a few yards away, for what I’m sure will be a ridiculously horrifying chat, keeps me from jumping his bones.
“I guess I better not keep my mother waiting. She might come back in here to drag me out.”
He grins. “Or maybe she’ll just want another peek at all this.” He motions to himself.
I laugh. “God, I hope not.” Is it weird that the thought actually makes me kind of jealous?
I grab a tank top from the floor and slip it over my head, trying to keep myself covered with the sheet as much as I can until the shirt is fully on. Last night in the dark I had no problem baring it all for Tristan, but somehow in the harsh light of day I feel overexposed. His eyes are always on me, and I hate that I can never tell what he’s thinking.
I just as awkwardly pull on a pair of pants and practically sprint to the bathroom. I can only imagine how I look. Nowhere near as perfect as Tristan, that’s for sure.
I brush my teeth and splash some water on my face and by the time I gather enough courage to go back into my room Tristan is fully dressed. Damn.
Keys in hand, he points to the door. “I need to get going. I’ll talk to you later, OK?”
I nod. After last night, maybe he wants to stop whatever the hell we’re doing altogether. I mean he basically admitted he still hates me.
He starts for the door, then turns back to me. I try to not let my face light up like a Christmas tree.
“And Hazel?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time maybe we should stay at my place.”
From the way he chuckles I know he’s just making a joke, but I don’t let that ruin the fact that he admitted there should be a next time.
As soon as I see Tristan’s truck disappear down the drive I meet my mother in the parlor of the main house.
She’s sitting in an olive-colored velvet loveseat, drinking a cup of tea. She doesn’t even bother with a greeting as I slump down next to her.
“I talked to Patricia Brattelboro yesterday and she said you haven’t returned Thomas’ calls.”
I close my eyes so she can’t see me roll them.
“Mom, I told you I’m not interested.”
She studies me. “Because you’re too busy traipsing around with gardeners?”
I want to scream. “Tristan is not a gardener! He’s a contractor.” I cross my arms like a bratty twelve-year-old. “He owns his own business.”
I admit I added that last part in the hope that she might see him as more worthy of respect. I hate myself for doing it. I don’t want to care about her approval, but I guess a part of me always will. She is my mother, no matter how cruel or hurtful she can be.
But she’s either deaf or it doesn’t make any difference.
“I never liked that boy. He’s bad news. Both him and his brother. But I guess it’s not their fault. I mean, what can you expect from children who grow up in foster homes?”
I want to shake her. Knowing I need a second to collect myself before I say something I might regret, I splay my fingers on my thighs and take a few deep, calming breaths. In . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5. Out . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . .
She must be picking up on my discomfort because, in a rare moment of maternal instinct, my mother softens her voice and squeezes my hand. “Hazel, I’m not saying this to upset you. I care about your well being. It won’t do any good to get caught up with someone who has had so much heartbreak in his life. I mean, to think his own mother left him and his brother.” She shakes her head in pity. “Well, that’s unfortunate. Even if she was a drug addict. But being abandoned like that shapes a person, and that’s not something you can change. I’m sure he’s involved with all sorts of devilish and improper things.”
Despite the fact it’s drenched in backhanded insults, I’m stunned by my mother’s insight. Underneath all that judgment and disdain is something resembling real wisdom. I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking about how my father abandoned his own family. What irreversible mark has that left on us?
I squeeze her hand back. My mother and I have never shared such a genuine moment.
She retrieves her hand and takes another sip of tea. “Now, Patricia and I decided it’s time for Thomas to take you on a proper date. How’s tomorrow at seven? He’s looking to settle down, you know, so be sure to wear your blue dress.”
Moment over.
“Mom,” I say gently. “I’m not going to go out with Tommy. I really do appreciate that you’re trying to help, but this is something I need to do on my own. I’ve spent too much time being dependent on other people . . . on other things . . . and it’s time for me to figure out my life on my own terms. I need to learn to be OK with me before I can even think about adding anybody else into the picture permanently, OK?”
I look her in the eye and pray that what I’m saying will get through to her, that somehow she’ll understand.
She cups my cheek in her hand. “OK, dear. Then wear your red dress.�
�
Tristan
“You know your apartment is kinda shitty for someone who runs a construction business.”
I can’t help but chuckle at Hazel’s blunt observation. We’re lying on my living room floor talking, bare-ass naked after just having screwed each other senseless all afternoon. A trail of clothes leads from the door to the couch. We didn’t make it to the bed. Cutting out of work early was completely worth it.
She adds, “I know money and skill aren’t the problem, so care to share?”
I look around and shrug, flashing back to the night Hazel called me to ask for a ride to the baby shower. Didn’t the girl I was with then ask me something similar? Hazel’s just making meaningless conversation.
When I don’t respond right away, Hazel changes the subject. “You know I went on a date last week.”
She says this matter-of-factly, and it makes every hair on my body stand on end. Our deal is just sex, so of course she should date if she wants. I shouldn’t give a fuck.
I don’t give a fuck.
“Oh yeah?” I grunt.
“Yup. That doesn’t make you jealous, does it?”
Yeah, like I’m going to take the bait. “Why would it?”
I feel her shrug next to me. Since I’m looking up at the ceiling I can’t see her face. Probably better this way, because I don’t know if it would be worse to see disappointment or relief flash through her eyes. I don’t want to know.
But before I can stop myself I ask, “Did you have fun?”
Please say no.
I feel her move beside me. “Nah.”
Thank fucking God.
“My mother set me up, so you know it was a disaster right from the start,” she explains.
“Anyone I know?”
Shit, I don’t want to know.
I’m still not looking at her face, but I somehow can sense she’s grinning. “Thomas Brattelboro?” she answers.
“The douche from high school who used to try and pay girls to see their tits?”
“That’s the one.” She beams.
Sick Pleasure (Crazy Beautiful Book 3) Page 9
