by Cari Quinn
Maybe.
“C’mon, babe, we need to hustle. Traffic is going to be asstastic.”
Juliet pressed her full weight onto her suitcase. “I’m coming.”
“That’s what you said this morning.” Tristan grinned from his bedroom doorway.
“Har-har. Can you just help me?”
He rolled his eyes and crossed to the bed. “Why did you open this thing? You said you were all packed when you brought your suitcase over last night.”
Heaven forbid she actually stash clothes there. What did it matter that she and Sparks had stayed in Tristan’s room every night since she’d returned? This thing they had was obviously still too temporary to warrant jeans and a hoodie tucked in a drawer. Forget multiple outfits.
Whoa. Where had that come from?
She splayed herself across her Louis. “Help me zip this thing.” She’d gotten toothpaste on her damn shirt this morning. And it was all his fault. Well, him and Sparks. They’d tag-teamed her before she’d been able to tell them no. Okay, so she could have said no anytime.
Didn’t mean she was going to.
Especially if she had to spend a few days with her parents. She needed all the shoring up of defenses possible. She truly hadn’t believed these two men would be the ones to do it, but she felt alternately desired, and at odd times, cherished. Five minutes later, she was usually out of breath, but she savored the little moments when she got them.
The fact that she was looking forward to the little ones more and more scared the hell out of her.
Tris gently eased her away and pressed his huge hand into the middle of the cover and pressed down. He grunted, but managed to get the zipper secured around her bag. He hauled it off the bed and gave her a look. “Three days—hell, not even full days.”
“Bit colder in Boston, pal.”
“Not that much colder,” he said. “I used to live in New York City, remember?”
“No. You never talk about that stuff.”
“Well,” he shrugged, “not much to say about it. I was pretty much a slave. I had no social life, no sleep, no—well, no anything. I just worked and slept four hours a night, lather, rinse, repeat.”
“Was it worth it?”
He tucked a strand of hair over her ear. “Every second. Isn’t your music?”
She pressed her face into his hand. “Every second.” Then she rolled her eyes. “Well, except for the fighting. I could trade that in for a few new guitar picks and a pedal board.”
“They’re still being little bitches, huh?”
“I feel like I’m living back in the boarding school and everyone has synced up their periods.”
“Now there’s an image. The red tide with that many females? God, no.”
She laughed. “Yeah, it wasn’t pretty.”
He lifted her suitcase and led her to the elevator. “Boarding school, huh?”
“Yeah. My parents were definitely not into having me and Margo around at home.”
“That sucks. At least you got to go home for the holidays.”
She leaned against the railing. “Sometimes. Usually, I disappeared with friends who were willing to let me tag along.”
He frowned down at her.
Juliet nudged him. “It wasn’t that bad. I was far more excited about going to Paris and Italy during Christmas break than watching my parents pretend to be a family. Or even better, to pretend my father wasn’t stealing glances at his watch.”
“Because he had to go back to work?”
“No.” The elevator stopped on the first floor. Tristan gazed down at her, but she didn’t really want to say anything else. Not exactly the lightest conversation, especially before they were about to fight their way to LAX.
He opened the elevator gate, his arm up as he loomed over her. Instead of giving her space—Tris was usually pretty good at this game—he moved in closer, his body heat driving her crazy as much as it made her want to back up and ignore everything.
This was the best part of Tristan. He didn’t ask questions, he didn't like messy. So, why the hell was he getting in her space now?
Please don’t ask.
Please don’t ask.
He tipped his head, his flirty smile fading. “Why was he keeping tabs on time, babe?”
She ducked under his arm and stalked through the hallway and out the front of the building. Scraping wheels followed her out to the parking lot. It was bad enough living through the reality of her father’s endless parade of mistresses, but to actually talk about it?
Well, maybe there was a bit of her mother in her after all.
It was easier to bury the emotions and keep things light. Funny how she ended up with a man—with two men, but Tris was her focus right now—who was just as happy to keep things noncommittal as she was. And seeing those earnest gray-blue eyes focused on her was not helping things.
She wanted to tell him, and at the same time, she liked the bubble they were living in. Bubbles were safer.
His Jag shimmered a little in the early morning sunlight. She quickly blinked until the blur went back to the clear reality she was used to.
No tears.
Not for her stupid family situation. She was just getting emotional because she actually had to go home. She dug out her sunglasses and shoved them on her face as the trunk popped. Tristan stowed her suitcase. Juliet tried the door, but it was still locked.
She curled her fingers into a fist.
The gravel crunched under his motorcycle boots. Instead of going to the driver’s side, he approached her. He cupped her clenched hand and brought it up to his cheek. “Babe.”
“Let it go,” she whispered.
“Not a chance.”
He peeled her hand open and pressed a kiss to her palm. “My old man is pretty much a piece of shit and my mom…well, she split a long time ago. I get the fucked-up family more than I understand your situation, but I’m here.”
She slid her arm up around his neck and buried her face against his throat. The familiar spice of his skin evened her out. Sparks was usually her touchstone when she allowed stress to creep in and make her nuts. Tris was more for orgasms and laughter.
This Tris was definitely not good for her right now. He made her want to lean even more.
He stepped back enough so he could gaze into her eyes. Patience was there, but also a steely determination to wait her out.
“Can we just go? You said we were going to be late.”
“Yep. After you tell me what’s swimming around in that beautiful brain of yours.”
“Since when are you so pushy?”
He curled his arm around her waist, then fisted his other hand in her hair. “Since this really tough chick came into my life. I don’t like that kind of sparkle in your eyes. The only tears I prefer to see are because I made you come your brains out.”
She huffed out a laugh. Mostly because he was looking for it, but the surge of anxiety lessened. The tiny tingles along her nape where his fingers tightened on her hair helped. He always seemed to know just what she needed physically, whether the moment was sexual or emotional.
“Don’t try distracting me with that look.”
She arched a brow at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He nipped her lower lip. “You sure as shit do.”
“Can we at least get on the road?”
“Sure. As soon as you spit it out.”
“Stubborn jackass.”
“Your stubborn jackass.” As soon as he said it, his eyebrows shot up.
Hmm. She was pretty sure he hadn’t meant to say that. She twisted her fingers into his Henley under his leather jacket. “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
“Then quit stalling.”
“It’s not that big of a deal. Now it sounds way bigger than it really is.”
“Then it should be easy for you to spit it out.” She tried to jerk away, but Tristan held her fast. They stood there like that for a beat, until finally, his face
started to close off. The sudden panic that rose in her chest was disconcerting.
She didn’t want to just see Tristan’s easy side. How could she expect him to open up, if she only offered him that side of herself?
“My dad has a mistress.”
Tristan’s eyebrows snapped down. “Seriously? That’s really a thing?” He cleared his throat. “They’re that rich?”
She shrugged. “Rich enough for him to keep a girl on the side. That’s not the worst part. The fact that my mother knows about her, and doesn’t do anything—that’s the part that drives me and my sister crazy. My sister more than me. I gave up on my father being a decent human a long time ago.”
He cupped her face to bring her gaze back up to meet his. “And the watch?”
“That’s him counting the time he should spend with his family versus how much his latest arm candy should receive.”
“Prick.”
She laughed. Mostly because laughing would stop her from crying. She dropped her forehead against Tristan’s chest. “So, yeah. I’m totally looking forward to this trip.”
He placed his chin on top of her head and simply held her for a few minutes. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable this time. She knew he wanted to say more. The tension in his shoulders and back was worse than a tightly strung bass. She gently ran her fingers up his spine and kneaded his muscles with a little bit of nail action.
Sparks liked a bit of gentle soothing. Tristan required a different tact. A firmer hand.
When a soft groan rumbled against her cheek, she smiled against his shirt. Her two guys were so different and yet so infinitely fascinating.
She peered up at him. “I’ve lived with this my whole life.”
“What?”
The outrage in his voice made her feel better, even if it was short-lived. “I didn’t figure it out until I was a teen—or maybe twelve. I was booted out of St. Catherine’s for creating a skate park on school grounds.”
“Skate park? You?”
“I’m quite adept on a board, thank you.”
He laughed and opened the door to his Jag. “Now this I have to hear.”
She gave him a cheeky grin and got in. Her tales of being a delinquent entertained Tristan through the forty-minute ride to the airport. She’d grown quite enterprising in her quest for male companionship in her teens. All female boarding schools would do that to a girl.
By the time he pulled up at LAX and pulled out her suitcase, he was chuckling about her fourth expulsion. The part she’d been able to keep to herself had been the fact that she’d walked into her father’s study and heard him on the phone with Collette.
Even with her innocent twelve-year-old ears, she knew from the tone of his voice that it wasn’t a professional call. And while he always played the part well enough, it wasn’t the same voice he used with her mother. There was a terrifying intimacy to the way he spoke to the person on the phone.
It had been the first time she’d learned about the public Thomas Reece and the private.
And the first time she’d run away. She’d stayed with her friend Candy for three days before her parents had even noticed she was missing. Good times.
The snap of her telescope handle on her bag brought her back to the present. The airport was already decked out in white twinkle lights and huge wreaths with festive ornaments the size of small cantaloupes. Los Angeles never did anything on a small scale.
“Thanks for driving me.”
“Anytime, beautiful.”
“I wish I was staying here for Thanksgiving.”
“I do make a mean turkey.”
She frowned. “Are you going to be alone?” She had been so focused on dealing with her own family that she’d forgotten to ask him about his plans.
“Nah, I’m working.” He smoothed her furrowed brow with the pad of his forefinger. “I have plenty of people on my staff who want the time off for their families. It’s perfect. I get to create my version of Thanksgiving and make the dishwashers clean up after me. Totally win-win.”
“How many times have you told that story?”
He kissed her forehead. “I’ll be fine, Jules. I promise.”
“You worry about me, I worry about you. That’s how this thing works.”
“Considering we still have no rules, I’m not so sure about that.”
Before she could say anything more on the subject, a baggage guy came forward offering to take her bag. Tristan looked around at the crowd of people. She wanted to stand on her tiptoes and kiss him. One last hit of that spicy fresh scent to get her through the day.
But as far as the world was concerned, she was with Sparks.
With the blessing of the record label for once.
Fuck.
How did her life get so damn messed up?
She twined her fingers around his for a moment. His silvery eyes blazed.
He knew.
He had to know how much she wanted to pull him in and taste him. But she didn’t.
She wasn’t supposed to.
All because of those pictures of her and Sparks. Worst of all, that wasn’t even the truth. She and Sparks were together, but not on their own. Tristan was an essential part of them. That he’d been written out of the story—as if he didn’t exist—wasn’t right on any level. Wasn’t fair.
She’d spent her whole life as part of an edited-for-television narrative. God forbid anyone ever know exactly how screwed up her family truly was. And she’d done her part, because for a while she’d been too young to realize exactly how much bullshit was being served. When she’d finally gotten old enough to understand, she’d started acting out. Still not telling the truth. Still not exposing the lies for what they were.
Her father was a philanderer and didn’t give a shit about their family. They were props to him. Dolls to move around and pose, so he always came off seeming like a wonderful, benevolent husband and father.
Lies. All lies.
So was she really going to live a lie, again? A lie she had the power to stop in its tracks and set right?
Glimpsing that brief flash of emotion in Tristan’s eyes as he realized he couldn’t touch her in public, not really, was more than she could stand. Especially when she could fix it. Maybe they’d never really intended on being a permanent thing, or to exist outside of the shadows, but wasn’t the truth an absolute defense?
The three of them were together. More and more, she was realizing she wanted to be with both men in the dark—and in the light.
No shame.
No excuses.
No more lies.
Twenty-One
Tristan slammed the heel of his hand on the steering wheel. His hands still itched to palm Juliet’s perfect ass. To give her a searing kiss. To stamp his fucking brand on her in front of the crowd before them.
Dammit.
He roared out of the exit for LAX and headed toward the Hills again. He should have been heading into the city, but being trapped in the kitchen in his current state of mind was probably not the smartest idea.
The kitchen was usually his solace. Emotions had no place there. It was all order and chaos in an odd symphony that he controlled.
There was no control today.
He sent off a text through his in-dash to Kendra. He hated to stick her with the kitchen alone, but she was practically ready to run the damn show anyway. Why she was staying back, he’d never know. Not that he wasn’t grateful. A chef relied on his people, but especially his sous chef.
Instead of texting him back, a clattering of broken dishes blasted through his speakers.
“Ken,” he said in answer.
“Chef, everything okay?”
“Yeah. You okay to cover?”
“Sure. You’ve just never missed a holiday in the four years we’ve worked together. I’m making sure you didn’t cut off an appendage or something.” She paused. “If you’re naked, I’ll just get off the phone now.”
“Why would you say I’m naked?”
&n
bsp; “You never whistle in the kitchen, chef.”
He bounced his head against his head rest. “Whistle?”
“Yeah. Happy tunes, sir.”
“Fuck the sir crap, Kendra.”
“Right. So, anyway, I just figured you were getting some on the reg. So maybe you’re going to see her family or something?”
“No.”
No, he hadn’t been invited to the almighty Reece estate. Nor would he ever be, probably.
That conversation would be the best.
“Hey, nice to meet you, Doctor Reece. I’m banging your daughter with my best friend. We’re building up to the ultimate DP session as soon as we figure out we’re all ready for it. Nice to meet you though.”
And what the hell was he supposed to say to Kendra?
He was the silent partner in this rapidly devolving relationship. The face of the relationship was Randy and Juliet. It was better that way. Operating in the shadows was usually how he liked to roll.
How the hell was he supposed to tell them that wasn’t what he wanted anymore? How could he even demand that of her? Of them?
Jesus.
“Chef?”
Cripes, he’d totally tuned Kendra out. “You know me, Ken, no one on the regular for me.”
“Yeah, well, I was hoping this time was different.”
Me too.
He curled his fingers around the steering wheel until the leather squeaked with the pressure. “I figure you earned a Thanksgiving menu to yourself.”
“Thank you, Chef.” The appreciation in her voice made him wince.
Altruistic he was not.
Before he could disabuse her of her reverence—or at least make it look like not such a big fucking deal—she had to hop off the call. Shouts and the reverberation of a steel bin made him count to five.
She could handle it. Everyone could handle a night without him.
And evidently, that was exactly how tonight was going to go. Maybe he’d just get rip-roaring drunk and head out into the city.
He took a hard left and tore down a side street and around the traffic congestion. A humorless laugh bounced around his car.
Right.
Like he’d touch another woman other than Juliet. He downshifted as his street came up. Gravel spit up as he fishtailed into his parking lot. The cloud of debris followed him out of the car and dusted his jeans before he slammed his door shut.
