Bad Things (Tristan & Danika #1) (21 page)

God only knows how far we would have let things go but for a shrill scream that echoed to us from the stables.
 

I yanked back, looking around, totally confused for a moment as to where I even was.
 

Finally, the sight of my hand, my empty hand, where the leash should have been held, jarred me back into the problem at hand.
 

“Coffeecup!” I yelled, stumbling to my feet.
 

Tristan used his hands on my hips to help leverage me up, and I was off, sprinting towards the stables, hoping that I wasn’t too late to save at least some of those damned prize chickens.
 

It was a massacre.
 

Feathers and blood made a trail that led me to right to the chicken murdering dog, who would still have been happily murdering away, if one parka-covered crazy chicken lady didn’t already have his leash in hand.
 
She was literally shaking with rage as I took the leash out of her hand.
 
She pointed at me accusingly, as though I had been the one to behead
—
I counted one, two, three of her chickens.
 
Damn
, but he was efficient at murdering chickens.
 
This had to be a record.

“I’m so so sorry
—” I began.

“The home owners association will hear about this!” she cut in.
 

I nodded, my eyes wide, not sure how to handle her.
 
We only ever saw each other when stuff like this happened, so I’d only ever seen her crazy side.
 
As far as I knew, she was straight crazy chicken lady all the time.
 

“That dog is a menace!” she shouted.

I nodded again.
 
I couldn’t argue with that.
 
I didn’t point out that if she didn’t let her chickens run loose around the stables all the time, they wouldn’t make such easy targets for blood-thirsty Coffeecup.
 
I knew from experience that trying to form any kind of defense only made her crazier.
 

Tristan approached right as she was storming off, still muttering curses at an ironically contrite looking Coffeecup.
 

“Well…” he said, running a hand over his muddy head.
 
“That could have gone better.”

“You broke your promise, you know,” I told him as soon as crazy chicken lady was out of earshot.

He raised a brow in question, trying ineffectually to dry himself off with his hands.
 

“You promised that if Coffeecup got out while you were around, you’d catch him before he murdered any chickens.”

“Um, I did catch him.
 
If you’ll recall, I caught him back in that muddy ditch over there.
 
You’re the one that let him go again.”
 

He had a point there.

“We broke half of the rules on our list back in that ditch,” he told me as we made our way back to the house.

“I’m well aware.”
 

“I think I know what the problem is.”
 
He sounded resigned, and troubled.
 
I didn’t particularly want to hear what had him sounding so serious.
 

“We’re stupid and a little nuts?” I guessed.
 

“I’ve been celibate for too long, and now I’m taking it out on you.
 
I need to blow off some steam, ya know?”

That stung.
 
It shouldn’t have, but it hurt bad.
 
I was on board with the friend thing, but the idea that this attraction between us had more to do with his own sexual frustration, and nothing to do with how he might feel about me, well, it made me want to cry, which made me feel like a particularly stupid girl, and I
hated
that feeling.
 
I liked to think that my head ruled me, not my heart, and being around Tristan played havoc with that idea.
 

“I think I’ll go out tonight…by myself.”

Ouch, ouch, ouch
, I thought.
 
“That makes sense,” I said.
 
“I need to catch up on sleep, anyway.
 
This crazy clubbing schedule is not my thing.”
   

“I’ll still make you breakfast in the morning,” he offered.
 

I grimaced, wondering if he would even be home in the morning.
 
“Don’t worry about it.
 
I’ll manage.”
 

He snagged my hand, stopping our progress to look at me.
 
I squinted at him, rain falling straight into our faces.
 
This was no place to have a chat.
 

“Are you upset?”

I shook my head.
 
“Of course not,” I said instantly, my tone dismissive.
 

I
was
upset, but I didn’t have a right to it, so I refused to acknowledge it out loud.
 
I had too much pride for that.
 

“How the hell are we going to go into the house like this?” I asked, changing the subject.
 
“We’re covered in mud.
 
Maybe we should just stay in the rain, until it washes off.”

“The backyard hose,” he suggested.
 

That turned out to be a bad idea, even if it was our only option.
 
Someone who you badly want to sleep with, but have decided that you won’t, is not the person you want to hose down with water in a hot, hot rainstorm.

I was in a black mood after that, but tried hard not to show it.
 
As I went through my daily chores, played with the boys, and put them to bed, I just felt…down and…sad.
 
And as I realized how depressed I was feeling, that’s when it occurred to me just how happy I’d been since Tristan had come along, hangovers and all.
 
I’d been…giddy lately, the days flying by, as though in a dream, and it suddenly felt as though it was all crashing down on me.
 

What were we
doing
?
 
Hanging out constantly and playing house?
 
What did it mean?
 
Nothing
.
 
Nothing at all.
 
Well, except for one thing.
 
I was a stupid girl, and I had feelings for a guy who was basically a walking hormone where women were concerned.
 

Tristan seemed to sense my mood, and he turned extra affectionate.
 
Nothing blatant.
 
No come-ons.
 
Just a shoulder rub, a random kiss on the forehead, or a careless hand stroked over my hair, with lots of questions like, “Is everything okay?
 
Are we cool?”
 

I gave answers like, “I’m just tired,” and, ”I need to catch up on sleep.”

I never slipped up once, never told him that I hated that he was going out without me, and especially that I hated why he was doing it.
 
I kept my pride, if nothing else.
 

Tristan was beyond sweet, helping me put the boys to bed, and even playfully insisting on tucking me in before he went out.
 

He wasn’t going any place with a dress code, I noted, by his black T-shirt and jeans.
 
Still, he looked too gorgeous to be real, and I hated how easy I knew it would be for him to find some random girl to fuck.
 

“Don’t wait up for me,” he told me with a wink.

I made sure he saw me roll my eyes.
 
“I’ll be asleep before Kenny even picks you up.”

I didn’t cry after he’d gone, but it was just as troubling to me that I had to make an effort not to.
 
Eventually, I fell into a fitful sleep.

The sound of the bathroom door closing, and then the shower turning on, woke me.
 

My tired eyes found the clock.
 
It was four a.m.
 
Tristan was just getting home.
 
I was suddenly wide awake.

I waited in silence when he finally finished his shower, walking quietly to his side of the bed.

“Did you get lucky?” I whispered as he settled in.
 

He froze, and then he was hugging me from behind, his voice a rasp in my ear.
 
“You waiting up for me, boo?”

“No.
 
I just woke up when you opened the door.
 
So did you?
 
Get lucky?”
 
I held my breath as I waited for his answer.
 

He sighed.
 
“I did.
 
Hopefully I can control myself now.
 
Our friendship is safe.”
 
He patted my hip comfortingly as he said it, like he’d done it for me.

He’d washed the other woman off him.
 
Or at least, I didn’t smell anything like that on him.
 
But I still smelled the alcohol on his breath, and there was something about his voice, not a slur, but something more subtle, some sense of disconnect in his tone that made me think he was high, or at least very drunk.

I shut my eyes tightly, cursing the tears that bled down my cheeks.
   

It took me forever to get to sleep.
 
I just lay there for a long time, calling myself every kind of fool.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I woke up in black mood.
 
I put on a good show for the boys, but I all wanted to do was curl up in a ball, and be alone for days.
 
The fact that Tristan stayed in bed for most of the morning didn’t help.

I was feeling…self-destructive was the best way to put it.
 
I was finding it nearly impossible not to do something that would distract me from the fact that I was feeling tender, and wounded.
 
I wanted to do something phenomenally stupid, like call my ex.

Which was why it was such horrible timing that Jared chose that morning to call me.
 
I’d given him my number, in a friendly sort of way, days before.
 
I’d saved his into my cell at the time, so I knew right away who was calling me.
 

We were outside, and the boys were playing in their tree house.
 
They were playing the usual tree house game, where Ivan attacked the tree house with an invisible army, and Mat and I had to defend.
 
This usually involved me sitting in the cramped little wooden structure, pointing out of the opening, and firing my finger at a worked up Ivan about every three minutes, while Mat did all of the ground work; basically spazzing out in a circle around the tree.
 
Often, I found this highly entertaining, since the boys seemed to have a ridiculous amount of knowledge about warfare, courtesy of cable.
 
Today, though, I was just phoning it in, pointing my finger, and shooting on cue with little enthusiasm.
 
Luckily, it seemed to make no difference to a six and an eight year old.

I stared at my phone for a long moment when it began to ring, and I saw who it was, but I answered, wanting a distraction, even a self-destructive one.
 
I supposed that Jared was a better option than my ex.

“Hello, Jared,” I answered.
 

“Hey!
 
Danika.
 
Listen, I know you said you weren’t up for a date or anything yet, but I was thinking we could just go to dinner.
 
Just a friendly dinner, nothing fancy.
 
How does that sound?”
 

It sounded like a date.
 
Did I care?
 
Not just then.
 
I knew it was shitty, since he was Tristan’s brother, but I wanted so badly to just be distracted for an evening.
 
Distracted from Jared’s
brother
, in particular.
 
I told myself that would be enough to help me stop thinking about Tristan.
 
Some corner of my brain even acknowledged that I also wanted badly to be able to tell Tristan that I had plans if he wanted to do something that night, or even if he didn’t.
 

So I had a crush on Tristan?
 
So what?
 
It had developed quickly, and I swore that it would fade even faster.
 

Jared was still talking, his tone cajoling, as he tried to make it sound like he wasn’t asking me out on a date.
 

“Sure.
 
Yeah, I’d love to, but it will have to be a late dinner,” I interrupted.
 

“Great.
 
Perfect.”
 
He sounded pleased but surprised.
 
“What time should I pick you up?”
 

I chewed on my lip as I thought about it.
 
“Nine o’clock should be good, but I’d rather meet up somewhere.”
 

“That works.
 
Is there a place you’d prefer for dinner?”
 

“Chipotle.”
 

“Um…that sounds very informal.”

“It’s not a date, right?
 
Nothing fancy, you said.”

He laughed, and it reminded me so much of Tristan that I wanted to cry.
 

“Fine, fine.
 
That works.
 
Aren’t you close to the Beltz Mall?
 
How about we meet up at the Chipotle over there?”