All of Me (Inside Out #5.5)(13)

I cling to Chris, panting with the impact of each thrust, desperate to give him the escape he needs, wanting him deeper and harder. On some level, I know this is more than his need. It’s mine, too. We are all the sum of all our broken pieces.

When it’s over we wash each other off, and still we don’t talk, but we don’t need to. He is dreading today, and so am I.

Shortly after nine, we’re dressed and nursing cups of coffee at the kitchen island counter, waiting for the explosion that’s sure to come. Neither of us tries to eat. However, we do talk, focusing on the Christmas charity event at the Louvre that Chris will be part of, and now me too, volunteering for a number of duties that don’t require French.

I’m refilling both of our cups when Chris’s cell phone rings. We exchange a silent look, then he glances at the number and back up at me. “It’s the attorney,” he murmurs, hitting the Answer button as I set the coffeepot back on the burner and sit down on a barstool, running my suddenly damp palms over my black velour sweat suit.

Chris says a few short words into the phone, ending with, “Then we wait. Right. We’ll see who hears something first. Let’s make this end today.” After saying goodbye, he makes another call that is quick and in French before setting his phone on the counter, crossing his arms over his black Sons of Anarchy T-shirt.

“The locks were changed as planned, and Tristan was served the paperwork in person. The process server said that as he was walking away, Tristan let out a loud growl and punched the wall. So I think it’s safe to assume he read the documents. I have Rey headed this way just to be safe.”

I swallow hard. “You don’t think Tristan would do anything crazy, do you?”

He unfolds his arms, reaching for the creamer to top off his coffee. “I’m just being safe. But at least we’re getting a reaction. He needs to deal with this, for his own good.”

The pounding starts on the door, a moment before the bell goes nuts.

Chris pushes to his feet. “And that would be him.”

“That was fast,” I say, also standing. “I don’t even want to know how this is going to go down.”

“Stay here,” Chris orders. “I don’t want you anywhere near this.”

He takes a step toward the stairs, but I grab his arm. “You don’t know what to expect, and you’re concerned enough to have just called Rey. Let me stand back on the stairs and be prepared to call the police, Chris. I’ll stay out of the way.”

The knocking erupts again, and there’s resignation in the furrow of Chris’s brow. “The emergency number is 17 here.”

The bell rings over and over, setting my already frazzled nerves on edge. “I know. I’ve got it.”

“Let’s get this over with, then.”

We go down the stairs into the living area, and my gaze catches on the furry cream-colored rug beside the couch as we pass. It’s the same rug where I’d lain naked with Chris on my first night in Paris, and Amber had let herself inside and surprised us. I’d been appalled and embarrassed—and confused by her comfort level in entering Chris’s home. She’d been beautiful, bitchy, and yet wounded in some way that kept me from hating her for that meanness. Maybe that’s what kept Tristan with her, despite all she put him through.

“Chris!” Tristan shouts as we reach the top of the stairs, and I’m certain the angry French that follows is mostly profanities.

Chris grabs my arms and turns me to him, his green eyes as hard as I’ve ever seen them. “Stay here, Sara. I can’t worry about you and deal with him.”

“I’ll stay back,” I promise, “but please be careful. You know what pain can do to someone.”

“Chris!” Tristan shouts. More knocking follows.

Chris’s jaw tightens and he walks down the stairs, his pace remarkably controlled, his boots nearly soundless on the steps. He’s wearing his emotional armor, and it’s a good thing, since Tristan appears to have none of his own. Reaching the door, Chris pauses for several beats, in no rush to invite Tristan inside. I can only hope that the overhang above our door is keeping Tristan dry, because wet and angry has to be worse than just angry.

Holding my breath, I watch the slight flex to Chris’s shoulders and I can almost feel him mentally steel himself for the confrontation.

When he finally opens the door, Tristan immediately demands, “What the f*ck are you trying to prove?”

I gasp in horror as Tristan shoves Chris against the wall, water dripping off of his black rain jacket, his long locks in wild disarray. “What the f*ck are you trying to prove?” he demands again.

My heart lurches and I raise my phone to dial the police, when Chris shifts and turns, and suddenly it’s Tristan who’s against the wall. “I gave you two options,” Chris growls out, hands clenched around Tristan’s jacket lapels, “both of which save you from your anger and pride. Take the damned tattoo parlor, and I’m out of your life.”

“I told you I’m trying to buy it—but you had to be a little bitch and flex all that cash you roll around in.”

“You’re the one being a little bitch, Tristan,” Chris replies. “Hate me. Blame me. But man up and do what we both know is smart. Sign the papers.” He lets go and puts two paces between them. “End this now, Tristan. You want to buy the place? Send a donation to the Children’s Cancer Association.”