Bad Things (Tristan & Danika, #1)(30)

“Fine,” I bit out. “Let’s take a vote. By a show of hands, who wants to let a man into our sacred girl ritual night?”

Everyone raised an eager hand in the air, except for Bev and Lucy, apparently the only ones who had my back.

I continued, even knowing I’d lost. It wasn’t in my nature to just give up. “Who votes we keep our girls’ night how God intended it, girls only?”

Me, Bev, and Lucy raised our hands. I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or kick him when I saw that Tristan was raising a hand. He knew that he had enough votes, even if he voted with me, the smug bastard.

And so he stayed, chatting up the ladies until nearly three in the morning.

Aside from the sting of losing a bet, I thoroughly enjoyed having him there.

He was funny, and charming, and for whatever reason, he gently deflected Candy, and then Harriet’s subtle, and not so subtle come-ons.

Lucy shot me a few concerned glances in the beginning, but in the end, even she was charmed by Tristan’s playful personality.

“You know, we usually call it a night by ten, eleven tops,” I told Tristan, as he helped me clean up after all of the women had left. He’d even managed to shoo Bev off to bed, not letting her help with cleanup. She’d had enough of her own strong cocktails to take him up on the offer gratefully.

“Did I corrupt your friends?” he asked with a shameless smile.

A corner of my mouth kicked up ruefully. “Not as badly as you’re corrupting me. I don’t do the dirty Vegas club scene.”

“I think I understand you a little better now, after meeting your friends. You’re like a forty-five year old, trapped inside of a hot, twenty-one year old body. That might be why you can never really cut loose and just let go.”

I took exception to that. “I cut loose all the time. We’ve been out dancing every night this week. What do you call that?”

He pursed his lips, which drew my traitorous eyes to them, even in a bit of a pique. “It’s true you can dance. God, can you dance. And you’re certainly able to go out and have a good time, but that just isn’t the same as letting go. Even drunk until you feel pretty, you seem to stay in control every single second. I’ve yet to see you have a twenty-one year old moment.”

“Well, excuse me for not being a total slutbag, like half of the twenties crowd in Vegas.”

“It’s probably a lot more than half…” he mused.

“Well, it isn’t me. If that’s your idea of letting go, I think I’m just fine how I am.”

“I wasn’t trying to offend you,” he said in his most conciliatory tone. “And I absolutely don’t mean that you should be sleeping around. I don’t know how to put it into words, but I’d just like to see you acting carefree sometimes.”

I stewed about that for a bit, as we finished cleaning up.

Perhaps he has a point, I thought.

I’d had an aimless sort of existence, growing up. My mother, a slave to the illness of addiction, had only ever lived in the present, which, I supposed, was why I had my eye determinedly on the future, which I knew was not the typical frame of mind for a twenty-one year old.

My sister and I had been tossed around ruthlessly by our mother’s fickle way of life. She’d been so negligent that, in our teenage years, when she’d disappeared for a solid two weeks, social services had been alerted, which had led to an unfortunate turn of events. I had been so powerless, back then.

But not anymore. Nowadays, I had my own fate well in hand.

“Are you stewing about the bet you lost? Going to miss keeping that big, soft bed all to yourself? I’ll bet you’re a cover hog.”

I rolled my eyes at him, but I couldn’t contain my grin. I knew I should have been more worried about the fact that we were going to be sharing a bed, but I just wasn’t. It was strange for me, especially considering we’d only known each other a week, but I trusted him.

It wasn’t his fault that I was wildly attracted to him.

“I’m stewing about the fact that I won’t get to see you wearing one of my bikinis,” I shot back.

He laughed. “There’s always the next bet.”

We found ourselves out by the pool, past four in the morning, just lounging and talking. I thought that might have been my favorite thing of all about Tristan—that we could just talk forever, about everything, about nothing. There was never an awkward silence to be found.

“So tell me about this band. I know you’re the lead singer, and I know what instruments you all play. Tell me the rest.”

He snagged one of my bare feet. I started to kick him off, thinking that he was going to tickle me, but he didn’t, just rubbing at the arch. It felt so good that my eyes practically rolled up into the back of my head.

“God, your hands,” I moaned. “You are so good at that.”

“I aim to please. What do you want to know?”

“What are you called? Who writes the songs? When can I see you perform?”

“The band is called The Escapists. Kenny writes all of the songs, composes all of the music. This band was his baby from the start. We’ve all been friends since the fifth grade, but I was the last to join up. They needed a singer, and I can carry a tune.”

“You make it sound like you aren’t that into it.”