Bad Things (Tristan & Danika, #1)(81)

He didn’t give me a tour of the place, explaining, “Dean is probably still passed out in his room, but I’ll show you my room after I cook you dinner.”

I put his things away, while he started making us spinach and parmesan pasta with marinara sauce.

“You’re making us frozen pasta?” I asked, as he did just that. “Isn’t that blasphemy? Aren’t you supposed to like, make the pasta from scratch, and maybe squeeze the tomatoes into sauce by hand?”

He laughed. “Squeeze the tomatoes into sauce? Is that how you think it works?”

“Close enough,” I said, as I laid out his new silverware.

“This stuff is good, and I’m too hungry to cook for two hours.”

If he said it was good, that meant it was good. The man didn’t eat inferior food. In fact, his food was so good that I’d gained five pounds while we were hanging out together, and hadn’t even sweated it, because some enjoyment was just worth five pounds. It was that good.

Of course, I’d lost those five pounds and some extra in the weeks he’d disappeared, and completely broken my heart.

“Where’s your restroom?” I asked him, after I’d put the silverware away.

“Use the one attached to my bedroom.” He pointed, his back to me, still working at the stove.

I couldn’t seem to help it; I snooped through his room. It was sparse, and he’d barely unpacked, so there wasn’t much to learn from the endeavor. The only thing that really stood out to me were the myriad, half-empty bottles of liquor on his nightstand. I thought those said a lot about his lifestyle.

His bathroom was directly attached to his bedroom, with one of the biggest bathtubs I’d ever seen. You could literally fit at least six people into it, which painted a picture that I didn’t particularly want to dwell on.

When I came back into the kitchen, Tristan was almost done making the pasta, so I started to unpack his plates.

They were square and white, very elegant, especially for a bachelor pad. I had picked them out.

I had one of the plates in my hand when a topless brunette sauntered into the kitchen.

Topless was putting it lightly. She was wearing nothing but a nude colored thong and a smile.

She strutted, yes strutted, right up to Tristan and hugged him from behind, pressing her huge, fake, naked breasts against his back.

I wasn’t prepared for this, so I just stood there, frozen, plate in hand, and watched the tableau.

Tristan stiffened at the contact, turned off the burner on the stove, then started to turn, looking as surprised as I was to have a naked woman in the kitchen. I couldn’t even have said if she was pretty, I was that distracted by all of that naked skin.

His brow furrowed as he looked down at her, now pressed into his side. Or rather, one fake tit was plastered to his side, one to his front, just below his chest.

“Uh,” he began, obviously at a loss for words.

The skank gave him a brilliant smile. Dammit, she was pretty. “I’m Kendra. From four nights ago. Don’t worry about it. I didn’t think you’d remember my name. We didn’t do much talking.”

I was gripping the plate so hard that I felt it dig into my fingers, and still, I gripped harder.

He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back, until her implants where no longer making contact. “Okay, Kendra. But what are you doing here now, and where are your clothes?” He had the careful tone of someone talking to a crazy woman.

“I came here last night with Dean. I was hoping to see you again. I think I left my panties in your room. Will you help me go find them?” Her tone was all sleazy insinuation.

I quite simply lost my mind. The plate in my hand went flying, crashing into the wall above their heads. Another plate was in my hand and flying before anyone could react. Miss Fake Tits went running for it, but Tristan, the fool, started moving toward me, ducking plate after plate. I broke at least six before he made it to me. I didn’t look down to check, but I was pretty sure that was all of them.

One look at his face showed me that he wasn’t mad, which shocked me into immobility just long enough for him to get his arms around me in a hold that kept me from reaching out and breaking more of his things.

Why wasn’t he mad? I’d just tried to maim him and a topless slut that he had apparently slept with four nights ago.

I didn’t even speak. All that I’d had to say had been said with the breaking of six white plates.

He spoke, murmuring apology after apology into my ear. I found that so strange that I didn’t even process it right away.

A shirtless Dean burst into the kitchen, with not one, but two naked skanks at his back, the one before, and a redhead. He started yelling as he took in the damage.

“What the f*ck, man? I was sleeping, and you’ve got some chick breaking f*cking plates in our kitchen? And Kendra tells me she tried to hit her with one!”

“Go back to bed, Dean,” Tristan told him, sounding riled, which he hadn’t sounded when he’d been talking so softly into my ear. “This is not your business.”

“Of course it’s my f*cking business,” Dean said. “This is my f*cking place, too.”

“What’s your problem?” Topless Kendra asked, speaking to me, I assumed.

“Her problem is that she’s my girlfriend,” Tristan answered. “And she was just disrespected in my home.”