Bad Things (Tristan & Danika, #1)(99)

He was tall. Not Tristan tall, but he was close to six foot, with dark hair, a medium build, and some awesome tats. He was very handsome, in a boy next door kind of way. I’d forgotten just how nice his smile was, how sincere. And he still had enough dirty rocker in him to make my heart beat a little faster.

Even if it was only remorse, I was surprised to feel something, after all this time.

I hadn’t been cruel about the breakup, which in the end, had been the most brutal thing of all. I’d drawn it out, to spare his feelings, and ended up hurting him worse.

“You’re dating Tristan Vega,” Patrick said, as though he was still processing it, and what he had learned didn’t please him one bit.

“You know him?”

“I know of him. He’s the lead singer of that band that James Cavendish is backing. He has a reputation…”

That was news to me. Not the reputation part, but the James Cavendish backing. I’d known he was introducing them to some record people, but I hadn’t heard anything about him actually putting money up for them himself.

“A lot of local bands are really bitter about that. Their band hasn’t paid their dues, and here they are, getting cash backing from one of the biggest names in town.”

That had my hackles rising a bit. “And who gets to decide what dues you have to pay to make it? They’re really good. Best I’ve ever heard live.”

This was a bit of a dig. Okay, it was a huge, mean dig, because Patrick was the drummer in a local band that had been going hard in the live scene for years.

“Ouch, Danika.”

I grimaced. “Sorry. That wasn’t nice, but they’re good, and I think it’s bullshit to put your baggage on another band, just because they haven’t been performing as long.”

He nodded, chewing on his lip. “Fair enough. I might be a touch bitter, so let’s just forget I said anything. Let’s talk about you. What have you been up to?”

I shrugged. “School, work, nothing special.”

“Anything going on with the dancing?”

“Not unless you count mad clubbing.”

He laughed, and as I watched him, I saw a sharpness in his eyes that I didn’t remember from before. I liked it. He seemed more present than he’d ever been when he’d been with me.

“You look great, too. How is everything with you?”

“It’s good. I’m going on one year sober now, so that’s a pretty big deal for me. The band isn’t getting huge attention, but we still make the rounds, and we still love what we’re doing.”

I nodded. “That’s great. I’m so happy for you, especially the sobriety part.”

“Thank you. Hey, we should go for coffee sometime. Do some catching up. It’s been so long…I’d love to reconnect again.”

Of course, wouldn’t you just know it, Tristan walked up just in time to hear that last part. He went full on caveman right off the bat, throwing an arm over my shoulder, and giving Patrick the look of death.

“You two know each other?” he bit out, and his tone, his very demeanor, just rubbed me the wrong way.

“We’re old friends,” I explained. Damage control.

“We dated for two years,” Patrick countered. Opposite of damage control.

Tristan stiffened, his face getting a little scary as he just stared at Patrick for long, awkward minutes. Finally, he broke the awful silence, but what came out of his mouth was no improvement. “So you’re one of the selfish pricks that f*cked her, and never got her off.”

I walked away, furious and hurt, before he’d gotten the last word out. The *. The complete hypocritical nerve of him, saying a thing like that, embarrassing me without a qualm.

I made it out the front door, and to the sidewalk in front of the house before Tristan caught me.

“Hey!” he called, grabbing my elbow. “I’m sorry. That was a dick move. It was a gut reaction to meeting that prick.”

I had my own gut reaction right then, and it was to defend my ex, which said a lot about how angry I was at Tristan. “He’s not a prick. Not getting me off doesn’t make him a prick. You know, just because he didn’t know how to get me off, doesn’t mean he didn’t try. He at least would tell me that he loved me.”

That hit a nerve, and boy was I not ready for his gut reaction to that nerve getting hit.

“You really want to do this now?” he asked, his voice low and mean. My heart turned over in my chest at the question. This was going to be bad. I could tell with that one sentence that his claws were out, and I wouldn’t make it through this unscathed. Still, I wanted to know. Whatever he felt, or didn’t feel for me, I needed to know.

“You think because he said that to you, that what you had with him was better than this? Did him saying that somehow keep you two together forever? Love is just a word.”

“Semantics,” I said, my voice trembling. “If it doesn’t mean anything, why won’t you say it to me?”

“I don’t say it back because I don’t f*cking believe you!” He was shouting, and my heart was breaking with every word. “When I hear you say I love you, what I hear is you keeping score, and I’m not playing that game with you. There is no score for me. There never was.”

I couldn’t speak, my mind racing to process his words, to try to make sense of them, to try to put them together in a way that I could accept, and not bleed out from all of the wounds.