The Lies They Tell(39)

She realized what he was asking and looked away, clearing her throat. “Next you’ll tell me that it’s lonely in that big bed all by yourself.”

“Could you stay over?” He touched her chin, turning her head to meet his gaze. “Would your parents get mad?”

Her whole body was growing warm. “Definitely.” She had no idea what Dad would do if she didn’t come rolling in until tomorrow morning. Probably tell her to leave a note next time, and ask her how she wanted her eggs.

“You’re eighteen. Not a lot they could do about it, right?”

She saw Tristan before Bridges did. He moved through the dancers, coming up behind Bridges and tapping him on the shoulder as the song ended and applause scattered the room. “I’m cutting in.”

Bridges frowned. “Now?” He glanced at Pearl, who could offer him nothing, observing in her own state of shock. Finally, he shrugged, stepping back. “Whatever . . . I guess.” He turned and left the dance floor, glancing back a couple of times.

The band launched into “Misty.” Tristan took her hand and waist firmly, looking over her head at the other dancers as if every action came automatically, without thought. Pearl moved with him, studying his face. The crown prince, member of a family everyone believed to be among the best and brightest. Who knew how much truth there was to ladies’ room gossip, but she couldn’t shake the memory of it—you don’t mean—not with his fists?—and now she had a new face to put to the monster on the other side of the door, hammering his way in after Cassidy.

“Do you mind that I took Bridges’s place?” Tristan asked abruptly. She got the feeling that he’d been aware of her eyes on him, and had let her look.

“No.”

He nodded slowly, still gazing beyond her. “Was he talking you into sleeping with him tonight?” Pearl was quiet. “Maybe you didn’t need any talking into. But this would be when he’d ask.”

She wouldn’t show anything; she’d be as cool as he was, colder, even, while inside, she boiled with embarrassment. “It sounds like you know his routine pretty well.”

“By Bridges’s standards, waiting three weeks into a relationship is like waiting until marriage. He must really see something in you.”

“Imagine that.”

“You’re getting offended.”

“Well, how is this your business?”

“I’m interested. Specifically, in why you’re spending so much time with him if sex isn’t on the agenda.”

Her hand was starting to sweat inside his. “Is that the only reason you spend time with a girl?”

Tristan actually smiled. It was brief and flickering, yet a stark reminder that he was the kind of boy girls called beautiful, that he was Tristan Garrison, and in what alternate universe would the two of them dance together in the club ballroom? He adjusted his grip on her. “I’ve been deciding what’s going to happen between you two. Maybe it’ll be tonight, in his grandfather’s cottage. Plenty of privacy there. He knows it’s too soon, so he’ll try to convince you with promises that nobody will find out, that it’ll be your secret. But of course people will find out. He’ll tell Akil, and Akil will tell everyone.”

It was a battle not to get defensive, but there was a slight opening here, and she stabbed at it. “Sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into this. Probably because you’re alone so much.” She paused, gauging his expression. “This winter and spring must’ve been hard on you. I don’t think I’d like living in a house all by myself.”

“Have you been to my house, Pearl?”

It was possible to read anything into that mild tone, and she trained her gaze forward, kept her posture relaxed. “It’s a small town. Everyone knows where Tristan Garrison lives.”

He made a soft noise that might’ve been a laugh. “You make it sound so significant. ‘Garrison.’”

“Isn’t it?”

“It’s just another name.”

She went for it: “You must miss them very much.”

The silence that followed was absolute, like a vault door had closed between them. Her hand was slick inside his. She fought the impulse to apologize, letting the silence stretch out, seeing who would break first.

Finally, he said, “Have you ever been stuck inside a time?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, have you ever had a certain time of day or night that you carry around inside you? That defines you.” His gaze still went beyond her, but now it was far beyond, past the ballroom and the people and the confines of the club. “Midnight. Give or take fifteen minutes. I wake up at midnight and”—he shook his head slightly—“sleep is just gone. I lie there and I watch the shadows on the ceiling. Then I run.”

“Where?”

“On the sidewalks. Sometimes on the beach.” His eyes were glassy, and now she read more into the faint redness at the corners, telltale signs of sleeplessness. He didn’t say which beach he meant, and it chilled her to think of him driving to his family’s ruined house, walking down the wooded path in the dark to reach their private strip of sand. “By two o’clock, I’m home, and I can sleep again. But for those two hours”—he swallowed, trailing off—“I burn.”