Bad Things (Tristan & Danika #1)(2)

“Don’t let Bev hear you say that,” I warned him. I was really just trying to help Jerry out. I didn’t want him to get into trouble with Bev again, and he never seemed to have a clue just what would set her off, even though it was always very obvious to me.

I sighed, knowing that this wouldn’t be easy to fix. I tensed as I heard the loud garage door opening across the house. Bev’s house was a huge, rambling, ranch style house, but the garage door was so loud that it always announced her presence.

I gave Jerry a stern look, sometimes feeling like his mother, even though he was forty-five, and I was barely twenty-one. I pointed at him. “I know what we need to do, but you’re going to owe me. I hate lying to Bev.” It was true. I was nowhere near nonchalant about the deception I was about to undergo, and I wanted him to know it. Beverley was my hero. No one had ever helped me as much, or been as supportive of me, as she had. Plus, I just liked her. She was my closest friend, and I’d developed a serious case of hero worship for the successful, forty-eight year old woman.

“Tristan is a friend of mine,” I told them. “Do not mention the words club promoter, or band. He is a plain old out of work student, and crashing for one week on the couch. We met at UNLV last semester. Got it?”

Jerry nodded, giving me a grateful smile. “You’re the best, Danika. I owe you.”

He sure did. I looked at Tristan, who was giving me that playful smile of his, as though we hadn’t just barely met.

“You’re a sassy little thing. I like that,” he murmured, just as Bev and her boys rounded the corner that led from the garage and into the main living area.

Ivan and Mat caught sight of me and the dogs swarming at my heels and rushed me with huge whoops. Ivan was an unabashedly diabolical eight-year-old, and Mat was a precocious six-year-old, and the two of them combined were more than a handful, but I loved them to pieces.

Mat went straight for a tackle to my midsection, while Ivan caught the biggest dog, Mango, in a bear hug. Mango was a tan-colored bloodhound. She was nine years old and left a trail of slobber in her wake. She was a terrible guard dog. We were all convinced that if the place was robbed she’d just see it as an opportunity to lick more faces.

Mat squeezed my waist so hard that he drew a little grunt out of me. The second biggest dog, Dot, took exception to the rough handling. He growled menacingly at the six-year old. He was a big black Belgian Shepherd, and none of us had any doubts that he was a good guard dog. A little too good, in fact. He’d taken to being my own personal protector, even against the other inhabitants of the house, and that included the boys.

I shushed Dot, hugging Mat back. He was a skinny blond kid with gorgeous blue eyes.

“You said you’d make us cookies when we got back!” Mat told me excitedly.

I nodded. “Okay. You gonna help me make them, or you want to go play while I cook?”

“Play!” he shouted. I didn’t know if it was Mat, or being six, but the boy had a serious volume control issue. It just made me laugh.

“Okay. I bet you’ll be able to smell when they’re done.”

“Yes!” he shouted, even louder, then took off for his room.

Ivan straightened, looking around at all of the adults and pursing his lips. He had light brown hair, was tall for his age, and had soft brown eyes like his dad. He was a funny kid. He had moments of being a shameless brat, but just as many moments of absolute charm. “I want to play, too, Danika, but I’ll help you if you really, really need me to.”

I smiled at him. “I got it covered, buddy. You go on and play.”

He took off, never saying a word to his dad or to Tristan. Typical eight-year-old, only paying attention to the one making cookies.

Beverly and I shared a look. She gave her boys a laughing eye roll before heading the same way they’d gone, towards her bedroom. She’d barely spared Tristan a glance. It wasn’t a good sign.

“Jerry, a word,” she called out, still moving toward her room. It didn’t bode well.

He swore under his breath, but followed her.

I headed over to the kitchen. I felt Tristan following me.

The house was set up with an open floor plan. It was huge, but the entryway, living room, dining room, kitchen, and family room all shared one massive space, so it was a straight shot into the kitchen once I got around the giant L-shaped sofa that dominated the living room.

The house was a strange combination of shabby chic, leaning way further in the direction of shabby. Beverley was very successful as a worker’s compensation attorney, and she came from a rich family, so money wasn’t an issue when it came to the house. It was colossal, and in one of the nicest gated communities in Vegas, but the house was lined with outdoor carpeting and the furniture was in desperate need of an update. The only saving grace in the house was the spectacular artwork that she collected. Words couldn’t even express how much I appreciated her fine eye for upcoming artists, but they were the only saving grace when it came to the house’s aesthetics.

I understood why she didn’t update a lot of it. New carpet would be ruined in just a few weeks by her unruly dogs and crazy kids, and the dark green leather sofa had the entire back gnawed off. I couldn’t imagine a new sofa wouldn’t receive the same treatment.

I had to unlock the latch that had been installed on the side of the refrigerator before I opened it. Mango liked to eat sticks of butter when it wasn’t latched tight…