Lovely Trigger (Tristan & Danika #3)(18)

She gave Bianca another tight smile, then introduced them.

I kept my eyes fixed on Danika’s face, trying to block out that punk’s hand on her.  She didn’t seem to be particularly happy with him, and I knew I was a bastard for being happy about that.

Danika left the group quickly and politely, only shooting me one direct glance at the very end, which only seemed to give her stare more weight when she swung it my way.

I broke out into a cold sweat, but other than that, I thought I held up rather well.

She swept by me on her way past.

Oh God, I could smell her.  Just the faintest hint of her perfume mixed with the scent of her.

I made myself blink slowly, count in my head, kept from doing anything crazy, but it was pure, teeth-gritting effort.

I turned to watch them walk away, that punk’s hand still on her.

I needed to get out of there before I followed them and did something supremely stupid.  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go punch something now, so that I don’t give in to the urge to punch someone.”  I strode away.

I took it out on a punching bag in my home gym, because that’s what grown men did when they had the urge to kill someone with their bare hands, or so my therapist told me.

DANIKA

Putting together Bianca’s showing was a rare treat for me.  I got an absolute kick out of every little detail.  She’d given me the freedom to make most of the choices without even consulting with her.

I was not a creative soul myself.  I was pure right brain, analytical to my core, though I was a great admirer of artists, so a showing like this was the closest I got to a creative outlet, and I relished it.

The exhibition was broken up into rooms, as there were over a hundred paintings in her collection, which was practically unheard of.  I organized them by colors, as this was her signature, trying to make each room a true complement of her brilliant eye.

She was thrilled with the results, which made me want to kiss her.  The boss’ girlfriend, and somehow she was the easiest artist I’d ever worked with.

I barely slept the last two days before the big event, working tirelessly to make sure that every detail was perfect.  I met a jittery Bianca at the door with utter confidence that there was nothing on my end that wouldn’t run like clockwork.

I’d thought of everything, and though I was anxious, as any big event made me, I wasn’t a wreck.  That is until Frankie and her girlfriend walked through the door, each on one of Tristan’s arms.

I felt blind-sided, and for one brief crazy moment, I thought I’d lose it.  What it was I wasn’t sure.

My temper, my composure, my mind, take your pick.

Luckily, the moment passed quickly, and I got by mostly ignoring him, though he tried constantly to catch my eye.

I determined that I wouldn’t let a night I’d been looking forward to be ruined by him.

The paintings started selling within minutes of the opening of the doors.  It was thrilling.

I rushed up to Bianca after every sale, making sure she knew that the night was an unequivocal success.  She seemed more than a little in shock by it all.

I had my eye on one particular piece.  It was a small watercolor of desert roses.  It was so crisp, the colors so vibrant it almost came across like a photo at first glance.

I coveted it, and the first few interested buyers had to make a bid.  I was hoping to outbid them myself, but within a few hours, I knew it was lost to me.  It was just too far out of my price range.

It was around that time that I made a hasty trip to the restroom to touch up my makeup.

I vaguely made out a set of slender ankles that I recognized under one of the stalls when the door opened behind me.  My eyes widened in outraged shock when I realized that Tristan had followed me into the women’s restroom.  I’d made short work of his two attempts to talk to me throughout the evening, but this, this was out of line.

“Now you’re following me?” I asked him, willing my voice not to quaver.

It didn’t help matters that he looked amazing in a crisp tux that had to be custom made to fit those arms of his.

“If that’s the only way you’ll talk to me, then yes,” he told me, just as though he had the right.

“We have nothing to talk abo—“ I began.

“I still think about you every single day,” he ground out harshly.  “Let’s talk about that.”

That had me shaking, head to toe, in pure affront, pure outrage.  The nerve of him, to move on from me, to move so beyond me and then torment me with this.  I knew what this was, it was guilt on his part, and I was livid as I realized this.  “Oh, please.  Take your guilt and get the f**k away from me, Tristan.  I want nothing to do with it.”

“The guilt isn’t what I was talking about,” he said, his lying voice so convincing that I almost believed it.  “It’s you I think about.  Always you.”

I snorted.  “Please!  You stopped trying to call me years ago.  I haven’t heard a word from you since right after rehab when you went on your repentance tour.”

He looked taken aback, but he recovered quickly enough, spouting more nonsense.  “I didn’t trust myself, Danika.  I needed my sobriety.  I’m nothing without it, and you were a lovely trigger for me.  That look in your eyes, after all that I’d done…The way you looked at me like I was scum and knowing that I deserved all of your antipathy.  I knew that if you looked at me like that again, I’d hit rock bottom, and this time I wouldn’t come back from it.”