Lovely Trigger (Tristan & Danika #3)(47)

“Noted.  Fine, I’ll give you that one.  One more pu**y song.”

“* by Iggy Azalea.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well look it up.  Real song.  Definitely about eating pu**y.  So now we’ve established that I can name the songs.  The question you have to ask yourself is.  Do I have them on my iPod?”

He pursed his lips, but couldn’t hide his irrepressible grin, his irresistible dimples.  “Okay, I believe you.  I win this round.”

I tried to look innocent.  “I can’t remember, does that mean that you get to pick a prize, too?”

“Ha!  You’re full of it.  You know the rules.  There’s always a loser, which means I owe you two, you owe me one.”

I threw my arms up.  “Oh fine.  How about we cancel out each other for one?  Win, win for both of us.”

“Hell no.  We already covered that.  Quit backpedaling, and let’s negotiate.  I’ll go first.  Mine is easy.  You sing that Alpa Chino song for me.  Here and now.  Let’s hear it.”

I covered my face with my hands.  “I’m not doing that,” I told him.

He was closer when he spoke.  “And I get to record it.  I want to use it as my ringtone.”

“Oh Lord.  That’s messed up.”

I started giggling when he scooped me clean out of my chair, carrying me back to the couch with him.  He perched me on his lap sideways, tilting my chin up with his finger, his eyes so warm they left their permanent brand on me.

“I won’t hold back on you, if you make me do this,” I warned him, reaching up to touch a beloved dimple.

“Promises, promises.  Start singing, sweetheart.  And sing it sexy.”

I did sing it for him, but it was the opposite of sexy.  I couldn’t stop giggling for the entire stupid song.

And he hadn’t been joking, he really did record it, though I doubted he’d be able to hear me singing on the playback, we were both laughing so hard.

“Okay, okay, your turn.  Hit me with your best shot.”

“Only one appropriate prize comes to mind.  You’re going to owe me a dick pic.”

He hooted with laughter, spilling me out of his lap and onto the couch, and standing up.  “You don’t have to ask me twice.”  His hands went to his fly.

I slapped his arm.  “I’m not finished.  Not just any dick pic.  I’m going to text you, it could happen at any time, and no matter when it does happen, you have to run somewhere private, take a dick pic, and send it to me.”

“That’s evil.  What if I’m in the middle of a show?”  He sat down again, pulling me back onto his lap.

“This will count for both of my wins, both of my prizes, so even if you’re in the middle of a show, you have to do it.  You’ll get a ten-minute window.  And your face has to be in the photo.  And there has to be something in the picture to timestamp it.”

“You are one diabolical woman, but I suppose I have to do it.  You were a good sport about that song.”

His finger was tilting my chin up again, his warm smiling eyes making their mark on me.  Again.  I wished he would stop doing both.  One was distracting, the other riveting.

More weapons in his endless arsenal.

“What am I going to do with you?” I asked him, voice breathless, lungs breathless.

He took the air right out of me.  And the fight.

“It boggles the mind,” he said with a smile, though his hoarse voice contradicted the playful line.

He ran his nose along my jaw, breathing on me.  “We’re friends, right?  This is going well, don’t you think?”

The man was demented.  “By what criteria are we judging it?  If going well means we’ve both lost our ever-loving minds, then yes, I guess it’s going well?!  If we’re basing it on us being just friends, we’re failing epically.”

He pulled back from me and grinned, just looking tickled by my answer, the stubborn man.  “Don’t be so salty.  We’re getting along great, and we’re having so much fun.  Tell me you didn’t miss this.  I dare you.”

That I couldn’t do, unless I became a much better liar in the next five seconds, and as for the dare, psh, I wasn’t falling for it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

We ate bacon wrapped jalapeño poppers, and then, because he harassed me into doing it, I gave him a tour of my house.

I’d forgotten that I’d let the neighbor’s orange tabby in earlier, but I remembered as I was showing him my small home office, and we found him, passed out on his back, sleeping under my desk.

Tristan, who loved all cuddly creatures, went for him with a smile, picking up the cat, and stroking it without even seeming to disturb the animals limp sleep.  Magic hands and all that.

He looked up at me, cat cradled in his arms like a baby.  “What’s its name?”

My mind went blank.  It was over all the time, but I just called it kitty, and thought of it as the orange tabby.

I improvised.  “I call him Ginger, on account of the orange hair.”

He laughed, and sent me an odd look.  “Um, Danika, this cat is a girl.  How on earth do you not know that you have a girl cat?”