Rock Bottom (Tristan & Danika #2)(16)

I was relieved when Frankie met us at the valet station, hugging us both exuberantly, and talking a mile a minute from the second she saw us, effectively distracting Tristan from his dark mood.

“I had dinner with James last night,” she began.

I smirked, always amused when she referred to the famous James Cavendish by his first name. It just sounded wrong. The man was too intimidating for first name basis, but I knew they were close friends. “He’s opening up an internship at his gallery, not this semester, but the next, and he wants to interview you for it! You want it, right? I told him you’d want to do it, so you better want it.”

My heart did a little flip in my chest. It was a huge opportunity for me. It was notoriously hard to get an internship in one of his galleries, and nearly impossible to be hired on. “That’s amazing! Of course I want it! I’ll scale back on classes next semester if I have to.”

“Good, good. I told him you’d be psyched, and I gave him your number.”

I hugged her, squeezing hard. “Thank you! You’re the best!”

“Did you tell him that if he hits on her I’ll f**king kill him?” Tristan spoke quiet and low.

We sent him matching glares.

“Give me some credit, man.” Frankie’s tone was exasperated. “James doesn’t do vanilla anymore, not for a long time now, and I told him very clearly that Danika isn’t his type. Trust me, he won’t go there.”

“Does he know she’s taken? Did you tell him that she’s with me?”

“Not in so many words, but I’m sure he can connect the dots. It’s not like he’s interested in her personal life. This is about the gallery. He’s decided he’d like her working for him, period.”

“Bullshit.”

My hands clenched into fists. The thought of him ruining this for me had me livid. I pointed at him. “Knock it off. Do you see me holding you back from being successful? I didn’t think so. Show me the same respect, you ass.”

Something, either my words or my tone, had him backing off instantly.

“Fine, fine. Just promise to tell me if he steps out of line.”

I began to walk into the building, done with the conversation. The way things were going, we’d be skipping straight to lunch as Tristan found one thing after another to be jealous about.

We were seated with menus before he spoke again.

“Just promise me you’ll let me know if he’s out of line, and I’ll drop it.”

“The man is a f**king billionaire sexgod. I’m pretty sure I won’t have to beat him off with a stick, but yeah, I promise.”

Frankie snorted. “Right? You have nothing to worry about, Tristan. I’ve never met a person in my life that has more self-control than James, and I already as good as warned him off.”

That seemed to settle it, and Tristan dropped the issue—thank God.

“I think I’ve got your tattoo design ready,” Frankie said excitedly, rubbing her hands together like a little girl. It was adorable, really, how much she loved her ink.

“Can I see it?” I asked, nervous but excited.

“Of course. I was thinking we could get you in on Tuesday. You should do it all in one sitting. It’s better that way, trust me.”

“I’m supposed to be in the studio on Tuesday,” Tristan told her, looking grumpy again. No, more like downright agitated.

“Well, you don’t got to be there, stud muffin,” she explained cheerfully.

“Yes, I do. I’ll talk to the producer; see what we can work out.”

Her mouth twisted ruefully. “Another one bites the dust. Could you be more obsessed with your girl, man?”

“Doubtful,” he replied mildly.

CHAPTER SEVEN

DANIKA

The shit really hit the fan the next morning.

I was digging through my overnight bag, fishing out workout clothes. The plan was to hit the gym together, and then the shower, but we never got to do either.

I pulled out the black tank top that had been ripped down the middle, unfolding it before I realized which shirt it was. Rolled up, it had looked roughly the same as my workout top. I tried to rebury it just as quickly, but I was too late.

It was wrenched out of my hand before I could put it back.

Tristan loomed above me. He’d been dressing, too, and wore nothing but some dark blue athletic shorts and tennis shoes.

He was shirtless and his chest and abdominal muscles clenched, his biceps twitching, as he gripped the shirt. In spite of my better judgement, even knowing the day was about to be ruined, I was turned on by the sight.

“What is this?” he asked, unfolding the material, examining every inch of it, as though to make some sense of the rip that ran down the front.

I sighed, my eyes closing in dread. “It’s a shirt,” I explained, my tone resigned.

“Why is it ripped in half?” he bit out. I could already tell by his blank eyes that his temper had taken him to a place I couldn’t reach.

“Long story.”

He gave me a very pained smile, his eyes scary. “I’ve got all day, sweetheart.”

“Let’s not do this, Tristan. It’s over with, and it was nothing that was worth you going to jail for.”

“Fine. Have it your way. You give me no explanations, so I can only assume the absolute worst. Just answer me one question. Were you raped?”