Rock Bottom (Tristan & Danika #2)(25)

“That’s the only free kiss you’ll ever get from me, Estella. The rest you’ll have to earn. My number’s on that card if you want to talk about it.”

Frankie turned away from her, obviously thinking the matter was settled, but Estella grabbed her arm before she could take a step.

“Wait! I do! I want to talk about it. I’d like to…do what you mentioned.”

Frankie swallowed hard, back to looking uncomfortable. “Is it something you’ve tried before?”

She shook her head. “No, but I’ve thought about it. I’ve…fantasized about it.” She glanced around as she said it, as though afraid they’d be overheard. I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her that half the bar was listening in.

To say Frankie looked intrigued was putting it mildly. “Have you now?” she asked softly. “I might just be able to work with that. Give me a call tomorrow, if you don’t change your mind after you’ve slept on it.”

Estella didn’t let go of her arm. She wasn’t done. “I won’t be able to sleep. I want to spend the night with you. I don’t want to wait.”

“It shouldn’t be a rash decision. You should take your time and think about it.”

“Please. I know what I want. Trust me that much, at least.”

And so I found myself driving to Frankie’s house, two lesbians going at it in the back of my beat-up car. Frankie claimed that she’d taken a taxi to the bar, and didn’t want to wait for one to pick them up, and Estella had gotten a ride from one of the other dancers.

I didn’t mind playing chauffeur, unabashedly thrilled that Frankie might have found someone she could be compatible with.

Someone’s shirt, I thought it was Estella’s, though it was hard to tell in the dark, landed in the passenger’s seat.

“Whoa,” I said under my breath.

“God, her f**king tits are real,” Frankie said loudly.

Was she talking to me? “Oh yeah?” I responded in the most appropriate way I could think of.

“Yeah. I f**king love real tits. They are hard as hell to find in Vegas.”

“Well, that’s nice,” I said pleasantly, thinking this was the strangest car ride I’d ever had.

“Do I get to touch you?” Estella asked her.

“If you are very, very good, you will earn that right when I say, but not before. Even if it is just handholding, I will be doing all of the touching. You okay with that? Is this going to be too much for you?”

Estella’s swift and firm denial made me smile. I wanted this to work out for them.

“The correct response will always end in Mistress Abelli.”

I felt suddenly like a voyeur, that little tidbit feeling like an intrusion into Frankie’s other ‘side.’

“Yes, Mistress Abelli,” Estella told her in a breathless voice.

“Dayum,” I said under my breath. I knew Frankie was hardcore, but damn me if that stuff wasn’t kind of hot.

Tristan seemed just as happy as I was about Frankie’s potential love match when I called him before bed.

The background noise on his end was bad. It sounded like he was in a small room with about a thousand giggling women.

“Where are you?” I asked him. It sounded like a party or a club.

“At some party for the record people.” He sounded distracted.

“Well, I’ll let you go. You sound busy. Hopefully we can talk tomorrow.”

“Sounds good. Tomorrow, then.”

“‘Kay.”

I hung up, feeling edgy and upset, suddenly plagued by a wave of discontent. Here we were, apart most of the time, and I couldn’t even go out and dance without worrying about what he’d think.

Meanwhile, he was at God only knew what kind of a party. Real trust was an elusive thing for me, given my track record with men, and Tristan’s track record with sex.

He could be doing absolutely anything he wanted, and I’d never know.

I felt our distance so keenly in that moment, not just in miles but in intimacy. What was it that kept us together? We didn’t even live in the same city now, and he apparently didn’t need me anymore.

I tossed and turned all night, tortured by the thought that I may not really even know him at all.

CHAPTER TEN

TRISTAN

I hung up the phone, glaring at Dean, who was laughing, draped over some chick I’d never seen before across the room.

The band shared a small house near the recording studio. It was not ideal, being that we didn’t even get our own bedrooms, and the living area was small enough to be useless.

And instead of getting weekends off, like they’d promised us, we worked through them half the time, making it feel more and more like we were living here, instead of in Vegas.

It was wearing on me, to say the least.

And, pissing me off just as badly, the record was being stalled at every turn. Dean had gone into full on self-destruct mode, spouting off bullshit about having creative differences with Kenny, slowing down a process that was already too slow.

Creative differences, my ass. I wanted to beat his face in. He did nothing for the creative side of the band, and messing with Kenny for no f**king reason was more than I could stand.

I took a direct swig from a bottle of Jack, still glaring away. On top of all of his other bullshit, he’d shown up to the house with a van full of groupies, and I’d ended up lying to Danika about the noise.