Bad Things(2)

Jerry turned to see what the other man was smiling about. He was a middle-aged man, short and balding, with a slight build. His face was far from handsome, with close-set eyes and a big nose, but I thought he had one of the best smiles in the world.

“Danika,” Jerry said with that world-class smile. “This is my buddy, Tristan. He’s going to be crashing on the couch for a few days. He’s…uh…between residences.”

I mentally groaned. Bev was going to kill him. One glance at Tristan and I knew he wasn’t just a buddy. Jerry had a spotty history with helping out what he always thought was the latest rising star. He had big dreams of managing the next big rock band, and he took those dreams to extremes. He and Bev were both technically attorneys, but she was the only lawyer in the house that you could call employed. Jerry was too busy collecting unsigned bands to practice law.

I gave Jerry a pointed look. “Bev is going to string you up. She said that if you brought home one more out-of-work musician, that she was going to kick you out, and then I would get upgraded to a bigger room.”

He grimaced. “Now, now, don’t go jumping to conclusions. Tristan has a job. Look, he’s not even carrying a guitar.”

I eyed Tristan up. “What’s the job?”

Jerry answered for him, which let me know that he was full of it. “He’s a club promoter.”

I rolled my eyes. “Is that the best you can do? That’s Vegas code for unemployed, Jerry. My pothead ex-boyfriend even calls himself a club promoter, and I don’t think he ever even leaves his house. You need to think up something better before Bev gets home.”

Tristan laughed, not looking even slightly offended by our exchange. “I am a club promoter, and I do also happen to be in a band,” he said in a low, sexy drawl.

Oh lord, I thought, Four Kicks by Kings of Leon playing at full volume in my head as I heard his voice at close range. And I tried to pretend that I hadn’t even heard that sexy as hell laugh. I knew that we were going to be a dangerous combination. Bad things were going to happen if we spent too much time around each other.

“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.