Bad Things(23)

“Who are you texting?” I asked, trying to get a look at the screen on her phone.

Her lip curled in distaste. “No one important. My ex won’t leave me alone, but I’ve learned not to text him back, even if it’s just to tell him to go to hell.”

I felt a totally unreasonable surge of anger move through me at that. “Want me to kick his ass?” I asked, not even close to joking.

She laughed, shaking her head as she put her phone back into her tiny clutch. “No. He’ll give up eventually.”

“What did his text say?”

She rolled her eyes. “He says he loves me. But he sure didn’t love me enough not to cheat on me.”

My gut clenched and my fists curled. “How long ago was that?”

She made a dismissive motion with her hands. “Almost a month now.”

My eyes widened. “You haven’t even been broken up for a month?” I couldn’t have said exactly why, but that bothered me. A lot.

“We’re ancient history, as far as I’m concerned. One strike and you’re out. I don’t know if it was the first time he cheated on me, but it was the first time I caught him, and once was enough for me. I wouldn’t take him back if he were the last man on earth. I’m ‘if he caught fire, and I had a glass of water, I’d drink it slowly and watch’ done.”

Even out of sorts, I had to stifle a laugh at that visual.

I heard the faint noise of her phone dinging at her even in her purse, and I wanted to punch somebody.

She got it out again, checked the screen, then put it back.

“You let me know if he keeps it up, and I will make sure he stops.”

She sent me a sideways smile that made me want to kiss her. “You’re sweet, you know that?”

I shook my head. I’d never thought of myself that way. Not even a little.

“What do you say we hit the floor again, boo?” I asked her, after we’d both had two more dirty martinis.

Her perfect little nose wrinkled at me. “Don’t call me that. That is such a weird nickname for a grown ass man to be calling me.”

“So what should I call you?”

“Danika.”

“That sounds so formal. I can’t call you by your name all of the time.”

“Then call me something sweet. Like sweetheart, or hell, I don’t know, pudding.”

“Pudding?” I laughed.

She nodded. “It’s sweet, and I like the way you say it. You can’t call someone pudding and not sound sweet on me.

“You’re just messing with me, aren’t you?”

She shook her head. “No. I sincerely want you to call me pudding. I think it’s adorable.”

“You’re drunk,” I noted.

She shrugged. “So? I’d still like to hear you call me pudding.”

“You won’t say so in the morning.”

“Then I give you my drunk permission to ignore whatever the sober me tells you. You should like the drunk me better, anyway, because I like you more than the sober me does.”

I couldn’t really argue with that. “Okay, pudding, let’s dance.”





CHAPTER EIGHT





DANIKA

We quickly developed a pattern, and five days later, we’d gone out dancing nearly every night.

I was a restless person. I always had been. I found myself constantly thinking of the next step, calculating what was to come, or even ten steps ahead. I rarely found myself living in the moment. Tristan did that for me. He brought me back to the moment nearly every second I was in his company. It was an addictive kind of feeling, to know, just know, that whatever was going on right now was worth attending to. I didn’t have to look forward with Tristan. I lived in the present, and I loved it.

“Are you getting sick of my hangover sandwiches?” Tristan asked as he handed me one.

“Abso-f*cking-lutely not,” I said, taking my sandwich from him.

As I thought about it, I wasn’t sick of one thing about him. We’d been inseparable since nearly the moment we’d met, and it was far from getting old.

“I actually have a promoting gig tonight,” he told me between bites. “So you get to see me work. It’s this new club, over off Paradise. You’ll finally get to meet Dean.”

“I can’t go,” I said, recalling what day of the week it was. “I have a thing tonight.”