Bad Things(43)

He sent me an exasperated look. “Well, if you drink enough shots that you climb on the bar to dance, and some guy grabs you, don’t nag me for beating the shit out of him.”

“That sounds like a clear violation of rule number,” I pointed out.

“That’s not jealousy. That’s me being protective of my buddy.”

I rolled my eyes. It was a fine line.

He started writing again.





5. Always remember that we like each other too much to sleep together, and that sleeping together will ruin EVERYTHING.





6. If the words ‘I love you’ are ever mentioned, it will be assumed that it is in a friendship type context.





7. No talking dirty, or talking about dates with your vibrator.





He sighed, immediately crossing #7 out.





7. No talking dirty, or talking about dates with your vibrator.





“That one is just no fun at all,” he explained.

I giggled. Only Tristan could make me giggle.

He sent me a warm smile.

“I named my vibrator after you,” I told him with a smirk. “He’s small, but he makes up for it by working hard.”

He straightened, moving a little close to show me just how small he wasn’t. I backed up to the edge of the table, and he followed.

He gave me his sinful smile. “I’m big like this everywhere. Don’t make me prove it to you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Every guy says that. It would be refreshing to meet a guy that just admitted to being average-sized, or God forbid, small.”

He shook his head. “You want me to do something crazy. I see your game now. Not falling for it.”

I couldn’t hold back a smile, because I had been egging him on. The man was so outrageous, he’d do anything on a dare. I shrugged. “I’ll never know, but in my imagination it’s very clearly average, bordering on small. No way to change it.”

He pursed his lips, his fingers going to the button on his jeans.

I slapped my hands over my eyes, running away and giggling like a kid.

He overtook me in seconds, picking me up easily. He flung me over his shoulder, heading to the back door.

I knew where this was leading.

“Put me down!” I screeched between giggles. “I just washed my hair!”

“Every time you make me want to pull my dick out for you, for any reason, I’m throwing you in the pool. This is for the sake of our friendship, Danika.”

I was already flying through the air before he’d finished talking. I heard him say Danika right before my head went under.

The bastard.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN





As though putting it in writing had somehow aggravated the situation, the sexual tension between us only seemed to get worse. Still, no one could say that we didn’t try our best to stick to that stupid list.

I found myself at his mother’s house for dinner the next day, which I found strange, and a little surreal, but he was persistent enough to talk me into just about anything.

She lived about forty-five minutes away, in one of the more rundown neighborhoods just east of the strip. Her house was big, but in rough shape at a glance, with huge chunks missing from the stucco, a disaster of a lawn, and two cars parked in the driveway that were missing tires.

I shot Tristan a glance. “She has two full-grown sons. Why don’t you guys help her fix up the place?”

He’d been about to get out of the car, but he paused at that. His brow furrowed. “It’s complicated. I’ve tried before, but her boyfriend takes it as an insult if someone else tries to make repairs to her house, even though he’ll never do it himself.”

“He sounds like a winner,” I muttered, not quite under my breath.

As always, I was gratified to hear him laugh. My lips turned up in a happy smile. Not everyone could appreciate my brand of sarcasm, and I relished the fact that Tristan seemed to find it endlessly entertaining.

“He’s…difficult, but I try not to make any waves. I learned a long time ago not to get between my mom and one of her boyfriends.”

I thought that was telling, and I sent him a sympathetic look as we made our way to the house.

“I can relate to that,” I told him quietly. “My mom once tried to kick me out of the house because I told one of her boyfriends that he wasn’t my dad.” I swallowed, finding it hard to tell him the story, for some strange reason. It wasn’t as though it was a sensitive subject for me. “I was eight at the time.”