Bad Things(45)

Tristan’s big hand squeezing my knee again was what it finally took to get me to open my eyes. He was staring at me, and the look in his eyes was downright sinful. I swallowed, my jaw going a little slack with want as the hand on my knee caressed me, moving just a touch higher. I was wearing shorts, so it was skin on skin, and more than a little distracting.

I quickly snapped out of his little spell, glancing at Leticia and Jared. I was vastly relieved to see that they weren’t paying attention to us, instead digging into their own food with gusto.

I took another bite, shooting him a glance. He was still rubbing my knee, and for some asinine reason, I wasn’t pushing his hand away. Even more asinine, my left hand moved to cover his under the table, rubbing over his knuckles softly, then harder. I thought about touching him way more than I actually touched him, and so when I did, it always seemed to escalate way too fast. His hand was moving higher, and my own traitorous hand was only encouraging it, kneading his fingers harder into my thigh.

“So good, right?” Jared asked loudly, and I pushed Tristan’s hand away, my face turning bright pink.

“So good,” I agreed, meaning it, as I took another bite.

“The best,” Jared added.

“Hands down,” Tristan agreed.

I nodded, though I secretly thought that Tristan’s had been just as good.

Leticia flushed with pleasure. “I have the sweetest sons in the world, don’t I, Danika?”

I bit my tongue from making a sarcastic comment, playing nice instead. “They’re both very sweet.”

“A mother couldn’t ask for more.”

I was oddly touched when I caught the soft smile Tristan gave her for that comment.

Dessert consisted of stiff margaritas, which I thought said a lot. This family could drink, tiny mother included.

I was stuffed, and just a touch tipsy when the meal ended. I found myself lounging on a comfortable sofa in the TV room that directly connected to the kitchen, as Tristan and his mother cleaned up after dinner. I had a clear view of mother and son working in the kitchen together.

Jared joined me on the couch, sitting close, making a point to follow my gaze to his brother. “He’s a good guy,” he said quietly. “A good brother. He’s had my back since I can remember, even if I was in the wrong.”

“He’s always looked out for you,” I guessed.

“He can’t seem to help himself.”

“That’s what big brothers are for,” I explained.

Jared studied me. “You say that like you can relate. Are you a big sister?”

A familiar pain pinched at my chest. That pain never seemed to lessen. Time hadn’t done a thing to numb it, which was why I supposed I did my best never to think about my little sister.

I swallowed hard, his prying not making me want to lash out, as it would have with Tristan. I felt no compunctions about lashing out at Tristan, but somehow I did with Jared. It felt like Jared and I were on equal footing, but somehow, even at his sweetest and most amiable, I always felt that Tristan had the upper hand, and in a way, that made it hard for me to open up to him.

I kept my eyes on Tristan where he was helping his mother in the other room, and my voice very impersonal. “I am. I have a younger sister, but I’m not like Tristan. I tried my best, but I was a shitty big sister.”

I didn’t look at him, but Jared sounded very sympathetic as he asked, “What happened?”

I shook my head, surprised that I actually answered the question. “Too much to go back from. She loathes me, and I don’t blame her. We haven’t spoken in years.”

“Where does she live?”

“I couldn’t say. She asked me never to contact her again, and I’ve respected that request.” I didn’t have words to express how hard that had been for me, to be utterly rejected by the only person in the world I’d considered real family. I’d loved her so much, but it hadn’t been enough to keep me from failing her.

“How long ago was that?”

“Four years ago.”

“Damn. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Me too,” he said. I’d known his age, courtesy of Tristan, but Jared sounded surprised about mine. “So all of this went down when you were seventeen? How old was she?”

I swallowed, surprised that, of all of his probing questions, that one was the sorest wound. “Just fifteen. Just a baby.”