Lovely Trigger(12)

I felt myself pale. Very carefully, I set down my glass, placing both hands carefully into my lap where I could clench them as hard as I needed to without looking crazy. “What exactly did Tristan tell you?”

“Oh, so you do know him? Not much. He just kind of…warned me off, in a vague sort of way. He said you had an ex-husband that was liable to stab me in my sleep if I laid a hand on you. He said he was huge, and insanely violent when it came to you, or rather who you date. He basically told me that your ex would go to jail for murder before he’d let you go out with a guy like me.”

The sheer gall of that, the utter hypocritical nerve of it made me want to scream.

I smiled tightly. “Tristan has a twisted sense of humor. He was just messing with you. I was never married.”

We did, unfortunately, run into each other occasionally, but that night was the first time I’d sought Tristan out deliberately since the accident.

Working at the hotel got me backstage before his show, and eventually, his dressing room. It was very handy to be on a first name basis with every security guard on the property.

He met me, his jaw clenched, at the door.

I barged in, fuming. I waited to speak until he closed the door, giving us privacy.

“How dare you?!” I hissed, shaking. It felt surreal to be alone in a room with him. The only thing that made it bearable was my unadulterated rage.

“I know why you’re here,” he said calmly. “I can explain.”

“Oh please do. I would love to hear it.”

He took a few steps toward me, but I backed just as many steps away, keeping my distance. “Don’t you dare try to touch me.”

He looked down, taking a deep breath. “Of course, Danika. I know how you feel about that. I take it this is about Milton?”

I nodded, biting back several sarcastic things that came to mind. “Of course it is. Why else would I be here?”

I wanted to say so much more, about how my love life wasn’t his business, about how he didn’t get to kiss my sister and God only knew what else and then try to interfere in my life, but I held my tongue. It was a herculean effort, but I did it. I would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how much that bothered me, how it had kept me up at night, the doubt, the uncertainty. Had I ever even known him at all?

“Why else indeed? Listen, I told him that because—“

“I can’t believe you told him I was divorced!”

He met my eyes. His were steady, his jaw so stubborn that I didn’t know if I wanted to slap it or kiss it. “You are divorced.” His tone was chastising.

“That marriage was a joke. It didn’t even count.”

He flinched, not even trying to hide it, one hand shooting up to rub at a twitching temple. “I told him that because he is not the guy for you.”

“How cute. You think you know what’s good for me?”

“He’s a womanizer.”

I laughed. It was so bitter that I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t change it, couldn’t keep it in. “Look who’s talking.”

“And a liar.”

I began to look around, and when I realized that I was trying to find something to throw, I knew, with absolute certainty, that I needed to leave.

Every second that we stayed within each other’s vicinity was bad for my peace of mind. This little scene would haunt me for months. Just seeing him up close like this and breathing him in, it would mess me up, set me back.

I met his steady stare, trying not to snarl. “That is beside the point. None of this is your business. Nothing in my life is your business. Are we clear?”

“Please, Danika, stay clear of him. I know you have a right to do as you please, but understand that I wouldn’t have interfered if I weren’t concerned. This guy is bad news. He’ll break your heart, and when he does, I may well break his neck.”

My mouth was trembling. With rage. With pain. The notion that he was watching over me like a big brother, that he thought of himself that way…it stung.

It cut.

It wounded.

And I was wounded enough.

I pointed at him. “You stop it. Quit acting like you give a damn, and stay the f*ck out of my life. You and I…we are nothing to each other. Less than strangers.”

He shook his head and that set me off. I had to restrain myself from attacking him, but in my head, I was shoving, hitting, slapping. Grabbing his shirt in both fists.

In reality, in that pregnant, futile moment, we only stared at each other.

We were both panting. I clenched and unclenched my fists and watched his hands copying the motion.

“Please,” he mouthed.

I left, and thank God he didn’t stop me.

I went to a very public gala with Milton the next weekend. There was a red carpet with photographers. I smiled like I was having the best night of my life for those cameras and tried not to think about the fact that I had said yes to this mostly out of spite. Tristan would see these pictures, and he would know just how much of a say he had in my life.

I let Milton kiss me good night when he dropped me back off at my apartment, but I didn’t invite him in. It was a good kiss. The man knew what he was doing. I knew I’d let him do it again.

He met me for lunch the following Monday in a posh café near the L.A. gallery.

He had a black eye and a badly swollen cheek that he claimed was from football practice. His story didn’t change, even when I tried to pry further.