Lovely Trigger(47)

We were so freaking screwed up.

So freaking screwed.

His hand moved to my stomach, stroking with a light touch through my thin shirt. “I love these sheets. I’m going to steal them from you when you’re not looking, or, you know, when you are.”

I laughed. “They wouldn’t even fit your bed. They only fit a queen.”

“I don’t care. I’ll use them like a blanket.”

I laughed harder, then stopped abruptly as he moved to loom over me.

I stared up at him, wondering when I had lost this fight. It was likely before it had even begun. No wonder Andrew had never stood a chance. No wonder no one had. Who could compete with this beautiful, larger than life specimen of a man?

He didn’t make a move on me, or at least, not in the way I was expecting. Instead of bending down to me, he lifted the hem of my shirt, exposing my belly, and then pulling my shorts down enough to unearth my skin, from my navel down to my pelvis.

Several long, jagged scars marred the skin there. They’d faded more than I had ever hoped for, but still, they were impossible to miss.

He ran his fingers over each one, his expression going very blank, but not as blank as mine was. “Will you tell me what these are?”

I wasn’t happy to talk about this, but I was anxious to get it over with.

“They’re nothing. Completely superficial,” I lied.

Not remotely superficial.

Just the opposite.

Profoundly detrimental, that’s what those scars were.

“From the accident?” he asked, face still blank.

“Yes. I just got scratched up a bit. Like I said, totally superficial. Didn’t hurt a thing but my vanity.” Slowly but firmly, I pulled my shorts up, and my shirt down to cover the marks.

He sat up, rubbing his palms into his eyes. “I know it’s not your favorite thing, but there is some stuff we need to talk about.”

That pissed me off. Couldn’t we go even a few weeks before we delved into that? Couldn’t I just enjoy myself, for once? But even as I had the thought, I recalled several things that I’d just been dying to have him clear up for me.

I stood up and began to pace.





“Okay you want to talk? Let’s talk.” My tone was tense, my arms folded in front of me like I was ready to do battle.

Because I was.

I kept pacing as I asked, “Did you beat up Milton back when I was dating him?” I snapped my neck around to look at him.

He tried to give me a very innocent look, but I was not buying it. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb. Answer me.”

“When are we talking about, exactly?”

“Oh, did you beat him up more than once?” I shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I went out with him on a Friday. Some charity event. There were photographers there. The next time I saw him, on a Monday, he looked like he’d lost a fight. Was that fight with you?” I spoke slowly, sharply, determined to get a square answer.

“Oh, that…” He gave me an engaging sort of grimace that turned into an audacious smile. “Yes. That was me. In my defense, I was provoked beyond all sanity. And the next time, well, he was asking for it. Don’t get all pissy about it. He’s a big boy, he can handle it. I was literally picking on someone my own size.”

I shook my head, beyond exasperated, because he clearly wasn’t sorry, and moreover, perversely, I found his shameless confession sort of endearing.

And worse still, I couldn’t keep myself from asking, “You weren’t hurt, were you?”

I was a stupid, stupid girl. Hopeless really.

He stood and approached me, and I got the tightest hug for that one, his face buried in my neck. “You’re such a sweetheart, you know that? He didn’t hurt me. Not at all. It was kind of a letdown, really. He looked like he’d be more of a challenge. Do you know that second time was the last time I’ve been in a fight?”

“You beat him up a second time?”

“I knew he kept calling you, after you’d said to leave you alone. Before you ask how I knew, I made a point of finding him and asking him. That was the second time. He stopped calling, right?”

I didn’t have a clue what to say to that, so I just stared.

“Okay, my turn,” said Tristan.

He pulled back and all of the happy bled out of his face as he pondered his question. A twitch started pulsing in his temple, but he plunged ahead. “Did you sleep with Milton?” The words churned over in his mouth, like he didn’t have the stomach for them.

I rubbed my temples. “Tristan,” I warned him.

How quickly we’d wandered out of safe territory.

“I’m not going to interrogate you about the last six years. I just want to know about him. Consider it my one free question.”

I stood and started to pace, getting more agitated by the second. “He bothers you more than, say, someone more faceless? Someone you don’t know?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Fine. No. I never slept with him. It never got that far. Now, my turn.”

“Your turn,” he agreed warily.

“Tell me about you and my sister.”

His brows shot together. “Dahlia?”

“Yes. That sister. Tell me what happened between you two.”