Bad Things (Tristan & Danika #1) (48 page)

“I know
of
him.
 
He’s the lead singer of that band that James Cavendish is backing.
 
He has a reputation…”

That was news to me.
 
Not the reputation part, but the James Cavendish backing.
 
I’d known he was introducing them to some record people, but I hadn’t heard anything about him actually putting money up for them himself.
 

“A lot of local bands are really bitter about that.
 
Their band hasn’t paid their dues, and here they are, getting cash backing from one of the biggest names in town.”

That had my hackles rising a bit.
 
“And who gets to decide what dues you have to pay to make it?
 
They’re really good.
 
Best I’ve ever heard live.”

This was a bit of a dig.
 
Okay, it was a huge, mean dig, because Patrick was the drummer in a local band that had been going hard in the live scene for years.
 

“Ouch, Danika.”

I grimaced.
 
“Sorry.
 
That wasn’t nice, but they’re good, and I think it’s bullshit to put your baggage on another band, just because they haven’t been performing as long.”

He nodded, chewing on his lip.
 
“Fair enough.
 
I might be a touch bitter, so let’s just forget I said anything.
 
Let’s talk about you.
 
What have you been up to?”

I shrugged.
 
“School, work, nothing special.”

“Anything going on with the dancing?”

“Not unless you count mad clubbing.”

He laughed, and as I watched him, I saw a sharpness in his eyes that I didn’t remember from before.
 
I liked it.
 
He seemed more present than he’d ever been when he’d been with me.
 

“You look great, too.
 
How is everything with you?”

“It’s good.
 
I’m going on one year sober now, so that’s a pretty big deal for me.
 
The band isn’t getting huge attention, but we still make the rounds, and we still love what we’re doing.”

I nodded.
 
“That’s great.
 
I’m so happy for you, especially the sobriety part.”

“Thank you.
 
Hey, we should go for coffee sometime.
 
Do some catching up.
 
It’s been so long…I’d love to reconnect again.”
 

Of course, wouldn’t you just know it, Tristan walked up just in time to hear that last part.
 
He went full on caveman right off the bat, throwing an arm over my shoulder, and giving Patrick the look of death.
 

“You two know each other?” he bit out, and his tone, his very demeanor, just rubbed me the wrong way.
 

“We’re old friends,” I explained.
 
Damage control.
 

“We dated for two years,” Patrick countered.
 
Opposite of damage control.
 

Tristan stiffened, his face getting a little scary as he just stared at Patrick for long, awkward minutes.
 
Finally, he broke the awful silence, but what came out of his mouth was no improvement.
 
“So you’re one of the selfish pricks that fucked her, and never got her off.”
 

I walked away, furious and hurt, before he’d gotten the last word out.
 
The asshole.
 
The complete hypocritical nerve of him, saying a thing like that, embarrassing me without a qualm.
 

I made it out the front door, and to the sidewalk in front of the house before Tristan caught me.
 

“Hey!” he called, grabbing my elbow.
 
“I’m sorry.
 
That was a dick move.
 
It was a gut reaction to meeting that prick.”

I had my own gut reaction right then, and it was to defend my ex, which said a lot about how angry I was at Tristan.
 
“He’s not a prick.
 
Not getting me off doesn’t make him a prick.
 
You know, just because he didn’t know how to get me off, doesn’t mean he didn’t try.
 
He
at least would tell me that he loved me.”

That hit a nerve, and boy was I not ready for his gut reaction to that nerve getting hit.
 

“You really want to do this now?” he asked, his voice low and mean.
 
My heart turned over in my chest at the question.
 
This was going to be bad.
 
I could tell with that one sentence that his claws were out, and I wouldn’t make it through this unscathed.
 
Still, I wanted to know.
 
Whatever he felt, or didn’t feel for me, I needed to know.
 

“You think because he said that to you, that what you had with him was better than this?
 
Did him saying that somehow keep you two together forever?
 
Love is just a word.”

“Semantics,” I said, my voice trembling.
 
“If it doesn’t mean anything, why won’t you say it to me?”

“I don’t say it back because I don’t fucking believe you!”
 
He was shouting, and my heart was breaking with every word.
 
“When I hear you say I love you, what I hear is you keeping score, and I’m not playing that game with you.
 
There is no score for me.
 
There never was.”
 

I couldn’t speak, my mind racing to process his words, to try to make sense of them, to try to put them together in a way that I could accept, and not bleed out from all of the wounds.

“Love is nothing but the most flexible promise,” he continued mercilessly.
 
“You use it for your purposes, and it can lose its meaning whenever you feel like it.
 
Don’t act like you’re more committed to us than I am, just because you like to say those words.”

I shook my head, my eyes glued to him, my lip trembling uncontrollably.
 

“You’ve already thrown out the bombshell that you don’t think we’re good for each other.
 
You think I don’t know you well enough to know that’s just the excuse you’ll use on me when you break it off?
 
You’re building your case, even as we speak.
 
That’s right; I know you
that well.
 
Just like I know that, though you’re very comfortable with the term I love you, you will be the one to walk away from this.
 
Guaranteed.
 
You think you love
me
, but you’re in love with being in love.”

“Don’t try to tell me what I feel.
 
Don’t fucking do that.
 
You have no right
—”

“Don’t I?
 
I thought you loved me.
 
Taking it back so soon?
 
Or is this it then?
 
Have you built up enough of a case to walk away yet?
 
Because I haven’t said three fucking words to you that you’ve taken the meaning out of?”
 

That broke me, because I’d let him see who I was, and all he saw was the worst of me.
 
And even more painful, he seemed ready and willing to let me walk away.
 

He always said he didn’t want to hurt me, but what he didn’t seem to understand was, his rejection of my love was the
worst
kind of hurt.
 

I don’t know if someone told them, or if we’d just been yelling that loudly, but the yard was suddenly filled with familiar faces.
 

Frankie approached me, trying to get close, to put her arm around me, but I backed away.
 

Kenny and Cory had obviously finally made it to the party, and they were surrounding Tristan, looking wary.
 

Jared clapped a hand onto his brother’s shoulder, his eyes concerned.
 
“Why don’t we take a walk, bro?
 
Let’s cool off for a minute.
 
You were shouting loud enough to wake the dead, and this entire neighborhood does not need to know that much about your personal business.”

Tristan shrugged off his hand, striding down the sidewalk, his pace eating up the pavement until he was out of sight in the dark in just seconds.
 

Eyes wet with tears, my heart in tatters, I walked back into the house.
 
I needed a bathroom, and a moment to regain my composure.
 

I found one, washing my face with cold water, then doing it again.
 
I didn’t want to think, and I had no idea what to do next.
 

I just felt…lost.
 
Like life was a maze that I’d never be able to navigate, like everyone else had been born with a map, and mine had been forgotten, and I was destined to keep repeating the same painful mistakes, again and again.
   

I had a bona fide pity party for at least ten minutes.
 
Some asshole pounding on the door was all that got me moving again.
   

I dried my face, and stepped out, my eyes on the ground.
 
I had one goal—to find Frankie and get a ride home without another ounce of drama.
 

That wasn’t meant to be.

I ran smack into Patrick’s chest before I’d taken five steps.
 

He saw my tear streaked face, and without a word, just pulled me against him, running a hand over my hair.
 
It was comforting.
 
I had the brief thought that he was sweeter than I’d remembered.
 

That opinion didn’t last long, though, as he dipped his head and kissed me, right smack on the mouth, and then didn’t pull back.
 

I didn’t react at first, stunned by what an insensitive prick he really was, to plant one on a crying girl.
 
It wasn’t until he pushed his tongue into my mouth that I shoved on his chest, wrenching away, glaring at him.
 

And, with the worst timing in history, once again, Tristan was there, catching enough of the kiss to put murder in his eyes.
 

I backed away as he cursed, and then charged, taking Patrick down to the ground with a tackle that I swore made the entire house shake.
 

I screamed, and screamed some more as he started punching the smaller man, right in the face, again and again, his massive arms faster than I’d have believed possible.
 
Patrick struggled, he tried, but he didn’t get one punch in before he went limp.
 

The sounds, the sickening thud of fist hitting flesh, and flesh giving to fist, made me nauseous, and I backed away, further and further, mortified by what Tristan was doing, what he was capable of.
 

Tristan kept hitting the limp man, his heavy fists brutal, and would have kept right on punching, if Kenny, Cory, Jared, and some guy I’d never seen before forcibly separated him from his prey.
 
As it was, Patrick was out cold, his face bloody.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

TRISTAN

It didn’t even take ten minutes before I regretted everything I’d said to her, and moreover, the way I’d said it.
 
Even the parts that were true shouldn’t have been delivered like that.

I turned around, heading straight back, jogging now, panicking inside because I knew how she was, knew she would use my outburst to alienate us completely.
 
I had so much more that I’d make her hear, though.
 
I knew that I could change her mind.

I was at a dead sprint by the time I got back to the house.
 
No one was left in the front yard, and I burst straight through the front door, searching faces.
 
I went through three rooms before I ran into Frankie, who was looking, too.
 

“I saw her go into the house, but I haven’t been able to find her since you left.
 
You’re in the doghouse, man.
 
You better make this up to her.
 
You better write some fucking poetry to make up for the shit you said to her.”
 

I didn’t respond, still moving, and looking, room to room, frantic to find her.
 
I had the worst feeling in my gut, I knew that the faster I found her, the better chance I had of keeping this from turning into something that I couldn’t handle.
 

I found Cory, and Kenny, and Jared, but still no Danika.
 

When I finally did come across her, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
 
I was so shocked, that I just stood there for a moment, frozen in place.
 

That piece of shit was touching her.
 
No, not just touching her, kissing her.
 
On the lips.
 
With his mouth.
 
His arms were wrapped around her, too, but all I could focus on was what I needed to do to his face.

Danika wrenched away from him suddenly, her eyes furious, the curve of her mouth disgusted.
 

I lost my mind, my last clear thought before I went ballistic being that I would destroy him.
 
I would rip him apart, piece by fucking piece, for touching what was
mine
.
 

The next thing I remembered were cuffs snapping onto my wrists.
 
I shrugged my shoulders, and the cops looked ready to Taser me for that small movement.
 
I couldn’t blame them.
 
When men my size went ballistic, bad things happened, as evidenced by the guy being pushed away in a gurney.