Rich prick. One time he pissed his pants—literally big, wet spot down the front of his khakis—just because I threatened to key his car. I know the dude’s a pansy, but suddenly picturing Hazel sitting across from him at some fancy restaurant, offering to whisk her off to the Caribbean on his private yacht, has my stomach in knots. When it’s just Hazel and me together I forget how different our upbringing was. She comes from money and I, well, don’t.
I’ve worked hard for each dollar I’ve ever made, but there’s still no way I can compete with the Thomas Brattelboros of the world—in money or status. Sure I own Charter Hill, but running a business isn’t always as glamorous as it seems. We do well, but I’m not exactly at wiping-my-ass-with-twenty-dollar-bills status.
Wait, I don’t fucking care, remember?
Suddenly very uncomfortable, I try to backpedal. I’d rather talk about my crap apartment than Tommy fucking Brattelboro. “To answer your earlier question, I only use this place to eat and sleep, so why should I waste time making it anything special?”
Hazel rolls on her side to face me, resting her head in the palm of her hand. “But it’s still your home. Don’t you want it to be special?”
I scoff, surprised she wants more. Like she genuinely cares. “This might be where I live, but it’s certainly not a home. Besides, it’s meant to be temporary. Or it was, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
For the past two weeks it’s become our thing to talk naked after we fuck, and while I wasn’t lying when I said I can’t promise not to hate her, I have to admit it is sort of nice to be civil. It takes a lot of energy to hate Hazel Blake, especially when I genuinely like being with her. I’m coming to accept the fact that we’re friends with benefits—you know, the kind where there actually might be a friend part.
And yes, I have my reasons for not giving two shits about this apartment. Caring would mean it’s permanent. That this would be my life until the day I die: a small, shitty apartment with no room for anyone but me.
For now it suits me just fine, but if my entire life consists only of working, eating, and fucking, well then that’s pretty fucking sad. Someday I’ll figure out what I want to do—who I want to be—and maybe get a dog to keep me company or some shit, but that’s sometime far, far, far in the future.
Sure, I could add a few throw pillows to this place in the meantime, but that won’t change anything. Then it’s just throw pillows inside a small, shitty apartment. It’d be like dousing a pile of dog shit in glitter. You can dress it up any way you want, but underneath it’s still shit. And what the fuck good is that?
But how do I explain all that to Hazel? Do I want to? What if she just laughs in my face because I’m such a pussy?
It’s still uncomfortable for me to express a lot in words, so I figure it’s easier just to show her. Maybe it won’t be the full story, but I’m trying.
I get up and start putting on my clothes, tossing Hazel’s T-shirt and jeans to her. “Come on, I want to take you somewhere.”
About fifteen minutes later I turn onto a dirt road and cut the ignition. Hazel is quiet for a second before she asks, “What is this place?”
I stare out the windshield at the half-built house. A concrete foundation is poured and most of the wooden frame is up, but there is no roof and the wood is weathered and worn. Grass and weeds climb up and over the concrete, taking over the lot.
We both get out of the car and walk toward the structure, stepping under the wooden beams.
“A few years ago I bought this empty lot with the idea that I’d build a home here.”
“What happened?”
What happened? That’s a good fucking question. I think for a minute on everything that’s happened in my life—everything that’s happened between us. I couldn’t explain it even if I wanted to.
“Fuck, I don’t know . . . life?” I pause to look around, kicking at one of the beams. “I started to work on it, but then one day it just didn’t seem as important to me. What good is a big-ass house on a huge piece of land when it’s just me?”
I watch as Hazel wanders around, taking it all in. She stops at one of the far walls, running her hand over the splintered wood of a giant hole right in the center. She looks fascinated and sad and I start to think it was a mistake bringing her here. What the hell was I thinking?
My phone vibrates in my pocket with an incoming work email and I notice the time: 5:45pm. “Shit, I gotta get going. I have somewhere I need to be.”
“Right, it’s Thursday. Don’t want to keep your friend waiting.” Hazel smiles, but something about it seems forced.
Her reaction has me confused, not only because I don’t know what she’s talking about, but also because she sounds jealous. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“My friend?” I ask.
She waves her hand and starts to turn away. “It’s fine, Tristan, really. You don’t have to hide it from me. I know you still see other women and I’m cool with it.”
I grab her arm and pull her to face me. “Wait, did you just say you’re cool with me going to fuck another chick?”
Hazel doesn’t say anything, as she looks embarrassed and hurt all at the same time, her eyes saying everything her mouth isn’t. For a split second I think that I should confirm her accusation, just to keep things from getting even more complicated between us, but fuck, I can’t stand the way she looks like someone just killed her puppy.
“Jesus. All right, let’s go. You’re coming with me.”
Her eyes get wide. “I’d rather not. I might be cool with the fact you’re screwing someone else, but I don’t need to witness it. And if you think I’m joining in for a threesome you’re crazy.”
I grin mischievously, unable to resist messing with her just a little. “Good thing there will be four of us, then.”
Hazel
A few minutes later Tristan pulls up to a modest yet charming white cape house with blue shutters and matching door. Doesn’t exactly look like the type of depraved sex house I pictured on the way over, but you never know what could be inside.
“You ready?” Tristan turns off the engine and faces me with a grin.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I deadpan.
We walk up the stone path to the front door. Tristan knocks and I try to gulp down a wave of anxiety.
The door opens to reveal . . . Mr. Turner?
Wait, what?
Either this is going to be the freakiest orgy of my life, or something else is going on here.
Mr. Turner pats Tristan’s shoulder and calls into the house, “Virginia, Tristan’s here.” His eyes fall on me and he smiles warmly. “And it looks like he brought a friend.”
He ushers us inside and I smell the most delicious aroma wafting from the kitchen. A petite, light-haired woman wearing a red ruffled apron comes around the corner. “There’s my guy!” She hugs Tristan before setting her sights on me. “And who’s this pretty girl?”
I try not to blush as Tristan introduces me. “This is Hazel Blake.” He doesn’t clarify further than that.
“She’s the one who used to hang around and distract Tristan from work back when he was in high school,” Mr. Turner adds. Everyone chuckles.
“Well, then, she’s my kind of girl. I keep trying to tell these boys they work too hard, but they never want to listen to me.” She moves to hug me, her embrace warm and welcoming, which catches me off guard. “I’m Ben’s wife, Virginia, but you can call me Ginny.” Ginny puts her right arm around my shoulders and slides her left into the crook of Tristan’s elbow, leading us both to the kitchen. “Come on now, dinner is just about ready.”
“Whatever it is, it smells amazing,” I can’t help but gush.
“Why thank you. It’s chicken parmesan, my grandmother’s secret recipe.”
“And my absolute favorite.” Tristan chimes in. “But don’t bother asking how she makes it, because she won’t tell anyone.”
As we walk through the kitchen to the dining ro
om, I feel awful that they didn’t know I was coming. “I hope it’s not too much trouble I came by unannounced.”
“Nonsense! Any friend of Tristan’s is welcome here anytime. I always make plenty of food and there is a seat at the table right next to him. Now you two go and get settled.” She gently scooches us toward the table as she and Mr. Turner get things ready in the kitchen.
Tristan heads straight for one of the chairs and leans back, clearly comfortable in his surroundings.
I position myself in the chair next to him, trying to hide my relief. “So this is where you go every Thursday?”
He tilts his head. “Are you disappointed?”
I try to contain the sheer and utter relief from reading plainly on my face. “It’s just not exactly the sex party I thought it’d be.”
He grins. “You never know what could happen after dessert.”
I stifle a laugh as Mr. and Mrs. Turner enter the room carrying dishes of food. Mr. Turner puts a giant dish of the most mouthwatering chicken parm I’ve ever seen in my life in the center of the table and Mrs. Turner—Ginny—places a bowl of salad next to it.
Over the course of dinner, which is filled with laughter, stories, and two helpings of food, I discover four things:
Mr. and Mrs. Turner are the nicest people I’ve ever met.
This chicken parmesan is my new favorite meal, hands down.
Tristan admires the Turners a great deal and they bring out a softer side to him that I really enjoy seeing.
I’m completely screwed if I thought I could keep from falling in love with Tristan Sharp all over again.
Tristan
Hazel is quiet on the ride back to my place after dinner. She turned on the radio in my truck and seems perfectly content to sit back and listen to the rhythmic beat as we drive through the dark. Her arm is outstretched next to the passenger window and her head rests lazily against the seat.
I’m not sure how I feel about bringing her to dinner. Nobody knows I go to the Turners’ every Thursday night, not even my brother. Other than the whole Hazel situation, it’s the only secret I keep from him. My time spent with Ben and his wife has always been the one night I can pretend I have a nice, normal family, and seeing Hazel be a part of that does weird fucking shit to my head. I should have let her think I was off screwing someone else. That would have kept things easy.
She gets to go around dating Thomas fucking Brattelboro like it’s no big deal, but the truth is I haven’t even looked at another girl since Hazel reappeared in my life—and not for lack of trying, believe me.
Hazel Blake has ruined me for all other women, and for that I want to make her pay.
I park my truck on the street and we head up the two flights of stairs to my apartment. I unlock the door and let Hazel in first. Needing to regain control, as soon as we enter the dark room and the door slams shut I press myself against her, my front to her back. I drag my tongue along the side of her neck, enjoying how sweet her skin tastes.
She inhales a sharp breath. I feel goose bumps break out across her arms. With my right hand I grab her hip, pulling her tightly against my growing hard-on, and glide my left hand across her stomach, up over her breasts—taking time to pinch each nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt—before sliding my fingers up to grab her chin.
I grip her gently, but firmly, and pull her head back to my shoulder so I can whisper in her ear.
“Do you love it when I touch you?”
I slide my right hand lower, dipping inside her jeans. I brush my fingers over her clit, but pull back until she answers.
“Yes,” she breathes, running her hand over my arm.
My fingers push under her panties and slide back to her slit, feeling her slick wetness. She’s always so wet for me. So ready for me.
“Do you love it when I own you?” I grunt, circling her opening.
“Yes,” she moans, curving her back and spreading her legs wider.
I thrust two fingers deep inside her pussy. They glide in easily. I push them as far as they will go, pressing my palm against her clit to pull her roughly against my now rock-solid dick. I simultaneously move the hand that’s on her throat to tangle in her loose hair, twisting it around my fingers so I can pull her head back against my shoulder.
“Do you love it when I hate you?” I challenge, biting her shoulder.
I move my fingers faster, using the weight of my palm to rub every single nerve. When I can feel her getting close to the edge I add a third finger, stroking in and out with a controlling rhythm. Her breath hitches and on a final, explosive moan she cries, “Yes!”
I allow her a moment to ride out the wave, gently stroking her shoulder with one hand as I slowly pull my fingers out of her tight heat, over her clit, and up her stomach.
She covers my right hand with hers and, without letting go, turns around to face me. She continues to drag my fingers up her body, between her breasts, and locks her eyes on mine as she pulls my fingers into her mouth, licking and kissing each one before letting them go.
Light bleeds through the window from the buildings outside, just enough for me to make out her features. Her eyes are dark and wild, her lips pink and perfect. Needing to taste her, I kiss her.
I kiss her hard and I kiss her deep, our tongues colliding between our teeth.
Only when I feel my lungs expand to the point of bursting do I pull back.
I kiss her on the forehead before picking her up in my arms. I carry her to my bed, laying her in the middle.
I pull her clothes off, then mine. Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I put on some soft music. I know she likes that.
I grab a condom from the bedside table and climb over her. I grab her ankles to spread her legs apart, crawling up between them. Her eyes never leave me as she watches my every move.
I sit up on my knees, taking a moment to look at her. To really look at her.
Her hair falls around her shoulders in soft waves. She looks down, almost like she’s embarrassed to be seen, but only for a second before she lifts her eyes back to mine. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and she looks so goddamn innocent and trusting, like she would do anything I say.
The thought both excites and paralyzes me.
When we’re fucking I like to be in control—and she allows it—but the strength in that suddenly feels overwhelming. I’m not sure I can handle the responsibility that comes with this kind of power.
There was a time in my life where I knew with absolute certainly I would never hurt Hazel. And while I would never physically abuse her, or any woman, I’m not so sure I can guarantee that her emotions are just as safe.
There are times, like now, when I look at this girl and want to forgive her for every bit of pain she might have ever caused me.
But then there are times I want to cause her the same kind of deep, twisted pain she inflicted on me. I’m such a sick fuck that I’m afraid one day I will.
But tonight? Tonight I’ll allow myself to worship her.
Because as much as I hate her, I also need her.
I already told you, I’m sick.
Two hours—and three orgasms—later, Hazel is curled up naked in my bed. I’m lying on my stomach next to her, also naked, with my elbows at right angles and my hands tucked under the pillow my face is buried in. I’m so comfortable I’m about to fall asleep.
Just as my eyes slide shut I feel a soft hand caress my right arm.
An even softer voice asks, “Do they hurt?”
Hazel is on her side facing me. Her fingertips ever so lightly trace the swollen skin of my scars.
“Not anymore,” I answer.
“Tristan?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you tell me how you got them?”
Her voice is so gentle, so sincere, so raw. I hold my breath, no longer tired at all. I’ve never told this story to anyone, but when Hazel and I are together like this—exposed and vulnerable after having consumed each other so completely—I feel powerless to k
eep up my defenses.
I sigh and turn my head to look at her in the dark. “When I was eight Logan and I were playing hide and seek. I saw my mom leave her room to go downstairs so I decided to hide in her closet. I accidentally knocked over a box. Some needles and shit spilled out. Before I could clean it up my mom came back and found me. She started screaming and threw me back so hard that I fell into her vanity.” I try not to cringe as I remember the excruciating pain that tore through my small body. “There was a lit candle on it and the whole thing crashed over landing on top of me. The candle burned my arm and the broken mirror sliced it up.”
My eyes have adjusted to the shadows enough to make out Hazel’s features—her bottom lip juts out in a frown, but her fingers continue to stroke my arm. For a second it helps. It feels fucking good to say it out loud and have her be the one to hear it.
But I don’t want her pity.
I tuck my arms a little further under the pillow and grunt. “She said it was an accident. Probably was.”
Hazel pulls her hand back, but doesn’t move her body. “You moved to the foster home a few blocks from our house when you were eight.”
She phrases it like a statement rather than a question, but I answer anyway.
“Yeah, later that year. Logan and I spent most of our childhood in and out of foster homes. We had actually been in two different ones before we turned six. We would stay there for a bit, but a few months later our mom would take us back home before abandoning us all over again. I guess you only get three chances, though, because after we moved near you, we never went back home.”
Hazel scoots closer as she rests her head on the pillow next to me. “You never saw your mom again?”
I roll onto my back to look up at the ceiling. “No, we did. She would come to visit us maybe once or twice a year, when she was sober enough to remember, anyway. When we were about fifteen she got married to some guy who seemed to be a good influence on her. We met him a couple times, and as far as I know they’re still together. We don’t really keep in touch.”
Growing up, there were always rumors about Logan and me. More than once we got into fights because some douche classmate wanted to tease “the loser foster kids.” But nobody ever asked us sincerely about our mother or where we came from, so I got used to not saying anything. Hazel doesn’t press further now, either, but I can practically hear the million questions forming in her head. I might as well get this out now so we never have to bring it up again. I don’t like thinking about it, let alone talking about it.
Sick Pleasure (Crazy Beautiful Book 3) Page 10