I glance at the man beside me, thinking about what he said about the military. The world can be a pretty fucked-up place, and I count myself lucky for not having to deal with what he and Delilah have.
We walk off the pier and down the beach toward the boardwalk. I have no idea where we’re going, and I don’t care. It’s nice to be with a man who isn’t hung up on himself to the point of hardly noticing I’m here.
Alex stirs something visceral in me that I haven’t experienced before, and it should scare me, but it doesn’t. Maybe it’s because I know how much Arty adored him, or maybe it’s the honesty in everything he says and does. I trust him, and I don’t even try to resist the urge to link my fingers into his and squeeze his hand.
“You’re in the right place now,” I reassure him. “People around here are pretty accepting.”
Relief and gratitude reflect in his eyes, along with something deeper I can’t read, but I can feel—all the way to my bones. He leans over and kisses me, cracking that crooked smile I already know by heart.
Alex
AFTER YEARS OF hiding my private life, it feels good to be openly holding Tristan’s hand despite the few annoying looks we received yesterday. We pass Brooke’s Bytes, and I think about what he said yesterday about the work he used to do.
“Tell me about the Taproom. You said you work for Wyatt’s parents?”
“I used to. Wyatt and Delilah’s parents were killed by a drunk driver a little over a year ago, and they inherited the Taproom. I worked for their parents for three years before the accident. Their father was like a second father to me. He taught me a lot about what it takes to keep a business afloat, marketing, operations…”
“That must have been a horrible loss for all of you.”
“Yeah, it was tough,” Tristan says solemnly. “Wyatt, Delilah, and a handful of our friends have known each other since we were little kids. They’d come into town with their families for the summers, and after the first few, we became like one big, extended family. We helped each other pull through. Wyatt and Delilah are doing really well. Their beach house has become a catchall for our tight-knit group. I’m staying with them for a while, and our buddy Brandon Owens lives there, too.”
“You’re lucky to have such close friends. You seem to enjoy working for them, and from what I saw the other night, you enjoy your job, too.”
“I do. My friends push me to do more with my life. Maybe one day I’ll want to do something different, but for now I’m perfectly happy.”
We stop and watch a group of teenagers playing with a lighted Frisbee on the beach.
“I guess you don’t mind listening to sob stories?”
Tristan laughs. “For every sob story, there’s an equally happy or interesting one. Besides, those sad people? They need someone to talk to who won’t judge them or try to fix their issues. Sometimes all it takes to go from sad to okay again is a willing ear.”
The moonlight shines down on his handsome face. His eyes are bright and clear, not shadowed by having seen an inescapable amount of death and devastation. His scruff is perfectly manicured, which is something I never found appealing until now. I’m used to the military, where we’re forced to conform, from clean-shaven cheeks to short-cropped hair, and our bodies are the result of knowing every move might cost you or your buddies their lives. We’re hard, inside and out, and covered with scars—not just the physical kind. The deep-seated type that lie beneath the surface. The kind I see in the mirror every day.
I force those thoughts away, counting my lucky stars to be alive.
“Based on what I know of you, you could do any number of things, but it sounds like you’re right where you’re supposed to be. At least for now.” And I’m glad you’re here with me.
“For now,” he says. “Unfortunately, winters are slow at the Taproom, and now that we’ve hired Livi, Charley, and Rusty, we’re overstaffed and we’ll have to cut back in a few weeks.”
“That can’t be an easy decision to make.”
“No, it’s not. They need the money to get through school. I volunteered to take the hit and work someplace else part-time.”
“Really? You’d do that? Give up the place where you just said you loved working, for them? College kids can find work anywhere, can’t they?”
“It’s hard to find work in a resort town over the winter.” Tristan shrugs. “They’re more than college kids. They’re friends. We’ve worked together a long time now. Besides, I’ve got plenty of money saved to make it through the winter. I’d rather be careful and find other work than have them worried about how they’re going to make ends meet while trying to keep up with their schoolwork.”
“In the military we hear a lot about war heroes, but I think it’s all twisted up and wrong. Soldiers fight because it’s our job. It’s what we signed up for, and we know the risks going into it. What you’re doing? That makes you an everyday hero.”
Tristan shakes his head and laughs. “Nah, it’s just me being me. Some people would say it’s a flaw. I always lead with my heart, and hearts are not nearly as smart as heads.”
“Well, all I can say to that is that I think it takes a lot of guts to give up something you love for others. Any way you cut it, it’s an admirable quality.”
“Thanks.” His expression is one of wonder or disbelief, as if he isn’t used to compliments.
“Are you hungry? I thought we’d head over to Shab Row for dinner at the Spot, but if you’d rather, we can grab a few slices of pizza or something.”
“The Spot, huh?” he says flirtatiously. “That sounds perfect.”
We cut through an alley between two shops and head down the dimly lit streets to Shab Row. I chose the Spot because it’s off the beaten path, and I wasn’t sure how out Tristan was. Obviously he’s comfortable in his own skin, and that makes it easier to be comfortable in mine.
We make our way down the brick-paved sidewalks, passing beneath old-fashioned streetlights that make me feel like I’m in a 1940s movie and should be donning a trench coat.
“Listen, T.” The endearment that comes so easily earns me that sexy grin again. “It’s not easy for me to open up about certain things.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
The tease in his eyes drives me to pull him closer. Everything he does makes me want to be closer to him. He joins me willingly, and his free hand moves to my hip.
“Thanks for not pushing me for answers. I know it’s not fair to throw the hospital comment out there and then clam up. I’ll share it with you. I want to share it with you.”
“I know you will.” He says it like it’s a fact.
“How?”
“Arty once said you were a born leader, like your grandfather, and all strong leaders keep their cards close to their chest.”
“She said that? That I was like my grandfather?”
He nods, and I tuck away that compliment with the other meaningful ones I’ve saved over the years.
“Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer.”
Tristan shrugs. “Have at it.”
“Why were you taking a break? I get that your ex was a prick, but is there more to it?”
He looks down the street, across the street, and then his hand cruises through his hair as it has so often that I’ve already come to expect it when he’s nervous.
“Ian was a prick, but the rest is going to make me sound like a pussy,” he admits.
“I’ve only known you a day, and I already know nothing can make you sound like a pussy.”
He meets my gaze, and his jaw tightens. He lifts his chin and I recognize the struggle between feeling proud and worrying about looking weak. I fight that battle on a daily basis.
“I give away my heart too easily, and I end up getting hurt.”
His eyes never leave mine, and that trust, that confidence, is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“I was right. Nothing can make you sound like a pussy.” I slide my hand to the hard ridge of his jaw and lea
n in closer. “I’ve never given my heart away. That makes you braver than me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Tristan
THE SPOT IS one of my favorite restaurants. The room is lit only with candles at each table, and it’s divided into sections by walls that are painted red and black with chalkboard paint. Customers are given colored chalk to write on the walls. People write poems, riddles, declarations, drawings, all sorts of things, and they are wiped clean at the end of each week. We’re sitting at a quiet table near the back of the restaurant. We share entrées and keep the conversation light, and still there’s a constant hum of electricity between us.
When the waiter arrives with the bill, I reach for my wallet.
“Please don’t,” Alex says. “What kind of guy makes his date pay for dinner?” He hands a wad of cash to the waiter and says, “Keep the change,” but his eyes remain on me, just as they’ve been all night.
“Thank you. Next time it’s on me.” When we first arrived, Alex requested this table in the back, and when the waiter took our order, Alex asked what I wanted before giving his order. I don’t even have to ask if he’s a top or a bottom. I can’t imagine anyone topping Alex, but that doesn’t stop my mind from toying with the idea of being the first.
“Ready to get out of here?” he asks, rising to his feet.
The women at a nearby table have been eyeing us all night, and when he stands, their eyes rake down his body. Jealousy spikes through me, and as ridiculous as it is, I have to bite down hard, because it’s not rolling off my back as it should. Even though Ian was gay, he would have eaten up that attention and milked it for everything it was worth, flirting with the women and making me feel like nothing more than arm candy. Alex doesn’t even seem to notice them checking him out.
He grabs a stick of chalk, and his eyes fill with mischief. “You care what I write?”
I stand and shake my head. “Not even a little.”
He scrawls ALPHA horizontally and TANGO vertically, connected at the A. He points to his chest and mouths, Alpha, then points to me and mouths, Tango, and my heart does a silly little happy dance. He sets the chalk down, slides a hand to my jaw—a possessive move I’m totally digging—and kisses me hard.
He grins and slides that hand over my shoulder, clearly staking claim to me as we pass the leering women on the way out. It’s a move I’ve waited for my whole life, and it’s such a fucking turn-on, the minute we’re out of the restaurant, I slam him against the brick wall beside the door and crash my mouth over his, taking the kiss I’ve been dying for. He surrenders to me at first, kissing me back hungrily, letting me lead. Then his hands fist in my hair, and his entire body flexes. He deepens the kiss, taking complete control.
When he tears his mouth away, his eyes are volcanic, and I want to feel the lava coursing through him more than I want my next breath.
“Who are you?” I growl.
He kisses me again, there beside the entrance to the restaurant, as a couple comes up the stairs and brushes by us. He never breaks our connection, never flinches at the intrusion. His fisted hands relax, caressing my head as his tongue caresses my mouth, and I’m so gone, so hard, so lost in him, I can barely think. When we finally part, I don’t want to move away from this moment. I want to pull him back and kiss him again.
“I’m the guy you deserve,” he says, and as if he’s read my mind, he takes me in a torturously slow, sensual kiss.
I hear girls giggling and we part again, but our eyes don’t seek the gigglers. They remain locked on each other. There’s a storm brewing between us, and I’m not sure I know how to—or want to—slow it down. Every kiss, every touch, every time he feasts on me with those gorgeous eyes, he stokes the fire inside me. Everything with Alex feels amplified, like all the men before him were practice, gearing me up for the man who would challenge my every move. Preparing me for him.
“Walk?” he says, thick with lust.
“Yeah.”
We walk shoulder to shoulder down the steps and shove our hands in our pockets, as if he’s struggling with the inability to control himself, too. We’re quiet as we wind through the streets. Neither is leading; neither is following. We’re two men stuck in a bolt of lightning, ready to detonate. I hear him breathing and want to hear it from behind as he pounds into me. I feel his body brush against mine and want to see his broad shoulders moving from above as he sucks me off.
This is not slowing down.
This is Trouble with a capital T.
Or maybe I’ve got it all wrong, and Alex Wells is exactly what I need.
Alex
I CAN’T TAKE the lust coursing through me for another second. My every breath chases Tristan. His kiss, his touch, his fucking smile. What the hell is that? I’m like a chick. His smile…?
When we come to the alley leading up to the boardwalk, the buildings block the light of the moon. Tristan and I glance around at the same time, and that sexy smile of his wrecks me. I fist my hands in his shirt and back him up against the building. We’re both shaking, but there’s no fear.
“Slow,” I remind him—and myself—but it comes out like a threat.
“Yeah,” he says halfheartedly.
Unlike me, Tristan’s laid his heart on the line. He’s trusted me with knowledge he thought would make him look like a pussy—and here I am holding my truth back. Who’s the real pussy?
“Good,” I say, having no idea if I’ll be able to go as slow as either of us needs. “Because it’s been way too long since I’ve been with a man, and once I’m inside you, I won’t last long. Not the first time. It’ll be desperate and rough.” I have no idea where this verbal flood is coming from, but I’m powerless to stop it. “But then. Then, T, it’ll be worth every second. I promise you that. If you’re still around, that is.”
I touch my lips lightly to his. It’s hell not ravaging him, but these soft, teasing kisses pack the power of a bullet train, and in seconds we’re grinding and groaning, but neither of us takes the kiss deeper.
“We suck at slow,” I say with a laugh.
He bites my lower lip. “No shit.”
A silent We’re so screwed passes between us.
“Walk,” we both say at once, and head for the boardwalk.
We cross through the crowd and jump off the boardwalk onto the beach without a word. We walk in the opposite direction of the pier. When my pulse calms, I reach for his hand, and he slides those rich chocolate eyes my way.
“Thank you for looking after my grandmother.”
“I enjoyed spending time with her. I still think of her often.”
“Really? Or do you just want to get laid?” I’m teasing. I know he gets that, but I catch a moment of hurt in his eyes, and it slays me. “I’m kidding, T. I’m sorry. I was on tour too long. Sometimes I speak before thinking.”
“It’s cool.” He smiles again. “But if you do that shit again, I’ll have to take you down.”
“And you think that’ll shut me up? You just gave me a very good reason to be an asshole.” I wrap my arm around his shoulder and pull him against me. “I really am grateful for your kindness. My grandmother mentioned you in several of her letters.”
“She did?”
I nod. “Nothing too revealing, just stuff about how you cared for your friends, or took her to the market. Fixed a broken shutter after a storm. Shoveled her walk last winter. You were good to her. You did the things I wish I could have. I envy the time you had with her, and I appreciate you looking after her.”
“Stop it already. I liked doing it.”
“I can’t believe I’m going to tell you this, but she said you were the kind of guy I needed. That’s why I sought you out at the Taproom. I thought, if nothing else, you were a connection to her. I’ve been trying to get up the courage to meet you since I got into town.”
“The courage?” He looks me up and down, and I know what he sees. A rough exterior. A soldier through and through. The thing is, I also have no doubt in my mind that Tristan
isn’t that simple-minded. He’s being kind, because that’s who he is. He knows I’ve got demons, but he’s too respectful to call me on them.
“Do I look like a bullshitter?” I ask cockily.
He arches a brow, and I laugh.
“How can you doubt that it takes courage? When I walked into that bar, half the women were eye-fucking you and the other half were practically throwing themselves across the bar. Forget the number of guys sizing you up. I thought maybe my grandmother had read you wrong and you were really straight.”
“Oh, there was no reading to be done. Arty was pretty forthright. She looked me in the eye, screwed up her face like this”—he squints and cranes his chin forward, scrutinizing me—“and she said, ‘Are you into men?’”
“Christ,” I grumble. “Can you imagine if you were straight and she’d said that? She was something.” I laugh at the thought of my tiny grandmother eyeing up tall, dark, and strappingly virile Tristan and questioning his sexuality.
“When I told her I was into men, do you know what she did?”
“I’m afraid to ask.” A wave crashes into the shore, bleeding up the sand to within inches of our shoes, and we move up the beach.
“She asked if I was, and I quote, ‘one of those switch hitters.’”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
“I’m glad you find it so funny. I felt gut punched. I mean, she was a grandmother. A sweet old lady.”
Tristan is easy to talk to, and I don’t need to reach far to find the courage to ask what had been impossible to think about last night. “Did you see her the week…at the end?”
“No,” he says solemnly. “It’s one of my biggest regrets. I went to see her that afternoon. I didn’t know.” He swallows hard. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“No,” I admit. “But I need to.”
“Okay. You probably know she sculpted right up until the end. I don’t remember a day when I saw her and she didn’t have a spot of clay on her chin, or cheek, or clothes. She made these tiny people and animals, and once a month a driver picked her up and took her to Harborside Hospital, where she gave them to children in the pediatric wing. I went with her a few times, but not that morning.”
Tempting Tristan Page 5