Tristan sits in the driver’s seat, making an ice age look like a week in the Caribbean; to say his mood is glacial is putting it mildly.
He hasn’t looked at me since we walked out of the loft room in Inferno and anything he’s had to say to me since then has been monosyllabic.
My patience is wearing thin – I have enough emotional shit to process without him getting pissy and acting like a patronizing sub-parent.
I huff and kick off my shoes. I want to be anywhere but here…and by anywhere, I mean with Jackson, in private, talking through everything that needs to be said and explained before we rip each other’s clothes off.
“What?” asks Tristan, too firmly for my liking.
“Don’t use that tone with me, Matthews. I am not a child, nor have I behaved like one,” – except perhaps when I was lashing out at Jackson – “and even if I had, I’m not your child. I thought we were friends, so stop being an asshole.”
“Not a child, huh? Barking out my surname when you’re on the defensive, like every other mollycoddled rich kid is real mature, Em. I am your bodyguard – you’ll do well to remember that. It’s the only relationship we have that counts and your parents pay a lot of money for it. Friends are what we manage when you’re not running off into a den full of vampires without telling me and then undermining me when I try to protect you.”
“I didn’t run off into a den full of vampires deliberately –”
“You are a dreadful liar, always have been. You knew exactly what you were walking into.”
“That’s not completely true,” I sigh. “I figured out what Sophia’s date was and I suspected there would be more of them and my assessment of the situation was that it was best to keep you – a human – out of harm’s way. They’re like me and I’m trained to deal with that, but I had no idea I was basically walking into a fucking orgy.”
“TRAINED?” he explodes, “You have no idea the training or the missions that I’ve survived. Making decisions regarding my safety is not your place and you have no right to assume that you know best. You don’t. My job is to protect you – why is that such a difficult fucking concept for you to grasp? And as for your training…if you had enrolled and spent several years in the corps then maybe I would hold your assessment,” – he spits the word – “in higher regard. But your skills are basic at best and you got lucky with your roof trick; you’re not mature yet, so your powers can’t always be relied upon to do what you want them to. Me and you? We are not equals, Em. Not in this. I am a professional. A professional who didn’t have the heart to floor Dee after her first punch, but if I thought for one second that by throwing most of our sparring matches so that she could look good meant that you didn’t take my ability seriously, I would’ve kicked the shit out of her before she even set both feet on the mat. Are you hearing me, Em?”
“Yes,” I whisper, preferring the single-syllable Tristan over this shouty version.
I hate that he has a point, I hate that he can make me feel so small and I really hate that my friendship is disposable to him and second to his paycheck. I’m starting to think I don’t know Tristan Matthews at all.
“And as far as undermining me –”
“Every time you point your gun in the face of someone who doesn’t deserve it, you can be damn sure that I will undermine you and I don’t give a shit who sees,” I fume.
Tristan looks like I slapped him.
“I thought he would hurt you again.”
“I hit him! Don’t look so surprised; my basic skills can still have an impact. And Jackson has never hurt me or laid a finger on me that I didn’t give him permission to do. And that’s not why you drew your weapon on him; you were both beating your chests and having a macho pissing contest; I’m not going to pretend to understand why. And cut it with the wounded expression already; as you said, we’re not friends, you’re my bodyguard. You value your salary above the friendship I offered, so don’t pretend that anything I say offends you.”
“Em, that’s not what I meant –”
“Just shut up and drive us home, we’re done talking.”
After what feels like a silent eternity, the car finally pulls up outside the sorority house. Matron Price is waiting for us, obviously one of them called ahead.
I don’t wait for Tristan to open the car door for me, as he normally insists on. I slam it shut and stalk towards Wilhelmina. Tristan automatically moves to put a hand on me but thinks twice when I scowl at him – it freezes in mid-air, looking stupid.
Maybe one day we’ll be friends again, but I don’t feel like it’ll happen anytime soon and I’m sure as hell not going to be the one mending the bridge he burned.
Miles carries Sophia inside and up to her room as Wilhelmina fusses behind them, Tristan and I locked in a frozen stand-off following behind.
Mercifully, Tristan and Miles don’t stay long once Sophia is tucked up in bed and a pint of water has been forced into her. I suspect that Tristan will report the drugging back to my parents, likely omitting the part where I gave him the slip and came face to face with Jackson; tonight has been shitty enough as it is, we don’t need to both be in trouble with my parents as well – we already yelled at each other more than they would anyway.
“I can take care of her, Emilia. You look like you should get some rest,” offers Wilhelmina.
I don’t argue.
I quietly walk back to my room barefoot with my shoes in my left hand, open the door and chuck them unceremoniously towards a corner. When I look up, the most beautiful man I will probably ever meet is sat on my chair with my sweater – his sweater – on his lap, the dim glow of my bedside lamp highlighting his handsome features.
My heart stops beating and I’m pretty sure I forget to breathe. My limbs are heavy and unresponsive and I’m pinned to the spot by his intense eyes – eyes that no longer look like they hate me.
“I found my sweater,” he says softly.
I swallow past the lump in my throat, “I’m quite attached to that sweater, please don’t take it.”
As I say it I realize how true it is; I remember all the nights that I slept in it, willing his scent to still be there, all the times I took comfort in it and realize that the only reason I could put Jackson out of my mind is because privately I clung to the sweater like it was him.
“I know. I can smell how much you wear it. Yet you run from me, shout at me and hit me?” His confusion slices through my erratic heart and I know that I’m too tired and exhausted to find the words to suitably explain myself so I don’t…I show him instead.
With tears filling my eyes I find the last of my energy and launch myself across the room to him. He stands in one fluid motion and catches me in his arms and holds me tight to his chest as the first of my tears drip down my cheeks.
“I’m so, so sorry. I’m so ashamed that I hit you. When I see you it’s like nothing else exists but you and how you make me feel. It’s so overwhelming it makes me lose my mind, but tonight I couldn’t do that…” I struggle past a sob that’s stuck in my chest, making my shoulders heave against him.