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“Just take me home.”
“We still need to film that interview.”
“I don’t care about the interview right now, Tristan. Just take me home.”
I stopped the car in front of the gate to my place. “Look. I get it, believe it or not. I’m a shitty person. I’ve been shitty to you. I’ve had plenty of experience being that guy. But the guy I’m trying to be isn’t something I have a lot of practice with. So, cut me a little slack.”
She squinted. “What are you saying?”
“That I’m trying to apologize.”
She shook her head, staring ahead. “It’s not that simple.”
“Yeah, I get that. So let me take you to my place, have some drinks with you, and we can start the not simple process of unfucking this thing between us.” It wasn’t completely a lie, either. If anything, it was a truth and a subtle sidestepping of another truth at the same time. Yeah, I wanted to start undoing the damage I’d done. But it wasn’t because I wanted to be friends. Ever since I’d kissed her at Cassian’s, I knew one thing: I’d never be satisfied until I got more from Kennedy Stills. It felt like walking by a buffet and only getting a single bite. I wanted to stay the fucking night until I’d had so much that my stomach hurt, and I couldn’t even dream of eating for the rest of my life.
I wanted to consume every inch of her, and the more she told me no, the more I wanted it.
“Maybe I don’t want you to fix things.”
“Then tell me to fuck off and leave you alone for good.” I waited until she met my eyes. “Tell me to leave you alone, and I will.”
My heart thumped against my ribs as I waited. I was gambling that I’d read her right, and every passing second made me more certain I had. Finally, Kennedy looked down at her lap, cheeks reddening.
“That’s what I thought. So, we’re going to my place, drinking, and filming this interview.”21KennedyLetting Tristan push me and my chair into his house felt like stepping into the wolf’s den. I wasn’t sure how he’d managed it. I’d been more and more sure I was done with him—with his shitty apologies that inevitably seemed to be followed by a personality relapse on his part. He couldn’t handle being completely kind. It was like the nastiness inside him had to bubble up again and again.
Agreeing to come here had been a mistake. I knew it, but here I was. I thought about what my mom was going to say when she found out I missed classes and knew I was going to be in a world of trouble. But this time, instead of making me scared, the thought just made me feel more reckless. I’d already doomed myself, so why not enjoy myself before the punishment caught up with me?
Tristan opened the fridge and cracked two beer bottles open, handing me one. He leaned against the countertop in his kitchen. The whole house was like a monument to money. Everywhere I looked practically glittered with darkly expensive items, from oil paintings to carved wood paneling on the walls. Tristan looked oddly at home here.
He was watching me. I’d been doing a pretty good job of seeing him as a villain ever since that moment in the library, but right now, my brain was betraying me. It was ignoring all the obvious warning signs and strictly taking him in as he was. And he commanded as much attention as a dark storm cloud rolling in on a sunny day. He was as beautiful, but he also managed to drip with an ominous air—as if the next rumble of thunder could come at any moment.
I guessed if I followed my little metaphor, I’d be like the idiot standing in the middle of the field, staring straight up at the storm cloud, ignoring the fact that my hair was standing on end. I deserved to get struck by lightning at this point.
I tilted the bottle back and tried not to wince at the taste. I’d never acclimated myself to alcohol. In fact, I absolutely should have checked with my mom to be sure it didn’t conflict with any of my medications, but that would’ve meant asking her. In the spirit of recklessness, I took another long sip, wiggling my eyebrows at Tristan when he grinned at me.
“Why don’t you get out your camera,” he said. “We can get this interview over with.”
I nodded, digging through my backpack. “You should probably move the beer out of the shot.”
Tristan drained half the bottle, then set it an arm’s length away.
I turned on the camera. “So I’ll just ask questions and you answer as naturally as possible.”
“Like an interview,” he said dryly.
I set the camera away from my eye to glare, then held it back up. I’d already thought of the questions I wanted to ask him. I burned through some of the basic questions quickly. Tristan gave surprisingly detailed answers, almost like he actually cared about making the video good.
