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Tristan spotted me at the end of the path where the trees opened up to his yard. He moved through the crowd toward me, tall and so darkly handsome he looked like something out of a dream. His eyes smoldered, like his brain was already filling with visions of the things he wanted to do to me.
Behind him, the house and the property were practically beating with the pulse of hundreds of high school kids partying like it was the end of the world. It was absolute mayhem, and Tristan was the architect.
Before he reached me, a stupid, silly idea flittered into my mind that I knew I couldn’t resist. I threw a hand to my forehead, poorly pantomiming a fainting spell. I meant to just lightly lay myself down on the path, but a group of guys behind me jostled me when I stopped for my little act. It sent me rolling down the path and into one of the bushes.
A moment later, strong hands fished me out and I was being carried over Tristan’s shoulder.
“What is it with you and my bushes?”
He walked me up to the front porch, making my body jostle with every step of his long legs. I sheepishly waved to a few people I recognized on the way in, including Logan and Gage, who were talking with a group of girls by the stairs. They rolled their eyes when Logan carried me up toward his room like some kind of caveman who had found his prize for the night.
I noticed Haisley slipping into one of the other rooms upstairs with a guy I didn’t recognize. I pursed my lips. Good for her.
Tristan kicked the door closed behind us and tossed me on his bed. “This time, I’m going to do what I wanted the first time I plucked you out of my bushes.”
“Liar,” I said, scooting back on his bed. “Unless you mean you’re about to murder me.”
“If you die from this, it’ll go down in history as the most brutal sex ever recorded.”
I laughed. “Ever recorded? Where’s the camera?”
Tristan stripped off his shirt. “No more talking.”
He climbed on top of me and kissed me softly.
“What happened to brutal, murderous sex?” I whispered.
He pressed his nose to my neck, breathing in deeply. “Sometimes I just want to hold you.” There was a short pause. “And if you tell anyone I said that, the brutal, murderous sex will come next.”
I rolled him to the side, which would’ve been impossible if he resisted. I slid myself behind him, spooning against his back, “You like being the little spoon, too?”
Tristan growled and pinned me down by my wrists, holding my hands over my head. “Think you’re funny, don’t you, Wheels?”
“Sometimes,” I said.
“Yeah, me too,” he admitted. “But I’m not above pretending to be annoyed so I have an excuse to go rough on you.”
I wiggled my eyebrows. “I’m not the frail little thing on a million pills anymore. Be as rough as you want.”
He considered that. “You were never frail, Kennedy. Not then. Not now. Okay?”
I nodded. I felt silly for it, but his words made my chest feel heavy and my eyes want to water. “Okay,” I said. “But now you’re getting the wrong part of me wet.”
Tristan wiped a tear with his thumb. “It’s called multi-tasking.”Epilogue - KennedyI could hardly believe it, but my mom’s trial was finally over. Eventually, I’d figured out a way to get through it without losing my sanity. My mom did need help, and if I loved her, I’d do everything in my power to make sure she wound up in a mental institution instead of a penal one.
With the help of a lawyer, we made it happen.
And then there was everything that had happened once Tristan moved in with me and my dad. The best part was watching how he couldn’t help squirming as my dad tried to become the father figure he’d never had. I knew he’d probably rather die a slow, painful death than admit it, but Tristan appreciated it. I’d even caught the two of them playing catch in the yard a few times—complete with my totally out of shape dad nearly killing himself trying to keep up as he ran for passes. Tristan, being Tristan, drilled every ball at my dad as hard as he could, but I’d seen the hint of a grin on his face, too.
But it wasn’t all fun and games. Surviving the trial had been an ordeal in itself, and now I guessed it was the part of the process where I started visiting her and trying to repair the damage.
A nurse let me in to see my mom, who was sitting in a room that was at least a little nicer than a prison cell. It was aggressively white, with the only splash of color being the baby blue of her uncomfortable looking bed and curtains. Her window had a view of one of Maine’s many stretches of dark forest.
