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His friend’s eerie green eyes snapped to Tristan’s.
“You can give me the death glare all you like, but I don’t see you nutting up to go get her.”
“I’ll leave the nutting to you.”
He couldn’t deny that he was all about the physical when it came to Juliet, but he wasn’t a fucking animal. At least not completely.
Tristan leaned forward and clamped a hand on Randy’s arm before his buddy could swirl off like the black knight he was dressed as. “Sit down, asshat.”
Randy jerked his arm away. “I’m over this scene, man. Do what you want with Juliet.”
Tristan stood. “Seriously, you expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t fucking care.”
He invaded his space. “Liar.”
“Why the fuck do you care? Not like it’s going to change anything. She’s not for me. Never will be.”
Tristan frowned. “What’s that mean?”
“Which part?”
His eyebrows snapped down. “All of it. It’s not like she’s royalty.”
“May as well be. Let’s look at it like a kitchen hierarchy so you can figure it out.”
Tristan tried to push his hair back, but it was so damn shellacked it was like threading his fingers through caramel. “You’re nuts.”
“Do you go after the waitstaff at The Hollow?”
“What? No. You don’t—” Shit where you eat. Hell.
“Hello lightbulb. There it is. That’s right, you don’t mess with the talent. And the talent doesn’t look at a roadie. Period.”
“You’re not exactly a roadie.”
“Once a crew member, always a crew member. Just because I give the orders these days doesn’t make me any different.” Randy tugged at the material along the back of his neck. The tear of velcro echoed through the half-empty room. “Christ, I’m dying in this outfit.”
“More like Jules is killing you.”
“It doesn’t fucking matter, man.”
“That’s archaic. Not to mention stupid. Your sister is married to Deacon McCoy, for fuck’s sake. This isn’t a new thing.”
“Rarity.” Randy sliced the air before Tristan could speak. “And the difference there is Harper wasn’t staff. She was food.”
“Semantics, man.”
“It’s not done. That’s the end of it.”
Tristan made a clucking sound.
Randy took a step forward. “Don’t go there.”
Tristan tipped his head to the side. He glanced down to his friend’s fisted hands. “What are you going to do? Deck me?”
“You fucking deserve it.”
