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"I would be if you didn't impose this bullshit on me," Tristan said, cutting her father off. "I did what was required by the Department and I should be back at full status and we both know it. Making me go to group therapy is asinine, Hank. I don't need it or have a problem."
"You don't think so?" her father mused, looking amused for some godforsaken reason.
"No," Tristan said evenly.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes!"
"Hmm," her father made the noncommittal sound as he studied Tristan. "Perhaps we should ask Marty what she thinks. If I'm wrong and she agrees with you, then I'll take away the requirement."
Almost immediately she had two sets of eyes focused on her, one looking amused while the other was glaring a silent warning. Well, this was interesting. Why exactly did her father think that he needed more therapy, correction, group therapy? More importantly, why he thought that she was qualified to voice an opinion on the matter was beyond her. Her focus wasn't on clinical psychology, but on criminal and for all his faults Tristan was not a criminal.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. Your answer won’t affect your job one way or the other," her father promised, but the look in Tristan's angry emerald eyes told a completely different story. If she agreed with her father, Tristan would make her life a living hell.
Perhaps she should tactfully excuse herself from this one. Working with him was hard enough. She didn't want to make things worse. She needed this job and Tristan lived for the job. Maybe it would be best if-
"Do you think that Tristan has an anger management problem?" her father asked, leaving her speechless.
Did she think that Tristan had an anger management problem? For a moment she actually considered having her father committed for asking something that would be crystal clear to a blind man. The man had a short fuse and a temper that would scare the devil.
Then again, it really wasn't her place and she shouldn't get involved. She opened her mouth to explain exactly that when she caught Tristan's eyes and watched as he mouthed the words, "Don't even think about it."
So, of course she did what she thought was right.
"Why yes, yes, I believe that he does have a bit of an anger problem," she said sweetly as she did her best to appear innocent.
Her father smiled triumphantly as Tristan let out a very low, but sexy growl that promised all sorts of revenge, but she didn't care. This opportunity to put Tristan in his place was just too good to pass up. Right now he could make her life a living hell and it would be well worth it.
"There you have it. I suggest that you get started on your sessions. There's a time limit on this and luckily enough for you there's a meeting tonight," her father said as he handed her a piece of paper.
She took it, frowning. "What's this?" she asked, looking down at the paper, noting the letterhead from the community center with a list of times and room numbers.
"That would be the schedule for his group meetings. Your new job is to drive him there at least once a day for the next two weeks," he said in a tone that she knew better than to argue with.
Still.....
"How exactly do you suggest I go about forcing someone into a car who has at least six inches and a hundred pounds on me?" she asked, genuinely curious. Was he going to let her carry a stun gun or something? Otherwise she really didn't see this little plan of his working.
"He'll go," her father said with a shrug as he stood up.
"Or what?" Tristan asked evenly as he too got to his feet. She couldn't help but wonder the same thing as she stood up and moved to leave.
"Or else you’ll go back on full medical until you complete all of your therapy sessions," her father said before looking at her.
"Do you want to speak with me?" she asked, glad that she sounded so damn casual about the whole thing. She'd never been comfortable talking to her dad about boys, never mind sex.
Then again, her father had been just as nervous as her if not more so during their little chat about the birds and the bees. It hadn’t mattered how uncomfortable the whole thing made him, he’d always taken his responsibility to talk with her about sex seriously. Granted, she couldn't remember one single conversation about sex that hadn’t ended with him hyperventilating and needing a few aspirin or a six-pack of beer. When it came time for the woman talk though he’d pushed that responsibility off onto Beth after the rather frightening hour and a half of questions she’d thrown at him. He'd tried to answer every single one of them as best as he could, but even she could tell at nine years old that he’d been in over his head.
"Only if you feel there's something you want to talk to me about," Hank said as he looked pointedly at Tristan.
Was there? She followed her father's gaze and wasn't too surprised to find Tristan watching her. If they hadn't screwed each other over, she might have said maybe, but the man clearly didn’t want to be with her and she'd have to be a moron to keep missing the signs.
"No, there's nothing to talk about," she said as she turned to leave, wishing that wasn't the case. She also wished that she wasn't in love with a man who haunted her dreams and couldn’t care less about her.
Chapter 17
"Wow, what a bitch," the blonde airhead, as he now thought of her, said as Marty stormed past him and snatched the keys out of his hand.
She hit the button on the keychain to unlock the car and climbed in, but not before throwing him a look that dared him to bitch about her driving. He bit his tongue as he walked around the car and made his way to the passenger side. Unfortunately, he was forced to walk through the two dead, annoying women and received a shock of cold dread that surged through his body and into his bones before it abruptly disappeared.
He hated that feeling. It was pure terror, crawling down his spine and he'd always despised it, especially when he’d been a child. When he was a toddler, he would cry inconsolably for hours after the unpleasant experience while his birth parents were left frustrated and clueless on how to calm him down. It hadn’t helped matters that they'd barely been out of high school when they’d had him. Their story was typical, but the results weren't.
They weren't ready to handle a kid, never mind a kid like him. He couldn't imagine dealing with a young child who cried for hours on end, would freak out over everything, flip out if he went anywhere near cemeteries, nursing homes, or hospitals. If that wasn't bad enough, he was constantly getting hurt. Living with him must have been stressful and he couldn't say that he blamed his parents for what they’d done.
