Hard Pack (Ridden Hard Book 2) Page 12

  “It’s not as though the paparazzi are stalking us, waiting for that one bad shot to sell to the papers.” Tristan tried to see where her concern came from, and fell short. It was dinner with a colleague. She had dinner with donors on a regular basis.

  “Have you ever run into someone you know, one of your dad’s friends, a colleague of yours, someone like that, at dinner?”

  He leaned back in his desk chair and crossed one ankle over the other knee. “All the time.”

  “Tell me you’re not that naïve.”

  The statement caught him off-guard, and dug in with a sharp jab. “There’s not some secret society of gossiping birds looking for any opportunity to spread dirt about the wealthy in the valley.”

  He listened for a witty retort. And then waited a little longer. “What?” he asked when she didn’t say anything.

  “You do remember the country club dinner. What they were saying about Ash? And I’ll add to that, who do you think helped fuel those rumors?”

  Tristan struggled to believe a grown person would sink to something like that, but he’d heard it himself. “Point taken. Dinner at my house? I cook decent spaghetti.”

  “I’m in.” Her tone relaxed in the short reply.

  Inspiration struck. “Does that mean I get you for dinner and keep you for breakfast?”

  “Ooh, like a sleepover?” Her tone shifted toward something younger. Less stressed.

  He liked it. “Not quite what I had in mind, but I’m flexible. Pillow fights and practicing making out?”

  “Braiding hair and gossiping,” she said. “If movies are to be believed, that’s what a sleepover is.”

  “Have you ever been to one like that?” Tristan was visiting home once when Trina had friends over. It was more chaos, pizza, and squealing, plus romance movies, than anything else.

  “I’ve never been to one.”

  This conversation was just full of surprises. “You’re serious.” Of course she is. Why would she make that up?

  “Sorry we didn’t all have a best friend who doubled as a brother and boyfriend.” An edge sneaked into her teasing.

  “Didn’t meet Mischa until high school, and Spencer never did more than crash on my couch. Not the same as what you’re talking about.”

  “Then it’s settled. Sleepover at your house.”

  “I’ll even braid your hair,” he offered.

  “That sounds like a bad idea.”

  He’d give her an offended look if she was in the room. “It’s a brilliant idea. I have a younger sister. I know these things.” Something occurred to him, accompanied by a disappointment he didn’t expect. “We should probably invite Mischa and Ash.”

  “Like a double date, or like an orgy? Because I’m not up for the second.”

  Envy slid over his skin like slime at the reminder of Mischa and Victoria together. “Like for dinner. If we’re trying to figure out what Ralph knows, they have more information than we do. We can send them home after.”

  “All right, I’m in. For all of it.”

  Tristan disconnected, and stared at his cellphone, collecting his thoughts. They had a plan of attack. It wasn’t a fully-formed one, and it had a lot of unknowns, but it was better than before. He rolled his neck, liking the lift of tension that loosened his muscles.

  That wasn’t at the forefront of his thoughts, though. Victoria was. He was definitely trying to make a habit of spending more time with her. The phone call had been easy. Letting it happen, not over-thinking every response.

  And the teasing thoughts of what she’d look like in PJ’s—simple, innocently seductive—were pretty good too.

  He dialed Mischa next.

  “Алло.”

  “You got a minute?” Tristan asked.

  “I’ve got a bunch of them. What’s up?”

  Tristan laid out Victoria’s theory about Ralph initiating the investigation.

  Mischa let out a long whistle at the end of the explanation. “Wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Funny how that was the general consensus. “So, dinner at my place, all four of us. We’ll figure out what he knows, and focus our energy on looking there to see if anything is out of place.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Yeah, no. Can’t do that.” Mischa dragged out the words. “Kelly has this talent show thing at school, and Ash promised we’d be there.”

  Tristan stalled on the reply. Instinct wanted to say but you’re not Ash. At the same time, he didn’t fault Mischa for doing the family thing. And he definitely wasn’t going to acknowledge the surge of envy. “I get it. We’ll catch you up later.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tristan hung up. A new layer of unease filled him. It almost seemed wrong for Mischa to be playing the responsible parent—brother-in-law—card. Hearing Mischa casually toss out something like talent night was a painful reminder Tristan had always expected he’d be married by now. Have kids. Do things the way his parents did.

  It twisted his thoughts into a fucked-up knot, that if he didn’t figure things out with Victoria, he may miss that chance. And once again, Mischa would have that thing Tristan wanted, that was just out of his grasp.

  Chapter Fifteen

  VICTORIA PULLED INTO the driveway of Tristan’s house. There were no other cars. His was probably in the garage, but she was surprised to be here before Mischa and Ash.

  She made her way to the front door and knocked. She didn’t have to wait long for Tristan to answer.

  “Come on in.” The warmth in his smile blanketed her, chasing the cold away and sending a pleasant shiver down her spine at the same time.

  When she stepped inside, the aromas of garlic, oregano, and other spices greeted her. She held up the six pack of bottled Coke. The kind with real sugar. “I know it’s traditional for the guest to bring wine. I hope this will do instead.”

  “It’s fantastic.” He set the soda on a table by the door, helped her out of her coat, and hung that in a closet.

  “Am I early?” She followed him from the foyer into the house.

  “No one else is coming. Family obligations.”

  The oddness of the statement was overridden by the knowledge she got Tristan to herself for the entire night. When did that become such a desirable thing? It always had been, but now it also sounded pleasant. Her thoughts trailed off when they reached the living room.

  It was clean—almost obsessively so—no surprise there. The overstuffed couch and two matching chairs looked comfortable, and even from several feet back she saw the fraying on the edges. The TV covering the far wall wasn’t odd either, except she’d expect something like that to be tucked away in a den at the back of the house.

  Controllers sat on the coffee table, and two video game systems were exposed behind an open door in the cabinet, with the hint of more hidden.

  “You look surprised.” Amusement tinged his voice.

  “It looks comfortable.”

  He rested his hand at the small of her back, and a tingle spread out from his touch. She definitely liked that. “I have to live here. Everywhere else is a stopping place, but this is my sanctuary. I keep a condo downtown for entertaining.”

  Of course he did. She wandered farther into the room, toward the wall covered with picture frames. Like his office, the photos were of friends and family, several with him, but not all. Her gaze landed on one of him with a younger girl who had the same blond hair and blue eyes as him. Where he was grinning, she wore a tight-lipped smile. He didn’t look much different but based on the girl’s age, the photo was probably ten years old. “Your sister?”

  “That was the day Trina got her braces. She was so miserable. I had to promise her a new flavor of ice cream every day for a week to get her to smile.”

  She suspected had to was an exaggeration. Something told her he’d enjoyed spoiling the girl. Victoria glanced over the rest of the images. “There are no pictures of you from the Olympics.”

  “Why would the
re be?” The abrupt edge in his voice caught her off-guard

  She turned to see the shadow of a frown. “You trained your entire childhood for that.”

  “And I lost.”

  “You came in second.” The shift in mood was so drastic, she didn’t know how to interpret it.

  He turned away, and headed toward the open dining room. “Second place is the first loser.”

  “Wow.” She couldn’t suppress her shock. “I never would have pegged you as bleak. If anyone were to ask, Is Tristan a bitter kind of guy? I’d tell them no.”

  “Everyone’s got their skeletons. Welcome to mine.”

  She followed him into the other room, not wanting to raise her voice to have the conversation. “You came in second place. Out of the dozens who competed. Out of the hundreds who tried to make the cut. Out of the thousands who never even got that far. Second. In the entire fucking world.” She surprised herself with the shift in her own tone toward forceful.

  His chuckle was dry. “Tell my coach that.” The bitterness had faded from his voice.

  “He’s not here. You are.” She softened her words to match his.

  He gestured to the already-set table. “Dinner?”

  She wasn’t going to argue with, or even question the shift in subject. Largely because she liked not arguing with Tristan, but also because she recognized where he was coming from. That indoctrination, living to meet other’s expectations, was a hard thing to shake, even years later.

  CONVERSATION AT DINNER was subdued. Tristan didn’t mean to slide into the defensive posture when Victoria asked about the Olympics. Something about her made him feel exposed in a way he hadn’t been in ages. Just by being around her.

  They chatted a little about Wolfram, as planned, but they couldn’t get far without Ash and Mischa’s input.

  “Is the evening a waste, with only the two of us?” Victoria asked.

  Tristan let his gaze linger on her face. “Definitely not.”

  “Good.” She ducked her head and tucked a strand of hair behind one ear.

  He liked the gesture. It was like the pretense and facade had been erased. “Cheesecake for dessert. Chocolate mousse.”

  “My favorite.”

  “I know.”

  She studied him, brows knitted with curiosity. “How? You’ve seen me order it... once?”

  The first time Mischa introduced them. And one of the most awkward meals ever. “It was one of the few times I’ve seen you eat anything indulgent.” Besides at the cabin. “And when you saw it on the menu, you said, ooh, my favorite.”

  “It sounds incredible, but it has to wait.” She set her napkin on the table next to her plate. “I’m too full.”

  “It’ll be there later.”

  She helped him clear away the plates and put away the leftovers. They didn’t say a lot, but working next to her like this felt natural. She took and handed things without exchanging words, and they were done in a few minutes.

  They wandered back into the living room when they were done.

  “Okay. PJ time.” She grinned.

  “It’s not even eight.”

  “I didn’t say it was bedtime. I was promised a sleepover.”

  “If there’s no sleeping, doesn’t that make it an anti-sleepover?”

  “You’re over-thinking things.” She headed toward the front foyer, and returned a moment later with a backpack. “Show me where I can go change.”

  He looked her over, making sure to linger on the curve of her hips, her breasts, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Here is fine,” he said.

  “Nope. No peeking.”

  Why does it matter froze in the back of his throat, as the grocery store conversation rushed back. Unlike that night, her words and their meaning sank in. She was taking opportunities where she saw them, to do things she wasn’t allowed to as a child. Not because they were bad things, but because she was required to grow up faster than a child should have to.

  “My room is down the hall on the right. You can change in there.”

  “Be right back.” She half-skipped in the direction he gestured.

  The idea of letting go, the way she was doing, hit something inside. That didn’t make sense, though. No one forced him to be an Olympic medalist. He wanted it, and the discipline was necessary to achieve it.

  There were things he’d missed out on though, that he wished he’d experienced. Things Mischa and Spencer did. Things normal kids did.

  When Victoria returned, she was wearing knit shorts and a camisole. Neither covered much, and the lightweight fabric clung to what was hidden. Fuck that was sexy. She held out a brush and a hair tie, then frowned. “You didn’t change.”

  “You were in my room. You would have noticed.” He was amused.

  “You don’t sleep in slacks and a button-down shirt. The wrinkles would drive you insane.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. I’m not really a PJ’s guy, either.”

  “So improvise.” Her tone was playful and oh-so-seductive. “And nude is fun—a different kind—but it’s not PJs. Go change, and then...” She held out the brush.

  He laughed. “All right. I’ll change and braid your hair, but I want something in return.” Fuck it. He liked the idea of casting aside convention for the night.

  “Ooh, a negotiation. Bid high and I’ll talk you down.” Glee sparkled in her eyes.

  “I want a Hellraiser marathon.”

  “A what-now?”

  “Maybe a marathon is too much for a work night.” Why? “On third thought, it’s perfect. Hellraiser marathon.”

  She scrunched up her nose. “There are what, six movies? That doesn’t leave time for much else. Sleep or...” She fiddled with the thin strap holding her top up, sliding it down her shoulder. “Me kicking your ass at Halo.”

  She’d noticed which game he had out. He liked it. “In that case, Hellraiser one, and however far we make it into two, after I humble you at Halo. And I still get you for breakfast.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Hough.”

  “You’d know.” He liked this. It was simple and fun and no pressure.

  She nodded behind her. “Go change. You owe me a braid.”

  In his room, he stood rooted between the closet and the dresser, not having any idea what he was supposed to wear. Why was dressing for not-sleep so complicated? He decided on a pair of sweat shorts and a T-shirt, and headed back to Victoria.

  She handed him the brush and hair tie and knelt on the floor in front of the couch. “Don’t make this weird,” she teased.

  He took the cushion behind her, and began brushing her hair. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “See? Weird. Gorgeous woman kneels at your feet, and you don’t say anything.”

  “I figured I’d save that for later. If I take advantage of you now, you’ll be too worn out to fulfill your part of the bargain.” He sectioned her hair into pieces and wove it together as he talked.

  She glanced back, and he gently tugged the thick strands. She looked forward again. “Speaking of, you don’t strike me as a gamer. Not that I’m sticking you in a box, but you’re hinting at some serious game, and that’s the kind of skill that takes time to master. Time I can’t imagine you spending in front of an Xbox.”

  “Right, well...” No one knew the full story except for Tristan. It was rooted to a bushel of bad memories, where the games were the one positive. He finished Victoria’s hair, and tied it off. “Done.”

  She moved to sit next to him, turned sideways so her knee rested against his thigh. The pose let her shorts slide up her legs enough to tease without exposing her. “Done with the story, too? I’ll drop it, but you have to ask instead of brushing it off.”

  “It’s not a great and grand tale, but I’ll tell it anyway. After I lost in O-two—”

  Victoria raised her eyebrows and cleared her throat.

  He shook his head. “Fine. After the O-two games ended, I had four years to get it right the next time. Sure, I’d
worked for twenty-two years, give or take, the first time, but I wasn’t starting from square one, so it should be easier.”

  “And?”

  A ghost pain throbbed in his leg, and he rubbed the spot on his lower calf. “I pushed too hard and tore my Achilles tendon. It rolled up like a cartoon window blind under the skin. Hurt like fuck.”

  She cringed. “Sounds like the understatement of the decade.”

  “It pretty much flat-lined my career. It also meant at least six months of taking it easy, and I needed something to keep me from going insane.”

  “Competitive video games.”

  “Turns out I kick some serious ass when you put a controller in my hands.”

  “In that case, I only see one outcome to this conversation.” She straddled his legs, draped her arms around his neck, and drew her lips along his throat.

  A jolt of need shot through him, focusing on his cock. There was no way he could hide that in these shorts. “Competitive sex? Because I might have a bum calf, but I’m sure we can figure something out.”

  She squirmed against him, grinding into his erection. Heat and friction built between thin layers of fabric. He dropped his hand to her ass, and glided forward, past the edge of her shorts.

  She held his gaze as she licked her lips, then leaned in, breath falling on his ear. “I kick your ass at Halo, so you see that losing isn’t a big deal,” she whispered.

  “You’re not kicking my ass.” He let out a laugh of disbelief. “Now I don’t think we should play.”

  She pulled away, pout in place. “Because I’m a girl?”

  “Because I’m the best, and most people are sore losers.”

  “Takes one to know one.” She slid from his lap and sauntered across the room. She bent at the waist, treating him to a full view of her round ass, grabbed both controllers, and turned on the system. As she walked back to the couch, the sway in her hips was exaggerated. She handed him a controller. “Bring it.”

  “What do I get if I win?” He turned on the TV to the right aux channel.

  She sat next to him again, this time with her legs crossed and her attention on the screen. “The satisfaction of a job well done.”