Trystan peers out at me. “Need a ride, Doc?”
The cop tenses, as if he were trying not to go totally fangirl in front of Trystan Scott.
I’m too tired to say no, and I don’t want to call a cab to pick me up. Last time I rode home at this hour, the guy talked about pickles the whole time. I think he was trying to make innuendos, or maybe he'd actually pickled his thingy. Either way, I’d rather not live through another weird late-night cab ride.
“Yeah, that’d be great.” I head over to the limo, open the door, and poke my head inside.
“Do you have water or food or something?”
Trystan nods and hands me a brown paper bag. “The driver grabbed me breakfast, but I’m too queasy to eat it. Egg and cheese on a roll with a side of bacon.” I don’t mean to, but I smile. It's a meal he frequently ate in high school.
“Thanks. One second.” I accept the bag and cup of coffee Trystan hands me, then walk it over to the cop. “Will you accept an apology breakfast? I hope you like bacon.”
The man’s face lights up as he peers into the bag. “Who doesn’t?” He pulls out a crispy piece of greasy goodness and shoves it into his mouth as I head back to the car. “Dr. Jennings,” he calls. I glance back at him. “Thanks.”
When I slip into the car next to Trystan, I’m too tired to realize this should be awkward. I slump back in the seat and put my arm over my face. “I didn’t turn into my father today. Wooh-eee.” I twirl a finger in the air.
Trystan snorts. “Is that something you worry about?”
“Not until recently. When people start saying, ‘you’re like your father’ and that’s the last thing you want to hear, there’s no way to ignore it, you know?”
His voice is soft. “I do.”
I drop my arm and sigh in my seat, staring at this man, wondering about which ways he’s changed and which ways he’s the same. I know one answer to that question. The Trystan I knew wouldn’t touch liquor—not even if his life depended on it. Alcohol was the antithesis of what he wanted from his life—he thought he might as well be chugging down poison. So, how did he get to this point?
The intercom buzzes and the driver asks where we’re going. Before I can reply, Trystan says, “Home.”
CHAPTER 12
TRYSTAN
W hat the hell am I doing? I touch my hand to my forehead, thinking I’ll push my hair out of my face and wince. Stitches. I can’t seem to remember they’re there and my hand always goes to my face in front of Mari. If I don’t cover my eyes, I swear she can look right through me. There’s still that spark in the air around her, even doped up I can sense it. It has my skin prickling and my nerves on edge.
She blinks those beautiful brown eyes at me and stutters. “Wait, what? We can’t go back to your place. Trystan.” She scolds me, and that tone is everything I remember. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she still cared about me, but after what I did to her—well, I’m certain she hates me. Mari was never one to leave a half-dead animal on the side of the road. She’s a healer at heart and wants to ease the pain in the people around her. Maybe I took advantage of that while in the hospital.
“Don’t Trystan me. Not right now.” I slump back into the seat and try to ignore the pounding in my head and the dull screaming coming from my leg. Maybe I shouldn’t have ripped out the IV before they gave me another round of pain meds. “I can’t take you home, they’ll follow us.”
Looking between my fingers, I see her face scrunch up. There are little wrinkles around her nose when she does it. I’ve kissed that nose and held those hands. I wish I could feel her touch now and fall asleep in her lap. My time with Mari was the happiest time of my life. Since then, everything’s gone to shit. Career or not, money doesn’t matter if you have food in your belly and a roof over your head. Cash is a double-edged sword—it provides power, but it steals
The cop tenses, as if he were trying not to go totally fangirl in front of Trystan Scott.
I’m too tired to say no, and I don’t want to call a cab to pick me up. Last time I rode home at this hour, the guy talked about pickles the whole time. I think he was trying to make innuendos, or maybe he'd actually pickled his thingy. Either way, I’d rather not live through another weird late-night cab ride.
“Yeah, that’d be great.” I head over to the limo, open the door, and poke my head inside.
“Do you have water or food or something?”
Trystan nods and hands me a brown paper bag. “The driver grabbed me breakfast, but I’m too queasy to eat it. Egg and cheese on a roll with a side of bacon.” I don’t mean to, but I smile. It's a meal he frequently ate in high school.
“Thanks. One second.” I accept the bag and cup of coffee Trystan hands me, then walk it over to the cop. “Will you accept an apology breakfast? I hope you like bacon.”
The man’s face lights up as he peers into the bag. “Who doesn’t?” He pulls out a crispy piece of greasy goodness and shoves it into his mouth as I head back to the car. “Dr. Jennings,” he calls. I glance back at him. “Thanks.”
When I slip into the car next to Trystan, I’m too tired to realize this should be awkward. I slump back in the seat and put my arm over my face. “I didn’t turn into my father today. Wooh-eee.” I twirl a finger in the air.
Trystan snorts. “Is that something you worry about?”
“Not until recently. When people start saying, ‘you’re like your father’ and that’s the last thing you want to hear, there’s no way to ignore it, you know?”
His voice is soft. “I do.”
I drop my arm and sigh in my seat, staring at this man, wondering about which ways he’s changed and which ways he’s the same. I know one answer to that question. The Trystan I knew wouldn’t touch liquor—not even if his life depended on it. Alcohol was the antithesis of what he wanted from his life—he thought he might as well be chugging down poison. So, how did he get to this point?
The intercom buzzes and the driver asks where we’re going. Before I can reply, Trystan says, “Home.”
CHAPTER 12
TRYSTAN
W hat the hell am I doing? I touch my hand to my forehead, thinking I’ll push my hair out of my face and wince. Stitches. I can’t seem to remember they’re there and my hand always goes to my face in front of Mari. If I don’t cover my eyes, I swear she can look right through me. There’s still that spark in the air around her, even doped up I can sense it. It has my skin prickling and my nerves on edge.
She blinks those beautiful brown eyes at me and stutters. “Wait, what? We can’t go back to your place. Trystan.” She scolds me, and that tone is everything I remember. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she still cared about me, but after what I did to her—well, I’m certain she hates me. Mari was never one to leave a half-dead animal on the side of the road. She’s a healer at heart and wants to ease the pain in the people around her. Maybe I took advantage of that while in the hospital.
“Don’t Trystan me. Not right now.” I slump back into the seat and try to ignore the pounding in my head and the dull screaming coming from my leg. Maybe I shouldn’t have ripped out the IV before they gave me another round of pain meds. “I can’t take you home, they’ll follow us.”
Looking between my fingers, I see her face scrunch up. There are little wrinkles around her nose when she does it. I’ve kissed that nose and held those hands. I wish I could feel her touch now and fall asleep in her lap. My time with Mari was the happiest time of my life. Since then, everything’s gone to shit. Career or not, money doesn’t matter if you have food in your belly and a roof over your head. Cash is a double-edged sword—it provides power, but it steals
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