: Chapter 9

He screws up his face. “What are you talking about, Anderson?” he scoffs. “Get your stuff. We’re going to lunch.”

What?

“Are you listening to me, Tris?” I stand up.

“No. I’m not. You’re talking shit.” He puts his hands on my hips and smirks down at me. “Why wouldn’t we see each other when we get on so well? That’s the most ridiculous thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.”

The door opens, and we both turn suddenly.

Marley’s eyes widen in horror as she sees me in Tristan’s arms. “Oh . . . sorry.” She winces.

Shit.

Tristan steps back from me, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

“That’s okay.” I force a smile. “What is it, Marley?”

“I was going to see if you wanted lunch, but . . .”

“No, she’s having lunch with me,” Tristan asserts.

My eyes flick to him. “I’m fine for the moment, Marley. Thank you.”

Marley’s wide eyes dart between Tristan and me, and I can almost hear her brain ticking . . . just great. How the heck do I explain this?

Tristan glares at Marley and raises an impatient eyebrow.

“Oh,” she stammers, all flustered. “I’ll just be at reception.”

Tristan’s nostrils flare in annoyance. “Okay.”

She points outside with her thumb. “If you need me—”

“Thank you, Marley,” he interrupts her.

She smiles broadly and closes the door, and his eyes come back to me. “Where were we?”

I smile and rub my hand down his arm. “Tris. We can’t see each other anymore.”

He brushes my hand off. “What?”

“We can’t see each other.”

“You’re dumping me?”

“Nobody is dumping anybody,” I say softly. “I really, really like you. The guy I went away with was perfect.”

“So why can’t we see each other?” he scoffs.

“Because of the obvious.”

“Like what?” he snaps. His anger is building.

“Tristan, because you are Tristan Miles, and I’m too old for you. I have children and responsibilities, and you like young blondes who are into fashion.”

He narrows his eyes. “Don’t be fucking funny, Anderson.”

“I’m not. You told me that yourself.” I take his hand in mine. “Tris, if circumstances were different and you were . . .” I pause as I try to articulate what I want to say. “If you were older than me and say . . . had been divorced and had a few kids, we could maybe try and see each other.”

“What?” he snaps again. “You won’t see me because I don’t have children? That’s fucking ridiculous, Anderson. Can you hear yourself right now?”

“Don’t raise your voice at me,” I warn him.

“Shut up, and come to lunch with me.” He takes me into his arms, and his lips drop to my neck. Is he for real? “Tristan.” I sigh. Jeez. “Stop it.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t like me, because I know you do.”

“I do. I’m not denying it. I adore you.”

“So?”

“I don’t like you . . . like that.”

He stares at me, as if trying to process my words. “Like what?”

I’m just going to have to come out with it. “Tris, you aren’t exactly boyfriend material for me.”

“What?” he snaps in an outrage. He points to his chest. “I’m . . . not boyfriend material?” he whispers. “I’m great fucking boyfriend material, Claire.”

I exhale . . . here we go. He’s angry now. “No. You’re not.”

“If anyone around here is not partner material, it’s you.”

I cross my arms and watch him as he begins to pace, furious at my rejection.

“You, Claire Anderson . . . are too old for me.”

“I know.”

“And you”—he points at me—“have too many children.”

“Precisely.”

“And I’m not into kids. Especially when they aren’t mine.”

I hold my hands out wide. “Like I said.”

“And I don’t want to be with someone who can’t be spontaneous, anyway.”

“Good. You shouldn’t.” I smile.

“Don’t be fucking condescending, Anderson.”

I roll my eyes. “Are you finished?”

“No. I’m not,” he growls. “You piss me off.”

“I gathered that.”

“Stop it.”

I pull him into my arms and run my fingers through his dark hair. His big beautiful brown eyes search mine, and he puts his hands on my hips. “You really are a beautiful man, Tris,” I whisper.

He pulls me closer.

“You deserve the best.” I kiss his lips as I run my fingers through his stubble. “I’m not her; I’m sorry. I wish I was. I really do. We are at different stages of our lives. You are just about to settle down and start a family, and I am finishing with mine.”

“Stop talking.”

“We both know that this isn’t going anywhere. I’m not a casual-sex kind of person, and you are.”

“Shut the fuck up, Anderson.” He kisses me softly and with just the right amount of tongue. My stomach flutters. “One last time?” he whispers against my lips.

God, it’s so tempting . . . “No.”

He pushes me up against the wall and slides his hand up my skirt. “Let me fuck you on your desk.” His mouth drops to my neck, and I giggle as I look up at the ceiling. “I told you I was going to do it. Right here, right now.”

“Tristan.” I laugh as I push him off me. “You gave me an option: France or my desk. I took France. You don’t get the desk. Now you need to go.”

He stares at me for a moment. “You’re actually serious about this?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want to see me ever again?” He frowns.

“No.”

His mouth falls open. He really is shocked. “But we had the best weekend.”

“I know. It completely sucks that you’re a soul-sucking bastard player.” I turn him and push him toward the door. “Now, I need to work.”

He chuckles, amused at my description. “This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.” He smirks.

I laugh and keep pushing him toward the door.

“You’re missing out on some magical dick.” He grabs his crotch.

“Undoubtedly.”

We get to the door, and he turns toward me. We stare at each other for a moment, and he steps forward and pins me to the door. He grabs my face in his hands, and his tongue swipes through my open lips. My knees weaken, and he grinds his hard cock up against me. He turns my head and puts his mouth to my ear. “Guess what, Anderson?” he whispers.

“What?” I smile.

“We’re not over . . . till . . . I say we’re over.”

He pulls off me and leaves. The door clicks, and my chest rises and falls as I stare at the back of it. A broad smile crosses my face.

Tristan fucking Miles.

I sit back down at my desk and get back to work, and five minutes later my door bursts open. “Are you serious?” Marley gasps as she closes it behind her. “What the fuck did I just see?” she whispers.

“Nothing.” I open my email. “Forget you saw it.”

“Claire Anderson. I demand to know what the hell is going on with that god.”

“He’s not a god. He’s just a random guy.” I hit my keyboard with force. Who am I kidding? He’s totally a god.

“And so how did it go from hating his guts to him groping you in your office?”

I continue typing. I can’t even look at her. “He may have been in France.”

“No way,” she says.

“We may have . . . hooked up.”

“Holy hell.” She puts both of her hands in her hair.

“A little bit.”

“Ahh . . . get the fuck out of here,” she cries. “Are you frigging kidding me?”

“I wish I was.”

“What happened?” she whispers as she leans in. “I need all the details.”

There’s a knock at the door. “Yes?” I call.

An employee named Alexander pokes his head around. “Don’t forget we have that meeting in five minutes.”

“Oh.” My face falls. I completely forgot all about it. “Yes, of course. See you in the conference room.”

Alexander closes the door, and I turn to Marley, who is waiting patiently for the details. “I don’t want to talk about it here. Let’s finish work early today and go to a bar for a staff meeting.”

She smiles mischievously. “Yes. We need to discuss Miles Media in great detail.”

Marley sits down at the bench table and puts my glass of wine in front of me. The bar is crowded and bustling with a four-o’clock rush. It seems everyone wants a drink before they head home.

I sip my wine, and Marley stares at me. “And?”

“And what?”

“Don’t you hold out on me, Claire Anderson. I need all the fucking details.”

I drag my hand down my face. “God, Marley,” I whisper. “It was like a movie.”

She listens intently.

“I got to the conference, and he was the opening speaker. I went to walk out, and he said, ‘Claire Anderson, sit back down.’”

Her eyes widen.

“Then we had banter for a few days, and I was still hating him. But surprisingly, he’s witty and funny.”

“I knew he would be,” she interrupts. “Smart guys are always witty.”

“Anyway, one night on the way back from dinner, he kissed me.”

She holds her hands up and dances on her chair.

“He wanted to come back to my room, and I said no and locked him out.”

“You idiot,” she gasps. “Are you fucking crazy? Have you seen the level of hotness of that guy?”

I raise my eyebrows and smirk.

Her mouth falls open. “Don’t tell me.”

“Yep.”

“And?” she gasps.

“Off-the-hook hot,” I whisper.

She grabs my arm and squeezes it hard. “You had sex . . . with Tristan fucking Miles?”

“Shh, keep your voice down,” I whisper as I look around at the people surrounding us. “Yes. A lot of sex. In fact, I fucked his brains out.”

She puts both hands over her mouth in shock. “What the hell, Claire?”

“I know.” I sip my wine. “But then he came into the conference and said that he had to leave unexpectedly and said goodbye to the group and didn’t say goodbye to me.”

She frowns. “What? I’m confused . . .”

“But then I got back to my room, and there were red roses and a card asking me to go to Paris for the weekend with him.”

Her eyes widen. “Fuck, this story is just getting better and better. Did you go?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes nearly pop from their sockets. “And?” she cries.

I shake my head, unable to believe this story myself. “It was incredible. We had the best time.”

“Oh my God, this is . . .” She shakes her head as she tries to reconcile what’s happened.

“But today, he showed up unexpectedly, and I ended it.”

“What?” She screws up her face. “Why?”

“Oh, come on, Marley. We both know it’s not going anywhere.”

She stares at me.

“He’s young and handsome and a player. I’m in bed at nine o clock on Saturday night, dead tired. He doesn’t do long term, and I can’t really do anything else.”

“So?”

“No.” I smile sadly. “He’s beautiful, but he’s at a stage where he is going to want to settle down soon, and I’m not the person. We are at different stages of our life.”

“Why can’t you just fuck him for fun, Claire?” she mutters flatly.

“Because . . .” I think on my answer for a while. “You know, I realized something about myself this weekend.”

“What’s that?”

“I quite liked having someone there, you know. Talking, laughing, having sex.”

She smiles sadly as she listens.

“And I might want to pursue dating again.”

“Why can’t you just date Tristan?”

“Tristan doesn’t date. All he would do is tie me up so I don’t meet anyone else.”

I smile as I remember him dancing naked at the end of the bed. “Perhaps if he were older and had a few kids with another woman, I would follow it up. But we are at different stages of life, and I’m not holding him or myself back by pursuing something that will never go anywhere. Trust me; this is shitty for me, too, but he isn’t someone I want to date long term.”

Marley exhales heavily. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Fair enough.”

I take her hand in mine and smile sadly. “One weekend was enough, and you know what? It did the trick. I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and for the first time in a long time, I’m kind of looking forward to what the future may bring. Thank you so much for making me go. Honestly it was so needed.”

We sit in silence for a moment, and her eyes come to mine. “Put me out of my misery; was it good?”

“Ridiculously so.” I smile. “He has a body built to please a woman. I didn’t know that virile men like him existed in real life.”

Marley tips her head back to the ceiling. “God, he’s so hot . . . I can’t stand it,” she moans.

“I know.” I sigh. “He really is. And fun, so fun. Honestly I’ve never been with a man who is so fun. I was in an orgasm high the entire weekend.”

Marley sips her drink, deep in thought. “Maybe he could just fuck me for a while to take his mind off you.”

I throw my head back and laugh out loud.

“I’m not joking, Claire. I need some fucking fun in my life,” she mutters dryly. “I’m having a fun famine. It’s depressing, actually.”

“Tristan is off limits.” I clink my glass with hers.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a spoilsport. He was totally into me.”

“I don’t doubt it.” I giggle. “Tristan Miles is into everybody.”

The drive home from work is long, but for once, it doesn’t seem it.

Every day this week I have daydreamed about Tristan Miles the entire way home.

Thinking of the funny things he said, the places he took me in Paris, him speaking French, the way he touched me. The way I touched him . . . our laughter.

God, so much to think about where he is concerned.

Since I saw him on Monday, I’ve had trouble focusing. I’m just grateful that we had that week together.

I wonder what kind of woman he will end up with. I smile sadly. Lucky bitch, whoever she is.

I think about my life and how blessed I am now that Mom and Dad have moved to be closer to us and help me with the kids.

Wade and I relocated here when he started Anderson Media. Neither of us had family close. And now because of work I can’t move. We are effectively here alone for good. It took a long while for Mom and Dad to realize that I was staying put. I think they were secretly hoping I would pack up and move back to Florida, but when they realized I wasn’t, they sold their Florida home and bought a house not far from mine.

I pull into the driveway and stare at the house. I exhale heavily. It’s extra messy today. It looks like a junkyard. Bikes and skateboards and shoes everywhere.

Frigging kids. Ugh.

I grab all of my things and walk into the house, and Fletcher comes marching out from the kitchen. “What is this?” he cries as he holds his hand up in the air.

“Huh?” I glance over at Harry and Patrick. They both look scared for their lives.

What in the world?

“What are these?” Fletcher bellows. I can see he has something in his hand, but I have no idea what.

“What are you talking about, Fletcher?” I frown.

“Whose jocks are these that I found in your suitcase?” he yells as he spins Tristan’s briefs on his finger.

My eyes widen.

Oh shit.

“Yes, Mom. Who left their damn underwear in your suitcase, and what exactly were you doing in fucking France?”

My mouth falls open. “Do not use that language with me, young man. How dare you? What were you doing looking through my suitcase? You’re grounded.”

“You’re grounded, Mom,” he cries. “What the hell were you doing in France?”

I narrow my eyes and go to snatch the underwear from him, and he snatches it away.

“Did you even go to France, or was that a lie too?”

My mouth falls open. “You self-centered little . . .” I stop myself before I call him a name. “How dare you.”

“Oh, I dare, all right. Who is he?” he yells. “I’m going to kill him with my bare hands.”

Fuck’s sake. I march into the kitchen with him hot on my heels. I pour myself a glass of wine as Fletcher carries on and waves the underwear around like a lunatic.

“I mean it,” he yells. “I want his name.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose . . . God . . . I do not need this shit.

Tristan

I pull the car up and frown as I peer at the house. This can’t be it. I search for the address that Sammia found for me, and I frown. This is the right address.

Huh?

There are bikes and shit all over the front yard. I sit in the car for a moment and stare at the junkyard.

There’s no way she would live here.

I’m not giving up this easily. We are not over until I say we are over.

Oh well, guess there’s only one way to find out. I get out of the car and walk up to the front steps. Five bikes are strewed across the front yard, along with basketballs and catcher’s mitts. I look around at all the shoes. Does a fucking centipede live here or something?

How many children does she have?

I peer in through the screen door. I can hear yelling coming from the kitchen.

That’s weird.

I knock on the door.

“Hello?” I call.

I hear Claire’s voice. “That is enough, Fletcher,” she snaps. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

Huh?

“Hello?” I call again.

“Hello,” a boy says as he appears in front of me.

I stare down at him. He’s little and has dark hair. “Is this the Anderson house?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I frown. What the fuck—she does live here? “Is . . . Claire Anderson here?”

“Yes. That’s my mom.” He swings his arms from side to side as he looks up at me, totally clueless.

I wait for him to go and get her. When he doesn’t, I ask, “Um . . . can you get her for me, please?” What the hell, kid?

“Yeah, okay.” He walks off, and I stand at the door . . . uneasiness fills me. This was a bad idea.

Another kid comes to the door. He has curly light hair, and he glares at me through the screen. “Who are you?”

“Tristan.” I smile.

“What do you want?”

Jeez. I frown . . . these kids are rude. “I’m here to see your mother.”

“Go away.” He closes the door in my face.

I frown and step back . . . what?

I wait for him to open it back up. He doesn’t. Okay . . . what just happened?

“Harry.” I hear Claire’s voice. “Don’t be rude.” She opens the door in a rush, and her eyes widen as she sees me. “Tristan,” she whispers as she steps out onto the porch and quietly closes the door behind her. “This is a really bad time. You need to go,” she whispers.

I can sense something is wrong with her. “What? Why?” I whisper back.

The front door opens up in a rush. “Is this him?” a big teenage kid yells.

Claire’s face falls, and I frown as I look between them. “Huh?”

“That means yes,” he growls. He turns his attention to me. “You!” the huge kid screams. The veins are sticking out of his neck in anger. What the hell? He looks like the Hulk.

“You!” he yells again at the top of his voice. “I’m going to kill you with my bare hands.”

My eyes widen in horror, and I step back and stand on something—a skateboard. It rolls out from underneath me, and my ankle turns, and I step back as I fall. Then I tumble down the six stairs. “Ahh!” I cry as I hit the ground with a thud.

Claire runs down the stairs. “Oh my God, Tristan.”

Ouch . . . a searing pain rips through my ankle.

The huge kid comes running down the stairs and starts whipping me with something across the head. “Stay the hell away from her.” He continues to hit me. “Stay. The. Hell. Away.” He whips me again and again.

“What are you doing?” I cry as I try to shield myself from his onslaught.

“Fletcher!” Claire screams. “Go inside the house. Now.”

He holds something up to my face. “Are these your underpants?” he sneers.

My eyes widen . . . oh, hell on a cracker. This is the fucking twilight zone.

“Are they?” he cries. He holds them up to my face, and when I don’t answer him, he gets infuriated and begins to suffocate me with them as he tries to stick them in my mouth.

I thrash on the ground as I fight for survival. “Claire!” I scream. “What the actual fuck?”

“Fletcher. Get into the house!” she screams as she pushes him off me.

The crazed lunatic is panting, gasping for air as he glares at me. “Don’t push me . . . pretty boy.” He pegs the underpants as I cover my head with my forearms to shield myself from another attack, and he storms inside. The screen door bangs hard.

The second-oldest boy disappears into the house as well, and Claire and the little one kneel down beside me.

“Tristan, I am so sorry,” she whispers. “He’s in so much trouble you won’t even believe it.”

I stare at her as I pant . . . what the actual fuck just happened right now?

I go to stand up, and my ankle gives way, and I nearly fall.

“Oh my God, you’re hurt,” she whispers.

I stare at her deadpan. “I wonder why.”

“Because Fletcher tried to put underpants in your mouth so you would choke,” the little kid says. “Choke to death,” he adds.

“Enough, Patrick,” Claire says to him.

They help me up, and I can’t put any weight on my ankle.

“Come inside, and let me get some ice,” Claire says.

“You have to be kidding,” I snap as I pull my arm from her grip. “I am not going in that house. That kid is deranged. He almost killed me.”

“He has anger-management issues,” the little kid says.

“Tris, come on. You can’t drive anywhere like this,” Claire urges. Eventually I hop up the stairs, and they both help me in and lead me, and I fall onto the couch.

Claire moves the ottoman over to me and puts my foot up and takes my shoe and sock off.

“What is he doing in my house?” the Hulk kid says as he comes storming into the room.

“He is my guest. Go to your room,” Claire growls.

“But—”

“So help me, Fletcher, I have never been so angry with you. Go to your room now!” she screams.

He gives me one last death stare and stomps up the stairs.

“I’ll get some ice,” Claire says. “I have to go out to the garage freezer. Back in a moment.” She disappears, and the youngest kid comes and sits beside me. So close that he’s nearly sitting on top of me. I edge myself away from him.

I look around the house in horror. The furniture is all moved to the side, and there are huge-ass fans going, facing down to the floor. The carpet has huge wet patches . . . what happened there? Are they washing out a bloodstain?

The television is blaring a really loud game show, and there is some kind of art project sprawled over the coffee table. It’s messy and chaotic . . . not what I expected at all. Pain sears through my ankle, and I wince.

A cat jumps up on the couch. It’s big and ugly, and it comes over and tries to sit on me. Eww. I lean away from it.

“Muff. Get down,” the kid says.

I look at him. “Your cat is called Muff?”

He smiles and nods proudly. “He’s naughty. He pees on things.” The cat jumps onto the ottoman and begins to lick my foot. I jerk it away. Ugh.

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Good grief.

The middle kid comes out and stands in front of us. “I’m watching you,” he whispers. He slices his finger across his neck as he narrows his eyes.

Huh?

Fuck’s sake . . . she’s breeding serial killers here.

I begin to feel faint.

“My name is Patrick,” the little kid says.

“Hi, Patrick,” I reply as I keep my eye on the serial-killer kid, and I gesture to him. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“Your worst nightmare,” he whispers darkly in a monster voice.

I frown . . . what the hell is up with this kid? “What a stupid name,” I whisper back.

“His name is Harry,” Patrick says.

“Yeah, well, Harry is psychotic,” I reply with my eyes locked on Harry. I tap my temple. “Weirdo,” I mouth.

Harry makes crazy eyes and puts his hands around his own throat and begins to choke himself as I watch. He makes choking noises and falls to the floor and then plays dead.

What the . . . ?

I stare at his lifeless body on the floor.

I’m not even joking; this kid is fucking deranged.

Claire comes rushing in from a room at the back. “Oh my God, Tris. I didn’t have any ice, so we will have to use a bag of peas.”

She places them on my foot. My ankle is now the size of a football and throbbing like a bitch.

“Get up, Harry,” Claire says as she tends to me. He gets up and runs out of the room, and I stare after him. I don’t trust that kid. Something is seriously off here.

I need to keep my wits about me in this house . . . the end is near.

The corner of the bag of peas is open, and they spill all over the floor. A dog comes running through the house with a bucket tied to its head and begins to eat the frozen peas off the floor. “Woofy,” Claire calls. “No, boy.”

I frown as I watch in horror.

What is this godforsaken place?

Savages . . .

The middle child—what’s his name, Harry?—comes back into the room with what looks like a dressing gown cord and a teddy bear. He sits opposite me, and I frown as I watch him. What the hell is he doing now?

“I’ll drive you home, Tris,” Claire says.

My eyes are locked on the evil kid. He ties the cord around the teddy bear’s neck.

“You’ll have to leave your car here,” Claire continues.

The kid stands on the couch across from me and lets the bear drop. It hangs by the noose. “Broken neck . . . he’s dead,” he whispers.

Get out . . . get out . . . get out of the fucking house.

I stand in a rush and trip over the dog, who is eating the peas. “Fuck,” I cry in pain.

“Tristan, you can’t drive,” Claire gasps.

“Well, I’m not fucking staying here,” I stammer. I hop out the front door and take one last look around.

I never knew what hell looked like.

Now I do.

“Tristan, come back.”

I hop out onto the porch. “Goodbye, Claire,” I call. It was nice knowing you.