“Ray?”
“Yeah, Raymond Fontana.”
“I know Ray. He’s my brother-in-law.” The man set the beer bottle and remote on the coffee table and peered at him. “How do you know him?”
“I worked for his office for eighteen months, and when I mentioned how hard it was to find a place in this market, he said I could stay here until I get settled.”
Eyes narrowed with mistrust, the man crossed his arms. “Where?”
Frustrated, Tristan rubbed his face and sighed. “Where, what? I’m not in the mood to play Twenty Questions.”
“Where did you work for Ray? If it’s true, you should know, right?”
“And if you’re his brother-in-law,youshould know where the hell he is, right?” The little patience he had left, snapped. “Listen. I don’t give a crap about anything except I’ve been up almost thirty-two hours and only had airline food. I’m tired, grimy, and I want to sleep. Now I’m going to bed, and we can figure this out when I wake up.”
“What?” the man started sputtering again. “You’re not sleeping in my bed.”
Tristan eyed him. He was young and didn’t look like he spent much time in the gym. Tristan was six five, two hundred and forty pounds, and kept himself in peak physical condition, thanks to his years as a cop, starting with his undercover assignment as an exotic dancer.
“Try and stop me.” He left his suitcases by the door, shed his suit jacket on the couch and unbuttoned his shirt. Ignoring the man who stood openmouthed, Tristan continued further on into the apartment and kicked off his loafers on his way to the bedroom. “I’m so tired, I don’t even care when you washed the sheets last.” He walked in, and without bothering to take off the rest of his clothes, laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, starting to drift off, when a hand clamped on his shoulder.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding if you think you’re staying—whoa, what the fuck.”
Tristan had reared up and grabbed the man’s arm, then flipped him over and landed on top of him. “Don’t ever fucking touch me. Understand?”
White-faced, the man trembled. “Y-yeah, su-sure. Okay. Can you let go of me? I think you’re cutting off my circulation.”
Tristan gazed down at his hand squeezing the guy’s forearm. He released it and was shocked to see a deep red mark that was certain to bruise. Instant remorse filled him.
“I’m sorry.”
The man scrambled away, and breathing heavily, ran out to the living room. Tristan heard the sound of keys, and the door slammed. Too tired to worry, he flopped onto the bed again.
“I’ll figure out what the hell’s going on when I wake up.”
* * *
He blinked and groaned. Light streamed across the covers, and he sat up, completely disoriented. He blinked again and pinched his fingers to his eyes to get his bearings.
Plane delays…Ray’s apartment…outraged cute guy.
Oh, yeah.Now he remembered.
He checked his phone and was shocked to see it was 8:43 a.m. The receipt for his Uber from JFK to West 78th Street popped up and was time-stamped 5:34 p.m., meaning he’d slept for over fifteen hours straight. And yet he still felt like shit. Jet lag was no joke. Plus, sleeping in his clothes wasn’t the best look. He slipped off the wrinkled mess of a shirt.
“Blech.” He ran his tongue over his teeth and grimaced. God, when was the last time he’d brushed his teeth or showered? “Ugh.” He stretched and pulled out the band holding his hair back. It tumbled almost to his shoulders, and he shook it out and scratched his scalp. “Dude, you need a shower.”
He also had to pee, and that, more than anything, got him up. He scrubbed his face and rolled off the bed. Once out in the living room, a twinge of guilt hit him seeing the man curled up on the couch. They sure had gotten off on the wrong foot.
I’ll deal with that later.
He grabbed his shaving kit from one of his suitcases, which he noticed were right where he’d left them by the door, then quietly closed the bathroom door behind him. While emptying his bladder, he almost frightened himself in the mirror with the reflection staring at him.
Never mind bags—a full set of luggage rested under his eyes, and a heavy stubble covered his jaw.Jeez, I look worse than when I was doing buy and busts.
So not a pretty boy, compared to his undercover dancing days at Man Up. There he’d been oiled, shaved his chest, and spent most of his time working out so he could deal with the punishing dancing schedule. He may not have found any criminal activity, but he came away from Man Up with crazy quadriceps, a super-tight ass, and a newfound respect for the industry.
Tristan splashed cold water on his face and brushed his teeth, wondering if any of those men were still working at the club and if they remembered him. He lathered up his beard and went to work with his razor.
