“They really had no idea?” I ask her again, for the eighth time during the car ride.
“No, Tristan. They don’t know your secret vigilante persona, or what your hobbies are.” Daphne places a hand on my thigh to reassure me, but all it does is reassure my cock that he needs attention. My erection grows like it’s trying to reach for her hand.
Five minutes. We’ll be home in five goddamn minutes.
I take her hand off my leg and raise her knuckles to my lips. “Thank you.” They’re weak words compared to the mountain of gratitude I feel for her not saying anything about the murders. Sure, some of that might be self-preservation. She’d get convicted as an accessory or something for failing to tell the police.
But I like to think it’s because my girlfriend cares about me and doesn’t want to have a long-distance relationship via love letters between jail cells.
“Do you want any more fries?” She offers me the bag, but I shake my head. Sharing your fries is a sign of true love.
Daphne Fox is in love with me. Actions speak louder than words. That’s it. She’s mine. Forever and ever.
Daphne Sinclair has a nice ring to it.
I don’t care how batshit ridiculous I sound right now. I’m mentally and emotionally exhausted. And as soon as we’re alone, I’ll add physically exhausted to the list. Sometimes, a good, hard fuck with the most beautiful woman in the world is exactly what you need.
I release her hand as I wind my way onto a small road and flick my high beams on to see down the winding dark path.
At night, it’s pitch black outside. And it’s peaceful.
Not until today did I worry about what that darkness might conceal, and reality settles in my stomach like food poisoning.
“Home sweet home,” I say as I pull into my driveway. I tap the sensor on my keychain, and my garage door rises to reveal my Porsche, my Kia, and Tessa’s VW Beetle.
As I pull in beside my Porsche, I watch the rearview mirror as the garage door lowers, making sure no one rushes in. Once the door closes and locks, I can breathe again.
Paranoia sucks.
“I’ll come back for the boxes,” I tell her as we exit the truck. “I want you to meet my sister.”
Daphne beams and, as we walk towards the door leading into the house, I slip Daphne’s hand in mine and guide her inside.
“Tessa!” I shout out.
Hawkeye’s paws tap along the hardwood floor as he races from another room toward us, his tail wagging furiously as he darts over to his mom.
Daphne scoops him up in her arms as his tongue lashes her chin with kisses. “Hello, Hawkeye,” she coos. “Were you a good boy? Do you like your new home?”
Home.My chest feels all warm and fuzzy, like a seventies shag carpet. This house has always been empty, even after I hired someone to decorate and fill it up with stuff. But Daphne and Hawkeye liven the place up in a way no Pottery Barn furniture can.
Tessa’s bubble-gum soft curls bounce as she steps in, waving a fingerless-gloved hand at us. “Finally!” She flashes a bright smile, like a laser beam, at Daphne and sweeps her and Hawkeye up in a hug. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
Hawkeye wiggles in Daphne’s arms, trying to free himself. “It’s nice to meet you too,” Daphne says once Tessa steps back and gives her space to set Hawkeye onto the floor.
“Tristan hasn’t shut up about you.”
“Tessa,” I hiss, which earns me an eyeroll from her.
“Don’t mind him,” Tessa dismisses me with a wave of her hand as she loops Daphne’s arm in hers and guides her into the kitchen. “How was the ride up?”
“Tessa,” I interrupt, “I’m sure Daphne’s tired.”
“And I’m sure Daphne can speak for herself,” Daphne snaps back with a sassy grin.
Oh, great. The two of them together is going to be a Goddamn tornado of smartass remarks. What have I done?
“Is Daphne going to talk about herself in the third person?” I ask.
