“Stop it.” I try to stand, but Brent has my wrists caught behind my back, and he’s using my movements to pin me down against the table. The balls of my feet lift, raising me off the ground. My hips press painfully into the edge of the wood as Brent pushes my wrists hard against the small of my back. My cheek sticks to the table, the overwhelming smell of lemon oil filling my nostrils.
“You sent someone to outbid me. Toembarrassme.” The zipper of his pants whirs and I kick backward.
But I miss his leg, and he manages to stand between mine, out of kicking range as he shoves me harder against the table.
“I think you owe me for that. I deserve another hole thistime. Did you give your ass up to that guy at the gala? The son-of-a-bitch who paid for you?”
I jerk to fight him off me, but my shoulders ache at the effort. My chest presses harder into the wood as Brent rests more of his weight on top of me.
“Fuck you,” I snap.
“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart. That’s exactly what?—”
Crack!
Brent’s hands release me, and the moment I’m free, I slide sideways down the table until I’m out from under him.
A thump sounds behind me, and I spin on my heels, stumbling on the Persian rug.
A man’s standing over Brent, his arm still raised with an antique Tiffany lampstand in his hand. The ornate glass is shattered along the floor like parade confetti beneath Brent’s unmoving body.
My chest heaves as the man faces me.
“Are you alright?” Tristan’s voice reassures me as he drops the lamp on top of Brent and scoops me into his arms.
Relief floods me so quickly and so heavily that my body collapses into his arms. Tears spring to my eyes.
He’s here.
I can’t stop the tears. And he doesn’t ask me to stop them. He holds me, silently giving me permission to cry into his sturdiness. He lets my emotions crash over me like waves before a hurricane. All the while, he stays steady as a lighthouse, weathering my emotional storm.
I’ve never been so relieved to see him. Not the night he came over to try and find the person stalking me. Not the night he saved me at the auction. Deep in my bones,something relaxes at the mere sight of him, and I’m not ready to let go.
I don’t know how long I cry. Or how long he holds me. I don’t remember the soft words he coos into my ear.
But a low groan from behind us brings me crashing back to reality.
Brent groans from the floor, his hand reaching to clutch his head where a trickle of blood seeps against his temple, dripping onto the carpet in thick droplets.
Tristan releases me, and the toe of his sneaker collides with Brent’s temple. Brent goes still again.
Tristan crouches down, slips his gym bag off his shoulder, and crams the lamp stand into it.
“We need to go.” He stands up, and I take in the sight of him. A dark hoodie and grey sweatpants, like he’s left the gym, his bag slung over his shoulder. His brown contacts glint, and his prosthetic nose is wide and flat. His wig is pitch black.
Did he know I would be here?
I’m sure he did. I want to ask how, but there’s an urgency in his voice as he takes my hands and pulls me towards the door.
“Act natural. And put these on.” He grabs a pair of aviators from his hoodie pocket and hands them to me. “It’s obvious you’ve been crying. We don’t want to draw attention.”
Watch your face. Mom’s words haunt me. All those years in front of a camera—smiling, and waving, and acting like everything was right—are being put to good use. Slipping on the glasses, I round my shoulders. Tristan wipes both sides of the doorknob with his sleeves and walks down the hallway. I follow him out into the parking lot, and he trailsbehind me until we reach my car. It’s not until I’m sitting in the driver’s seat that he says anything.
“I need to wipe their security cameras.” He tosses the bag into my passenger seat. “Do you know the strip mall on Clover Road?”
I nod.
“Good. Their cameras don’t work at the back of the complex. That’s where they keep their dumpsters. Drive around, throw this bag in there, then leave. Don’t stop in the stores for anything. Go straight home.”
