Page 67 of The Contract

“You should worry about yourself, Tristan.”

“Why didn’t you come home last night?”

“Why do you keep calling it home when you insisted on having your own separate place?”

He flushes. “I didn’t want a separate place. That wasn’t the point. That’s just what you chose to focus on because that’s allyoucared about.”

It takes me aback. Apparently, that shows on my face because Tristan says, “You can’t figure everything out by observation. Sometimes, you do have to ask questions.”

“So what was the point?”

He suddenly looks uncomfortable, like he didn’t expect me to actually ask. But he has to answer.

“You fucked with my things. Behind my back.”

“And …?”

“And that’s not okay! My shit ismyshit. I’m sure that someone who grew up like a rich brat can’t understand that, because everything is fucking disposable to you, but when you have no one and basicallynothing, little shit matters. It’s all you fucking have.”

His words shove me so far into the past that I flinch. I do understand, actually, more than I’d like to. I know what it’s like to curl up around something that’s basically a piece of trash like it’s a fucking life raft. I didn’t connect that to Tristan. In fact, I haven’t thought about it in years. I don’t want to.

Everything, it seems, is conspiring to bring the past boiling over into the present. I fucking hate it.

I can’t tell him that I understand, but I do say, “Noted. I won’t do it again.”

Now he’s the one taken aback. “Really?”

“I will not fuck with your shit. That doesn’t mean, however, that I won’t fuck withyou.”

And he smiles. He fucking smiles like I’ve handed him the world, and I can’t fucking take it, so I get out my phone and send Kenzie a text.

Then I inform him, “Kenzie will be babysitting you this afternoon.”

His expression sours. “What the fuck, Dante?”

“You think I trust you not to come? Not a chance. You will be supervised. You can go to lunch, the movies, I don’t care. But the plug stays in.”

“Why don’t you do those things with me?”

I think,Because I can’t fucking handle how badly I want to do just that. Because I might say something that I shouldn’t say. Because I might kiss you again.

What I say is, “Because I don’t have time.”

TWENTY-TWO

Tristan

“Come here,” he says gently, like he’s my fucking savior. But he is, isn’t he? I need him to reach into the back seat and pull me out. I need him to scoop me up so I can moan and shudder and cling to him as the plug shifts inside me.

I don’t even know where we are until Dante tells Kenzie, “You can take the Jag home if you want.” We’re at home then. In the parking garage.

“I’ll take the train,” she replies in a clipped tone. Then she adds, “That was fucked up, Dante, even for you.”

“I’ll take care of him.”

“You fucking better.”

“Fuck off, Kenzie.”

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