Page 28 of Antihero
“No,” he mutters, standing.
I’m hoping it’s nothing more than a salesman who will soon be turned away. I follow, staying off to the side so that whoever’s there doesn’t see me, should they be questioned later.
Harry swings the door open with a sharp “What?”
“Hi, house five, Yung Close?”
“Yes!”
“I’m from Rock Plumbing, here to fix the pipe.”
"What?" Harry is spluttering. “There's no pipe? I didn't hire a plumber!”
But at the sound of the man’s voice, I’ve drifted into view to get a look at this ‘plumber’.
Tristan, a cap pulled over his hair, head tilted down as though reading from a ledger, is saying, “A Mrs Lester booked me…?" He leaves it open, as though Harry can deny knowing his own wife. “She says it’s urgent. In the…” He flips a page over, then back. "Upstairs guest bathroom."
"Fucking hell," Harry groans.
My smile is tight. I touch Harry's forearm, turning to him to prevent myself from staring daggers at Tristan. How in the hell did he know I’d be here? “Harry, perhaps he could come back later?"
“Afraid this was a last-minute booking, miss." Tristan smirks at me. “Soonest I could come back is next week.”
Harry groans. "Marion will want it fixed…" He steps back, waving the second serial killer today into his house. I’m fuming as I stand aside.
"Upstairs, left,” Harry tells him with a wave towards the teak staircase. “You'll find it."
"Yes sir."
I watch Tristan trot upstairs, with a toolbox that’s probably just full of rocks in one hand, and all my carefully laid plans falling apart in the other.
"Come, he won't bother us." Harry gestures back towards the couch.
Oh, I beg to differ.
Not ten minutes more and Tristan’s presence in the house weighs on me like a truck. I can't do what I need to do with him here. He'll interrupt for sure. That’s his whole point. The asshole. "Sorry,” I say, interrupting something Harry was telling me that I wasn’t listening to. “I’m feeling a little unwell. Might Iuse the little girl’s room?" I cringe at the terminology, but Harry used it in the café. He looks put out by this, perhaps seeing his chance at some groping slip away. How surprising that he’s not interested in sickly women, or taking care of one.
I shut the frosted glass door to the refractory and immediately turn for the stairs, taking them fast but quiet. When I burst into the first guest bathroom that I see on the left, Tristan isn't evenpretendingto know how plumbing works. He's just sitting on the edge of the tub, not doing a damned thing. His convincingly stained blue coveralls are pulled down to his hips, so that he’s just in a white singlet. The room is warm with the sun beating against it, streaming in through the single, tall window. His bare, pale shoulders, corded with muscle, are on display, and his pecs are clearly visible through the thin fabric.
The hat is resting on the sink. His hair, the dye, faded to a light, warm brown, is pushed back as though he’s run his hands through it. He grins when I stand in the doorway and growl, "What the hell are you doing?"
"Plumbing?" he asks.
Oh, like hell. “‘A leak in the mains',” I mock. “Do you even know what that means?”
Tristan shrugs. "No less than he does."
"How long are you planning to stay?" I snap.
He pretends to think. "In this room? About until the screaming starts."
I cross the bathroom, looking down at him where he stays seated on the lip of the tub. "You need to leave, now."
"Why? Am I interrupting something?"
"Yes, actually. I'm fucking my way to a sugar daddy. Now get out and leave me to it."
He stands abruptly, towering over me. The way he holds me in his gaze, he could either strangle me or… something else. "Youcould be planning to fuck him. You could be planning to kill him. Either way, you're not gonna do either today."
