5. Tristan

FIVE

Tristan

I wake up grinding into my mattress. I'm not with it enough to think. I reach under myself and grip my aching cock. My hips rock forward. My ass clenches. I want to be touched. I'm fucking dying for it, but I come anyway. Face pressing into my pillow, I groan as my cock pumps, making a mess all over my hand, all over my bed.

It's so fucking unsatisfying. I lay there panting and pissed off without having a clear reason for it.

After I deal with the mess and shower, I go to the kitchen area of my studio apartment. I get the coffeepot going.

It's a little past noon. A hip-hop beat thumps down from the apartment above. Somewhere in the building, two people are shouting.

Just another typical Sunday.

I'm gonna have to do laundry. I came all over my only set of sheets. I'm also out of food.

Oh, wait. I have the leftovers from last night. My stomach growls. I open the fridge that, despite being little more than a mini fridge, takes up nearly half of the kitchen. I snag the container that Dante called a Bento box. It's got little compartments like some kind of fancy Japanese kid's meal.

My microwave takes forever, so I don't even bother heating it. Fuck, it's delicious anyway.

Shoveling food into my mouth, I walk over to my computer chair, which is the only chair in my apartment. The file folder beside my keyboard catches my eye.

There are so many reasons not to sign it, and yet …

The coffeepot gurgles to completion. I return to the kitchen and grab the only mug I own from the cupboard.

Putting my back to the small section of counter that fits only the microwave and coffeepot, I stare across the room at the file folder.

No.

Absolutely not.

I spend the rest of the day on boring Sunday bullshit. I spend a tedious hour and a half at the laundromat. I buy some groceries from the corner bodega. I think about going for a run, but I don't feel like it. Maybe tomorrow. I'm gonna need something to do anyway. I have three and a half long, dull days to get through until my next shift at Lush. Maybe I should get another job just to pass the time.

Putting the sheets back on the bed, I look toward the file folder again. I walk over to it and pick it up. I open it.

When I fish out a pen from the desk drawer, I tell myself that it's too much money to pass up. I could just say the safe word and spend at least a year or two in a nicer place.

When I set my pen to the signature line, I tell myself this is a chance to learn something about Lorenzo Capelli, which was the point of getting a job at Lush in the first place.

But when I sign my name, it's Dante's name I'm looking at. I imagine his hand carving those letters into the paper, sweeping that A onto the page. I imagine that hand wrapping itself around my cock.

I imagine him whispering in my ear, Good boy.

I shiver as I lift the pen because I know what I've done. I've signed my life away.

I've made a deal with the devil.

* * *

When I hear knocking, I ignore it. You learn to tune things out in a building like this. But it goes on and on.

What the fuck? Is that my door? No one knocks on my door.

"Tristan Marshall?" a female voice calls through the flimsy wood.

Shit, is that the police?

"Just a minute!" I shout.

I scramble up from my bed. I grab my sweats off the floor, yank them on, and hurry to the door. My mind races. What's the last thing I stole?

The clothes, obviously!

Shit, they're on full display on the wheeled rack by the bed. There's nowhere to hide them. The computer's a bigger problem though because it is also very much stolen and even more traceable.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I undo the useless deadbolt. The door is like a fucking closet door or something. I unlock the handle. I pull the door open about two inches and set my eye to the slit.

A woman with a short blonde hair, shaved on one side, raises an eyebrow at me. Her makeup isn't heavy except around her eyes, where black eyeliner, smoky eyeshadow, and mascara make her look edgy as hell. I glance down to see a black blazer over a white t-shirt, leather pants, and combat boots.

Okay, so not a cop.

"Um … yes?"

She snorts. "You're cute. Can I come in? It smells funny out here."

"Who are you?"

"Kenzie Slade. I work for Dante."

Kenzie. The name rings a bell. He mentioned her. His driver?

I open the door and let her in. She wrinkles her nose but doesn't state the obvious, which is that it doesn't smell much better in here.

"The building has mold," I mutter.

"Tea tree oil," she says.

"What?"

"It kills mold."

Her gaze travels quickly around my apartment. She makes a sound of appreciation at my computer then walks over to my clothes rack. She flicks through everything while I snag a t-shirt off the back of my computer chair.

She pulls out a pair of suspenders and smirks. "I bet he liked these, didn't he?"

"Oh, I … I don't know."

"Are you always this shy?"

"Listen, Kenzie Slade , I was dead fucking asleep when you knocked on my door out of fucking nowhere. I thought you were the cops! Then you walk into my apartment like some goddamn reality TV star—"

She laughs. "Ah, there we go."

My anger fizzles and I go back to being totally mystified. I'm not awake enough for whatever alternate reality I've stepped into. What time is it anyway?

I glance at the microwave. It's 10:56. Jesus. I never get up this early. When I grab a filter and the coffee can from the cupboard, I hear, "Don't bother. We'll get coffee out."

I glare over my shoulder. Kenzie's eyes practically dance and a wicked grin curves her lips.

"Ooh," she says. "I see it now."

"See what now?" I fill the pot at the sink, painfully aware of the rag wrapped around the faucet because the leaky thing drips annoyingly.

"Why I'm here to take you to your appointment. I assume you signed?"

I almost drop the pot. "Appointment? For what? What are you talking about?"

"Is this it?" She snags the file folder from my desk. My heart jumps.

"I haven't …" I trail off. What, decided?

I mean, yeah, I signed it, but I hadn't returned it. I could still change my mind. Burn it or something.

Kenzie flips to the second page. "You have to fill out the emergency contact."

"Why, what am I, bungee jumping?"

Her face says, Yeah, kinda.

"You said something about an appointment," I remind her.

"I need the emergency contact."

My face heats. "I don't have one."

"It doesn't have to be family. Just someone who—"

"I don't have one," I cut in sharply, not wanting to hear words like cares about you or would help you .

I catch a brief glimpse of her processing that. I see how her face is going still, how all the humor and edge is getting replaced by something less welcome. I don't want to see any more, so I focus on the coffee.

When I don't have anything else to busy myself with, I have to face her. "What are you doing?"

Her thumbs are tapping her phone. "Texting Dante."

My heart jumps for something like the fourth time this morning. Fuck, I'm gonna die of a heart attack on a Monday morning at the age of twenty-six.

"Is that really nece—"

Her phone rings. Oh, come on .

"Yeah, boss. Uh-huh. That's what he said. Okay, here he is."

She walks toward me and holds out the phone. I recoil. Oh, hell no. She clears her throat.

"Tristan." It's Dante's voice, coming from the phone. He's not on speaker, so it's very distant and muted, but I can still tell.

I take the phone. I cross my free arm over my abdomen as I lift the phone to my ear. "Yeah. I'm here."

I expect questions, dread them, but Dante says, "Take the contract from Kenzie."

Not quite able to look at her, I hold out my hand. She gives me the contract.

"You have it?" Dante asks.

"Yes."

"Get a pen."

I walk over to my desk and sit. I grab a pen.

Dante says, "You're going to fill this in under emergency contact. Are you ready?"

"Hold on." I flip to the second page. My heart starts pounding at the sight of my own signature. And his. Am I really doing this?

"Tristan?"

"Yeah."

"Write down Noah Carter." He gives me a phone number then says, "You will put that name and number in your contacts. Give the phone back to Kenzie."

I hold out the phone, and Kenzie takes it from me. She listens for a second then says, "Yeah, boss, I'll make sure he does it." She stows her phone then looks over my shoulder at the page. "Holy shit."

"What? Holy shit what ?"

"I mean … fuck." She gives me a fresh appraisal. One of her eyebrows is up.

" What ? Who is this guy?"

"He's … never mind. Get your phone out."

I wheel my chair around to face her. I try to make very clear that I will be doing nothing until she explains who this Noah Carter guy is.

Kenzie looks annoyed. She says shortly, "Noah is someone that Dante really trusts. That's all you're getting. Get your goddamn phone and put Noah's number in it, then drink your goddamn coffee and get dressed. You have an appointment."

"For what ?"

She grins. "You'll see."