Tristian growls, “Well, we don’t fucking want you to.”
There was a time that tone in Tristian’s voice—low, full of threat—would cow me. Now it just makes my hackles rise. “Why the hell not?”
It’s Dimitri who answers, and I realize now how still and rigid he’s become. “Jesus, don’t you get it? Watching you traipsing around like that in front of all those fuckers?”
“Like what? Dressed up in some slutty costume or something?” I roll my eyes. “I’m not stupid, Dimitri. If it’s not exploitive, it wouldn’t be the Royals’ brand.”
“It’s not just wrestling,” Tristian says. “It’s Jell-O wrestling.”
“Slicked up, string-bikini, tits out, hot pants, bullshit wrestling,” Dimitri adds, flopping back in his seat with a glower. “No one watches it for the wrestling, Story. It’s just your run-of-the-mill spank bank fodder.”
“And you’re not going to be a part of it.” Tristian shoots me a pointed look and opens the laptop, his tone brooking no argument.
My instinct is to argue anyway, but I’m coming at this all wrong. They don’t want to share me, and frankly, I don’t want to be shared. But this is it. This is the thing I need to get ahead—not just financially, but in this whole sick, twisted world of Forsyth. I reach out to touch Tristian’s arm, just letting my hand rest there, and he freezes. Calmly, I ask him, “Do you think I can beat Sutton? Be honest.”
He flicks his gaze from my hand to my eyes, lips parting. “Do I think you could beat Sutton?” Tristian finally concedes, “Well, obviously, but—”
“Then let me do it,” I plead, knowing full well what I’m doing with my eyes. “Let me get my revenge on that skank, and you can make sure the winner’s pot is nice and fat.”
“No.” Dimitri’s voice rings with finality, and while it’d be easy to sway Tristian with a little affection and eyelash batting, Dimitri isn’t so easily manipulated. He rubs the bridge of his nose, eyes clenched shut. “You’re not doing it. That’s final.”
Crossing my arms, I level him with a look. “How many times do I need to remind you that I’m not your poodle?”
He goes still, sliding his dark, stormy gaze to mine. I know before his lips even part that I’m not going to like what he says next. It’s in the razor-sharp gleam of his stare. “I don’t know, Story. How many times am I going to have to step between you and a room full of sweaty, horny assholes?”
It hits just like he wants it to, a twist in my gut, a blade slicing into my skin, a grip around my lungs. I try not to let it show, but I’m not like them. My armor is new and feeble, and I see my reaction reflected in the twitch of his throat.
“Rath,” Tristian says, voice full of warning.
“Fuck this,” he mutters, lurching from his seat. “My head hurts. I’ll be waiting in the truck.”
I watch blankly as he leaves the shop, and it doesn’t matter how much I refuse to feel guilty for what happened that day at the Velvet Hideaway. It still churns hot in my stomach.
Later that night, the two of us are in the den running through a list of suspects, and coffee is the only thing keeping me lucid. It isn’t until my fifth cup that Tristian’s eye twitches. He watched me down the first four without blinking an eye. But this, it seems, finally makes him crack.
“What is that?” he asks, trying to seem barely interested. “Your fourth cup?”
I take a sip of the coffee. “Fifth.”
“Hm.” He taps at some keys on the laptop, not raising his gaze. “It’s pretty late in the day for that much caffeine.” The words come out dripping with disapproval, but he tacks on a hasty, “It would be for me, at least.”
I stare at him as I take a slower sip. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“Hm,” he says again, and then, “Hmm.”
Hum all you want.
“So who is this guy?” I ask, pointing to a name on the spreadsheet. Dimitri should be here with us, but he’d begged off as soon as we arrived home, citing a migraine, and disappeared into his room again. It’s probably a good thing my thoughts are thick and muddied with exhaustion, else I’d be fixating on what he’s doing up there. Probably getting drunk or high. Running into him yesterday with all that liquor made it clear he hasn’t been bothered about my offer.
Idly, I wonder if he’d answer my call tonight.