Tristan comes down the steps of the bus, dressed in his fourth-year uniform and looking like a goddamn king. He's got on the black blazer with the red and white Burberry Prep logo, the black shirt, black tie, black slacks …
Windsor is right behind him, dressed far more casually in long jean shorts, and a red wifebeater. His red hair is just slightly curled, and he has this swagger to his walk that makes me smile … That is, before the two boys step out of the sunshine and into the darkness of the house.
That's when their gazes both go straight to my outfit, and my face flames up like an inferno.
Something strange passes over Tristan's gaze, an almost unbelievable warmth, maybe even a strange sort of tenderness, but then it's gone, and he's cocking a perfectly sculpted dark brow at me.
“You look ridiculous. Where on earth did you find a pair of pajamas so hideous?”
“They're a gift from my dad,” I grumble as Windsor grins and steps forward, cupping the side of my face with his hand. My heart stops briefly, and I feel faint for the smallest of moments. I missed them all so much that all of a sudden, it really hits home.
I've been essentially living with these guys for years, eating in the same place, walking the same halls, day after day. Once we graduate, that's all gone. It's all gone, and I can never get it back.
My stomach turns over, and Windsor's face tightens almost imperceptibly.
“Are you okay?” he whispers, leaning in and putting his forehead up to mine. Windsor closes his beautiful hazel eyes for a moment, but not before I see a flash of fatigue in them. He's tired. Something happened this week, I know it.
“I'm just fine,” I tell him, feeling my stomach light up with butterflies. He pulls back just slightly from me, eyes opening, and then he leans in and crushes his mouth to mine. There's a fierce, quiet possession in that kiss that steals my breath away. It also feels like maybe … Windsor isn't the impermeable, unshakable force he pretends to be. It feels like he needs me in that moment, and I like it. I want to be there for him the way he was for me from the first second we met.
“The pajamas are quite nice, love. Very sexy.” He pulls back and moves over to the chair near the fireplace, sitting down like his body's just a little too heavy to carry around comfortably.
“So … how was the Club meeting?” I ask, clearing my throat as Miranda groans and stirs, mostly because Creed is yanking on her hair. Nobody but Zack is willing to look at me. “That bad, huh?”
“It was … interesting.” He looks away, toward an oil painting on the wall that Jennifer made in college. I've always hated it. It's not very good, and Jennifer isn't a very nice person, so I'm more than willing to point out the painting's flaws. She left me at a rest stop, kept my sister from me, and now she's pregnant again. Just what the world doesn't need, another baby for her to mess up. “But I guess it went better than expected. Tristan's still here, isn't he?” Zack narrows his eyes and sighs, reaching up to ruffle his short, dark hair.
Tristan simply sighs and looks out the window, his expression far away and detached. He knew he wasn't coming back to Burberry Prep next year, so he tried to set things up in such a way that I'd be safe. My heart stutters, and I let out a small sigh that draws his attention my way.
His blade-gray gaze catches mine, and I feel suddenly like I'm falling. Reaching out, I curl my arm around Zayd's to stay steady.
“Where would you be if … things didn't go the way you wanted?” I ask Tristan directly, and he sighs, tucking his hands into his pockets. Our eyes meet, and a warm shiver takes over my body.
We almost … I almost made a bad decision, and I didn't care.
My sex education is better than that. It might be a good idea for me to look into birth control though, huh?
“At a military school in eastern Maine,” Tristan says, his voice neutral but threaded with a certain sort of darkness that reflects in his fist as he clenches it tightly by his side. “My father's new mistress was going to graciously pay to ship me across the country. That, of course, was only after she talked him out of disowning his only son completely—that is, he wouldn’t have if I’d met his conditions. I did not.” He bites this last word out like a curse.
“He's that angry with you?” I ask softly as Miranda finally sits up, yawning and rubbing at her face as she mumbles curses under her breath. Pretty sure she's hungover. She drank a lot last night. Fending creepy guys off of her was a full-time job. Men can be so gross sometimes. “Over me?”
