Page 58 of Beautiful Forever
“Bullshit.” He looks at Constantine for confirmation.
Sitting at the patio table, Constantine glances up from his laptop. “You drop your shoulder.”
“And turn your right foot counterclockwise,” I add.
“Well, fuck.” Tristan tongues the inside of his cheek and dabs the blood clean from his mouth with the back of his hand. Planting his feet, he gets into a fighting stance. “Show me.”
We slowly go through the motions together. “Right there,” I tell him when he drops his shoulder and turns his foot just as his fist moves forward.
He repeats his movements over again, but this time, he corrects the tells. “It feels different.”
“Bad habits are hard to break.”
“Fuck your pessimism,” he says on a bark of laughter and goes through the motions a few more times.
As he works through things, I try not to stare at the scars that crisscross his back. I may carry Francesco’s DNA, but I don’t carry the reminders of his cruelty or be forced to see the bastard every time I look at my reflection in the mirror like Tristan does. Syn’s scars and burns curse her in the same way. The three of us will never truly be free of Francesco Amato. But because of him, we’re bonded together with invisible chains that will never break. It’s fucked up if you think about it.
Tristan grabs his water lying in the grass. “I think I’m done. You can use my shower to get cleaned up. I’ll take Hen’s.” He guzzles down the entire bottle. “Scratch that. I’ll use Con’s.”
“Smart choice.”
Since Christmas, things have been…different…with Tristan. And Syn. Hell, even with Constantine. Not so much with Hendrix, though. Still can’t stand that asshole.
But somewhere along the way, I’ve been pulled into their family unit because Syn is sneaky when she wants something. And apparently, she got tired of waiting around for me and Tristan to meet halfway, so she did it for us. She insists I eat dinner with them almost every evening, and most mornings she’ll drop by the bell tower on her way to calculus to bring mecoffee and pastries for breakfast, or she’ll text me to meet her for coffee after class.
I still stalk her. Can’t help myself. A minute away from her is sixty seconds too long.
“Syn texted. She and Hen are on their way home. She said the baby wants a cheeseburger for dinner. Burned to a crisp and very well done,” Constantine relays to us.
“Over Hen’s dead body.” Tristan chuckles as he heads inside.
Hendrix is a total drama queen when it comes to food. The guy takes serious offense if you don’t want to eat what he cooks. Last week, Syn chucked the sushi he made at his head. She hates anything not cooked to within an inch of its life, and she especially hates fish. Add in her aversion to certain smells brought on by her pregnancy hormones, and you get one very pissed-off woman who will kick your ass if you don’t feed her what she wants.
Climbing up the steps to the back patio deck, Constantine turns his laptop my way, his silent invitation for me to see what he’s working on. Bracing the back of his chair, I lean in to block the sun so I can read the screen.
“Something’s fucking up when I run it,” he says.
Using the touchscreen, I scroll through the lines of code he’s written. “There.” I point to the problem.
He glares at it like it’s trying to murder him. “Thanks.”
“No problem. For class?” I ask because he’s a computer science major.
“No.” He goes back to his work and doesn’t elaborate.
After the whole Laurent mess, he’s been extra cautious, planting virtual eyes and ears everywhere on the dark web, so he’ll be the first to pick up any chatter if anyone else tries to make a move against us. It’s redundant because I’ve got my own eyes watching. At least we don’t have to worry about Michael or anyone else from Laurent’s organization. Because it doesn’t existanymore. We scorched the earth and left nothing to rise from the ashes. Good fucking riddance.
Going through the kitchen, I grab a water from the fridge, my duffel from the foyer, and make my way up the stairs to Tristan’s room. I immediately smell the lingering presence of Syn’s gardenia shampoo she loves to use.
I’ve only been inside this room once, the day Tristan called me in a panic when Syn went missing. It’s been half a year since Evan kidnapped her and Gabriel almost killed her, but I still feel the fear that gripped me when Pyotr and I got here and couldn’t find her. The desperation as Tristan, Hendrix, and I searched for her and Constantine. The guilt that rode me hard because I had once considered Gabriel an ally since he promised me his vote to get a seat on the Council. And the desolation thinking that we’d be too late and Syn would already be dead.
I was prepared to die that day if she did. If she was gone, there was nothing left holding me to this life.
My gaze lands on the huge four poster bed that takes up most of the room, and I get a momentary pang, like I’m intruding on their intimate space. Syn shares this bed with the guys. How does that work exactly? Does she switch who she sleeps next to every night? Two of the guys would have to sleep next to each other. Is that weird for them? I’m guessing not since Tristan and Hendrix used to fuck women together, but what about Constantine? I’m fascinated by the dynamics of it all.
Dierdre had mentioned that she was worried about how a poly relationship could sustain itself, but Syn, Tristan, Hendrix, and Constantine make it look easy. Because they love one another. Deeply. Passionately. The forever kind of love that begins in childhood and only grows stronger with each passing year. Soulmate love.
Before going into the en suite, I take in the rest of the room. The window bench piled with pillows, Syn’s journal sitting ontop of the cushion. The view from the window that overlooks the backyard and the forest beyond. A large chest of drawers opposite the bed, a widescreen TV mounted to the wall above it. An armchair tucked into the corner that seems to be the depository for clothes. A pair of Syn’s gold hoop earrings left out on the nightstand. She’s worn the charm bracelet I gave her for Christmas every day, just like I wear the bracelet she gave me. It never leaves my wrist.
