Shark Bait (The Grab Your Pole Series) (38 page)

Tristan looked like I’d just slapped him in the face but he didn’t lose it in anyway. Instead, he was set on convincing me that I could still be with him, and he tried demonstrating time and again that I want to be as well. His endeavor even included what you might call light groveling. For instance, there was the time when I tried digging into his graveyard…

“How am I supposed to prove to you I’m not only interested in sex, huh?” Tristan asked me in frustration when I’d thrown that out again.

“Well, I don’t know…but from everything I’ve heard a—”

“For the love of Christ, you’re basing all this off of gossip, Camie…I mean come on.”

“No, not all of it…you yourself said you’ve done a lot of stuff with a lot of girls…so what am I supposed to think?” He was quiet then and refused to meet my eyes so I went on. “I mean just tell me, Tristan…what stuff and how many girls?”

“Camie, I don’t talk about this shit for a reason, okay? It’s no one’s busin—”

“Uh, it kinda matters to me, so I think it
is
my business…I was a fucking
witness
to a hook-up with a random girl you would’ve had
sex
with if your stupid earbuds hadn’t fallen out! And you were in a room
full
of people for Christ’s sake, Tristan! I mean how the hell do you even pull that off without people noticing?! And if you can do
that
, it begs the question of what else have you done?!”

“What do you want me to say, Camie?! Use your imagination! I’ve fucking done it all! Okay?!
Fuck!!
But that doesn’t mean that’s who I am as a person and you
know
that!”

“I wanna know that but…you were so casual about admitting she didn’t mean anything to you…I mean it just makes me wonder how often this happens and how many girls there’ve been and I don’t understand why you won’t tell me…especially when you’re asking me to trust you. Plus, I think I have a right to know if I’m dating the school slut or not!” Well, that is if I can get over his lying to me first.

“I
can’t
tell you because I don’t know! Alright?! Damn it, Camie, jus—”

“Oh come on…you have to kno—”

“You want me to make up a number for you?! 42! There! It’s the answer to everything!”

“Oh my God…this isn’t
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
, Tristan.” I rolled my eyes at him and the number I automatically knew he got from a Douglas Adams book.

I mean really…it’s funny and all but come on.

“Well I don’t know what else to tell you, Camie, I don’t fucking keep track!”

“Well-uh…single or double digits?”

Taking a calming breath, Tristan looked at the ceiling and clenched his jaw. I know he isn’t thrilled with this line of questioning but I’m not going to back down. I mean like I said quite some time ago, I do
not
want to be a number or a statistic. And yeah, I do appreciate on some small level that he’s not the kind of guy who actually keeps score, but still. I want to know what I’m really looking at getting involved with before I make any decisions.

I didn’t think he was going to answer me but on another resigned sigh, Tristan closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again he looked me straight in the face and said, “Double. Easily. But that’s as much as I’m willing to say…I’m not gonna sit down and make a list just so I can give you a more accurate number because the fact is, they’re girls, Camie, not numbers and also, the amount of girls I’ve hooked up with
or
slept with doesn’t define me. What does is that I’ve always treated them with respect before, during, and after, regardless of whether the act means anything to me or not and I don’t go running my mouth about anything I’ve done with any one of them as sign of that respect.

“So please, can you just accept that so we can move on? I want you to believe me, Camie, I’m not in it for sex…if that’s all I was interested in, I could walk out that door right now and find someone willing in less than three minutes, but I won’t, because although I enjoy it a whole, whole lot, sex isn’t
that
important to me. Not like this is...”

So yeah, light groveling was done and Tristan parted with some personal information I’m sure he would’ve much rather kept to himself. And I appreciated it, I really did, but because we’re both so stubborn and this whole ordeal has really messed with my emotional stability and I still really haven’t made up my mind about what I want, we went round and round and talked in circles for
hours
. One minute I’d think, yes I can do this, and then a little voice would whisper everything that’s happened back to me, playing on all my fears and hurts. And then of course, anger would start bubbling in me again, so we were back to what looked surprisingly like square one. And it went on like that over and over and over again. It was exhausting. It was also like a roller coaster, with lots of ups and downs and quite a few sudden changes in velocity.

“
What
are you doing?” I asked, totally perplexed.

I mean we’re right in the middle of a pretty intense “debate” where he’d asked what I’m having the biggest issue with; that he cheated, that he didn’t tell me, or that he has a rather colorful past. Of course it pissed me off to be told that I have to choose, so we were arguing again when at one point, Tristan pulled out his phone and started typing a text.

“I’m listening, but I’m fuckin’ starving…are you hungry?” He asked, his thumbs poised over the keypad in a holding pattern, waiting for my reply.

“I could eat.” Huh. I’m actually pretty hungry, and thirsty…

“Anything you want in particular?”

“Uh-uh. Surprise me, but I’m seriously thirsty.”

Honesty, this whole evening has been the definition of surreal to begin with and now we’re literally ordering room service. I mean I really feel like by going to public school, I must’ve entered some kind of time portal to an alternate reality, because outside of the movies, none of this stuff ever happens. Seriously, when was the last time you heard about someone you go to school with being the cause of a big ol’ brawl before she’s carted up a huge staircase to then engage in a screaming fight with a guy at a party, and then the two of them taking a break from yelling to call down for fuel so they can continue to holler at each other on full tummies? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Anyhow, the reason we’re getting phantasmagorical food is because Tristan’s been adamant that we come to some kind of agreement
tonight
; therefore we’re not leaving the room. I have a feeling he’s not gonna get the answer he’s looking for in the time frame we have, though, because when I say “agreement,” I mean that rather loosely. Tristan wants
his
way, which is me telling him that we’re good, everything will be great, that I can forget everything bad that’s happened, and we can go back to the way things were before, which of course is simply not possible. Nevertheless, he does throw out some compelling arguments for his case, which I gotta give him credit for.

Also, after going through what I did on Saturday, the idea of going back to the way things were before is really unappealing to me. Leaving out the drugs, which I’ve come to find, I do have an issue with, I honestly don’t think I can do the uncommitted relationship thing with him or anyone; it just doesn’t work for me and I
think
he’s having a small problem accepting that. He didn’t actually say anything when I told him that, in fact he kind of changed the subject, but there was definitely something uneasy in his expression and body language. I’m not sure if it’s a matter of him wanting his cake and being able to eat it too, or if he’s just freaked by the idea of not having the freedom he’s accustomed to having, or, if it’s just not in him. At this point I can’t help remembering what Melissa told me about why he didn’t want to go out with her anymore.

Anyhow, some time later Jeff and Pete showed up with food and drinks. I’m thinking Pete must be dying to make sure I’m okay because when Tristan answered the door, barely allowing enough room for the food to be passed into the room, Pete did his darndest to look past him to find me but, Tristan wouldn’t budge. I’m getting the feeling that he’s being kind of protective, almost like he’s a dragon who’s trapped a princess in a tower and everyone poses a threat to his intention of keeping her there.

“Okay, here you go…no licorice as per your request,” Jeff said, handing two large plates of food to Tristan. Then he turned to take a two-liter of soda and a six-pack of beer from Pete so he could hand those over as well.

“Jesus Pete, she’s fine but I swear to God if you don’t back off, we’re gonna have a problem. I’m still not happy with you, so watch yourself,” Tristan snapped.

To me it sounded as though jealousy was the instigator of what was a very definite warning for Pete as he was still trying to peer into the room to confirm my wellbeing.

I walked over to the door and whacked Tristan upside the back of his head. “Quit it, you ass. Pete, I’m okay…I’m being held here against my will but other than that, I’m fine,” I said and took the plates back over to the bed.

Tristan shut the door in their faces, Jeff’s teasing comment coming from the other side. “What, no tip?”

Our conversation went on hiatus while we ate and it was almost like we haven’t been having the fight of the century, being quarantined until we work things out. For crying out loud, we had a freaking picnic in the middle of the bed and we even laughed. We were lying side by side, propped up on the pillows, when I looked at him stretched out and couldn’t help myself by asking his stats.

“Hey, how tall are you and how much do you weigh?” I’ve been highly curious about this almost from day one, but mostly from the first time I saw him without a shirt.

He gave me an odd look but answered anyway. “Just over six-four and shy of two-thirty. Why, how much do you weigh?”

Damn.
He’s a lot bigger than I’d estimated—I guess muscle really does weigh more than fat because he has tons of the former and not an ounce of the latter.

“I’m not gonna tell you how much I weigh!” I’m not one of those girls who obsess about their weight; I’ve just had my female relatives pound it into me since I was little that you should never divulge your weight; your age either, once you reach a certain age that is.

He laughed at my indignant response and then looked at me for a moment of consideration. “You’re about a buck-five.”

“How the hell do you know that?!” Truly shocking!

“Educated guess.”

That was all the answer I got. Tristan took a drink of the beer we’re sharing—sharing it seemed fitting, what with the picnic and all—and when he was finished, he handed the bottle back to me and said, “Nice, there goes Mix Master J.C. and the Apostles again…”

“
What
are you talking about?” I asked dumbfounded. Honestly, it came out of nowhere and I’ve no clue what he means.

“The song, Camie. Haven’t you ever thought the music that happens to be playing when we’re together is ludicrously appropriate? Like Jesus is playing DJ or something…seriously, I picture Him wearing a white robe, sandals, and headphones and he’s standing there gettin’ His groove on in front of an old-style turntable,” he admitted and took the bottle back.

I choked and almost spit out the beer that was in my mouth. Oh my God…don’t you just
love
the mental image he painted?! I mean really, bravo! I hadn’t even been paying all that much attention to what was playing, but when I stopped and listened to it, I’d agree, as the song is “Breakfast In Bed” by UB40. I almost feel like I should try to remember to give kudos to Mike or whoever is responsible for tonight’s unexpectedly varied music selection. I mean I even heard Lynyrd Skynyrd earlier in the evening!

“Oh my God, that’s so funny…I was thinking the
exact
same thing earlier tonight when you decided to assault Z—well, when the fight broke out and ‘So What’ was playing. I also thought God was controlling the shuffle on your iPod at the beach that night,” I told him and having made sure I’d swallowed completely, I started giggling.

Tristan on the other hand wasn’t able to keep the fluid in his mouth from escaping on hearing what I said. He started cracking up, causing delighted warmth to spread through me as I smiled at the sound. I just love hearing him laugh; it’s better than snickerdoodles.

“I know, right? I have a
ton
of Pink Floyd on that thing, not to mention all the other shit, and I still can’t believe out of all the songs that could’ve started the second our lips meet for the first time, it just so happened to be four minutes and fifty-three seconds of perfect, especially when you take into account that everything totally fades away and it really does feel like flying when we kiss.” Okay, he actually knows the song length…that
has
to mean something, right? “He didn’t do so bad with the follow-up songs either, except fuckin’ Jeff had to ruin that moment for us… Oh and thanks for not saying his name.” Just so you know, he’s talking about Zack, not Jeff. “I don’t think I could take hearing it come out of your mouth,” he said, staring at my mouth as I smiled and took another drink from the bottle.

And then of course, the mood, along with the color of his eyes, morphed—
again
.

It is very safe to say that Tristan and I have issues. First, we both have tempers and we both push each other’s buttons. Second, we’re both very stubborn. Third, neither of us has a whole lot of patience and we’re impulsive, which is important to keep in mind when you take into account that fourth, we’re
beyond
attracted to each other and have a mighty hard time keeping our hands off one another.

This time when we came together, it wasn’t nearly as carnally primal as when he ripped my costume from me, but the plates of food did get carelessly swept from the bed onto the floor. Oh and remember when I said a while back that a thin layer of satin really isn’t an effective barrier?
WRONG
. It makes all the difference in the world. Therefore I have a feeling that the
only
reason I was able to speak the word is because I completely and totally mentally freaked when he took my hand and brought it down for me to feel his rock-hard penis. I mean we’re not naked, but we’re pretty damned close and I can deal with feeling his erection riding against me here and there while we’re making out, but grabbing hold of it intentionally? Nu-uh. And I don’t care if my hand was only gonna touch him over the well-fitted cotton of his Calvin Klein’s either—
I’m not ready!!