Holly Madison (Sins of the Father, 2) (2 page)

Oh God!
My fist is killing me and I’m actually itching to do it again.  I can feel the tingling sensation in my palm that begs me to hit him harder, maybe even knock him out cold next time.

I turn and head into the kitchen, opening the cabinet and snagging a glass before turning on the faucet and filling it up with water.  Then I snatch the bottle of ibuprofen from the counter and shake out two.  No, this is going to take three.  My phone chimes again with another incoming text from Tristan.

Tristan:  Cupcake, we’ll talk tomorrow. 

The hell we will.  And that is exactly what I tell him.

Me:  The hell we will.

I power off the phone and chuck it onto the couch on my way through the living room to my bedroom.

I am officially done with Tristan Holt.  No, really.  I am!

North Carolina summers can be brutal.  Today is not one of those days.  The sun warms my skin as it relaxes me, forcing my body to sink deeper into the chaise lounge on the deck of my apartment.  I close my eyes and lift my chin to absorb every last ray and ounce of vitamin D it provides me with.  There is something about direct sunlight that puts me at ease and creates a sense of calmness.  I need this today.

It’s been a rough few days.  Work has been a bitch and Tristan has been calling relentlessly.  I guess he didn’t get the hint that I was done with him after I kicked him out and punched him in the face.  He’s a womanizer, a player, a dog—whatever you want to call it.  I tried for months to get him to see me as more than just someone to keep his bed warm at night.  I wanted him to see me for the woman I really am—not the woman he perceives me as.  Hell, if I truly want to be honest with myself, I should just go ahead and admit that it’s all my fault.  I gave it all up too quickly.  Of course he isn’t going to look at me as anything more than a piece of ass. 

I thought that things were changing between us.  He was being more attentive and sweet lately, calling me beautiful.  Another classic example of how Holly overthinks situations.

I’ve never been easy.  Hell, many consider me a prude.  I prefer to call it classy with a side of standards.  There is something about Tristan that I can’t put my finger on, yet that is the very thing that draws me to him.  Every time he is near, my body reacts.  The hair on my arms stands up and I get tingles that shoot through my core when he simply touches me. 

Whatever.  I’m done with Tristan Holt.

I sigh deeply when I hear the car doors slamming down below in the parking lot and Olivia’s high-pitched, “HOOOOOOOOOOOME BITCHES IN THE HOUUUUUSE!”

Here we go.

I invited the ladies over for lunch a few days ago and completely forgot all about it.

I tilt my head to the side, peering at my two best gal pals, when I hear the sliding glass door open.  Emma and Olivia come bounding out onto the deck toting margarita mix, tequila, triple sec, beach towels, and a sack containing El Chili Rojo.  Emma is also carrying a water bottle.  Being pregnant means no margaritas.  She looks amazing.  Her first trimester was rough with morning sickness.  Now that that wave of the pregnancy is over, she simply glows. 

I am so happy for her.

I smile at my girls as they walk toward me.  Olivia has blue and purple streaks running through her light-brown hair today.  The girl changes highlights like others change shoes.  It is amazing that she hasn’t gone bald yet. 

They are both wearing bikini tops and short shorts.  My girls are stunning in their own way, quirks and all.

“Perfect timing, ladies.  I’m starving,” I announce, sitting up to help them lay everything out on the table. 

Olivia immediately begins pouring tequila into a shaker.

“All right, Holly.  Time to spill.  Why are you avoiding Tristan like the plague?” Emma prods as she takes a heaping bite from her burrito. 

I whip my head to her and feel my eyes bugging.  I haven’t told anyone yet about what happened the other night.

“Tristan came over the other night lugging a case of beer and demanding that Braden drink it with him.  I overheard him say that you won’t take his calls and that you punched him?”  Emma looks at me incredulously. 

I nod and swallow the bit of chicken taco I shoved in my mouth right before the interrogation.

“You punched him?” Olivia gasps.

I wince.  “I did.  Sorry, girl, but he deserved it.”

“No doubt, no doubt.  But why?  What did he do this time?  What’s going on, sweet cheeks?”

I smile softly at the two of them, so grateful for the fact that I have two of the most amazing girlfriends ever.  They know everything about me.  They can read all of my Ps and Qs.  Sometimes, on days like today, it can be a curse.  I feel the tears threatening as they burn the backs of my eyes.  Apparently, I am not handling this Tristan thing as well as I thought I was.

“Holly?  Babe, you don’t have to spill, but we would like to help if we can,” Olivia pipes in.

I take a minute to swallow back the lump that is forming in my throat.  I know that, right now, in this moment, if I speak, it’s going to be shaky.  I clear my throat.  Where do I even begin?  I run my fingers through my hair and dive in.

“I went to surprise Tristan at the gym the other night.  You could say he was unwrapping another surprise in his office when I got there…”

“That motherfucker,” Olivia hisses.  “My brother is such as asshole sometimes.”

I nod and continue. “I got the hell out of Dodge.  Later that night, after I was already in bed, he came over for a booty call.”  A sob escapes and I try desperately to reel it back in. 

I place my hands in my lap, looking down at them.  Then I start rubbing the back of my right hand, which holds the deep scar, a slight disfigurement from an accident when I was little.  I have a few scars from that accident.  My mother always said that it added personality to my appearance.  The scar that rests below my right cheek and runs down my jaw has lightened over time, but that one really gets me to this day.  It is a constant reminder about that accident every time I look in the mirror.  A hell I am forced to relive every day.

Olivia and Emma both slide out of their chairs and come around to the chaise lounge, sitting on either side of me.  Emma’s arm drapes over my shoulder, pulling me into her while Olivia rubs my back in slow, circular motions. I wipe a tear that has escaped, sit up, and extract myself from their hold.

“Do you want me to beat him up for you? Because I will.  I will totally beat him up!” Olivia declares, lifting her fists and jabbing them out one after another.  “These fists are full of ferocity and they’re gunning for that dumbass brother of mine.”

I can’t help it when a giggle rolls out, which leads to a hysterical laugh-cry-hiccup combo. 

Emma reaches over and gives me a reassuring squeeze of my shoulder before she stands and rounds the table, sliding into her own chair and returning to her food.   “This baby in me is hungry,” she proclaims and digs back in.

Olivia refills my margarita and clinks my glass.  “Drink up, doll-face.”  She turns, reaches into her tote, and pulls out her Ipod.  “I’m going to get you drunk and we’re gonna sing and dance around like a bunch of fools.” 

Pat Benatar’s
Love is a Battlefield blares through and Olivia starts spinning around and singing into her imaginary microphone while whipping her head around and flashing her rocker horns.

I bring my gaze to Emma, who is giggling and singing along to the music all while waving what is left of her burrito around in her hands.  I shrug and join them.  It is impossible to sit around and hold a pity party when you have friends like I do.

Screw Tristan Holt.

 “Girl!  What are you doing?” Curtis asks in his overdramatic squeal as I watch my computer screen. 

I lift my head and look at him as he stands in the doorway to my office. “I have to get through these files before Friday.” 

I put my head back down and hear him mutter under his breath, “Jesus, hun.”

My head is occupied by ten percent files, ninety percent Tristan.  See, he has called and left me voicemails every day since I jabbed him with a TKO last week.  Okay, not quite a TKO, but I rocked him—just a little.  This little game of cat and mouse is starting to get old.  At least, that is what his last message said.  So, with my mind on files and Tristan, I don’t have time for Curtis and his antics.

I hear but don’t pay attention to him coming into the room and flopping down on the chair, which sits on the opposite side of my desk.  I definitely don’t pay attention when he props his feet up on my desk, crossing his legs at the ankles.  He is wearing his normal black suit jacket, white-collared button-up shirt, black tie, matching black slacks, argyle socks, and black shiny patent-leather shoes. 

Curtis is a tall, slim, dark-haired, brown-eyed, handsome gay man who I swear is so hot that he could be one of those unrealistically hot underwear models.  Women adore him.  If he weren’t gay, he could have his pick of the litter, I kid you not. 

“Ahem!”  

My eyes slide over the top of my computer screen at him.  “What?”

“Honey?  What?  Do you know what time it is?”

“I have a clock. I know the time.”  Okay, really, I didn’t.  I completely lost track of time during the process of trying to stay off the thought of Tristan.

“It’s after six o’clock.  You’ve been here since god knows when.  Girrrrrl!  What’s on your mind?”

I sigh deeply, lean back in my chair, and tell him about the wild and amazing orgasms, Giggles, the notorious punch, and how I
had
to stay and work long hours to boot all things Tristan Holt out of my head.  I explain that it is so I don’t answer Tristan’s calls, because chances are, if I did, I would end up on my back, on my knees, or in any other sexual position he chose to have his way with me.

All damn good positions, might I add, and though that sounds amazing, I know that, if I allow it, I would be heartbroken, sobbing over wine and chocolate truffles, with an added ten pounds to my frame, which would most likely settle straight in my ass by Monday morning. 

Curtis’s eyelids begin to twitch.

“You mean to tell me that you don’t want him in your panties?  Because, hun, I’ve seen him and I want him in
MY
panties.”

“You’re not helping!” I bark.

“Puuuh-leeeeeese. I have eyes and I’m gay.  Of course I’m not going to be any help.”

I glare at him. 

He winks at me. “Okay, hun.  Here it is.  Sure, he’s hot.  Anyone with a pulse can see that.  What he is not is worth you sitting here in your office when you look like that”—he wags his finger at me—“wasting your life away on piles of endless files.  Now, grab your shit.  We’re going out for a drink—or two. Or twelve. But regardless, you are not sitting around here anymore.”

I let out a groan because I know he’s absolutely right.  Nodding, I shut down my computer and follow him out the door. 

Ten minutes later, we’re in Curtis’s favorite bar, sipping margaritas, and laughing at his latest dating disaster.

“Girl, and then he asked if I was into whips and chains, leather and ball gags.”  He dabs his finger at the corner of his eyes, wiping away the tears spurred on by persistent laughter. “Shewww! Now, if he was that hot little piece that you’re running around town with, well—I’d be into whatever he wants.”

I choke on my margarita.

“What?  He’s tatted, he’s hot, he rides a motorcycle, and he runs his own little fight club.  What’s not to like?”

“Fight club?” I giggle.  The tequila flows through my veins and straight to my brain.

Curtis deepens his voice. “The first rule of fight club is you do not talk about fight club.”

“The second rule of fight club is you DO NOT talk about fight club!” Curtis and I yell in unison.

“What do you know about Fight Club?” I ask.

“Again, I have a pulse, and to have a pulse means that you can appreciate Fight Club.  Whether you’re gay, straight, boy, or girl, it has a little something for everyone.  I mean, hello?  Brad Pitt?”

He has a point. 

Curtis drains the rest of his margarita.  “You feeling any better now, love?”