LOVE QUAKES: BOXED SET (BOOKS 1-4) (8 page)

I help Tristan stand up to eat. He takes a moment to balance himself and then we make our way to the kitchen island, slowly. He puts his arm around my shoulder for stability. It feels wonderful. I glory in the contact with my gorgeous man. We look into each other’s eyes. I’m mesmerized.

“If you want some wine, just ask. I’m off alcohol until my headaches stop,” he says and takes a sip of water. I shake my head no. If I drank a glass of wine, given how tiring my day was, I’d never be able to go home. On second thought, maybe I should have some wine. I never want to be apart from Tristan’s spell.

“So, tell me what I’ve missed in the life of lovely Joanna Prime during the week I was unconscious,” he urges. So I launch into a long series of stories about everything that happened during my last week at San Diego State. I resist telling Tristan anything about Juan but do mention that I have two interviews on Monday for clinical work in psych hospitals.

“Well done, Joanna. They’d be foolish not to snatch up someone as bright and eager as you are,” he adds. I notice that he’s eaten very little of his meal. I’ve nearly inhaled my food, however. It’s more than scrumptious. Mrs. Gomez is an amazing cook. Tristan looks pleased at my appetite.

“Thanks, Tristan. Of course, I hope I won’t make a mess of things like I did at PCC. Now, are you going to tell me about your head injury?” I ask softly. I pat his hand and kiss his cheek. He lights up as if I’ve flicked a rocker switch.

“Well, I have Post-Concussion Syndrome. My memory’s intact but I’ll suffer from nausea, headaches and dizziness for a few weeks. It should clear up completely in about a month. In the meantime, I need to let my cracked ribs heal and I won’t be working out nor doing any other vigorous activity for a while,” he jokes but his eyes looks disappointed.

“One month to heal sounds really encouraging,” I gush. He gazes at me like a puppy. He’s adorable when he’s injured.

He smiles sweetly as he leans over to nuzzle my head with his nose. “You know I dreamt about you during the week, Joanna. It was the most soothing and peaceful part of my recovery,” he admits.

“That’s good to know. I dreamt of you, too, Tristan. Kristen Powers told me that you kept calling for me while you moved in and out of consciousness,” I mention. I need to know more about this woman so I drop the cue casually.

He looks surprised to hear me mention Kristen. “Why did Kristen Powers call you?” he asks with concern. His forehead wrinkles.

“She said you wanted to see me and that she’d set up an appointment for that,” I add a bit too innocently. “It looks as though you beat her to the goal line, though.”

Tristan seems more than irritated at my revelation about the conversation with Kristen. “What else did she tell you?”

“That you were semi-conscious and had a concussion. She seemed really interested in how we met and what we did in the elevator,” I reveal.

“Did she now? Why the hell is our relationship any of her business?” he wonders more to himself than me.

“I thought that she might’ve been hired as a detective to investigate your love life,” I tease.

“She’s out of line with the phone call to you, Joanna. But, she’s probably just being overprotective, again. I need to tell Kristen to back off.”

“Who’s Kristen Powers, anyway? Why’s she involved in your life?” I’m growing a bit irritated now that I know that she crossed boundaries with Tristan’s private life.

“She’s an old friend of mine. She’s also one of my business associates, now. We’ve had…well, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it one day,” he confesses with a wry and rueful look on his face. He’s struggling with some internal debate but I decide it’s time to shift gears. I know now that I won’t call her ever again, however.

“I was so worried about you, Tristan. Bailey called just once to let me know about your situation.”

“Yeah, he’s under strict orders to protect my privacy. But, I had no idea that he was keeping you at bay. He couldn’t have known how much I needed you, though. He’s just doing his job, Joanna.”

“I know. In a way, it’s good that I could let you heal up while I finished my time at SDSU. We had a great time at commencement,” I tell him. “Rob took me out to dinner after and we talked.”

“Yeah. I was hoping to see you get your degree and take you out to celebrate. I still owe you a meal at Bertrand’s, Joanna,” he says to tempt me.

“As soon as you’re able, I’ll take you to dinner in my new neighborhood,” I promise. “They are some really cool places near the beach.”

Tristan seems delighted with my idea. We spend the rest of the evening talking about the damage to San Diego from the earthquake and just getting to know one another better.

We snuggle on the couch after dinner. Finally, Tristan and I kiss passionately toward the end of the evening. I love this new phase of my life. French kissing with Tristan rates high on my list of favs.

“Joanna,” he moans in between our tongue dance, “there’s something magnetic about our connection. Just sorry that I can’t take us to the next level for a while.”

“Don’t worry Tristan. I’m having fun getting to know your mouth and the taste of your skin. You smell and taste so fresh,” I giggle with delight.

“Thanks, Joanna. I can’t begin to tell you how great you taste. I love your little laugh. You’re so carefree and young.”  

We make out for half an hour, with touches and intense kisses that burn the skin of my face and throat, before Bailey takes me home around midnight. There’s nothing wrong with Tristan’s mouth or his tongue. He’s delicious. However, we’ll have to avoid any heavy duty physical moves until Tristan’s a bit more healed. Maybe we can find some way to compromise in the meantime. I want him so badly it hurts. My hormones have been turned on and there’s no stopping them now.

I spent a part of each day this week visiting Tristan at his penthouse. That’s in addition to unpacking, organizing my new space, and just getting familiar with Mission Beach. My new neighborhood feels trendy and upper middle class. I love it. Tristan’s the best part of every day. We discuss music, art, literature and all the topics that I’ve spent the better part of four years learning. Tristan graduated from UCLA after three years and he’s traveled to most of the places that I’ve studied. He’s also a skilled business man. I’m thrilled that he wants me.

Last night, we listened to Lady Gaga’s ‘Applause’ album before we made out on the couch for an hour. I even let him put his hand on my right breast and squeeze it. That felt so sexy, I nearly combusted. Unfortunately, I still had all my clothes on. I now know what I’ve been missing all these years.

Tristan’s breathing raggedly as his long fingers dally on my chest. “I can’t wait to taste the twins,” he mumbles in between our kisses.

“Would you like me to take off my shirt and bra?” I offer since I’d really like that to happen.

“I’d love to see you topless. The only problem is I wouldn’t be able to stop there. About all I can handle right now is kissing and petting your body with my hands. Just bending down or leaning over hurts like hell,” he admits with frustration. “I get a lot of healing from your touch, though.” I pull on his thick hair and smooth my fingers across his sculpted face before I rest them on his shoulders. He sighs with pleasure.

We’re taking it slow because Tristan’s in a lot of pain. He tries to hide it but I notice him wincing whenever we do anything other than mouth-to-mouth contact. Tristan’s ribs are healing but it could take another four weeks before he’s ready for sex. He’s on pain medications, bed rest and icing. Also, his doctor wants him to take very deep breaths at least once per hour to insure that he doesn’t develop pneumonia or a collapsed lung. It’s best that I give him time to heal. Dammit.

Tristan’s been working from home during the day though he says his schedule is about half the normal pace.

When I visit on Sunday, I remind him that I’ve got two important interviews for a psychology job as an aide at the state hospital on Monday. The first interview is scheduled for 11am. It’s at the largest hospital in San Diego. I’m excited about it but prefer the second firm, on principle alone, since they take clients with few resources. That interview takes place at 2pm at the smaller but well thought of clinic called by its acronym, TTP, The Turning Point. I decide to wear a colorful print skirt that swirls lightly around my hips with a solid colored pastel top. It brings out the color in my cheeks.

“Can you give me any advice about how I should behave at the interviews?” I ask as we make out on the couch. Our kisses and caresses are getting a bit bolder tonight.

“Impress them with your ideas about the sorts of topics that you think are cutting-edge just now and be energetic,” he urges me. His hands are all over my chest as he speaks. His massage technique feels more than soothing. Those gentle fingers get the credit.

“Should I talk about my GPA or courses?” I ask in between kisses to his neck and face. I pet his biceps. They are firm, muscular and toned. Wow.

“They know that already. It’s why you’re being interviewed. Show them what you can contribute to the group.”

I already know what I can bring the group and that’s my energy and all the latest trends in therapy. I also tell Tristan about the outfit I plan to wear, “Do you think I’d be dressed alright?” He touches my chest and kisses my neck with enthusiasm. Then his fingers start to unbutton my blouse and work their way over my bra.

“Of course, you might want to wear a suit to the state hospital. It won’t hurt to play it safe there. But the smaller firms like more casual and creative looks,” his hand has now found its way inside my underwear as his fingers tug at my nipples. It feels amazing. I luxuriate in his touch on my naked breast and he looks thrilled with my reaction.

“I’m going to go light with my make-up, like this,” I say and show him my current natural look.

He laughs, “At the moment, you’re flushed, your hair’s wild and your blouse is open. You look like you’ve been going at it, hot and heavy, with your boyfriend. I’d avoid giving them the wrong idea.”

I tisk and swat at his hand. “I meant not wearing much blush or eyeliner.” Then, I stick my tongue out at him and push back. I adjust my bra and button my blouse. He looks deprived.

Tristan blinks at me before taking my chin in his hand, looking into my eyes deeply and advising, “You don’t need makeup Joanna, be natural. By the way, who’ll be interviewing you? Do you know their names?”

“I think a group of both women and men. There’s Nigel Phoenix and Jesse Ruiz at the large public hospital and Janelle Peters at TTP. Why are you asking, Tristan?”

“Just curious, Joanna. Remember, there will be no flirting,” he states with a grim line to his mouth. That’s not something that I would have even considered doing at a job interview.

I sigh. Jeez, get a grip, I think. I hope he’s not the jealous type. I get up from the couch and grab my purse. Carmen’s husband, Richard, was controlling and jealous. I’m not sure I can deal with a jealous and insecure boyfriend. Then again, I’m totally bonkers about Tristan. He’s kind, loving and sexy.

“Are you leaving, right away?” he asks with pleading eyes and a twinge of disappointment in his voice.

“Yes, Tristan, I’ve a lot of preparation to do for my meetings tomorrow. So, I’m leaving in a minute,” I assert but I know there will be some dawdling. I sit down next to him for a moment more.

“Can you text me to let me know how your interviews went?” he begs and kisses my hair.

He’s truly interested. That’s so endearing. “Will do, sir,” I agree while giving him a light peck on the cheek.

“How about if I take you to Bertrand’s for dinner tomorrow night to celebrate our meeting in the elevator? I’ll have my assistant, make reservations,” he suggests with a seductive tone to his voice. He must be feeling so much better. I’d like to believe that my healing lips are speeding up his recovery. His appetite must be improving.

I stare into his lusty gaze. “Fine, Tristan. Thanks for remembering. By the way, my chest feels sore but wonderful from your massage technique tonight.”

He laughs, kisses me gently on my nose and assures me, “You felt amazing, Joanna. I really enjoyed myself,” he moans, “just wish my mouth could take the place of my fingers, to really give you a release.”

“I’d like that too,” I say. Then I pull back from Tristan and head toward the exit door of his penthouse. I hope our lesson progresses beyond base two tomorrow night. I blow him a kiss as I leave the apartment. Our make out sessions are almost more than I can bear. It’s taking all my self-control not to launch myself at Tristan and rip his clothes off. At least I’ve been able to run my hands over his fine ass.

The next day, my world takes off. I wear a suit jacket over my casual skirt and top for the morning interview. I prepare carefully for the answers I’ll give while trying to imagine the questions and scenarios the interview panels will pose to me. For the second interview, I drop the jacket in my backseat. Then, I walk into TTP to make it happen. I feel confident and ready for the next phase of my life. I just hope I find a good fit between my interests and their needs.

At the end of the day, I think and feel that both interviews went well. I talked about the sorts of skills and abilities that I want to polish in the coming year. Client’s needs for power and individual expression appear to be gaining incredible attention these days. I want to help them identify their patterns and learn to accept themselves. I  go into some detail about how aspects of Acceptance and Commitment Therapy  should be explored. My interviewers have already asked about how I’d approach my work with clients in groups.

The team at TTP seems especially excited about my ideas. Ryan Tran, the senior therapist at TTP, promises to call me by the end of the week to let me know if I’ll be working as his aide. I think he’d be fun to work with. He’s kindly, middle aged and thoughtful. He shakes my hand with enthusiasm and looks me squarely in the eye as I stand to leave. I give him a sincere but hopeful smile. I try not to flirt, as Tristan’s concerned look from yesterday comes to mind. I send a brief text to Tristan.

“All is done. It went well.”

“Pick Up At  6pm. Ok?”

“Great.”

“Can’t Wait,” Tristan replies.

As I think about what I’m going to wear to dinner, my phone buzzes. I pick it up assuming that it’s from Tristan. Some unidentified caller has sent me some pictures. The number is unknown to me. I’m about to send the photos to trash when I reconsider. After all, it could be related to my job search.

I open the pictures and then, I scream. At the top of my lungs. My world tilts on its axis. I can hardly breathe. I spend several moments studying the contents of the accompanying text message. “Just thought you should know,” is all it says. My stomach drops to my gut. I nearly collapse as I make my way to the couch in my living room. Ashley has already left to visit her family in San Francisco and I’m alone. The pictures are beyond disgusting and I’ll never be able to erase them from my memory.

The first photo shows two naked people having a sexual hookup. The person closest to the lens is a dark, longhaired beauty with creamy skin and big green eyes. The second person who’s putting his privates where the sun doesn’t shine is none other than Tristan Grant. His face is ecstatic as he plunges in. He holds a whip in one hand while the other is wrapped around her hip. The second picture also shows my boyfriend in a compromising position with another woman. This time she’s giving him pleasure while he swings a belt overhead. OMG! I run to the toilet and vomit everything up from lunch. Who is Tristan Grant, anyhow? I sit on my couch and cry for fifteen minutes. When I’ve cried my eyes dry, I start to use my intellect.

I know Tristan likes my innocence and it’s probably related to his depravity. Tristan warned me that he had a dark side but I’m not sure I can handle it, now that I’ve seen the evidence. Once he’s had his fun with me, will he treat me like the women in the photographs? I shudder to think about his past sexual hookups. Does he hope I’ll warm to the idea of getting hit with a belt during sex? If so, he’ll be barking up the wrong tree. My years in therapy made the issue of physical punishment clear to me. It’s a definite no go.

On the other hand, my gut tells me that Tristan truly likes and cares about me. There’s no doubt that I’m crazy about him and that’s what makes me feel so incredibly crushed by the pictures of him with other women. I want him exclusively. Is he capable of being mine alone? That’s a must for me. Will I be enough for Tristan over the long haul? I think I want a long-term relationship with him. I need to talk with someone who can give me some perspective. Then I make my phone call. The most important phone call of my young life.

Who would send me such pictures and why? I imagine that perhaps Mr. Bailey might want to warn me about Tristan’s sick needs. But, that doesn’t square the circle because Bailey’s been more than happy to see me at Tristan’s penthouse night after night. He’s seems so normal and quite pleased to bring me to and from the visits with Tristan. Is it possible that these pics have been photo-shopped? Maybe. I keep thinking about people who knew about Tristan and me. There are the women who assist him, the rescue crew guys, then, his family, but they don’t even know me and suddenly, I know who sent me these horrid scenes. They must be from none other than Ms. Kristen Powers All the puzzle pieces seem to fall into place.

She seemed obsessed and very likely, threatened, with what we might have done in the elevator. At least she was not a subject in the photos. I can barely contain my rage. I don’t think Kristen sent the photos as a means of protecting or helping me. She wants to break us apart. Well, she’s certainly doing an effective job on that front. If she only knew how traumatized I was by my stepfather’s behavior when I was fifteen. I need to call someone I trust to discuss this issue. The meal with Tristan tonight, at Bertrand’s, is definitely not going to happen. I grab my jacket, purse and phone before heading out the door of my apartment. By the time I start my Honda and drive it’s five in the afternoon.