Shame (Ruin #3) (8 page)

Unable to stop shivering, I clutched Tristan’s coat closer around my body as he silently drove through the city.

“Lisa,” he said, turning down the music. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Oh, yeah.” I tried to appear nonchalant. “I get attacked all the time. I’ve got the damsel-in-distress bit down pat.”

“Don’t.” He hissed. “Don’t make a joke out of something so serious. I’m asking you if you’re okay. I want a straight answer. No eye-rolling, no shrugging. Hell, if you shrug one more time, I won’t be responsible for my actions. Just tell me, are you okay? And is there anything I can do to make you feel better than you are right now?”

I chewed my lower lip as tears filled my eyes. “No. I’m not okay.”

“Lisa—”

“The first guy that’s interested me in a few years just so happens to be my professor. I don’t know who the hell he is, other than, apparently, he needs security and doesn’t actually work as a professor year round. Oh, and the best part? I got attacked by some creep who probably saw a picture of me in Victoria’s Secret and thought I was easy, so decided to hop on for a ride. So am I okay?” I laughed bitterly. “No, I’m not okay. I probably won’t ever be okay. There will never be a time in my life when I don’t wake up in the middle of the night freaked out that maybe someone’s in my room. And this probably won’t be the last time some creep thinks he has a right to grope me just because I made money taking my clothes off and walking down a runway. No, Tristan. I’m not okay.”

Except for the sound of the heat coming through the vents, the car was silent.

With a curse, Tristan made such an abrupt turn I almost banged my head against the door. He didn’t say anything, just drove like he was in a car chase with the cops. We went toward East Denny Street then followed it around to Madera Avenue. I knew the houses there were right by the water with killer views and ridiculously expensive zip codes.

The car pulled up to a modern-looking house with four stories. It had huge windows and the look of a beach house; you know, if a beach house cost a few million and had a security gate in front of it. When we pulled through the gates, he stopped the car and sighed.

“I can handle a lot of things…” Tristan glanced over at me. “…but knowing you’ll be scared tonight is not one of them. So, I’m going to show you to my guest room. I’m going to call Wes and Gabe, make sure they know you’re safe, and tomorrow I’ll take you back to school.”

“Would that be before or after class?” I tilted my head mockingly.

“Before.” He grinned. “You know how I feel about students being late.”

I nodded and broke eye contact. “Will you get fired because of me?”

“Of course not.” He shrugged it off completely. “Because, Lisa, there is no you and me… I don’t know how else to say it. You’re beautiful… but you’re not my beautiful.”

What did that mean? Rejection hit me square in the chest. It was hard to breathe, but I was able to nod, too embarrassed to argue my case, to throw myself across the console and explain to him that he made me want again, made me desire. That his kiss healed things I never knew had needed healing. But instead, I was brave.

I was so very tired of being that girl.

The brave girl who pretended like everything was fine.

All the while, the guilt and fear continued to pile onto my shoulders, making me slump under the pressure. I couldn’t help but feel like I deserved it. I’d had my part in the past, and now I was dealing with the consequences. Apparently, not being happy in any sort of relationship was one of them, because I highly doubted I’d have that same reaction with any other guy.

“Pajamas?” I asked, trying to distract myself from wallowing.

Tristan smiled. I felt it all the way to my toes, almost looked away, but tried to hold his gaze. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

“Well, at least I know you won’t seduce me!” I opened the door and slammed it behind me then adjusted my dress, only to feel Tristan’s hands on my hips and his lips on my ear.

“I don’t believe I ever made that promise.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Come on,” I pleaded from the hospital bed. “It will make me feel better.”

“But it’s wrong.” She shook her head. “Tay, that’s so wrong. Why would I do that? To anyone!”

“I’m bored,” I huffed.

She hesitated, and I used that hesitation like a pro. I knew she would cave; she’d do my bidding. Eventually she nodded, and I told her the details of who the target was and how she was going to shame him — the video would go viral like my videos usually did, and I’d once again have the upper hand. I controlled her, and I needed her to remember that even though she weakened me, I still had control. And she was mine. Forever. She was mine. —
The Journal of Taylor B.

Tristan

T
HE LIGHTS TURNED
on automatically once we entered the house. It felt weird, bringing a woman home, since I typically didn’t do that type of thing — too afraid of the scandal it would cost the family. I’d always dated women my family approved of, women who ran in the same circles and knew how important image was. If we met, we met at hotels owned by my father. If we were going to the same room, I had a drink in the lobby while she took the elevator. Ten minutes later I’d follow, and we’d repeat a similar process the next time. My security tailed anyone suspicious, and it was an enjoyable time for everyone.

Nothing scandalous. Nothing improper. And less-than-stellar sex. After all, what’s so scandalous and arousing about planned sex and meetings? About hooking up with a woman I’d known since childhood?

Speaking of, I glanced down at my phone and grimaced. Seven missed calls. She could wait; he could wait; they could all wait. They knew I was taking a break, and that meant from everything, them included. I’d done my family duty by attending the benefit, and now… now I was going to try to pretend I didn’t have one of the sexiest women alive alone in my house.

“Wow.” Lisa performed a slow pirouette. “You have four floors?”

I nodded. “A view from each room.”

“Gabe would love this place.” She sighed out loud then ran her hand across the granite countertop leading into the kitchen. “He has a thing about houses.”

“I know.” I followed her into the kitchen. “Ever since the death of his fiancée and her obsession with living in Seattle.”

Lisa’s face froze, her fingers tapping against the counter. “How long have you known Gabe?” Her shoulders were tense.

“Not long,” I said quickly. “I’ve known Wes, however, my entire life.”

She turned and smiled weakly. “So that makes you safe?”

“No,” I answered honestly. “Probably not the safe you’re thinking about.” I circled around her. “Safe from any sort of harm? Absolutely. But safe? What is safety?” I grinned innocently. “And do you truly want to be safe all the time, or only in certain circumstances, ones where you know you don’t have the upper hand?”

“You’re a little too philosophical for my tastes.”

The light still wasn’t in her eyes. I felt like I needed to fix it, fix her, fix what had happened between us, even though I still didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I’d told her she wasn’t mine, not my type of beautiful. Because I knew, damn but I knew, she’d been his. And taking her? Truly taking her? Right now? Seemed wrong. It was wrong. And suddenly I wasn’t okay with the plan I’d put into place. If I could go back in time and talk to myself, I’d probably shake some sense into the old me and get over it, maybe call her and ask her what happened, but I sure as hell wouldn’t have hidden my identity, stalked her like a total freak, and then seduced her out of her mind.

Then again, that last part was a total accident.

One I wanted to repeat the more I was around her.

“Are you tired?” I exhaled and went over to the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice, then followed it with cups from the cabinet. In my experience, women were more emotional if they were hungry or thirsty. I filled both cups with orange juice, slid one over to her, then put the carton back in the fridge. I pulled out some cut up grapes and apples and a few slices of gouda cheese.

When I had everything arranged the way I wanted, I moved the plate toward the middle of the breakfast bar and looked up, offering it to her with one raised eyebrow.

Lisa was watching me, her blue eyes flashing with amusement. “Do you label your underwear, too, or just the food containers?”

Heat blasted into my cheeks as I looked down at the container with
cheese
printed on the front, and the next that read
grapes
. With a chuckle and shake of my head, I scooted them away. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Oh, I would. I’m seriously curious now. A bit OCD, are we?”

“You have no idea.” I sighed. That was the last thing she needed to know. The last thing I wanted to talk about. It would remind her of him, too much of him, and I’d already decided I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t ruin her more. I just didn’t know what that left me with except morbid curiosity and a need to know if it was the same diagnosis.

“So—” I popped a grape in my mouth. “—I think you should eat some food. After all, I am a doc—”

“Professor.”

I held out a piece of cheese to her and lifted my eyebrows. “Doctor.”

She rolled her eyes and took it between her teeth, making me want to throw the food against the floor and take her across the breakfast bar. My body tightened, letting me know it was liking the idea more and more as I watched her chew.

Food. I needed to eat before I devoured
her
. I popped two more grapes in my mouth just as she asked, “How old are you?”

In the middle of swallowing, I damn-near choked to death. I banged across my chest and reached for the orange juice, already picturing the headline:
Westinghouse Heir Slain by Grapes
. Fantastic, that’s just what my father needed; then again, he’d probably be able to run for president after such high approval ratings. Imagine, his son, taken so young.

“Old,” I finally managed to croak out. “Like a gross old man. You’re lucky I stopped kissing you when I did Don’t want my arthritis rubbing off on you.”

“First off,” Lisa said, holding a grape in the air. “Gross. Second, you can’t be that old. You went to school with Wes, right?”

“Twenty-seven,” I answered before I lost the nerve. “I graduated from high school early. Wes is younger than me, but our families vacationed together a lot. We attended the same private school. Even went to the same crappy summer camp.

“You and summer camp.” Lisa squinted. “I can’t picture it. That must have been horrible for you, all those labeled clothes jammed into a suitcase… spiders, ants…” She shivered. “You poor thing.”

“Have I somehow given you the impression that I’m unable to survive outside?” I teased, leaning in so I could be closer to her.

“The labels.” She shrugged one shoulder and popped another grape into her mouth. “Kinda killed the whole alpha-male thing you had going for you.”

“I like order,” I argued, placing both of my hands on the counter so that I was as close to her as possible without actually jumping over the counter or pulling her down with me.

Lisa tilted her head as if assessing me. “You like control.”

Well, that was blunt.

I opened my mouth but shut it again. “In some areas, yes, though in my experience, too much control could be a bad thing.”

“Yeah.” A shadow crossed her face. “It really can.”

I knew I’d touched on her past, knew it by the lost and guilty look on her face.

“More grapes?” I held up the plate like I had the social skills of a seven year old and didn’t possess a doctorate degree.

“No.” She placed her hands on her stomach. “I think I’ve had enough food and drama for the night. Maybe I should just go to bed.”

Bed.

Satin sheets.

Red sheets.

Hell, no sheets, just the floor next to the bed, the wall, the stairs, anywhere I could take her — I wanted her writhing, shaking, moaning, licking? Too many verbs, too many actions I was unable to fulfill as my body grew hotter and tighter with the need to peel the dress from her body and touch her skin. My body leapt to attention at the mental image — any minute, and I was going to start panting.

I was probably going to go to hell for all the images flashing through my brain, images of me doing things to her that no professor — teacher, instructor — should ever want to do to his student. Yet, there we were on my desk naked. In my shower? Naked. On my yacht? Naked.

Groaning, I abruptly turned away from her and tried to calm my body down. She probably thought I was pissed — far from it, just so damn tired of being the perfect son, of doing the right thing. I wanted her. It wasn’t right; it was wrong, and for the first time in my life, I wanted the wrong. I wanted the bad. I wanted it more than truth. Give me the lie. Just give me her.

I was going to have to take a cold shower, maybe three. I was her professor. Her teacher. An instructor. At least for the semester. Sharing a bed? Not happening. And even if I wasn’t? She’d hate me for it. I’d hate me for it. And I could only imagine what my father would say if he ever discovered what I was truly doing back in Seattle.

I cleared my throat and turned back around. I grabbed the containers and shoved them back into the fridge before offering my hand. “Sounds like a plan. Let me just show you to your room.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Did everyone see?” I smirked as Mel leaned forward, her face pale with worry.

“Yeah.” Her lips were even white. “It got the most hits out of all of our posts on the website. The guy was completely horrified. He even called the police. His parents freaked, and…” She shivered. “Why? Why him?”

“His life needed more excitement.” I felt satisfied that I’d ruined another life, satisfied that I’d used Mel to do it, though she didn’t seem happy about it like she used to. That’s how bad choices start, though. Do you truly think a homicidal maniac wakes up and goes, hmm… think I’ll kill someone today? Hell no. It’s the tiny choices. The small things you think don’t matter. Stealing candy from a store, lying to your parents, stealing money, doing drugs, kicking a dog, drowning a turtle… what–the-hell-ever. It’s the small insignificant choices that lead to life-altering decisions. She had no idea when she said yes to that one dance with me that I was going to alter her — and now, she had no way out. —
The Journal of Taylor B.