The Broken Sister (Sister #6) (16 page)

“So, not that uncommon. Doesn’t make you the devil.”

She made a face at him. “Can I finish?”

He liked her bristling. He liked the strength her tone gained each time she got angry at him. He mock-waved at her as if to compel her to speak. “So, I discovered that when buzzed I got more talkative. I found it easier to talk around the girls and flirt with boys. I became less socially malnourished.”

“Wow, epically strange, Kylie… Drinking made you feel braver, looser, and freer, which increased your confidence. It is liquid courage for a reason.”

“And,” she said in a sharp tone, “I slept with a few of them.”

“Again, no teenager has ever done that. Most of us wait until we’re married and in our twenties.” His tone was almost scornful in his sarcasm. “You do realize this isn’t the nineteenth century, right? Or the 1950s even.”

“I realize that. But I discovered… I liked
it
. But when the alcohol wore off I was still… me. I couldn’t talk or flirt or engage anyone my age. I didn’t know how to even remotely act around any boys I actually liked. So I didn’t do it with those boys. It was just… boys. Random boys I didn’t care about. And then I went to college.”

He rolled his eyes. “And let me guess. You were free. Of parental constraints and curfews, and you were totally on your own. You could do what you wanted and there was no one to stop you. You could party all night on a Tuesday. It’s called being a typical freshman at college, Kylie.”

“No. No, it wasn’t. I did it more. I did it at parties. I was those girls you frat boys talk about it. The easy ones. I was—”

“So let me go back a second here. The ‘it’ you so shockingly liked was having sex?”

Her brow furrowed and she hesitated before muttering with caution, as if she felt suspicious of his question. “Yes.”

“You liked the feel of having sex?”

“Yes.”

“Wow, abnormal and shocking to enjoy the biological response most of us are supposed to be wired with. This is what you think makes you such a terrible person? A bad girl? A slut? You liked the feel of an orgasm, so you… shockingly tried to have them? Funny thing, so do I, and so did I.”

“It’s not that simple! You make it sound so harmless or normal or something.”

“Because it is!” His anger grew finally as he answered through a tightened jaw. “It is normal, Kylie. To be young and free, and act on the hormones that literally overwhelm us. Instead of being so ashamed that you turn yourself inside out over normal urges, have you ever considered of being grateful it was such a positive physical experience for you? That you are actually
lucky
to feel such a normal reaction to it?”

“Versus what? Being some kind of assault or rape victim?”

“Well, yeah, for starters.”

Her fingers were now turning white where they gripped the door armrest. She kept her face averted when she said it. Rape victim. He tried to take comfort that she was not. She was a girl scared of her sexuality. For all her acting on it and for all her experience, she was scared of the very thing that she acted on. It didn’t make much sense. But he was seeing in her that she didn’t totally make sense. So scared and timid she couldn’t even admit she enjoyed sex without it becoming some kind of terrible, dirty secret inside of her. Something insidious, almost incestuous that she had to hide from her family and apologize to Ally for.

Gentler, he said, “What would change that perception for you? I have to ask it. And your tone says it bothers you. The way you’re picking at your cuticles just now suggests to me it makes you nervous or feel bad… something along the lines of anxiety. So tell me, then, Kylie, what would change this fact about you? Never having sex again? What?”

“I don’t know. But my problems with food and my self-esteem aren’t because of this. This is just the behavior I use to act out. To… to punish myself. Otherwise I’d stop. Any sane person would stop.”

Why? Because she thought she had been raped? It was all so convoluted by her way of thinking that he had no idea how to get a grasp of it or figure her out. “I’m not saying you don’t have issues. I get that. But so do we all. I just don’t see anything about you that says you are any more screwed up than anyone else. The fact that you’re afraid of your own shadow is evident too. But all my point is, first, you’re not a slut or whore or any other name you decide to embrace because someone else decided that for you. And second, you don’t have sex for the wrong reasons. You’re not acting out. You’re not doing anything wrong. You were being a young, single and free girl who is allowed to have sex because you are lucky enough to enjoy it.”

“I don’t know. I think if you lined up all the ones I’ve done it with at college, or if you saw me in action, you’d feel totally different. I think you’d turn away disgusted. I think you’d start calling me all those names.”

“
I would not
,” he said, enunciating with clear, concise syllables so she’d maybe hear him. “Because you could line up all of my past and me in action and you might think the same of
me.
But the strange thing is, you’re right, most would judge you and not me. I’m not saying that isn’t the reality of our culture, I’m really not arguing that with you. I’m arguing that it’s bullshit and no way for you to judge yourself and certainly not what I’m judging you for. I’m saying you don’t have to let it determine what you think of yourself.”

“Really? Then what do you judge me for?”

He glanced at her and said simply, “For who you are with me, right here, right now, today. Who I meet and get to know each time we’re together. The same you’re doing with me.”

“So you think I just need to be stronger. Have you ever actually been called names? To your face? It hurts, Tristan. It makes you feel small and low and you want to crawl under a rock. When it happens, I swear, I’m going to stop and not put myself into the situations where it happens. But I do it again. Or my past actions are remembered and brought up. So it doesn’t just work like that. I need to be stronger. You just admitted you were not judged for it. You can’t compare your experience to mine and then tell me to just be stronger. Feel better about it. Buck up and ignore them. You don’t know how ugly it feels to be called names. Sometimes I wish they’d just hit me or something. That I could strike back against. That would show on my body. I’d bruise and ache and then it would heal and go away. This? It just comes into me and… stays.”

He drove for about five minutes without answering her. Without saying a word. His jaw ached from the way he was clenching it. His hands hurt from gripping the steering wheel so hard. He finally pulled into a parking stall. He simply got out and walked around to her side without a word. He opened her door and leaned in towards her. She stared up at him, her confusion and apprehension almost palpable between them. He pulled her out until she was standing and then simply wrapped her against him. He held her small, slim, trembling body in the heat of his arms and the protection of his body. His face tipped down so his lips found the top of her head and he kissed her smooth forehead.

Quietly he said, “I can’t stand what you think of yourself. I don’t like the words said about you, even from your own lips. I don’t want them to make anything about you feel ugly. There is nothing ugly about you, including your behavior. I’m sorry, I came at you from my experience, not yours.”

Something rippled down her spine and her arms clung harder, tighter around his waist. She didn’t answer. He didn’t push.

Finally she mumbled, her voice muted by the material of his coat her face was pressed into. “Where are we?”

“My place.” He stated it softly, his tone gentle and firm. He didn’t qualify why or what it meant.

Her head popped up and her gaze met his, staring into his eyes, long and intense. She finally licked her lips and nodded as if they were having some kind of silent interaction. Her gaze left his to travel to the building behind him. It was a dozen stories tall.

Why was he doing this? Why had he brought her here to his place? He hadn’t planned on it. Not today. What if he had mail sitting out? A leftover card or bill or something… any number of things with his name on it. Tristan Tamasy. It was his identity and nothing he usually hid. It could be anywhere in his place. He hadn’t even done a cursory walkthrough. He’d intended to take her home. Keep them always at her place. But something strange coursed through him, listening to her call herself ugly. Something that left him ragged and pulling into his apartment complex to park.

Maybe he wanted to get caught. Maybe his behavior right now was a lot like hers, a reckless cry to get caught… by her. Almost a dare for her to realize the truth about him. If she found out who he was, he’d have to stop. He’d not have failed Tommy. But he wouldn’t hurt her beyond this. But to tell her would mean he’d never see her again.

And what disturbed him most was he couldn’t name for sure
why
he wouldn’t admit the truth to her. Was it out of fear of not ever seeing her again? Or was it because he was supposed to be using her and he didn’t want to disappoint his grandfather? The problem was, the longer he knew her, the less and less he believed he could hurt her in any way.

“Do you want to come in?”

Her head nodded. That was it. Permission. He could finish this now. Tonight. He could use everything she had unwittingly and with total honesty told him. He could use it to hurt her,  exploit her… destroy her. Destroy her as her own thoughts did a pretty good job of doing. He could. He should. He just didn’t know how he was going to make himself.

KYLIE GLANCED TO HER left as the elevator started to climb. Tristan stood there, his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze fastened up on the red digital letters that counted the floors going up. Silence stood heavy, like a thick fog in the air around them. What was it? She didn’t know. He seemed almost angry. Trepidation filled her, staring at him across the small distance. He was kind of erratic sometimes, she had begun to notice. Grumpy to sweet. Drilling her to suddenly holding her. He could be incredibly gentle, engaging, and funny, to serious, annoyed, intimidating. Right now it was leaning towards intimidating. Her hands were slick with sweat and she nearly gulped when the elevator dinged and opened. She glanced up at him. He dropped his arms and turned towards her and put his hand out.

He could then melt her heart into a puddle the next moment. His gaze was on hers, his hand reaching towards her, waiting patiently and kindly for her to come forward to him. He often seemed hyper-conscious of her well-being, her physical space, and strangely took pains to make sure she was comfortable. She followed him down the hallway, which had luxurious flooring and dim wall sconces as lighting so one felt like they were walking down the hallway of a five-star hotel rather than apartments. He dug in his front pocket and came out with his keys, which he inserted, and let them in. She followed behind him as he tossed his keys on a console table and started shrugging out of his coat and flipping his boots off. She stood back nearly against the front door, taking in the room.

It spread before her, a tile entry that ran into thick beige carpet and off towards hardwoods that melted into the kitchen and dining area. It had warmly colored furnishings and flavors of textures. The entire place was modern, contemporary. It wasn’t so much as big as every little detail was attended to, from the chair rail to the high ceilings and skylights. He had the top floor and they had lifted the height on the ceilings. She felt like nearly gulping out loud. It was a physical representation of what didn’t match her and him. And why it wasn’t such a hot idea she was there.

He noticed her nearly frozen against the door. “You want to take your coat off?” His tone was gentle, prodding. She nodded and quickly worked at sloughing off the bulky, pillow-like coat. She leaned down and started at her own boots and set them off to the side, neatly.

“This is yours?” she finally asked, stepping past him to tilt her head and take it all in.

“Yes.”

She nodded. “It’s nice. It looks like you.”

“Thank you, Kylie.” His voice came up behind her and made weird chills slide down her spine and into her stomach at the deep timbre of his voice. He hadn’t touched her but she swore she could feel him from his voice. She nearly jumped when she felt his fingertips brush over her neck. “Why do you look like you’re about to jump out of your skin all of a sudden?”

She kept her eyes scanning his possessions, a plethora of items that were all neatly and pleasingly arranged together. “We’re at very different places in our lives.”

“Yes. Not the most unusual circumstances for two people dating to be different about. You’re a student. I’m not.” He turned her towards him. “How about something to drink?”

Don’t get drunk.
The words came to her as if her sister had spoken them. But it would ease this a bit and give her something to do right now and focus on.

“Okay.”

He smiled, holding her gaze before he passed around her and went into his kitchen, where he started opening up a bottle of wine. She trailed behind him, lingering near the island, which was enormous both in length and width. She sat on one of the stools. “I suppose you know wines.”

“Yes.” His smile was amused but discreet as he was working at the cork.

She sighed. “My aunt Gretchen, she’s able to do that. Figure out what a quality one is and will spend for it. I never really have gotten it. The boxed to bottle all taste the same to me. It’s lost on me. So don’t waste a good one.”

He popped the cork off and set it aside as he poured a swish into each glass and then picked them up, walked over to her, and set the glasses on the counter next to her. He ran his hands along her thighs and leaned in to kiss her lips. Her lips fluttered shut at the mild, sweet contact. “Anything I share with you isn’t a waste to me. And I’ll teach you, then you’ll get why it matters.”

Heat from his casual affection and close proximity made her feel flushed like she’d gotten too close to a fire. “I’m a student, remember? I don’t want to learn expensive tastes so no, I don’t want to know the difference.”

He smiled and picked up his glass to sip. Nerves propelled her to grab it and instead of sipping it she took a regular swallow and nearly spit it back out as the dry, red oaky flavor rushed too fast and powerfully down her throat. She started coughing and he laughed as he gently pressed his fingers to the center of her back. She caught the grin on his face and she finally smiled back as the weird, intimidating tension she was feeling finally started to dissipate and the ease they’d enjoyed out in the snow started to return.

“Slower. Sip it.”

“Let it roll over my taste buds? Soak in the flavor? No. I drink to get the buzz, Tristan. Don’t ruin it.”

He threw his head back, teeth flashing as he laughed in appreciation. “I like your way of thinking better.”

He took her hand and pulled her toward the massive sectional that filled his living room and she finally relaxed as they sat down, talking.

There was something intimate and nice about the low lighting of his place. The deep luxury of the suede couch she sunk into and the effects of the wine warmed her inside to out. Her eyelids were weighing down on her eyeballs. She rubbed at their gritty feel and glanced at the clock. They had been talking for four hours straight. He had opened her up like the bottle of wine. She’d gone on and on about her family, her mother, Donny, her sister, and Julia. Her extended family and Olivia. She had purged it all to him. Why? Because he asked. And he had a way of making her want to tell him.

She yawned and he noticed. He took her glass and set it next to the now-empty wine bottle. He stood and put his hand out. She stared up at him. All comfort fled again. She wasn’t drunk either. She was maybe, at most, relaxed. She put her hand in his and let him pull her up and she followed him, without a word, down the hallway and into what was obviously his bedroom. He clicked the light next to him and a single lamp flipped on. It made golden rings and a soft, lovely glow in the huge room, with a cathedral ceiling, king-size bed, and big, heavy, matching side tables. The bed was even made. It was as tidy as a hotel room too. Did he do that? There was a decided lack of anything personal. Not even a family picture. The walls were cream colored and a huge five by five foot abstract painting filled the wall opposite the bed. Dramatic, simple, stately, and sophisticated. Art. She stepped towards it, admiring it. She turned and found several more along the opposite wall. They were not known to her. But she liked them. One looked like a digital print of someone’s face but on closer inspection was actually oil painted fragments of an abstract rendering of a woman’s face. It was fascinating, if not odd. “Are these originals?”

“Yes, gifts from my mother, when I moved in. Remember I told you how nuts she is about art? Patron of galleries and new and upcoming artists’ kinds of nuts. She hosts artists from all around California. It’s all lost on me. But I figured the colors brightened the room up.”

“You don’t mention her much. Your mom. What’s she like?”

He stepped so he was near her. Her breath caught as she glanced at his profile while he seemed to be staring, as if zoned out and lost in deep, contemplative thought at the painting before them. “Not like yours.”

“What isn’t? This painting or your mother?”

“Mother.”

“Well, that clarifies it.”

He glanced down at her. “My mom isn’t warm, caring or concerned. She doesn’t worry or nurture. She left that to… well, no one, I guess. She is kind of like this painting is. Abstract to me. I can see her. I’m aware she is my mother, but I can’t really define her place in my life as being that. She was a blur to me. A complete and total stranger. I suppose I would say I love her, but I don’t care if I see her or interact with her. And honestly? She’s always felt that way to me, and I don’t think she’d say anything different about me. It used to bother me, but it’s been this way for so long, I think I kind of buried it.”

“What about your dad?”

“Dad is a total player. Every lover is younger and younger. It was always that way. He wasn’t very good at being faithful… or around. It was like I had both parents there, technically, for the most part, but I don’t remember ever really interacting with them. They didn’t do anything to raise me. They provided housing, goods, and food and all that. But they didn’t do anything to help me emotionally or otherwise. Does that make sense? We are all like strangers who share a name. We meet up on holidays sometimes and it’s an almost glacial experience. For example, this year they are traveling for Christmas and it doesn’t occur to them that leaves me alone. Yet, there are no angry voices, or any kind of yelling or screaming whenever we do finally manage to see each other. We kill each other with our politeness. I always hated that part of how we interacted, but I fall right into line with it. Stupid, isn’t it? What we learn and perpetuate.”

“There had to be someone. You seem pretty emotionally together, balanced, almost healthy. I mean, it’s an attractive part of you. Are you telling me you got that way despite being nearly ignored by your own parents?”

A small smile turned up one side of his mouth. “You find that attractive about me, huh?”

She rolled her eyes at his teasing. “You also know you are plenty attractive, both physically and otherwise. I don’t sense a general lack of self-confidence. So answer my question. How? How did you get this way?”

“My grandparents. They did the raising of me that mattered. My grandma died a decade ago, but until then she was gentle, loving, and always had time for me. My grandfather was much harsher and harder to please, but he was always there for me. Every single day of my life I knew I could count on him. He wanted to take the time to teach me things, from how to throw a baseball to which college I should attend. He’s exacting and expects a lot, but in that expectancy, I found the motivation to want to please him. He made me ambitious because I wanted to attain things and make him proud. He took the most interest in me, over my… sister. I was definitely his favorite, which helped. Maybe they kept me from being as cold and fake as my parents.”

Kylie leaned out and set her hand on his arm. “Since the first time I talked to you I haven’t gotten the feeling there was anything cold or fake with you.”

His gaze zeroed in on her fingers, staring down as if he didn’t recognize her hand. She was startled when he suddenly glanced up, seeming to drill her with her glare. “Maybe I’m faking everything. Maybe you don’t know me at all.”

She stepped back. “I probably don’t. But it seems like I get a feeling off you, an essence of what you’re like. I don’t think you’re fake with me.”

His shoulders slumped and he suddenly turned and sat on the edge of his bed. Leaning forward, he rested his forehead into his hands, almost staring at the carpet. His strange, almost out of nowhere switch to acting so morose left her staring around the room, at a loss of what just happened to so change his mood. Maybe it was all his talking about his family. “Tristan?”

He didn’t answer. She came towards him and got on her knees before him, clasping her hands around his and tucking herself in between his legs. He was forced to lean back enough to look at her. “What’s the matter? Do you want me to leave?”

He touched her face, cupping her jaw and running his thumb over the line of her jaw bone and up to her lower lip. A deep sigh escaped his lips. “No. I don’t want you to. I don’t want you to leave at all.”

She wasn’t sure of his morose mood or what brought it on. Thinking about his family? His parents? She understood that. For so many years her father’s memory could drag her into a near tailspin. She would feel suddenly consumed with an overwhelming urge to run away from her life. But there was never anywhere to go. So she’d just stay there. But no tears ever released from her. No words seemed right to be spoken. So she just did… nothing. Nothing came out of her but it felt better not to let anything come in.

The air around them was quiet. It was a softness, an ease, and tingles seemed to prick each hair on her arms and the back of her neck.

He leaned forward and his mouth found hers. Softly kissing her, their lips clung and felt and tasted each other. His hands cupped her jaw before he lifted her gently off the floor and stood up with her so they were standing at the edge of his bed. She lifted her arms to circle around his neck and cling to him as their mouths opened and their tongues seemed to meet and ignite like a welder applied to metal. He pulled the rubber band from her hair and tugged it out. Her straight mass of hair ran through his fingers. He gently rubbed her scalp and finally cupped the back of her neck to tilt her head how he wanted it and then their mouths fully opened to each other. She sighed and her knees felt weak. Her entire energy was focused on the feel of his mouth to hers so she forgot to worry about things like standing up. They kissed on and on. Hands ran down the front of her and she sighed at the pleasure and pressure. He found the edge of her thermal top and pushed at it. They parted long enough to slowly lift it up and over her head. She let her hands go up so he could peel off the long sleeves. His gaze followed the movement of her top to the tips of her fingers before his gaze, dark and stormy, trailed down her arms, shoulders, and to her standing there in her small, black bra. He leaned forward to bring his hands around her. He unclipped her bra so it slid down her arms and she let it drop to the floor between them. He stared at her. He stepped forward then and his mouth came to her neck, her collarbone, and slid down her front as his arms wrapped around her.