He told me to stay out of his way.
He said I didn't belong in his world.
He called me a spoiled brat.
Tristan Malone was an a**hat of the highest power. The black sheep of the Malone family, so why had I been crushing on him since grade school? The...
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I rubbed my cheek on the smooth leather of his car. The top was down on the antique mustang, engine rumbling through the night as it glided along the coast. Traces of sea, salt, and moonlight sand. It smelled like home.
The wind whipped over my face, slowly clearing the haziness of my alcohol-clogged brain. "Tristan," I moaned. "I think I'm going to be sick." I laid my head over my hand on the window's ledge and closed my eyes.
"Not in my car you're not," he grumbled.
Never in his precious car. The only thing Tristan loved more than himself.
Prick.
And still, I was glad he was taking me home.
It had been six months since I'd seen Preston's older brother—a night I'd never forgotten—the screams, the fists, the blood, the look in Tristan's eyes. I blocked the images and sounds from my mind, letting the sickness overwhelm me. It was far better than reliving that dreadful night.
I shuddered.
"Are you cold?" he asked and turned on the heat, not waiting for me to answer.
I wasn't. If anything I was so freaking hot.
I stared at the ink covering his entire arm before it disappeared under the black T-shirt only to reappear at the collar and wind up his neck. His body was a tapestry of art, from the black raven on his arm to the tree that covered his back. I itched to kiss the constellation of stars curling around his neck.
And that was how I knew I was drunk.
There would be no doing anything with my mouth and Tristan Malone's body. None!
These twisted fantasies had to stop. Tristan wasn't even nice to me. If anything, this might have been the kindest gesture he'd ever shown me and that was sad.
He was only three years older than me, but sometimes he seemed so mature, far older than twenty-one. He drove like he was born for fast cars and dangerous curves. "Where's the bike?" I asked, thinking about the few times he'd taken me home from school at his mother's orders. I loved the freedom of riding on his motorcycle, the danger, and the closeness. It was the only time I could wrap my arms around him without feeling guilty or my cheeks staining with embarrassment.
His fingers clutched the steering wheel, the quote tattooed on his fingers curving with his movements. "I didn't want you falling off the back."
Valid point. In my current state, I wasn't sure I would have been able to handle hanging on or the speed and sharp turns. Tristan didn't do anything safe. "Why were you there?"
He toyed with the hoop at the corner of his lip, the silver glinting in the moonlight. Damn, I hated when he did that or more what it did to me. Drove me crazy. Why couldn't he be ugly instead of sinfully hot? "It doesn't matter," Tristan muttered.
