R. Lilley - Lovely Trigger

He was big and the bench wasn’t, so we sat hip to hip and ate and joked with Frankie for a good hour.

It was like being transported back in time.  I didn’t begin to know what to feel about that.

Frankie headed straight to her shop after we finished, but Tristan walked me back to work, strolling slowly beside me, hands in the pockets of his slacks.  He was well turned out, in an all-black suit with no tie.  The effects were devastating, though I tried not to dwell on them.

“You’re all dressed up today.  What’s the occasion?” I asked him, my tone idle, my eyes hungry.

“Don’t you like it?  I know you aren’t a fan of my T-shirt and jeans uniform.”

My mouth twisted as I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye.  “I do like it, but why on earth would you say that?  I have never in my life complained about the way you dress.”

He shrugged, fidgeting with his collar.  “I haven’t failed to notice that you only date professionals.  The kind that wear suits, not jeans.”

I stopped to give him my full attention.  “Don’t tell me you dressed like this for me.”

He looked distinctly uncomfortable.  He shrugged again.  “I wear suits sometimes.  Not a big deal.”

We started walking again.  My eyes were glued to the carpet on the casino floor.  It was elaborately patterned in blue and gold, very nice, but somehow managed to look like the floor of every other casino I’d ever been in.  What was with that?  Why did they all look the same?  Was it all of the slot machines, the sounds, the sights?

I realized I was trying to distract myself and snapped out of it.

“I am a fan of T-shirts and jeans, Tristan.”

Especially when they were wrapped around his spectacular body, but I sure as hell wasn’t telling him that.

He stopped abruptly, looking at me like I was supposed to be reacting to something.

I didn’t care for the look.  Something in it scared me.  Threatened me, or at least, my well-being.

I glanced around.  We were near some slot machines and to our left was a women’s restroom.

My eyes widened, then narrowed.

I started walking again.

In my mind, I’d systematically gotten used to moving past that spot, just as I had the sports book that we would pass next.

There were memories in this place, memories that I’d had to push far back in my mind, to keep sane.

“Do you remember—”

“Don’t.  We’re not doing that.  We’re not taking a walk down memory lane.  We just aren’t.  Is that clear?”

He sighed, but agreed.

But I did remember.  Oh Lord, did I remember.

I remembered so well that it had me seeing into the very near future, that very night in fact, when I would go home by myself, go to bed by myself, and fantasize, obsessively, about getting fucked in the stall of that bathroom over six years ago.

We walked the rest of the way in silence, but he didn’t leave me at the entrance, following me all the way to my office.

I went and stood at my tall project desk, looking down at it, knowing I had things to do, but unable to focus on anything to do with work.

Forgetting, for a moment, what my work even was.

“What are you doing?” I asked Tristan, who was in my office, leaning against the wall, just looking at me.

“I want to cook for you.  When can you come to my house for dinner?”

I should have turned him down flat, but something he’d said and something I’d heard made me too curious to pass up the chance to ask about it.

“Your house?” I questioned.  “I heard the strangest rumor that you live in the casino.”

His mouth quirked up just enough to flash a dimple.  “It’s required in my contract that they keep a room available for my own personal use for the duration of the show.  It’s a suite, my own personal suite, for nights that run late, but it is not where I live.  I do have a house, out near Seven Hills.”

My eyes widened, but I didn’t tell him that I lived in that direction, as well.  Then he’d ask questions, and possibly find out exactly where, and I did not need that on top of everything else.

“How about tomorrow?” he asked, tucking his hands into his pockets.

I shook my head, admiring the lines of his suit.  It was amazing how well it fit him, sexy, giant biceps and all.   “No.  No.  That sounds like a date.  We are not dating.  Friends don’t date.”

“Frankie is coming to my house tonight, by herself, and I’m cooking her dinner.  Same damn thing that I’m proposing for tomorrow.  You going to tell me I’m dating Frankie now?”

As far as arguments went, he got the award for best angle on a shitty one.

I had a thought.  “I bet Estella is coming too, so that makes it completely different.”

“She’s not.  Estella is busy.  Tonight is just me and Frankie, since you refuse to come.”

“I said I have plans.”

“Okay, fine.  So come tomorrow.  A friendly dinner.  You can see my house.  Aren’t you curious about my house?”

I sure was.  He knew me so well.  I was utterly fascinated to see what kind of place he’d ended up in, where he called home now.

“Tomorrow isn’t a good night for me, anyway,” I hedged.

“The next night then.  That’s better, actually.  I’m off that night.  Friends have dinner with each other.  This is how friends work.  Now work with me.”

I shut my eyes, caving.  “Okay, fine.  Day after tomorrow, we will have a platonic dinner, and I get to check out your house.”

“Thank you,” he said, closer now.

I opened my eyes to look up at him.

His hands went to the lapels of my blazer, smoothing them absently.

“You going to see that guy tonight?”

“I’m not talking about him with you.  That’s out of line.”

“Does he know about me?  Did you tell him that you and I—”

“Stop.  Stop this instant or I’m done.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  “I’m sorry.  You’re right.  I can’t do that.”  He opened them again and focused on my jacket, or specifically, the buttons of my jacket.

Quick as a flash, and nervy as all hell, he unbuttoned it, sucking in a gasp at the tiny scrap of cloth I had on under it.

I took two quick steps back, buttoning it up again in a hurry.

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes wide.  “Fuck.  You wear shit like that to work often?”

I shrugged in a noncommittal way.

“Fuck.  Well, that messes with my head.  What can I do to convince you to let me see that again?”  He smiled.  “I barely got a glance.  If I’m going to be fantasizing about that tonight, it would be nice to have a very clear picture.”

I pointed my finger at the door, trying to hide my smile.  “You need to go, before you talk yourself out of cooking me dinner in a few days.”

He cursed, sent me a comically longing glance that had me trying not to laugh, and left.

I dressed with care the morning of my non-date with Tristan.  Of course I did.  I always put time and care into looking well put together for work, but that day I woke up an hour earlier than usual, taking extra care, and picking out my clothes with a giddy fire in my belly.

I went with a cream-colored pencil skirt that hit a few inches above the knees, and a fitted lavender silk high-necked halter top with a cutout design at the collarbone that revealed a bit of skin, and a hint of cleavage.  It also left my arms, the top of my back, and the upper section of my sides bare.

When paired with a matching cream blazer, it was quite professional.  When taken off, very sexy.

I was pleased.

I parted my hair down the middle and pulled it back in a severe chignon.  The severe style brought out the paleness of my eyes.  A heavy, smoky eye shadow gave them extra pop.  A pale pink lip finished the look.

Work moved at a snail’s pace, but that was to be expected.  I overcompensated by staying as busy as humanly possible, putting details for various showings together that didn’t need to be done for another month.

Kate and Sandra, the two women that worked the gallery with me, both part time, seemed to know something was up with me.

Sandra, who’d known me for years, cornered me in my office and shamelessly fished for information.  “So Kate tells me that Tristan Vega came by yesterday; that he went into your office.”

I looked up from what I was doing to give her a very bland look.  “Yes, he stopped by briefly.”

Her head tilted curiously, and she just kept studying me.  “So he’s shopping for some art?  Is that what you’re helping him with?”

I sighed.  To say I wanted to avoid this conversation like the plague was putting it mildly.  “I’m in the middle of something.  Is this urgent, and is there a reason you’re asking?”

“Oh, sorry, no,” she said, looking like I’d just burst her bubble.  We were friends, and her natural curiosity had been about anything other than Tristan, I likely would have indulged it.

I felt like a jerk, but it was necessary.  The last thing I wanted was for rumors to start up about Tristan and me.

I normally stayed at work until six, and today was no different.  I stayed until five o’clock sharp, not indulging even a small break in pattern.

It was pretty much torture to wait, and when it was time to go, I had to rein in the urge to rush to my car.

The entire drive there, I kept asking myself: What on earth are you doing?  Why did you agree to this, no matter the justification?

No matter the temptation.

This didn’t fit in with any of my plans, small scale or large.

Going over to have him cook me dinner.  Just he and I, alone.

No pretenses, or none that I could convince myself weren’t bogus.

How could we call this anything but a date?  How could we act like this, of all things, was purely platonic?

This tarnished facade that we were calling a friendship was quickly coming clean, before it had really even begun.

I was disappointed in myself, because that pretense, if nothing else, would have let me have more time with him.

My self-control, in the face of this blissful infatuation, had no chance at all.

His house was intimidating, but I should have anticipated that.  It was common knowledge that he had one of the best contracts in town and was paid handsomely for his talent.

It had its own gate and a long drive up to the actual house.  Dayum, the man must be loaded.  It was a hard concept to reconcile in my mind.  We’d been so young and poor together, back in the day.

He met me at the door before I even knocked.  He beamed at me.

I took him in.  He was wearing a white dress shirt open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up, but still a dress shirt.  And slacks.  It was so strange that I just gaped at him for a moment.  Where was my T-shirt and jeans rocker?

“You look amazing,” he told me, bending to kiss my cheek before I saw it coming.  He was in and out in a flash, too fast for me to take exception.

“You too,” I said through numb lips and a suddenly dry throat.  “Did you just come from a meeting or something?”

“Nope.  Been cooking for hours.”  He pulled me inside.

I was instantly assaulted by the divine smell of his too die for enchiladas.  I’m not kidding; I almost started drooling, mouth filling with saliva, jaw going slack in anticipation.

“Oh God,” I said, giving him wide eyes.  “I’d convinced myself that I had invented that smell in my mind, but it really exists.”

His smile was playful.  “You’ve been missing out, boo.  Feel free to use me for my cooking any time the mood strikes you.”

“Do I get the tour of the house before or after we eat?”

“After.  Food’s ready now.  And get this, homemade tortillas.”

I shut my eyes, like he was talking dirty to me.

He continued, “Pico and guacamole from scratch.  And dessert is a surprise.”

The man was diabolical.

We ate in his formal dining room.  It was a beautiful room, huge, with twenty-foot ceilings, and ultra-modern decor.  One of Bianca’s spectacular paintings hung on the wall.

I could tell he’d gone to some trouble, with a centerpiece of fresh flowers and lit candles set throughout the room.  He’d set his long black table with intricately folded white napkins and very nice dinnerware.

He sat me at the head of the table, taking the spot at my right, and didn’t let me lift one finger to get the food, serving me like I was royalty.