R. Lilley - Rock Bottom

“How can you say that?  You don’t know where those marks came from, you said.  I must have grabbed you there yesterday.  I did that to you.”

“It wasn’t you, okay?  I swear.  Can we just drop it?”

He seemed to catch something in my words, or my tone, that had his expression changing from horrified into perceptive, an even more troublesome option.  “What happened, sweetheart?  Tell me how you got those bruises.”  His tone was all cajoling charm.

I didn’t let it sway me.

He moved until we were face to face, brushing light hands over my shoulders and up into my hair, fisting until he’d tilted my face up to his, his body moving close enough to mine to stop my brain from functioning properly.  “Tell me.”

“They don’t even hurt.  You’re overreacting.”

He blinked, looking taken aback.  “Overreacting?  Okay.  So tell me what I’m overreacting to.”

I swallowed, feeling very nervous about his response, my mind still trying to find an excuse for the bruises.  I honestly thought he might kill the guy if I gave him the real story.

“It was a misunderstanding,” I explained, licking lips gone dry.

His face became very blank.  “A misunderstanding did that?  Where can I find this ‘misunderstanding’?”

I rolled my eyes, though I’d known all along he’d go straight caveman on this.

I rubbed his chest, a soothing gesture, still trying to avoid what I knew was coming.  “I’m hungry.  Let’s go eat, ‘kay?”

He stayed where he was as I pulled myself slowly out of his hands.  I bent to grab my bra, turning my back to him again as I shrugged into it.

I wasn’t quick enough, and he stayed my hand with his, stepping around me to look at my chest.  A tick started pumping high in his jaw as he took in the bruises there.

This was bad.

He swallowed, let go of my hand, gripping his fingers hard into his hair as he took a few steps back from me.  “What is that?”  Each word was pronounced slowly through his teeth.  He was about to lose it.

I fastened the bra, bent down, grabbed my shirt, and shrugged into it fast.  The longer he looked at the marks, the worse he seemed to get, so I wisely determined to cover them sooner rather than later.

“Tell me.”

I ignored that too, going to dig through my bag for something that would completely cover my shoulders.  “It’s not what you’re thinking, and you need to calm down.”

“Explain it to me then.  Explain to me why my girlfriend looks like she’s been manhandled.  Give me a good reason for those marks, and then I’ll calm the fuck down.”  Rage vibrated through his voice with every word.

“I don’t like your tone, and I refuse to talk about this right now.”  As I spoke, I shrugged into a little blue cardigan that covered my shoulders and chest.

“Do I need to call Jerry about this?”

My nose wrinkled at him as I tried to figure that one out.  “Surely you don’t think that Jerry bruised me up?”

“No, but I think he will help me get to the bottom of this.”

He wasn’t wrong.  Jerry would piece things together in a hurry.  He knew where I’d gone yesterday.

“Please, just drop it.  I’m hungry, and this nonsense is going to make us late to meet with Frankie.”

I didn’t wait for an answer, walking out of his room.  I could feel him moving behind me as I made my way through the apartment, which I supposed was a good sign.  Maybe he was actually going to drop it.

He was silent on the drive to the Cavendish Hotel & Casino where Frankie had her tattoo parlor.  We were meeting her at a diner that had the best steak and eggs in town.  It was turning into a weekly ritual, though Tristan was a new addition to the equation, since he’d been gone so often lately.

After twenty minutes of silence, I was ready to crack.  It was unnerving to watch him drive, his hands white on the steering wheel, without a word passing between us.

I put my hand on his thigh, rubbing in little soothing circles.  “Frankie’s been working on my tattoo,” I told him finally.  I’d been meaning to get it done when he was out of town, and surprise him when he got back, but it was the only way I could think of to distract him from his black mood.

It worked.  He sent me a probing sideways glance, his interest thoroughly caught.  “Your tattoo?  So you are for sure getting one?”

I nodded, rubbing my hand higher, feeling a rush of relief that he was going to let the issue of the bruises go.  “Yes.  For sure.”

“When?  You’re not going to do it while I’m out of town, are you?”

That had been exactly what I was planning to do.  “Um, yeah.  Why?”

“I want to be there.”  He was vehement.

“You that excited to watch Frankie torture me on her table?”

His hand covered mine on his leg, squeezing gently.  “Not excited, no.  I just want to be there.  Will you promise me that you won’t do it while I’m out of town?  Please.”

The please got to me.  He didn’t say it often, but when he did, it was always sincere and earnest.  This was important to him, for whatever reason.  “She’s very booked up, so I’ll ask her when she can squeeze me in at breakfast.  I kind of promised her that she could let her crew film it for the show.”

His mouth tightened, and I knew he wasn’t happy about that.  “Where are you getting it?”

“On my back.”

“Where on your back?”

“Mid back, near my spine.”

“So you’re going topless for Frankie’s camera crew?  On fucking TV?”

I sighed.  My caveman was back.  “No one will see anything but my back.  My front will be down on the table, and I’ll be careful to keep everything covered up.  Quit looking for things to get upset about.”

“Looking for things?  Looking for things?” he asked the question twice, as though he were thinking aloud.  “My girlfriend, who I’m fucking in love with, comes to me covered in bruises that she won’t explain, and I’m looking for things to get upset about?  And then I find out she’s putting her fucking perfect bare body on TV, for any fucking weirdo to jack off to, and I’m looking for things?”

I shut my eyes, wishing I could take back the words that had obviously made things worse.

I caved.  “I’ll make sure I get my ink done when you’re there, okay?  You can stay close and guard my modesty.  That make you feel better?”

“It helps, but you’re off your rocker if you think I’m just going to forget about those bruises.”

I kept from rolling my eyes, but only barely.  There were downsides to having a possessive boyfriend, no matter that I was crazy in love with him.

I was relieved when Frankie met us at the valet station, hugging us both exuberantly, and talking a mile a minute from the second she saw us, effectively distracting Tristan from his dark mood.

“I had dinner with James last night,” she began.

I smirked, always amused when she referred to the famous James Cavendish by his first name.  It just sounded wrong.  The man was too intimidating for first name basis, but I knew they were close friends.  “He’s opening up an internship at his gallery, not this semester, but the next, and he wants to interview you for it!  You want it, right?  I told him you’d want to do it, so you better want it.”

My heart did a little flip in my chest.  It was a huge opportunity for me.  It was notoriously hard to get an internship in one of his galleries, and nearly impossible to be hired on.  “That’s amazing!  Of course I want it!  I’ll scale back on classes next semester if I have to.”

“Good, good.  I told him you’d be psyched, and I gave him your number.”

I hugged her, squeezing hard.  “Thank you!  You’re the best!”

“Did you tell him that if he hits on her I’ll fucking kill him?” Tristan spoke quiet and low.

We sent him matching glares.

“Give me some credit, man.”  Frankie’s tone was exasperated.  “James doesn’t do vanilla anymore, not for a long time now, and I told him very clearly that Danika isn’t his type.  Trust me, he won’t go there.”

“Does he know she’s taken?  Did you tell him that she’s with me?”

“Not in so many words, but I’m sure he can connect the dots.  It’s not like he’s interested in her personal life.  This is about the gallery.  He’s decided he’d like her working for him, period.”

“Bullshit.”

My hands clenched into fists.  The thought of him ruining this for me had me livid.  I pointed at him.  “Knock it off.  Do you see me holding you back from being successful?  I didn’t think so.  Show me the same respect, you ass.”

Something, either my words or my tone, had him backing off instantly.

“Fine, fine.  Just promise to tell me if he steps out of line.”

I began to walk into the building, done with the conversation.  The way things were going, we’d be skipping straight to lunch as Tristan found one thing after another to be jealous about.

We were seated with menus before he spoke again.

“Just promise me you’ll let me know if he’s out of line, and I’ll drop it.”

“The man is a fucking billionaire sexgod.  I’m pretty sure I won’t have to beat him off with a stick, but yeah, I promise.”

Frankie snorted.  “Right?  You have nothing to worry about, Tristan.  I’ve never met a person in my life that has more self-control than James, and I already as good as warned him off.”

That seemed to settle it, and Tristan dropped the issue—thank God.

“I think I’ve got your tattoo design ready,” Frankie said excitedly, rubbing her hands together like a little girl.  It was adorable, really, how much she loved her ink.

“Can I see it?” I asked, nervous but excited.

“Of course.  I was thinking we could get you in on Tuesday.  You should do it all in one sitting.  It’s better that way, trust me.”

“I’m supposed to be in the studio on Tuesday,” Tristan told her, looking grumpy again.  No, more like downright agitated.

“Well, you don’t got to be there, stud muffin,” she explained cheerfully.

“Yes, I do.  I’ll talk to the producer; see what we can work out.”

Her mouth twisted ruefully.  “Another one bites the dust.  Could you be more obsessed with your girl, man?”

“Doubtful,” he replied mildly.

DANIKA

The shit really hit the fan the next morning.

I was digging through my overnight bag, fishing out workout clothes.  The plan was to hit the gym together, and then the shower, but we never got to do either.

I pulled out the black tank top that had been ripped down the middle, unfolding it before I realized which shirt it was.  Rolled up, it had looked roughly the same as my workout top.  I tried to rebury it just as quickly, but I was too late.

It was wrenched out of my hand before I could put it back.

Tristan loomed above me.  He’d been dressing, too, and wore nothing but some dark blue athletic shorts and tennis shoes.

He was shirtless and his chest and abdominal muscles clenched, his biceps twitching, as he gripped the shirt.  In spite of my better judgement, even knowing the day was about to be ruined, I was turned on by the sight.

“What is this?” he asked, unfolding the material, examining every inch of it, as though to make some sense of the rip that ran down the front.

I sighed, my eyes closing in dread.  “It’s a shirt,” I explained, my tone resigned.

“Why is it ripped in half?” he bit out.  I could already tell by his blank eyes that his temper had taken him to a place I couldn’t reach.

“Long story.”

He gave me a very pained smile, his eyes scary.  “I’ve got all day, sweetheart.”

“Let’s not do this, Tristan.  It’s over with, and it was nothing that was worth you going to jail for.”

“Fine.  Have it your way.  You give me no explanations, so I can only assume the absolute worst.  Just answer me one question.  Were you raped?”

“No!  It didn’t get that far.”

Far from appeasing him, that statement seemed to set him off and I realized that I’d finally admitted there was an attack, a statement that I could not take back.

He pointed at me, his hand shaking.  “Stay here.”

I sat on his bed, stunned by the turn of events for a solid ten minutes after he’d left.

I was spurred into action as I realized that I knew where he was going, and if I got to Jerry first, I could stop this train wreck in its tracks.

I started calling Bev’s phone, and then Jerry’s, over and over again on the drive, but no one was picking up.  When I got to the house, a stressed out and confused Bev met me in the driveway.  Tristan and Jerry had already left.