y hands, praying I didn’t look like I’d just been making out with Tristan. “I’m lethargic.”
“No sweat.” He shrugged. “Let’s just meet at Starbucks.”
“’Kay.” I nodded and waved goodbye.
It wasn’t until the door closed that I remembered he worked at Starbucks — at least he said he did, right? So what was he doing delivering pizza? Did he have two jobs? I mean, that was completely normal for some students, but how did he find the time?”
“You didn’t have to do that.” Tristan leaned against the door then finally turned to face me, pizza in hand.
“Do what?” I lifted one shoulder and let it fall.
“Protect me.”
I sighed. “Consider us even.”
At his confused look, I kept talking. “You saved me from crying myself to sleep tonight, and I save you from getting fired, but that also means I deserve another question.”
“Fine, shoot.” He placed the two boxes onto the table. “But make it fast. You need food.”
“Who’s your dad?” I blurted.
He cursed under his breath before turning away and whispering, “Pretty sure if you look up Mark Westinghouse, Jr., you’ll get that answer.”
Stunned, I could only stare at him open-mouthed.
“Plates?” He went into my tiny kitchenette and started rummaging through cupboards.
I heard things slamming, but my entire body felt like it was paralyzed with shock.
“No paper towels?” He sighed. “Such a college student.”
When he returned, he dished out pieces of pizza and handed me the plate. “What? You don’t need Google?”
“I have a brain,” I whispered. “And if it’s working correctly, that means your dad’s the Secretary of State…”
“Yeah.” Tristan cursed. “Fourth in line for president. So, pizza?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I took another pill then another, they weren’t working like he’d promised; in fact, it felt like they were making the dreams worse, making the itch to do something stupid damn-near impossible not to scratch. When she came over that night, I barely even looked in her direction. Maybe I was still pissed she’d applied to college. Maybe, just maybe, that feeling that wouldn’t go away was jealousy. Pure and simple. Jealousy that she’d get a chance — and even more determined to be the one to take it from her. —The Journal of Taylor B.
Tristan
I DIDN’T WANT to look at her; I knew what her face would tell me. Her eyes would be wide, her mouth slightly ajar, and then she’d either snuggle up closer to me or push away like I was a disease. Most women were either so power hungry they could barely see straight or terrified that they were going to be on the FBI watch list by association. Knowing she could be either one of those, or both? It bothered me more than it should. Bothered me so much that my appetite was basically gone.
With a grimace, I looked down at the pizza. The clock ticked in the background, and still Lisa said nothing.
Finally, a painful five minutes later, she reached into one of the boxes and grumbled, “They still never put enough cheese on mine.”
I jerked my head up and stared at her. “What?”
“Cheese.” She scrunched up her nose and piled two pieces onto her plate. “I ask for extra, and I think they assume I’m a toddler because they never, ever give me extra. It’s almost worse to say you want extra, I think.” Sighing heavily, she lifted the slice to her lips, inhaled, then took a huge bite, sauce getting all over her lips. I licked mine on impulse, imagining licking hers until they were clean, until the pizza was forgotten, and it was just me and Lisa.
“Sorry,” I croaked. “That sucks.”
“Yeah, well.” She took another bite and winked. “Can’t win ’em all.”
I shrugged and took a bite out of my own piece, hoping to God that the rest of the evening wasn’t going to be filled with the sound of both of us chewing and nothing else.