Rendezvous (21 page)

I don’t know if I can handle Tristan trying to dictate my every move for the next eight weeks. On the ride home, he drives me fucking nuts with talk of baby names, baby proofing, and his thoughts on breastfeeding, and the not so fucking fun changes that my body will be going through.

On a positive note, the doctor did inform him that pissing me off during this ever so delicate time would likely result in him getting his ass chewed off and the possibility of bodily harm. As if someone really needs to tell him, he’s informed for the duration of the pregnancy I’ll be an emotional, hormonal ball of nerves, and not to be surprised if at one moment I’m laughing, the next I’m crying, and the moment after that I’m looking to cut his balls off. Apparently that tends to be the norm for pregnant women.

While all of these things seem like they should be enough to send a grown man packing, Tristan is ecstatic that he will be by my side to experience all of these things.

I’m feeling a fraction better until Tristan lays a guilt trip on me. I already stated I don’t want to do anymore signings this year. The book with his cover on it is set to release in Fall, and I’m planning on picking up signing again after the New Year. Of course, with a baby on the way, I doubt my plans will remain the same. Tristan is pushing for me to release my book,
The Story of Us
, two months early so it would be out in time for this signing a few hours away.

That’s the gist of it. He wants me to up my publishing date by two months and attend this signing as a birthday present to him. I’m not buying it. Why my book would make any difference to him makes no sense. Unfortunately, after spending the forty-five minute car ride home listening to him whine about how I should do this for him, I relent. You’d think that’d be good enough, but no the fucker decides to press his luck by reaching into the glove box and dropping a small box into my lap.

“You fell asleep before I could give it to you last night,” he says leaning over and placing a kiss on my temple. “Happy Birthday baby, I really hope you like it.”

I shake my head; I should have known he wouldn’t abide by my wishes. It annoys me to no end that he wants what he wants, but that things like this don’t matter. I open the box with the full intention of chewing his ass out, but what I find inside is too perfect to complain about.

It is a large charm with a small diamonds running up the lobster clasp and it matches the bracelet I never take off. The charm itself is sapphires made into the shape of book and in the center is LOVE spelled out in tiny diamonds. I want so badly to be mad at him, but all I can do is smile.

I lean over to kiss his cheek, but he turns so instead I meet his lips, and partake in a brief kiss. “Thank you,” I whisper against his lips before pulling away. I return to my seat and clasp the charm onto one of the open circles, as he brushes the hair away from my face.

“Do you like it, Bentley?” he asks with concern.

I don’t even know how he can question it. It’s absolutely perfect. I turn to face him and smile as I reply, “I love it.”

He grins as he faces the road again and wraps his arm around my shoulder. When we get home, I find a very chipper Mrs. Anders and Maggie. It takes a whole thirty seconds for me to realize they know, and I shoot Tristan a very annoyed glare.

He mouths an apology as Maddie runs over and nearly knocks me to the floor while wrapping me in a hug.  “Congratulations! You must be so excited! Wait until your father finds out, he’s going to freak. He always wanted a house full of kids and now he’s going to have a grandbaby to spoil,” she gushes.

I looked over at Tristan already knowing the answer to the question I’m about to ask. “Does my father already know, Tristan?” I figure since he already told Maddie, that there is a really good chance he already told everyone else as well.

He gives me an impish grin before responding. “I might have told him this morning,” he says, flinching as he finishes the statement.

“You do realize that you’re jumping the gun, right?” I ask. “There is a reason women don’t tell anyone they are expecting a baby until after four months. It jinxes it. You heard the doctor. Anything can happen until we’re out of that window. Why would you go around getting all of these people excited?”

“Baby, you’re freaking out over nothing,” he says while crossing the room to me. He lifts my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “I know you’re scared, and I understand why, but Bentley you’re not her, and we’re not them. I have no doubt you will love this baby just as much as I will, as I already do. There couldn’t possibly be anything more perfect in this world than the life that you and I created, growing inside of you. That baby is the very heart of the love we have for each other. I swear to you, Bentley, if I thought this wasn’t the right thing for us, I’d tell you. I want our baby, and I know you will too.”

I try to hold back the tears. I know I can blame them on these fucking hormones, but the truth is his words are tearing me apart. How can he have such unwavering faith in me? Shouldn’t our rolls be reversed? Isn’t he the one who is supposed to be terrified right now?

I laugh through the tears running down my face. “Asshole,” I chide. “Who the hell taught you to be so damn understanding?” I question while burying my face in his shirt.

“You did, Spitfire, after watching all the shit you’ve gone through. Knowing the living hell you’ve faced, I learned a whole new understanding. That’s how I know you can do this. It’s the only reason I know how much love you’re capable of showing. For all the shit your sister put you through, you still managed to find it in your heart not only to forgive her but to love her. You pined over a woman you thought was dead, and unselfishly walked away when you could have found her. You truly have no idea how much you amaze me, Bentley.”

Chapter 20

Tristan

Both women give us a hug before taking off. Maddie informs us that dinner is in the oven and needs to be pulled out in about an hour. I am still holding Bentley tight when I hear the door click shut.

I know she is struggling with this. No matter how much I tell her she isn’t alone in this, a part of her is. There isn’t a damn thing I can do about the baby growing inside of her. I can help the situations surrounding us, but I have nothing on what was happening with her body.

She could deny it, but I saw the look on her face when the doctor told her that during the first trimester, she needed to be careful. He told her that her stress needs to be managed so she doesn’t cause undue stress on the baby, and her panicking over what could happen isn’t exactly making her less anxious.

She damn near freaked when the doctor suggested she try taking warm baths to ease any pains and to help relax the muscles. As much as I know it would help, I also know it would terrify her and end up being counter-productive. Eventually she is going to have to let go of that fear; it just won’t be healthy for her to always take a shower, especially in later months.

I leave her sitting on the couch and venture upstairs. I know I have a better chance of getting a cat in a bathtub than I do Bentley. She doesn’t have your average tub, this thing looks like an in-ground hot tub, and could very well be. I run the water to a temperature somewhere between warm and hot. Bentley tends to keep her water more on the cooler side and my guess is that is also because of the bath incident.

I call to her downstairs and ask her to come up. When she enters her bedroom, she walks off to the side where I’m waiting on the tub’s ledge. Her face instantly grows a sickly green and I know I have a battle ahead of me.

“Baby, the doctor said it would help,” I say.

“I’m sure it would a normal woman. But I’m not getting in that fucking tub, asshole. Just because the doctor suggests something doesn’t mean I’m going to run right the fuck out and do it. You’ve lost your goddamn marbles,” she retorts.

“Bentley, you can’t take a shower forever. Eventually for the sake of the baby, you’re going to need to sit to wash.”

“I have absolutely no fucking problem sticking a chair in the middle of my shower to wash if I need to. I will be perfectly fine without submerging myself into a vat of scalding water just because it pleases you,” she quips.

I’m pleading with her as she backs out of the bathroom, “I know how you feel about it, really I do. But if it can make you feel better, isn’t it worth a try?”

“No, Tristan, it isn’t. Tell me how forcing me into a pool of water will make me feel better!” she shouts, throwing her hands up in the air. “You just don’t fucking get it. It’s not just a tub; it’s any body of water where I have to descend into it. If it goes past my knees, I’m not going in it. If there is a potential for me to get pushed, shoved, dunked, or anything else under that water, I don’t go in it. It’s that fucking simple.”

“So that’s it then?” I say exasperated. “You’re just going to let your fears rule your life?”

She turns back and snaps at me. “You don’t get to talk to me about fears. You didn’t have someone hold your fucking head underwater while you gasped for air, only to suck water into your lungs. You didn’t have someone throw you into a tub full of water that was so hot it blistered all of your skin. You weren’t in a tub of water when someone poured ammonia into it and told you to fucking scrub. Therefore, you don’t get to tell me what I should and shouldn’t be afraid of.”

I see the terror in her eyes, and I know as she recalls the details she’s spitting at me, that she is also reliving them. She’s right. Who am I to tell her that her fear is irrational, when I’ve never had to experience the shit she did? I can’t fathom all of the shit she had dealt with. No matter how shitty I thought things were for me, my life was a cakewalk compared to hers.

If I couldn’t make her see past her fear, I’ll have to find another way to break through it. I take a chair from her bedroom and pull it up to the tub, then strip down and get in. I start talking to her again, but keep my voice low so she’ll have to come back in here to hear me.

Once she comes back in, I convince her to sit in the seat and we just talk about anything that is related to a tub, water, the baby, or her past. I’m playing fucking dirty and I know it, but she lets her guard down. I lean in for a kiss, but stop for her to meet me halfway. As she leans across the tub, I grab her and pull her in.

She’s screaming and thrashing as I hold her in the water. I know I’ll pay for it later, but I’m not letting her get out of the tub until she calms down. I wrap my legs around her waist to pin her down so I can lift her shirt, but she twists and delivers a blow to my face that leaves my eyes watering. I’m seeing red; I’m not pissed because she punched me in the face, but because that damn hand had just finished healing after the ass whooping she dealt to Sylvia.

She is struggling hard to worm her way out of my grasp, but that is the benefit of being as big as I am and packing as much muscle as I do. She can squirm all she wants, but she isn’t going anywhere. She lets me know in no uncertain words how pissed off she is as she calls me every nasty name I’ve ever heard and a good many I haven’t.

It takes at least five minutes to get her shirt over her head, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be sporting a black eye from her slamming the back of her head into my face. At this point, I don’t know if she is just pissed or if she really thinks she needs to fight to break free. After I manage to remove her bra, I ease my hold on her a bit. I want to remove the jeans she has on, but I know that would take more finesse than I’m capable of at this time.

I wrap her in a bear hug and try to hold her still until her heartbeat returns to normal. You’d think by now, I’ve learn my lesson about poking a pissed off bear, but I haven’t. Since she stills, I release the hold I have over her legs and move my arms to rub her shoulders. The second I no longer have a hold on her, she’s gone. She damn near dives out of the fucking tub, but not before serving me with a swift kick to the side of my head.

I get out of the water to follow her, but she stops me in my tracks. “I fucking hate you. I hate your condescending fucking bullshit. I hate how you never give a shit about how something might affect me. You only care about what you think is right, what’s in your best fucking interest. Well guess what? You’re not in my best interest, and I want you to leave my fucking house,” she screams while clenching her fists and trying like hell to fight back the tears.

I stand there dumbfounded. I don’t believe she really hates me, and no matter what she says, I’m not fucking leaving her. If she wants me gone, she’ll have to force me the fuck out. No, the part that gets to me is that she doesn’t think I give a shit about what’s right for her. I’d be an idiot to not read through the lines. Yes, she is pissed about the tub, but there is something else going on here.

I pull on a pair of shorts and go looking for her. I search every room only to find them empty, then take off out the front door. I’m waiting for that dread to settle in, the same dread that overwhelmed me when she took off last time, but it isn’t there. In front of the house sits her car, so wherever she is, she’s still here.

I go back inside the house. It’s down pouring outside. I search the rooms again to no avail, before stepping onto the back terrace. The garden is in bloom so it’s a maze of colors and you can’t see anything in the distance. I don’t know what possesses me, but I take off running into the garden. I think maybe she might be waiting out the storm under the gazebo, but she isn’t there either. I take off running further until I come to the wrought iron fence. The gate is ajar, so I push it open further and head for the beach.

There Bentley is huddled up with her knees to her chest sitting in the rain. I want to scold her and tell her to get her ass in the house before she gets sick, but I doubt she gives a shit. Instead, I decide to join her. I can’t take back what I just did to her, but I need her to know I’ll never intentionally hurt her, even if she believes the opposite.

She doesn’t acknowledge me as I wrap myself around her. She just keeps staring out at the ocean waves, and watching them crash against the shore. The rain shower slows down and eventually passes, but she still sits there unmoving. I try to wrap my arm around her closer, but she pushes it away. It’s the only movement she makes to acknowledge that I’m here. This is the first time since the day I met her that I feel she might honestly not want me.

I wonder if I broke her more somehow, and succeeded in driving a wedge between us that I won’t be able to fix. Could she really hate me for what I’ve just done?

“Bentley, talk to me, please?” I beg.

“There is nothing to say, Tristan. I told you I want you to leave.”

“You don’t really mean that, Bentley. You mean the fucking world to me, you can’t truly believe I would do anything to hurt you,” I say.

“It doesn’t matter what you think. Whether you believe you hurt me or not is irrelevant. It doesn’t change the truth. You knowingly went out of your way to do something you knew would cause me harm,” she admonishes.

I try again to hold her, but she brushes me off. “Bentley, I’m trying to make this better. I’m trying to fix something that cunt broke in you. Can’t you see I just want you to be better?” I profess.

“So that’s it, Tristan,” she says with a humorless laugh. “No one asked you to try and fix me. Where the fuck do you get off deciding how I should be made better? Did someone dictate that you’re suddenly in charge of fixing poor fucked up Bentley? What makes you think you have any right to force me to ‘get better’? Who the fuck died and gave you authority to fix what’s been broken inside of me? I’m content with being broken. If that’s something you can’t deal with then you should have let me know before you ever fucked me. Either way, I don’t give a shit what you want to fix. I’m not a goddamn toy you can just glue back together,” she spits out.

I not thinking rationally when I shout back at her, “Darla fucking died. And with her death, yeah I took it under my own authority to fix the fucking mess she created. I can’t take back the shit she did, Bentley. But I made damn sure she’s gone for fucking good.”

Bentley flips on me before I can backtrack on what I said. “What the fuck did you do, Tristan?” she accuses. “This was never your fight. Tell me what you fucking did. What do you mean you made sure she was gone? Are you responsible for her death? Did you kill my mother?”

“I’m not talking about this with you, Bentley. I’m not giving you more ammunition to wage a war against me. I don’t know how the hell to get it through your head that I love you and I will do anything to protect you. So if you really are afraid of me, and if you really believe you need protection from me, we have a big fucking problem. I told you I’m not ever walking away from you. It’s not because I have some sick fucking need to control your life, Bentley, but I would do anything to be a part of it,” I confess.

I watch her shake her head in disbelief. I don’t need to say the words for her to know what I’ve done, and she never needs to know just how far I went. The only thing Bentley would ever hear me admit to is that I’m happy the bitch is dead. I approach her again, fully expecting her to push me away, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t let me hold her either, she just walks past me and heads back up to the house.

I follow behind her. I always knew if she found out, it would go one of two ways. She’d either hate me for what I’d done, or it would bring us together even closer. I’m standing here, waiting on baited breath for the moment of truth. She doesn’t say anything as she walks up the steps. I stay in the kitchen as she goes back upstairs. At the very least, I think she needs a few moments alone to process what she just heard.

She doesn’t take very long and I doubt she processed anything as she comes back downstairs dressed in her fuzzy fleece pants and t-shirt. I learned early on these are her comfort clothes. What I don’t notice are the other clothes in her hand until she plops them onto the kitchen table. She steps around the counter without a word and I head into the bathroom to change.

When I come back into the kitchen Bentley is sitting at the table sipping on a glass of juice. Two plates of food are set down, and I know whatever she’s debating that at least for now, she isn’t sending me away. I also know better than to believe that this is a draw. I’m not a fucking idiot. I realized from the moment she darted out of the tub that I crossed the line, no matter what my intentions were. I get to be with her another day, but I knowing I’m walking on eggshells, and I’m far from being forgiven.

Bentley

It’s been three weeks since Tristan all but admitted to killing Darla. I haven’t broached the subject again. I don’t want to know. All that matters is this man, who wasn’t even a part of my life, killed someone to protect me. But that wasn’t the whole truth. He didn’t just kill someone. He killed the one person who had single handedly destroyed my life. She had tried to take everything from me, and he stopped her. That was hard for me to process. I wasn’t sure if that equated to love, but I wasn’t questioning it either.

Things between us have been very touch and go. He’s backed off of the tub thing, but I haven’t gotten past him doing it in the first place to forgive him. I’ve trusted Tristan in ways I’ve never trusted another, and the moment I let my guard down,he betrayed that trust. That isn’t something I can get over so easily. Regardless, he seems to have forgotten all about it
.
He’s been bugging me to confirm the signing he wants me to attend, and I pushed my editing up so the book will be ready in time for his birthday. I still don’t know what the rush is, but if it really will make him happy then I’m willing to give him it.