Wreck Me (Nova #4)(52)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

“Tristan, you haven’t done anything irreversible yet,” he says, refusing to get out of my way. “You can still be… saved.”

I look over at the cracks in the wall and then back at him. “No. I can’t.” I yank open the door and he stumbles out of my way.

I walk out of the room and into the living room where Dylan is shouting at Delilah as she cowers in the corner. The room is littered with pipes, needles, a gun, and drugs.

This is my home. This is my life.

“Dude, you better not be fucking going anywhere.” Dylan reels away from Delilah and storms at me. “You owe me money.”

“I don’t owe you shit,” I say, rushing for the front door. “So back off.”

“Tristan, get your ass back here!” he shouts, tripping over a lamp as he scurries for his gun on the table. “You will not walk away from me.”

It seems like I should be scared. He’s holding a gun, all tweaked out, eyes wide, too much adrenaline pumping through him. But there’s too much pumping through me as well, and I can barely think straight. I should be afraid, right? I don’t have a death wish. I don’t have any wishes, just like I have no direction except to take another step, so I do.

“You’ll pay for this,” he snarls, gripping the gun in his hand.

“I’m sure I will,” I utter under my breath then turn away from him and jerk the door open, knowing that death could be waiting on the other side. But it really doesn’t matter.

Nothing does.

Present Day…

Chapter 23

If you really knew me then you wouldn’t be looking at me like that.

Avery

Some people might say I’m crazy. Some people might think I lost my damn mind in the fire. That the trauma affected me more than I’m letting on. I’m almost positive that the therapy group I used to go to would tell me to walk away. When I go to sleep the night after I make the rules with Tristan, I tell myself the same thing.

I tell myself it over and over again.

Every night for the next week.

Just like every night for the next week I dream about the fire.

Reminding me why I’m here.

And what I need to do to make up for getting a second chance, even after what I did.

The thing that makes it easier is that Tristan will leave my life when the home is finished. That leaves little time to get attached and makes it easier to remain friends.

After the incident with Conner, the days go by slower. The cops never found him because he bailed when they arrived and took off to who knows where. I try not to worry about it, but he’s always haunting the back of my mind. He’ll show up again eventually. Will there ever be a time when I don’t constantly stress about him?

As the days go by, I still keep moving forward. Work. School. Mason. Jax. Building a home.  Getting ready to turn twenty-three in just a few days. And then there’s Tristan. Just a small change but it feels so epically and horrifyingly gigantic. I’m not breaking my no guys rule or anything. I haven’t kissed him or thought about kissing him—okay, well, maybe once or twice. And we don’t spend time going out, having fun, and partying like most twenty-two year olds do. No, our time is limited to working on the house and lunch breaks. That’s it. And he’s been doing well on his part with the rules of our friendship. Well, except for the flirting part. Like he warned, he occasionally slips up with that. All I can do about it is attempt to keep our conversations as light as possible.

The air is extra muggy today. Even with my hair pulled up and a tank top and shorts on, I feel like I’m roasting. Holding true to his word, Tristan has his shirt on, but I can tell he’s nearly dying from the excruciating heat. Sweat beads his sunkissed skin and his blonde hair is damp.

“He shaved his back,” I announce as I stroll over to where Tristan is stacking plywood and scraps.

It’s almost noon and the sun is peaking in the cloudless sky. I’ve been helping Tristan all morning cutting boards and part of me is almost saddened that I have to leave for the bar soon.

“Huh… What are you talking about?” Tristan grabs a broom that’s propped against the wood pile and starts sweeping the sawdust off the table. He seems a little distracted, has all morning.

“Mister Asshole saved his back,” I tell him… “I just passed by him and yeah, he’s hairless.”

Tristan glances up at me, his lips quirking. “Are you being serious?”

I nod. “It’s so smooth and his skin reflects in the light now. I’m seriously wondering if he got it waxed.”

His nose crinkles as he chuckles, the sight and sound a rare beauty. “Dude, that’s so unmanly.”

I laugh with him. “And really, really amusing. He’s all sexist, but goes to get his body waxed like women get theirs done all the time.”

He chuckles again. “You’re really adorable when you’re being snarky.”

My heart skips a beat. It’s been a long time since a guy has called me adorable. Years even. My smile withers as I remember the last time a guy complimented me, over five years ago. Five very long and painful years ago.

Tristan must sense my unease because he picks up two boards and says, “Here, help me move these to the front of the house. It’ll take your mind off whatever just made you frown like that.”

I could kiss him right now if I wasn’t so concerned about how much meaning would be behind it. With each passing day we spend together, kissing becomes more and more dangerous. Very, very dangerous.

Nodding, I pick up one of the shorter boards, and tag along behind him toward the front of the house where a work crew is unloading wood from an oversized truck. It’s been two weeks since we started building the house and it now has a semblance of walls around the foundation, the skeleton of what will be a home for someone who really needs it.

“You know, if we were in Wyoming, we’d be wearing jackets,” Tristan says with a grunt as he adjusts the two boards in his arms. Sweat drips from his brow and his chest is damp, but in the most ridiculously sexy way ever.

“How is good old Wyoming anyway?” I ask and seconds later my phone vibrates from inside my pocket. “You said you went there recently, right?”

“It’s the same as it was when you left, I’m sure.” His arm muscles ripple as he heaves a board onto the top of a stack. Then he wipes the sweat from his brow before taking the board from my hand.

“I haven’t been there in like four years.” I glance at the screen of my phone. It’s from the unknown number again. After what happened the other night, I’m almost positive it’s Conner.