Page 31 of Twisted Little Games (New York City Mafia #3)

Kirsten

“ W hat in the world just happened in here?” Natalie whispers when she steps into my office as soon as the two men leave.

“Nothing.” I stand up to tidy my desk that got disheveled during our romp.

“I saw Detective Daughtry and Tristan leaving together. Are they friends now?”

“Friends?” A bark of laughter escapes me at the thought.

“The detective held the door open for Tristan when they left. And they looked friendly enough.”

“I bet they did.” Bryan is probably scared shitless of Tristan now. Or he’s eager to be his best friend after that little show he put on. One Bryan seemed to thoroughly enjoy. I can’t believe Tristan did that…

“So, you didn’t just have sex with them both?” the nosy girl has the audacity to ask.

“God, no, Natalie! This is how gossip gets started. The three of us just…talked.”

“Right. Well, you and Tristan must have done other things before the cop got here because your face is red and blotchy like you just came a gazillion times.”

“It was only three or four times. I lost count.”

“I knew it!”

“Losing count happens a lot with Tristan, since he likes to do it again and again. And then I fall asleep, which is so fucking embarrassing.” Especially when I wake up to him fucking me while another man, my former, mediocre lover, watches with his hand in his pants.

God, why was that so hot? I should be angry at the invasion of privacy, but I’m just turned on. The thing the mobster shoved up my ass isn’t helping either.

“Have you ever had…anal?” I whisper to Natalie.

“Yes. Why?”

“I haven’t, but um, Tristan has expressed an interest in doing it tonight.”

“Go for it. He’ll get you off so many times before that you’ll barely notice where he’s shoving his big dick.”

“You say that like you have experience,” I remark.

“Well, he did have me in the stocks, at his mercy for hours. Not that I had any complaints.”

“I hate that you’ve been with him,” I admit with a heavy sigh.

“No kidding. The feeling is mutual.”

I abruptly sit down at that admission, only to squeal and pop right back up.

“Everything okay?” Natalie asks with a furrowed brow.

“As if you give a shit.”

“Sore? I remember that too.”

Shaking my head to ward off thoughts of Tristan and Natalie, I check the time on my phone and then grab my purse and briefcase. For once, I’m leaving early. I really should go make sure Tristan doesn’t kill Bryan on the way out of the courthouse.

“I’m headed out for the day,” I tell Natalie. “Call my cell if anything urgent comes up?”

“Sure. See you tomorrow.”

“See you then.” I rush out. Or I walk as fast I can with the plug. It’s funny that Tristan made all sorts of comments about me having a stick up my ass when he’s the one who likes putting things up there.

When I exit outside, I find the two men talking. Surprisingly enough, Tristan doesn’t look too murderous.

“What are you two still talking about?” I ask as I stride toward them. From the corner of my eye, I notice a car slowly rolling through the mostly empty street.

When he turns and sees me, Tristan’s eyes widen. “You’re leaving early today?”

“Yes. You’re a bad influence,” I say as he walks toward me as if he’s too impatient to wait for me to reach him.

“Get down!” Bryan yells.

Before his words even register, Tristan tackles me to the ground. It’s like déjà vu as the pop-pop-pop echoes around us. Unlike before in the alley, there’s shot after shot being fired before tires squeal.

Shit! It must have been that creeping car.

“Are you okay?” Tristan asks from above me.

I nod and wince at the sudden splitting headache. He swears and reaches for the back of my head, his fingers come away red. “You’re bleeding. Dammit, I let you hit your head.”

“It’s nothing. At least I didn’t get shot.” I try to lighten the mood.

“Backup is on the way, along with ambulances,” Bryan declares before he kneels down next to us with his gun in his hand. “How many times were you hit?”

“None. I’m fine,” I tell him. I try to push Tristan off before anyone I work with sees him on top of me. He finally sits up on his knees and winces.

“There’s at least two entry wounds,” Bryan remarks as he looks at…Tristan.

I scramble to look at his back. “Oh, my god.” Two wounds pour blood down his jacket — one near his shoulder blade and the other on the tricep of his right arm. “We need to stop the bleeding until the ambulance gets here. You said it’s coming, right?” I ask Bryan as I press my palms to the holes.

He nods. “No exit wounds, which means they’ll have to dig out the bullets.”

“How convenient you were standing there with us and came away unscathed,” Tristan remarks as he braces a hand on the ground to try to get up.

“Quit moving. Just…stay where you are,” I tell him, pushing down on his shoulder.

“They might come back,” Tristan grumbles.

“Nah, I’m pretty sure they’re dead.” Bryan points to the lamp post on the other side of the intersection where the car’s front end is smushed, the engine smoking.

“Again, that’s fucking convenient, detective.”

With that pronouncement, Tristan stops trying to get up and stays kneeling on the ground. I return to applying pressure on his back and arm.

“Tell the emergency responders to hurry the hell up!”

“I want them to treat the shooters first,” Tristan protests. “If they die, we won’t get any answers from them on why they came after you or who sent them.”

“No, you need to get treated first before you die!”

“I’m not going to die,” he proclaims with a roll of his eyes.

“Damn. Apparently, the feelings go both ways,” Bryan remarks softly to Tristan.

“What feelings?” I snap.

“They do,” Tristan answers, but I ignore his comment.

“Why aren’t you on the phone with 9-1-1?” I huff at the detective.

“You hear those sirens? That means they’re on the way, Kir.”

“There are always sirens blaring in the city!” I yell.

“Kir? You call her Kir like she’s a mongrel?” Tristan asks.

“It’s short for Kirsten.”

“You’re an idiot,” the mobster tells the cop.

“What do you call her?” Bryan asks but Tristan doesn’t answer.

“Sweetheart,” I answer for him. “He calls me sweetheart.”

Bryan looks between us and then laughs. “You two make the oddest couple I’ve ever fucking seen.”

“And he’s seen a lot of couples, haven’t you, Bryan?” Tristan teases.

Finally, I spot the blue lights in the distance just before the ambulance flies down the street behind them.

Bryan leaves us to direct the officers to the wrecked car, telling them they’re the shooters and to cuff them if they’re still alive.

If they were, they would’ve opened the doors and run or jumped out and kept shooting.

Why the fuck do people keep trying to kill me? And why does Tristan keep protecting me?

“Who’s first?” the paramedic asks when he approaches with a medical bag.

“Him. He was shot,” I say.

At the same time, Tristan mutters, “Her. She could have a brain bleed.”

“I don’t have a brain bleed! I barely scuffed my head while you have two bullets imbedded in your body!”

“I’ll take it from here, ma’am,” the responder says when he kneels next to us. “You can move your hands now.”

I pull my bloody palms away, and he takes over, ripping Tristan’s jacket and shirt off right there on the sidewalk.

“It’s freezing cold out here!” I tell him, in case he hasn’t noticed.

“I need to see the wounds if I’m going to tend to them.” The responder pours what I assume is antiseptic over Tristan’s back and then his upper arm. “I’ll throw a blanket over him once I bandage the wounds.”

“I’m going with him to the hospital.”

“Are you his wife? Girlfriend?” he asks while he applies gauze to the wounds.

“Yes.”

Tristan scoffs. “No, she’s not. She doesn’t know me.”

“Tristan!” Though, I know why he’s denying our relationship or whatever this is in public. I love and hate him for still trying to protect me, but I’ll say I’m his wife if it gets me a ride in that ambulance so I can stay by his side.

“He took the bullets meant for me,” I explain to the paramedic. “What does that tell you?”

“That he’s either an insane stranger, or he knows you so well he would rather die than live without you.” The guy grins.

I don’t know if he’s teasing or not. “Is he…is it that bad?”

“He’ll be fine. As soon as those bullets are yanked out, he’ll get to go home, probably tonight if he doesn’t spike a fever.”

“Can’t you just pull them out here and be done with it?” Tristan asks.

“No, sir. Sit tight while I go help my partner with the vehicle occupants.”

When he jogs off without retrieving a blanket, I slip off my coat and wrap it around Tristan’s shoulders.

“I’m fine. Keep your coat on.”

“No. I’m wearing two layers, and your skin is bare,” I point out. He tries to shrug the fabric off his shoulders, but I grab the two halves at the front and hold it tight. Cupping the side of his face with my free hand, I ask him, “How are you feeling, really?”

“Sleepy.”

“That’s probably the blood loss.”

“More like the cum loss,” he whispers while waggling his eyebrows. I go to slap his arm but stop when I remember the wounds. His eyes are glazed and heavy, making me wonder if it’s worse than he’s letting on. At the sound of more sirens, we both glance over and find another ambulance arriving.

“You should let them check your head and take you to the hospital to get it looked at.”

“My head is fine.”

Tristan clenches his jaw. “Go, Kirsten. Before somebody sees us.”

“I don’t care who sees us!”

“Yes, you do. Those donors aren’t going to give you big checks if they see you associating with a mob enforcer. Not to mention, all the votes you’ll lose…”

Leaning forward, I brush my lips over his, silencing his concerns for me. “I don’t care,” I repeat.

With a grin lifting his lips, Tristan grabs the back of my neck with his uninjured left hand and pulls me closer, not to kiss me but to bury his face in my neck and hair. I hear his deep inhale, then his staggered breath before he whispers, “No matter what, don’t pull out the plug.”