Page 23

CHAPTER 23

Birdie

Watching the dreary sea from my garden, I pour the last of the chardonnay bottle down my throat. Tristan is standing somewhere behind me, doing his job. I sit upright on the sofa and glance over my shoulder to confirm—yes, he’s still there, unfazed by Butterfly Man’s warning.

“Are you okay, Birdie? You keep looking my way every five seconds but say nothing,” he says.

“Just checking I didn’t conjure you from my imagination. I can’t hear you breathe. You’re a freaking ninja,” I slur.

The green in his eyes glints under the moonlight as they bore into me, reading the hidden fears behind my words. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you ran for the hills after that note.”

“I said I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well,” I dangle my bare feet and let them touch the grass, “I am.”

He rushes to my side as I struggle to stand. “Do you need help going to your room?”

“Who said I was going to sleep?” I grab the empty bottle and shake it, stumbling on my feet. “I’m getting another one.”

The disapproval in his frown follows me to the kitchen, but his arms stretch toward me every time I stagger, ready to catch me if I fall.

“Let me help.” Gia joins us when I slam the liquor cabinets open and shut more times than necessary to find the wine.

“I don’t need your help.” I wave an arm at her. “Move out of the way.”

She glances between me and Tristan and bows her head with a sigh. They both give me space, but then he whispers to her, “Does she always drink like that?”

I roll my eyes. Does he think I can’t hear him? Because I do. Or does he want me to hear it?

“No. She barely touches alcohol,” Gia answers before a snide comment slips out of my mouth. “Her mother was a bad drunk.”

“Was?” Tristan asks as I busy myself finding a new bottle, pretending I’m not listening.

“She died years ago.”

“And her father?”

“He’s still in Florida, but…they don’t keep in touch.”

“Do you know why?”

“Birdie doesn’t talk much about her parents. It’s a sensitive topic.” Gia pauses, but I can feel her gaze on me. “You should cut her some slack about the drinking. It’s been a rough day with Saldana and Blake. Actually, it’s been a rough year. I mean, who would have thought Blake… That woman…suffered a lot. I should have been there for her, but I failed to see the signs. He tricked us all. It’s a good thing that you’re here, though. I can’t imagine how she must have felt, to be trapped in that same kind of marriage all over again.”

“Again?”

My eyes snap at them, but they aren’t looking at me. Tristan’s scowl deepens as he waits for an answer. Gia purses her lips, pity etched all over her face. “Blake isn’t Birdie’s first husband. Before him, she was married to some asshole who hurt her really bad. That’s how she met Blake. He was the officer responding to her domestic disturbance call. Ironic, isn’t it?”

My hand squeezes the wine glass until it smashes. “Shit.”

“Birdie!” Tristan runs to me, Gia in tow, and holds my hand. Then he drags me to the sink and runs some water over the gushing blood. “God, there are some nasty cuts in here. Ms. Conelly, do you have a first-aid kit in the house?”

“Yes, it’s—”

“This is my house,” I interrupt her with a glare. “If you want to know something, you ask me .”

Gia swallows, her cheeks red with embarrassment. How could she share my secrets without permission? How could she talk about my past to someone she only met today? Even if he’s my bodyguard and I trust him, she has no right to lay me bare in front of him without my consent.

“It’s been a long day, Gia. You should go home and rest. Good night.” Not giving her a chance to respond, I switch my glare toward Tristan, who is prying the glass shards out of my bleeding palm.

Her heels echo out of the kitchen, and I cock a brow at Tristan. “You got nothing to say?”

He drops another piece of broken glass in the sink. “It didn’t seem you were talking to me.”

“I was. I don’t appreciate your fishing for information.”

“I only asked for a first-aid kit to help you.”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about. You think I couldn’t hear your little whispers?”

“Eavesdropping is a very bad habit.”

“Tristan!”

Finally, he lifts his gaze to mine. Then his lips curve into his cocky smirk. “Noted. Now, can you please tell me where the first-aid kit is? I need to stop your bleeding.”

I yank my hand out of his. “Just find a rag and wrap it around my hand. I’ll patch myself up.”

“There are tiny shards inside your flesh still. I need tweezers to get them out, and then I’ll have to stitch the deep cuts that won’t stop bleeding before I patch you up.”

I put some paper towels on the wounds. “ I will go finish this bottle now .”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Nope.” I grab the wine and sway out of the kitchen.

“Birdie, you’re in no condition to…”

My foot slips, and I teeter out of balance. The bottle flies before it’s smashed into pieces on the floor. My eyes squeeze shut as I brace for the fall, anticipating the coming pain.

“…drink anymore tonight.”

Tristan’s voice rings in my ear, and heat engulfs me as I hit something firm. I open my eyes to find myself cradled in his arms, and my head is on his chest.

The heat is coming from his body. The firm surface is his rock-hard muscles. My hero catches me before I fall.

“I got you.” He carries me and moves to the stairs.

I gauge his expression, his stance. For a man who doesn’t like touching other people, do I make him uncomfortable, having to carry me after I’ve royally embarrassed myself for no reason other than pride? Apparently, not. He’s focused and confident with his step, a man who’s simply doing his job. Do I feel uncomfortable?

Self-conscious with a shattered pride, yes. But not awkward or uncomfortable. My body eases against his, and if I let myself close my eyes, I’ll drift with peaceful dreams. There’s something about him when we’re this close, about the way his heart beats in my ear, how protectively tight his grip is around me, how his warmth radiates through me, that makes me feel safe in a way I’ve never known. As if nothing in this world can ever hurt me if I’m nestled in these arms, a shield that won’t allow anything through, not even my own demons, not even my own shame.

“Tristan,” I breathe, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, Birdie?”

“I don’t want you to die.”

Charged tension sparks between us as his intense gaze locks with mine at the top of the stairs. Something flickers in his expression—concern, but also something deeper, something that makes my breath catch in my throat.

“Let’s get you taken care of,” he murmurs, his voice low and strained. He shifts his gaze away as he continues down the hallway towards my bedroom.

Inside, he enters the bathroom and puts me in a chair in front of the vanity. Then he opens the left drawer. “Bingo. The secret first-aid kit has been here all along.”

“You have room for humor when there’s a murderer out there who wants to kill you?”

He points at the sink. “Put some water on the paper towels before you get them off. They’re sticking to the blood. It’ll hurt if you remove them dry. Paper towels, what were you thinking?”

“I’m serious, Tristan. Are you not even a little bit afraid?”

He goes through the kit and sets what he needs aside. “No.”

“How? Why?”

He slams the box shut, and his head whips toward me. “Because I’m not the hero in this story, Birdie, even if that’s how you want to write me.” He leans in, his gaze piercing through me. “Don’t think for one second I’m the kind of man that will sit back and play by the rules when there’s a madman out there hunting you. I’ll hunt the predator who dared make you his prize before he takes another step closer to you. I’ll make sure he never hurts you, no matter what lines need to be crossed.”

Transfixed by the fervor in his eyes, the unwavering resolve radiating from every inch of his being, I stare back at him. “What does that mean?”

“You know exactly what it means.” He starts tending to my cuts. “And don’t pretend this isn’t what you want. I saw that look in your eyes when you found out he killed for you.” The tone of his voice burns harder than my hand. “You never wanted a hero to protect you. Heroes die to save the world, but villains burn the world down to save the girl. That’s why you chose me to be your bodyguard. You knew. You can see it in me, in the scar on my face. You hear it in my words, in my promises. You knew I’d be whatever you need me to be to get this done.”

From the moment I saw Tristan at the interview, there has been this pull, this undeniable connection building between us. A bond of sorts that doesn’t come from compassion or empathy but from the darkest corners of our souls. He’s right. I can see it, the darkness we try to bury before it wraps its flames around us, and the pain that ignites it. In those rare instances when the careful mask slips, and I catch a glimpse of the man behind the bodyguard, it calls out to me.

It terrifies me how much I find myself yearning for those instances because I know where it can lead and the complications it can cause. I know I shouldn’t want it. I can’t indulge it. But God help me, I do. How far will I let it pull me in? How long can I resist before it consumes me whole?

“You know damn well when the time comes, I won’t hesitate to become a bigger villain than the one I’m sworn to stop, if that’s what it takes to keep you safe.”

The weight of his declaration settles over me, a stark reminder that the man standing before me is no knight in shining armor. He is a warrior, a dark guardian willing to do whatever it takes to protect me. And maybe, just maybe, this is exactly what I need.

“Shane,” I say, scoring Tristan’s undivided attention, “the prettiest boy in school. Notorious. Leather jackets, tattoos and motorcycles. A bad boy through and through but, oh god, so sexy. Senior year, he’s flunking English and History, so he asks me, the nerdy girl who is the top of her class, for help and says he’ll pay well. I agree to tutor him for the money. That’s what I did, tutoring to save enough to leave my parents’ house as soon as I can. And, for the time I spend with the hottest boy in school I won’t ever get otherwise.

“One day, he’s at my place. I’m helping him study for a test and…my mother,” I rub my fingers over my mouth, “she bursts into my room, reeking of alcohol, and starts yelling at me, calling me names. She grabs me by the hair, yanking me out of my seat and dragging me across the room… It’s not the first time she hits me. It’s not the first time she paints my body black and blue. I’ve been her punching bag since I was four. But it’s the first time she does it in front of a witness.

“In that moment, in that look I see in Shane’s eyes, I find peace in the misery that has been my life. Finally, I’m not alone. Finally, someone believes me. Even if he doesn’t lift a finger and just stands there watching like my father always does, someone finally sees the truth.

“But Shane lifts more than a finger. He stops her before she drags me down the stairs and scoops me in his arms out of the house. He puts me on his bike, rides to his place and says I can stay as long as I need. And I do, I stay, I fall in love. How can I not? He saved the cat, didn’t he? A classic bad boy good girl tale where the villain is a redeemable antihero, where he saves and gets the girl.

“A year later, we’re married. We move to Miami. I go to college, but he decides to start his own business to provide for our little family. An auto repair shop that barely pays the bills, but it’s something. I’m not complaining, I’m happy, but, suddenly, he’s not. He drinks the little money we make, screws any skank that spreads her legs for him and tells me I ruined his life. Four months later, he gives me a black eye.”

“Birdie—”

“I should have left then. God, I know I should have. I’ve seen all the red flags at my parents’ house. I’ve lived them until they’ve become the air I breathed, but I don’t leave. I stay and live in denial, believing all the apologies and the promises of a second chance. At least, he says he’s sorry. My mother never did. At least, he saved me once. My father never did.

“Then, one day, he brings a friend home with him, and Shane tells me to…” I swallow the wave of nausea and close my eyes for a second to stop my stomach from lurching, “he tells me to give his friend good company while he runs an errand.” A bitter laugh snorts its way out of me. “ That’s when I decide to leave. That’s when he smashes my bones. That’s when I call the police and meet Blake. Then it’s all over again, but this time, it’s not with a villain, it’s with a hero.”

“Birdie, listen to—”

“The point is, Tristan, heroes and villains are the same. Whether they die or burn the world down, it’s never for the girl. She’s just another thing up for grabs. Once they own it, they use it as a property however they want. The girl is just a means to an end, a tool, a weapon, a treasure, a bargaining chip, a punching bag, a pussy, anything to fulfill the real quest. They don’t care if they destroy her in the process, if they leave her in pieces with nothing but shame.”

“No!” His roar forces me to look back at him. “I won’t let you feel this way. You. Have. Nothing. To. Be. Ashamed. Of.”

My breath snags in my chest. “But I do.”

“No. A million times no. Say it with me. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Everything they’ve done, it’s on them.”

“Everything they’ve done…it’s on them,” I say as if in a trance.

He keeps saying it and I repeat like a mantra, until I believe it.

“Good girl. You’re the strongest soul I’ve ever seen. Hold your chin high and wear your scars with pride.”

The way his eyes meet mine… It’s like he can see right through to the vulnerable parts of me that I keep so carefully guarded from everyone else. I feel seen, understood in a way that no one else has ever managed. Unconsciously, my gaze lands on the scar above his lips. “Like you do?”

“Yes, like I do. Our lives are a lot similar than you think, Birdie. You and I are no heroes or villains. We are survivors.”

I steal a glance up, and I can swear, for the briefest moment, he’s gazing at my lips, too. “I’ve been trying to tamp down those feelings, those selfish desires, before they burn us both. But then you’ll say something like this, and it’s like you’re stripping away all my defenses.” I shake my head and laugh under my breath. “I knew I was irrevocably bound to him, for better or for worse. He’d be my shield, my savior... and perhaps, in the end, my greatest downfall.”

His breath tangles with mine. “I don’t recognize this quote.”

“Because it’s yet to be written.” I let go of the last of my inhibitions and crush my lips into his.

The tension I break between us ignites me into a blaze, but he doesn’t move. His lips, as cold as the dead, don’t reciprocate the kiss. I wait for him to make any gesture of acknowledgement or acceptance, even of rejection, but he doesn’t. He’s rigid, holding his breath, the green eyes that have once burned with such fierce intensity now shuttered and guarded. Then, suddenly, hell breaks loose in them. “What the fuck?”

My pride shatters with the sting of rejection. “I…I’m sorry. Jeez, I…I’m drunk. I’m so sorry.”

“What the fuck was that, Birdie?”

“A kiss, Tristan. That was just a kiss.” The realization that I’ve misread the intensity of the bond between us is a bitter pill to swallow. I’ve bared my soul to him, laid my vulnerabilities right in front of him, only so he can reject me. “A mistake, obviously, that won’t happen again.”

“Just a kiss? A mistake? This…this…” he hisses, bristling with something so dark I can’t begin to fathom. “Don’t you dare try to manipulate me, Birdie. That kiss is a knock on hell’s door. And when you knock on hell’s door, who do you think will open?”