Grounded (Up in the Air #3)(61)

James looked far from appeased by that. "Knock it off, Frankie."

She waved him off. "Oh, chill out, James. I'm really not. I have a girlfriend now, and I've never been happier. Just let me have some fun."

I saw his eyes move to somewhere behind Frankie. My gaze followed his. A huge man strode towards us. He was several tables away, but I could tell from that purposeful stride and his intent stare that he was headed our way.

He looked … sinister. And sexy. He had pitch-black hair that hung straight to his massive shoulders. He was so big that I would have pegged him for a football player, or some kind of professional athlete, if it weren't for the way he dressed. He wore a white T-shirt with what looked like some band's logo on the front of it. It was so tight that I could see every ridge in his six-pack, and every bit of the extensive tattoos that covered his chest. His jeans looked like he'd been in a war-zone, they were so torn up. His arms were covered in full sleeve tattoos. I thought that he must work in Frankie's tattoo parlor, since he was so inked up.

As he drew closer, I saw that his hard jaw had a five o'clock shadow that looked like it never went away. He had even features, with thick brows over thickly lashed eyes, a straight, rounded nose, and a mouth made for sin. He was a handsome devil.

He grinned as he drew close to us, flashing twin dimples that were pure trouble.

James cursed. "What the hell is he doing here?" he asked Frankie. He sounded very putout.

Frankie turned to see who he was talking about, but had the opposite reaction when she saw who approached. She grinned.

"Tristan is getting a new tat today. Of course, my producer just had to catch it for the show. They love it when celebrities come into the shop. Your episode is airing in two weeks, by the way."

Of course he'd made an exhibition out of the tattoos, I thought, as my mind connected the dots.

I didn't have time to address the issue, however, before Tristan was on us. His eyes were all on me as he reached our table. They were golden and twinkling, disarming really. I smiled back tentatively, clued into a strange tension from James.

Tristan sat at the only empty chair at the table, sliding it until he was sitting almost too close to me. His eyes were warm on me.

"The infamous Bianca. I have to say, I've been looking forward to meeting you. James and I go way back. I'm Tristan."

He held out his hand to shake and I did automatically. James sucked in a gasp when Tristan raised my hand to his mouth, and he was wrenching my hand out of the other man's grasp before I could react.

"Watch yourself, Tristan," James said through gritted teeth.

Tristan just grinned that sinister grin with those troublesome dimples. "Relax, Cavendish, I know she's yours. I was just saying hi."

"Yeah, well, if you say 'hi' again I'm going to break your nose."

"I'd love to see you try, but I'd really hate to make you ruin your manicure."

I turned to James, giving him a stern look, and completely ignoring the other man. I rubbed his chest until he looked at me. I didn't say a word, just watched him, willing him to calm, to keep from escalating a small confrontation into something out of hand.



       
         
       
        

After a long moment he relaxed a fraction, pulling me until I was plastered against his side.

It was a while before I looked back at Tristan. He was a strange one, I thought, as he studied us intently, his brow furrowed. "Someone told me you'd fallen over the deep end, but I just didn't believe it. I stand corrected. You've got it bad, my friend."

"What are you getting a tattoo of?" I asked Tristan, trying to find a neutral topic for the hostile men. I looked at him as I asked the question.

"I'm getting a small five to commemorate five years clean and sober," he said without hesitation, as though he'd practiced it.

I blinked. "Congratulations," I told him, meaning it. Addiction was a horrible, powerful thing. I'd seen people ruined by it.

"Thank you. I did some bad things when I was using, things I can't make up for, but having five years of sobriety under my belt still feels pretty damn good."

Frankie smacked herself in the forehead. It was an attention getter. We all looked at her. "You can say that without adding a disclaimer about all of your sins," she chided him. "You have every right to be proud of yourself."

He shrugged, frowning harshly. He was a tough looking guy, but somehow that frown made him look vulnerable rather than mean. "I don't see it that way. Even with all of the touchy-feely rehab bullshit, I still know that it was me doing all those things, not the alcohol or the drugs, and there are some things a person can't just forgive themselves for, especially when the one I hurt the most can't forgive me, either."