Only Trick

“I’m out of control.”

He raises a brow as I grin.

“Nobody’s life is in my hands, and I’m not the Senator’s daughter. You’ve seen me without makeup and nearly wetting myself on the back of your bike, yet you still suggested we be friends.”

A soft chuckle escapes him as he rests his hands on my knees. The next part I want to be one hundred percent true, but it’s not—yet. “I don’t have to think about sleeping with you or who you’re sleeping with when it’s not me.”

His hands grip tighter on my knees. My breath catches. I hold it, control it, then release it with ease as he releases me.

Grabbing my juice, I suck it down the way he sucks all control out of me. The clink of my glass hitting the counter breaks the eerie, suffocating silence that hovers like a cloud in this large open space. “Tell me about your family.”

“Grady and Tamsen are my only family.” He pushes my chair back and hops off his stool.

“Tamsen?”

“Grady’s sister.” Trick rinses off our plates.

“What about your parents?” I climb down and hand him the skillet.

“What about them?”

“Jesus, Trick! This is such deadweight conversation. It’s exhausting dragging information out of you.”

He shuts the door to the dishwasher and leans against the counter with his arms folded across his chest, head down. “I think they died.”

I shake my head. “What does that mean?”

He looks up. “You work at a hospital but you don’t know what it means to die?”

“No, you idiot! I don’t understand what it means to not know if your parents are dead or alive.”

“Well, lucky you.” He walks away, grabs a shirt, and slips on his boots before heading toward the elevator. “Come.”

“Where are we going?”

He slides open the gate and steps into the elevator, turning toward me. “I’ll walk you out.”

“You’re kicking me out?” I try to hide the shock in my voice, but I’m sure he can see it in my posture that deflates an inch or two.

“I’m walking you out.”

I look around the room searching for … something. My pride? Some dignity?

Nothing.

Scuffing my boots across the floor, I sulk to the elevator. Trick shuts the gate.

“You don’t have to walk me to my car,” I say in a weak voice as he opens the outer door.

He walks out as if he didn’t hear me, leaving me to catch up.

When we reach the street he stops. I point to my car on the other side, and he continues toward it. After I unlock it, he opens the driver’s door. His mask is back on, not a single twitch, just … stone. I start to get in then stop. Standing straight, I hug him. If it’s even possible, his body stiffens more. His arms stay glued to his sides.

“I’m sorry about your parents … wherever they are.” Releasing him, I slide into my seat and shut the door. Without looking at him, I pull away from the curb, only risking a glance in my rearview mirror when he’s already out of sight. Trick thinks his parents are dead, and maybe they are. Lack of closure can be torture. I wonder if he’s given up on any other possibility just to get that closure.

*

I should attend yoga classes or something to clear my mind. Psychologically it’s probably not in my best interest to submerge myself in a mentally and sometimes emotionally draining job, then engage in the mind fuck that is Trick in my free time.

He radiates an element of mystery and danger. Any attempt to figure him out would be the equivalent of diving head first into the dark abyss. Yet, I’m drawn to him in more than just a physical sense, and I’m not sure it’s something I can control. But most disturbing is the realization that I don’t want to control it.

Pulling up in front of my nana’s place, I look at the time. She’s an early riser which means she’s usually in bed by eight. It’s ten ’til, so hopefully I’ll catch her before she sets the alarm and shuts off the lights.

“Yes?” she answers shortly after I press the intercom button.

“It’s me, Nana.”

The door unlocks.

“Well isn’t this a lovely surprise.” She opens her arms, sparkling blue eyes that mirror mine crinkle in the corners.

“Hope I didn’t wake you.” I hug her and feel the warmth of home in her arms—the only arms that have ever felt like what I imagine a mother’s love should feel like.

“I don’t think that’s possible yet. Mary invited me for coffee earlier and I should have skipped the second cup. I think I’ll be up for a while yet. So come, sit.” A plush, cream bathrobe engulfs her petite frame. The rosy glow of her cheeks and shiny nose indicate she’s washed her face, but her ginger and white Peter Pan hair still looks salon perfect. “You have the night off?”