My bathroom wasn’t as grand or large as the one at Tristan’s. White subway tile ran along the walls, slate for the floors. This was the last room I’d renovated, busting into an adjoining room to steal a precious three feet so I could squeeze in a large soaker tub and separate shower.

Tristan turned on the lights, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He’d come straight from the office, I realized, taking in the white silk sleeves he cuffed to the elbows, the black slacks and blue tie. 

“I’m fine, really,” I argued. Sitting on the closed toilet seat, Tristan pressed a dry cloth he found to my face.

“Don’t argue with me. I know something about…this,” he said, dabbing at my bleeding lip, concern shadowing his voice.

“I bet you do.” I watched the expressions of his face, all hard, serious lines. “Have you ever hit a woman?”

Those silver eyes met mine. Held. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because she asked me to.”

“And because you’re in to that sort of thing. Right?” I sat a little straighter as Tristan turned on the bathroom faucet, running the dry cloth under the cool, flowing water, washing away the blood.

“There are complexities to this lifestyle…layers. I won’t rush things with you.”

Wringing out the cloth, he returned, wiping along the sides of my face very, very gently.

“Do you really enjoy pain?” I asked, a whisper of uncertainty flickering beneath the question. His stroking stilled.

“We all do.” I wrinkled my nose at that and he pursed his lips. “Tell me,” he lowered to the side of the tub, our thighs brushing together. “When you were a child I’m sure you scrapped your knees, skinned an elbow once or twice from frolicking outdoors.”

“Of course.” I smiled. “Being a tomboy I had more then my fair share of bruises. What’s your point?”

“My point,” he said, taking my wrist he turned it upwards revealing the faint smear of blue tinged beneath my skin. “How many times did you pick at those healing scabs even though your mother warned you not to? How many times did your little fingers press against those bruises so you could savour that delicious ache, over and over again?” 

More often then I’d ever stopped to realize, or pay much attention to, and I thought back to a few scattered incidents that I could recall doing just that.

“And when you’re in passionate throes with a lover, do you never have the natural inclination to bite? Scratch? Pull hair or even clamp a hand around someone’s throat with force?” His thumb pressed against that sweet and sore spot, a fading reminder of a particularly intense night. And I quivered at the rush of thrill to accompany that little twinge of memory; it didn’t hurt so much as it excited.

And that, I now understood, was the point all along.

I lifted my eyes from my wrist and looked at him, his expression watchful and patient and verged on satisfied.

“Clever bastard.” Smiling, I shook my head and muttered, “Ow,” when my lip split again. “How did you know I was in trouble?”

“Front desk security.” Back on his feet, Tristan searched through my medicine cabinet for Polysporin. “They called the police the moment Anthony went up to your place, after calling me.”

“You?” Returning to me, he dabbed a smear of clear antibiotic over my wound, soothing the sting with his finger. “Can’t believe that son of a bitch actually hit me.”

Done with his ministrations, Tristan angled my face, his eyes darkly serious. “He’ll never touch you again. No man ever will. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Shade.” I encircled his wrist with my fingers. “You can’t protect me all the time from everything and everyone.”

“I can. I will.” His lips pressed to my brow and they lifted into a smile. “Well, you certainly did a number on him, at least. Broke his nose, they said.”

“Should’ve wrecked his jaw,” I grumbled as mine viciously throbbed. I opened my mouth, rolling the protesting joint. “It really hurts.”

“I know,” he said. “Come. We’ll need to ice it with a compress.” Taking my hand, Tristan led me to my kitchen and poked around in my freezer for a pack of frozen corn. Wrapping it in a clean hand towel, he pressed it to my face.

I didn’t particularly care for the shock of cold but knew arguing with him would get me nowhere.

“Take these,” he instructed, handing over a couple of tablets from his inner breast pocket of his suit jacket draped over the back of my couch. “Painkillers to take the edge off. They’ll make you sleepy, which isn’t such a bad thing. You need rest.”

Face verging on numb, I palmed the pills. Small white discs nestled in the curve of my hand. “You carry Percocet with you?”

“Migraines,” he said. “I get them pretty bad around this time of year. Helps to keep them handy.” Turning on my faucet, he poured out a glass of water, brought it to me.

Popping them into my mouth I swallowed with a long, bracing gulp.

“Bed,” he said again, stroking a finger over my unabused cheek. I knew he had to leave, but the need to keep him there was strong, swift and unexpected. I turned my face, nuzzled into his touch.

“Will you…?”

Understanding the unspoken, his arms drew around me, held me close. “Of course.”     

*** 

I woke the next day, groggy from the meds and my stomach roiling with rebellious fury. A quick glance at my bedside table told me why. I’d slept through the night, and most of the day. With the hour rounding towards three, I was clocking in on almost twenty hours since I’d last had a meal.

Tristan was gone, not that I was surprised. He’d stayed long enough for the painkillers to take effect, which was all of five minutes. Percocet, I thought, was a wonder drug and had knocked me flat on my ass. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d slept so heavy, and good.

Rolling to my side, I fumbled in the dark—as my blackout blinds were drawn effectively ensconcing me in nothingness. Banging into furniture and drawers, eventually I found my window and pulled up the shades. The day was a bleak sort of grey, clouds knit so close together not a scrap of sky could be seen. But the air was warm, at least.

Another gurgling kick in my belly and I decided to hell with being particular and snatched a discarded pair of jeans off the floor, a shirt I hoped to god was clean, a black cashmere sweater and shrugged them on.

No food in my fridge meant I would have to venture outside to fill this massive black hole growing inside of me. After a moments return to vanity, I took a look at myself in my bedside mirror and tried not to frown.

My skin was pale, my eyes appeared rested, but my jaw was a smear of black and blue fringed in yellow.

Holy shit. There was no way I could go outside looking like this. I opened my mouth, testing the joint and was surprised to discover it moved without too much protesting. So, it looked worse then it was. Fantastic.

While the gurgling advanced to a full-blown wail, I bee-lined for my bathroom in search of cosmetics. Five hellish minutes later, I gave up. While I’d tamed the worst of the discoloration, there was no hiding it completely.

Taking a page out of Tristan’s flying under the radar handbook, I found a pair of glasses, a ball cap reserved for the odd morning jog and slapped it over my head on my way out the door. In the lobby, I glanced around, no straying eyes seemed to pay me any mind so I relaxed.

Probably didn’t look as bad as I thought. When I hit the pavement, I didn’t waste any more time. At this hour I could go almost anywhere, but wasn’t about to pull up a table in a high profile restaurant when I looked like the victim of domestic violence. So that left hole in the walls and corner bars for the less concerned crowd. As well as lowering my chances of bumping into people I knew.

Three blocks down, sheer gut gnawing hunger won over logic and I dove into the first available establishment doors I could find. Sweat, smoke and sudsy hops slapped me straight in the face. Over top the bar a TV blared the latest stats on last nights basket ball game and a couple of stray faces lifted for a cursory glance in my direction.

Otherwise, the place was virtually empty and the few who were inside, too deep into their beers to give a shit.

Perfect.

Taking a table in the corner window, I lifted the laminated single page menu from the table with a sticky riiip. Great. My eyes roved over the options. Wings. Nachos. Fish and Chips. I didn’t care what it was, batter, fried or smothered in buffalo sauce, so long as it manifested in front of me within the next five minutes.

“Hey there.” The waitress buzzed over in head to toe black that covered as little real estate as possible. A shame since she didn't have the sort of body one should put out there. Or the face to back it up. “Can I get you?” 

“Um—the fish and chips. A Sheppard’s Pie, too and maybe the wings, fried calamari and…” I tapped a finger against my bottom lip. “The Yorkshire puddings.”

“With a side of gravy?”

“Why not.”

She reached for the menu.

“Let’s start with that,” I said, setting it down in front of me.

She cocked a pale, blonde brow. “Anything to drink?”

Beyond her head was the day’s specials written in vibrant, colourful chalk. “A pitcher of Heineken.” 

The food took near to twenty minutes, the beer—only two. It was a lesson in careful restraint to keep from guzzling down the entire jug in the time it took for the food to arrive, but the wait was worth it.

I devoured the Yorkshires, calamari and wings without blinking. The Sheppard’s pie without breaking a sweat. By the time I tucked into my fish and chips I felt almost human again. Until a whiff of pricy Chanel burst my euphoric little bubble.

In a place like this, the polished tabloid gloss stood out in stark relief. All powder pink and crisp ivory against dark walls and beer stained linoleum floors.

"This seat taken?” I glanced up from my meal to see long layers of brown hair framing a long face dominated by a killer smile. A press tag dangling just at eye level, but I didn’t need to read the name.

Sandra Higgins, journalist extraordinaire. When we’d first met she’d worked for a small time rag, all talent and wicked ambition. Now she’d ascended to the lofty ranks of the Times. As Senator Pierce’s daughter, we’d had our share of run-ins, most of them pleasant.

“Sandra,” I said, swallowing my mouthful. “What brings you here?”

“Business, pleasure.” She sat down in the empty seat, propped her elbows on the table—heedless of the grime. I had to admire her gumption. “And some scintillating rumours. I never did like Anthony,” she added, her smile dimming at the sight of my bruised lip covered under layers of makeup.

I reached for my napkin, wiped carefully. “You always did have impeccable sources. Didn’t realize they extended into law enforcement, too.”

She shrugged prettily, diamonds firing in the dim light. “Pays to have friends everywhere. Speaking of friends, I hear you’ve made a pretty special one, yourself.”

Unblinking, I forked off a bite of batter covered fish. “Did you?”

Sandra flexed her fingers, manicured nails glinting like claws she itched to dig into me for facts, details and coveted secrets.

“The city has been humming for weeks now. An almost married man romantically linked to a woman on the other side of the merger bed. At this point, everything is mere speculation,” she waved, “at least, until last night where my source swears Tristan Shade came flying into your apartment shortly after Anthony De Soto was escorted out by police.”

I gulped down a long, refreshing swallow of my third beer. “Interesting.”

"And, I hear this isn't the firs time Tristan's been up to your place." 

"Couldn't tell you." 

“Come on, Laura.” Filching a French fry from my plate, Sandra nibbled on the golden sliver, smiling. “Toss a girl a bone. Just one, little, juicy tidbit for the headlines? You don’t even have to speak—nod. Hell, blink! Twice for yes, once for no.”

Setting down my fork, I folded my hands together, my face decidedly blank, calm. Sandra nodded with a chuckle, wiping off her fingers on a paper napkin.

“Alright, I know the drill.” She pulled out a business card, placed it next to my wine. “If my gut is right—and it always is—then you and Shade won’t be able to keep this quiet for long. Think about that, will you? And call me should you have a change of mind.”