“I’m no hero.”
“You saved someone tonight, Tristan.”
Her words hit differently; her sincerity is disorienting. She states it as a fact with no flourish or flattery, but with unexpected tenderness. I blink, unsure what to do with that.
“Who are you and what did you do with the Terror?” I say to lighten the vibe.
“The Terror took the night off,” she says with a coy smile. “Do you miss getting your balls busted already?”
Bringing up my balls is not helping my cause. She gives me a slow, sultry grin.
Just like that, I am inappropriately hard as a steel pipe. What the hell is wrong with me? How can I go from anxious to horny in the amount of time it takes Ligaya to bat her eyelashes? My deep inhale delivers a wave of Ligaya’s scent and the memory of her body pressed to mine.
“I should go.”
I don’t wait for a response. My legs propel me out the door before I do something dumb likestay.
You’d think the cold autumn air would cool down my overheating body. You would be wrong.
Sassy Ligaya has always been attractive with her sharp tongue and killer smile. It doesn’t hurt that her once petite leanness is now lush and curvy. But “attractive” is an insufficient description for the woman who I spent time with tonight.
Her sincere concern was so unexpected, it felt like a secret gift.
Kissing her is one thing. Wanting her physically is automatic. When I drove to Centerstone to watch her rehearsal and wiggle myway into a dinner date, I simply followed the playful instinct we always shared.
There’s nothing playful about how tonight ended. I’m nostalgic one second, horny the next. Laughing with her and kissing her all night feels like a great way to pass the time. Yet her ability to affect me is no simple pastime. If this game with Ligaya changes from harmless fun to somethingmore, I have a feeling I won’t know the rules. Or how not to lose.
CHAPTER 9
LIGAYA
“He, what, walked out the door?” Toby keeps his mouth open in a pose of disbelief.
“Ran out the door. I doubt he’ll show up.”
Tonight is our annual Halloween bash wherein Toby provides the house and some booze, while I prep all the food and bring even more booze.
It doesn’t matter if Tristan shows up. The Bad Decisions theme will be a blast with our friends. Toby is reliving his cringy 2010s by wearing cargo shorts with too many pockets and multiple Monster Energy drinks stuffed in them. I, on the other hand, am less elaborate. My bad decision is a tattoo on my lower back. That’s right—I have a tramp stamp.
To be fair, I was at a friend’s bachelorette party in Maui. I am not above peer pressure, it must be said. A tattoo party can seem rational with enough daiquiris in one’s bloodstream.
We all chose slightly different patterns of seashells, honoring the event and the symbolism of experiencing the ocean together. I happen to find it adorable, but it fits the Bad Decisions theme after Toby added the words “Seas The Day” over my seashell using liquid eyeliner.
I’m wearing one of those shirts that covers the front but has three ties at the back, like a hospital gown but—hopefully—a tad sexier.
Finger foods are arranged on Toby’s kitchen island, ready to be served. Halloween brings out my theatrical impulse to take themes too far. There’re mummy dogs wrapped in flaky pastry, deviled eggs with olive slices for eerie eyeballs, and a bubbling cauldron of witch’s brew punch. Brownie tombstones lean against piles of candy bones, and my personal favorite, severed fingers—a.k.a. breadsticks with almond sliver nails—are artfully staged like crime scene charcuterie.
“You’re truly unwell,” Toby says, eyeing the severed fingers.
“Thanks, babe,” I chirp, popping a candy eyeball into my mouth.
Our friends arrive, each one making me cackle. Anna has her ex’s name badly scribbled in Sharpie across a white T-shirt. Sydney is proudly sporting a neon-orange tan. Kai has stuffed his shirt with fake dollar bills and a sign that says, “Ask me about financial freedom!” He’s a pyramid scheme victim. Meanwhile, Quinn has duct-taped an entire IKEA instruction manual to his shirt. There’s a wave of people coming in, including Mandi, the choir teacher and my co-conspirator for the musical production.
“Something is glowing out there,” she yells over the chatter and music.
Heads swivel toward the window. My eyes narrow at the neon flicker in the yard. And then, stepping into full view, is Tristan. Six-foot, broad-shouldered, mega-watt-smile Tristan, wearing a set of fairy wings. Not just any fairy wings. They’re oversized and blinking with white-and-blue Christmas lights.
Cackles and cheers burst when Tristan enters with his confident gait. I’m clapping along with everyone else, but there’s another sensation percolating under my skin.
