Page 20 of Wild Card
“The fuck did you just say to her?” Bash’s voice is cold as ice from across the table.
I can’t bring myself to face him, but I do look up, eyes tracing Tripp’s svelte physique as I make my way up to his face.
“All in good fun, right, babe?” He winks at me, like I’m in on his joke, and turns his attention to his dad, who is staring daggers at him.
“No. Not in good fun,” Bash says. “That was plain rude.”
Tripp scoffs and waves him off. “It was a joke. I just meant save some room for dinner. Don’t make it into something else.”
I shift away from Tripp, not liking the version of him that comes out to play around his family.
Itwasrude. And manipulative. An unwelcome commentary on what and how much I’m eating disguised as a joke—a tactic my dad employed masterfully when I was younger.
“Hilarious,” I say sarcastically before popping one ball of rice into my mouth. “A real knee-slapper,babe.”
Tripp winces, and I can see the apology in his eyes. I shake my head subtly back at him. If today has proven anything, it’s that he acts like an asshole around his family.
It’s like I’m dating Dr. Jekyll—and Mr. Hyde has just come out to play.
He says nothing, so I give him a thumbs-up before lifting the second one in a salute. “Cheers, boys.” I stand and add, “I’ll be back. Gonna go see what other snacks I can track down to fill up on.”
As I depart, their staccato murmurs trail behind me, but the hum of the surrounding party swallows any words I might be able to make out. What I can tell is that, for the first time today, Bash is pissedatTripp rather than just in general.
I finish chewing the arancini, but I don’t taste it. And I don’t bother looking for more snacks. It feels like every pair of eyeshere is trained on me—the curvy, hippie chick Cecilia’s golden boy randomly brought home.
I slip into the house and make a beeline for one of the many bathrooms on the main floor. It’s a small powder room and not the closest one to the backyard, so I’m hoping it’s a private spot to hide out for a few minutes. Once inside, I shut the door behind me, lean back against it, and drop my chin to my chest, letting out a heavy sigh.
“Fuck me,” I mutter quietly, a disbelieving laugh spilling from my lips.
But the vibration of a knock, followed by a deep voice that makes my stomach flip over on itself, cuts my amusement short.
“Gwen? Open up.”
Bash choosesnowto follow through? Infuriating. He’s got no business.
“I don’t think that would be very appropriate” is what I say back.
But Bash isn’t deterred. “Too bad. I’m coming in.” The weight of him pushes on the door, like he thinks he’s just going to blast his way in here or something.
Not wanting to cause a scene, I step away and turn the handle. “What the hell, Bash? Someone is going to see and?—”
He steps in with authority, crowding me into the small room, before spinning and locking the door.
“What are you doing here?” he asks quietly, still not turning to face me. His broad shoulders heave as he breathes.
He knows damn well what I’m doing here. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“Visiting my son for his birthday. And you knew about that.” He whirls around, accusation flaring in his eyes as his index finger jabs the air in front of me. “You knew I’d just found out about my son. We were in the Vancouver airport for crying outloud. He told you about me, and you thought, what? That it would be funny to ignore me and date him instead?”
My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Gwen. What kind of sick joke are you playing?”
Bash is riled up—his chest rising and falling, his hands shaking—but as furious as he seems with me, I don’t feel threatened at all. No, I press my shoulders back, cross my arms, and square off, meeting his blazing gaze with my own.
But as I stand my ground, I try not to slip down the rabbit hole where I fixate on our night in the airport. A safe place I like to sink into when I feel like torturing myself.
“I should ask you the same thing. You didn’t care enough to contact me, but now you’re going to stomp around all mad because I’m dating your son?”
