Page 77 of Stupid Dirty

“Why are you frowning, robot boy? Nothing’s wrong.”

Silas doesn’t say anything, and the first flicker of doubt creeps in, invading the wave of bliss that I was riding. Obviously, something is wrong, and he’s just not telling me.

But he takes my face in both hands, like he always does, and kisses me like I’m something soft and precious and delicate. The effervescence returns in full-force, and I’m tempted to fall back down on my knees to show how much I adore this weird, awkward guy that has ended up in my life.

Nah, nothing’s wrong.

He’d tell me if something was wrong.

“So, did you enjoy your spanking last night?”

I turn to Tristan, my confusion clearly written on my face. He’s driving us on the way to our next call—low priority, so no lights or sirens—and the streetlamps are casting deep shadows over his face that make him look even more menacing than usual.

“What the fuck?”

“I can only assume that after that little display at the race, yourdaddyturned you over his knee and spanked you for being in contact with a man without his permission. That’s what all his glaring was about, no? He looked at me like he wanted to relieve me of my spleen.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or smack him upside the head, so I settle on neither.

“No, dude. And please don’t overreact. I have enough of that in my life.”

“I wonder who from.”

“Can it.” I’m snapping at him, but I don’t care. “He had a bad day, and he got upset when he realized I was hurt. Emotional regulation isn’t always easy for him and sometimes he overreacts, but there are no spankings or weird control issues, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Tristan sighs. The severity of his expression almost makes me wish he’d go back to the mortifying ‘daddy’ jokes, because I don’t think I’m going to like whatever he’s about to say.

“I’m not implying anything. I’m saying straight up that you two have gotten really close, really fast, and it doesn’t always seem like a good thing. Five minutes ago, you were swearing on your life that you were straight and you guys were just friends. And I’m happy you figured that out, honestly. But the second you admitted you were into each other, it was like boom—married. Your life has become his life.”

“Yeah, because his life fucking sucked. Have some compassion, man. He was all alone for so long.”

Tristan softens, which is already unlike him, and his words come out almost painfully empathetic. He is clearly using his entire year’s supply of empathy on this conversation, which makes me feel very fucking concerned.

“That’s what I’m saying, Cade. He jumped from whatever shitty situation he was in to completely throwing himself into your life with zero in-between. Doesn’t that worry you? You’re a medical professional. Please do me the courtesy of not lying and saying he doesn’t have glaring signs of mental health issues. That shit doesn’t just go away because you fall in love.”

I twitch at his use of the “L” word, because it feels like something that’s way too close and way too far away at the same time.

It’s not something we’ve brought up, and I’ll be damned if I do it first. We haven’t even officially said if we’re boyfriends or whatever. Because boyfriends makes me feel like I’m back in grade school.

“I take your silence to mean you know I’m right, as usual, but you don’t want to admit it. Also, as usual.”

Something about the way he’s ping-ponging between compassion and snark really pisses me off. Since when did it become open season on the ins and outs of my love life? I grit my teeth as the familiar surge of anger and adrenaline threatensto take me over, tightening its grip on my chest until it can wield me like a puppet.

I can’t stop myself from arguing back. “I mean, he’s got problems, sure. But who doesn’t around here? I do. You sure as shit do, Captain PTSD, and I don’t see you going to therapy on your days off.”

The look Tristan gives me makes me feel like a piece of shit, and a lot of that anger fizzles out as quickly as it flared up. That was such a shitty thing to say.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-”

“First of all, it’s Sergeant PTSD, fuck you very much. And second of all, don’t pretend you can tear yourself away from Dirt Bike Ken and his magic dick long enough to know what I do on my days off.”

We continue to stare at each other, the pain and offense hanging between us like a live wire. I still feel like a piece of shit.

“I’m sorry, Tristan. That was a shitty thing to say.” This time he at least lets me get all the words out. He nods in acknowledgement and considers what he wants to say next.

“It was. And it still didn’t throw me off your scent. I think you know me well enough to trust that I’ve seen a lot of shit, and I know how insidious said shit can be. Especially when you hinge your happiness on the idea that one job or one relationship or one whatever is the thing that will let you brush all that shit under the rug. If you care about him as much as the fucking heart eyes you’re always giving him say you do, then I want you guys to be happy. So, all I’m saying is don’t get so wrapped up in the fun parts that you both forget to sort out your shit. Separately. Or this weird jealousy is only going to get worse.”

He takes a deep breath and studies me a while, his eyes flicking between me and the road. I get the feeling he’s not finished with whatever wisdom he’s doling out, and I’ve been bratty enough so far, so I keep my mouth shut.

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