question his presence there. She'd been exactly what he'd called her: a good distraction. But Jason Ames was as big a coward as Tristan. He didn't want to take responsibility for Tristan's actions any more than Tristan did. They were just terrified she'd run to her daddy and spill every detail.
Bastards.
"Miss Maddox-"
"I get it, alright?" she snapped. "Tristan's allowed to come around when he's using me to save his own ass, but any relationship beyond that isn't acceptable to the DEA. You've apologized, so now you can run and tell Tristan he can continue on his merry way with a clear conscience. And no, I won't involve my father. That is why you're really here, right?" She arched a brow again, daring him to deny the truth.
He didn't, of course. He couldn't.
"Please also tell Tristan to go screw himself," she muttered, forcing back the tears threatening to fall. She didn't want this man to see how much it bothered her to hear that Tristan had used her. And she damn sure wouldn't let him see her cry.
"Miss Maddox, I think-"
"Frankly, Agent Ames, I don't give a shit what you think. Please get out of my room. I have nothing further to say to you." She turned her face away, ending the conversation.
Or it would have ended the conversation if Jason had taken the hint and left, but he didn't.
"I understand you're angry, and I'm sorry about the way you've been treated, but for your own safety, I strongly advise that you find alternative accommodations for the next few days." He didn't even try to deny that Tristan had used her. He simply warned her to stay the hell out of their way.
"Fine," she snapped, staring at the wall as tears blurred her vision. She took a deep breath, willing herself not to cry until the door clicked closed. When it did, she sniffled.
"Lily?" Jen said.
The bed shifted.
"I'm fine." Tears rolled down her cheeks, giving away the lie. After everything she'd endured tonight, finding out how insignificant she was to Tristan hurt a whole lot more than it should have.
Chapter Eight
Sweat dripped from Tristan's back, running in rivulets down the lean muscle. Music blared from speakers scattered throughout the room, Hollywood Undead filling the penthouse with angry pulses of bass. His eyes watered from the jarring onslaught, but he ignored it, gliding from stance to stance and form to form across the plush white carpeting beneath his feet. Every movement was a blur, a controlled dance. Each one lethal. Precise.
He worked through the kata twice, three times, and then a fourth, his momentum never slowing. He shifted from one fighting stance to another, first on the balls of his feet and then spinning, his foot slicing through the air. He ducked, rolled, and came up again. The nunchaku whirred in his hands through each practiced move, the whistling of the weapon muted beneath the shattering beats that shook the walls and rattled panes of clear glass all across the room.
His eyes blazed and his chest heaved from exertion as he worked his way across the massive room. Desperation tinged each move he made, driving him onward. He worked through the forms in search of peace that eluded him. Acceptance hadn't come in eight long days, but he didn't stop fighting for it.
Hollywood Undead gave way to Avenged Sevenfold .
His breathing turned to harsh, jagged pants, and sweat soaked his pants. Still he moved through one form after another, trying to silence the clamor of his mind for once.
It didn't work, of course.
No matter how many times he ran through the kata or how loud the music thumped in his skull, memory still plagued him. The biting edge of guilt drove him toward physical exertion and some kind of release from the endless scenarios, frustration, and recriminations battering at him. From Lillian's stricken, tear-filled gaze.
He was a world-class prick. He'd accused her of some seriously messed up shit for no reason. That knowledge gnawed, and there wasn't a fucking thing he could do about it because
Bastards.
"Miss Maddox-"
"I get it, alright?" she snapped. "Tristan's allowed to come around when he's using me to save his own ass, but any relationship beyond that isn't acceptable to the DEA. You've apologized, so now you can run and tell Tristan he can continue on his merry way with a clear conscience. And no, I won't involve my father. That is why you're really here, right?" She arched a brow again, daring him to deny the truth.
He didn't, of course. He couldn't.
"Please also tell Tristan to go screw himself," she muttered, forcing back the tears threatening to fall. She didn't want this man to see how much it bothered her to hear that Tristan had used her. And she damn sure wouldn't let him see her cry.
"Miss Maddox, I think-"
"Frankly, Agent Ames, I don't give a shit what you think. Please get out of my room. I have nothing further to say to you." She turned her face away, ending the conversation.
Or it would have ended the conversation if Jason had taken the hint and left, but he didn't.
"I understand you're angry, and I'm sorry about the way you've been treated, but for your own safety, I strongly advise that you find alternative accommodations for the next few days." He didn't even try to deny that Tristan had used her. He simply warned her to stay the hell out of their way.
"Fine," she snapped, staring at the wall as tears blurred her vision. She took a deep breath, willing herself not to cry until the door clicked closed. When it did, she sniffled.
"Lily?" Jen said.
The bed shifted.
"I'm fine." Tears rolled down her cheeks, giving away the lie. After everything she'd endured tonight, finding out how insignificant she was to Tristan hurt a whole lot more than it should have.
Chapter Eight
Sweat dripped from Tristan's back, running in rivulets down the lean muscle. Music blared from speakers scattered throughout the room, Hollywood Undead filling the penthouse with angry pulses of bass. His eyes watered from the jarring onslaught, but he ignored it, gliding from stance to stance and form to form across the plush white carpeting beneath his feet. Every movement was a blur, a controlled dance. Each one lethal. Precise.
He worked through the kata twice, three times, and then a fourth, his momentum never slowing. He shifted from one fighting stance to another, first on the balls of his feet and then spinning, his foot slicing through the air. He ducked, rolled, and came up again. The nunchaku whirred in his hands through each practiced move, the whistling of the weapon muted beneath the shattering beats that shook the walls and rattled panes of clear glass all across the room.
His eyes blazed and his chest heaved from exertion as he worked his way across the massive room. Desperation tinged each move he made, driving him onward. He worked through the forms in search of peace that eluded him. Acceptance hadn't come in eight long days, but he didn't stop fighting for it.
Hollywood Undead gave way to Avenged Sevenfold .
His breathing turned to harsh, jagged pants, and sweat soaked his pants. Still he moved through one form after another, trying to silence the clamor of his mind for once.
It didn't work, of course.
No matter how many times he ran through the kata or how loud the music thumped in his skull, memory still plagued him. The biting edge of guilt drove him toward physical exertion and some kind of release from the endless scenarios, frustration, and recriminations battering at him. From Lillian's stricken, tear-filled gaze.
He was a world-class prick. He'd accused her of some seriously messed up shit for no reason. That knowledge gnawed, and there wasn't a fucking thing he could do about it because
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