"You don't hate me?" he purrs in my ear. I yelp—I hadn't noticed him leaving the kitchen to stand behind the couch. "Good to know. Sounds like my plan to fuck you into liking me is working right on schedule."
I scowl and shove him away from me. "Fuck you," I mutter. "Just because I don't plot your death anymore doesn't mean I like you." He laughs and takes his seat again.
I notice the beer in his hands and narrow my eyes. "You got yourself another but didn't think to ask if I wanted one, too?"
"Nope," he chirps happily, and cracks the can.
My eyes widen in shock before once again narrowing. "I lied," I growl. "I do still hate you. Guess your dick isn't that good, after all."
He grins. "That's too bad, I thought we were making some progress. Guess I'll just have to try harder. Should we try again right here, or would you rather I take you in a bed upstairs?"
I glare at him but turn away, feeling the blush light up my cheeks. "Jesus, can't you keep it in your pants for one night?" I grumble.
He chuckles and turns back to the TV, the second fight already halfway done. Part of me forgot what we were even watching.
I fume by myself and watch the screen for a little longer, giving him the space he clearly wants from my questioning. But once again, it doesn't last long.
"So, what's the plan for when your career ultimately ends? What's the secondary career?"
This time Tristan growls as he turns to me. "You're starting to push my limits, Remy. I'm getting very close to busying your mouth with something else."
My eyes widen again, and I shake my head to clear the memory of Tristan fucking my mouth. The last thing I need right now is to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much that thought turns me on. Instead, I glare at him and growl, "Just answer the goddamn question, Tristan."
He sighs and turns back to the TV, clicking on another fight. I’m surprised to realize that means we’ve been sitting here for almost an hour already. And I haven’t wanted to run away once.
"I'll most likely go back to my degree when I'm done fighting," he answers. "As tough as it was training, working, and going to school at the same time, I went to college for a reason. Some kind of career in business was always the backup plan. Or second career, since Jax's dad loves to tell us that there's room for—"
"—three careers in a lifetime," I finish for him. "Yeah, I've heard the speech too. He's not wrong. People don't usually stay in the same industry their whole life. Nor should they, I don’t think." I take a sip of my beer, returning my attention to the new fight starting on the screen. "I'm surprised you have a backup plan after fighting. Most guys seem like they're offended when they're asked about another career. As if even thinking about doing anything else means they're not taking fighting 100% seriously."
"Most guys are idiots," he grunts. "If they think they'll be able to coach or open a gym and live comfortably for the rest of their lives, they're in for a rude awakening. Gyms don't often make a lot of money. It's common sense to have something else ready for when their career is over in their early thirties. Or mid/late thirties if they're lucky."
I nod, agreeing with his analysis. I come from a family of life planners, so I've never once been in a position where I didn't have potential next steps plotted in my life and career. The fact that people live by the seat of their pants like that has always been baffling to me.
I sneak a sideways glance at Tristan. I knew he went to college and had some kind of a life outside of fighting, but I never thought of him as necessarily smart or accomplished. Not because I have a preconceived notion that fighters are dumb—they’re not—but more so because he's so wrapped up in fighting right now that he rarely talks about anything else. Although now that I think about it, I remember Jax mentioning that Tristan had graduated from the Business School of Temple University. And that program is one of the highest rated in the country, so I should've known that he's not exactly a dunce.
I'm starting to realize I know very little about Tristan West.
We watch the third fight in comfortable silence. At some point I grab a second beer, nestling back into the couch cushions in my pleasantly buzzed state. I don't realize I've moved closer to Tristan until he reacts to my next question.
"What do your parents think about your fighting?" I blurt out.
This time, along with a deep growl, Tristan reaches out to grab my hair. He pulls, hard, until I drop my head back with a cry.
"You've officially progressed to questions that cross the line," he snaps. "When did I give you the impression that I would answer personal questions?"
"Play a game with me," I gasp suddenly.
He cocks his head and loosens his grip on my hair—enough for me to twist my head to look at him—but he doesn't let go completely. I vaguely feel his fingers twining in my hair.
"What do you mean, a game?" he asks in a guarded tone.
I turn to face him, forcing his hands to pull out of my hair. "The question game," I answer breathlessly. "We ask each other single questions, but you can never ask the other person something that they've already asked you. And we have to answer. I promise I won't get too personal," I say in a rush, feeling oddly desperate to get him to agree to my game. "But you can ask me whatever you want."
I have no idea why I suddenly need him to answer my questions. I just know that I need to know more about him.
When he's still skeptical, I tease him lightly. "So, what? You can stick your dick in my mouth, but you can't answer a few harmless questions?"
Instead of responding with a dirty comment of his own, his eyes drop to my lips—and immediately darken when his pupils dilate. I swallow nervously, clearly seeing the thoughts in his expression.