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Chance’s expression didn’t change. “If you are.”
“Let’s go.”
Trystan had a home gym, and since he’d learned that Chance was proficient in mixed martial arts and Krav Maga, he’d been working out and training with the guy. Trystan was a pretty decent MMA fighter—nothing close to Chance’s level of course—but Krav Maga was new to him and he was enjoying the training sessions with his bodyguard.
He used to go running every day, but since his return it was impossible to leave the building without a crowd of journalists dogging his every step and screaming questions at him. He still did a few kilometers on the treadmill, but his heart wasn’t in it—he missed his outdoor runs too much. Instead, he channeled his excess energy into weight training and martial arts with Chance.
He waved insouciantly at his manager and PR agent as Chance preceded him from the kitchen, ignoring their outraged faces.
“Lock up on your way out,” he told them as he left the room.
“Great workout,” he huffed, an hour and a half later as he lay flat on his back on a workout mat. Chance nodded in response.
“You’re getting better,” the man said, as he prodded the inside of his cheek with his tongue, wincing a little as he found the spot that had split open after Trystan had broken through his defenses to sneak in a punch. His cheek was swollen and would likely bruise.
“Sorry about your face there, mate,” Trystan said.
“That’s fine. Better this ugly mug taking some damage than those fine porcelain features of yours,” Chance said with a rare grin. Laugh lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes which told Trystan that the man’s features probably settled into a smile more often when he wasn’t at work.
Chance had pulled his punches in the beginning and when Trystan had called him out on it, he’d laughed and muttered something about not wanting to mess up Trystan’s pretty profile. But after Trystan had told him to cut it out, Chance had been less solicitous, landing body blows, while still staying away from Trystan’s face.
Trystan pushed to his feet with a pained groan, and limped, barefoot, from the room toward the kitchen.
The penthouse apartment was blessedly quiet, Bee and Quinny long gone. His cleaning staff had also been and gone if the lemon-fresh scent in the air was anything to go by. He usually kept a chef and housekeeper in-house, but had wanted solitude after his return from South Africa and all that had followed it. And so Trystan had dispatched the spluttering Frenchman and his equally outraged wife—the housekeeper—to his home in Malibu, where his brother, Dan, was currently staying with his wife and kids on a short family vacation.
Chance was tolerated because he was a necessity. Especially now.
Trystan withdrew two bottles of water from the fridge and handed one to Chance, who’d followed him into the kitchen.
The man rarely spoke, which usually suited Trystan fine, but this morning he felt the need to speak to someone. Someone who didn’t really give a fuck about his fame or infamy.
“So… know any good journalists I can contact for this godforsaken interview?” he asked, half-jokingly, but honestly not sure who the hell he was going to approach. “Good journalist, what a fucking oxymoron that is.”
Chance unscrewed his bottle top, took a thirsty drink and then eased his bulk onto a tall bar stool, the bottle loosely grasped between his hands on the counter.
“Only the one you introduced me to,” the big Aussie said in such quiet tones that for a second Trystan wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly. But when the words sank in, he staggered slightly and sat down on one of the stools as well, swiveling to face Chance.
Nobody within his inner circle had dared to refer to her even obliquely since his return and he wasn’t quite sure how to deal with Chance’s statement.
He toyed with his bottle cap, screwing and unscrewing it as he considered how to respond to that quiet statement.
“Iris—” If he hadn’t been sitting down, his knees would have buckled at the sound and feel of her name on his lips. Jesus… fuck, he’d missed saying it. Missed hearing it. He swallowed past the arid dryness of his throat before continuing. “Iris isn’t a journalist. She never really wanted to be one.”
“Yeah? Fucked up that she wrote that article then, isn’t it? Why would she do such a thing?”
“For the money most likely. The fame. The attention.” Every word he uttered felt wrong, bulky and out of place in his mouth.
“For someone who wanted money, fame and attention, she definitely isn’t courting it much now, is she? Hasn’t consented to a single interview, hides out in her flat all day long.”
“What do you mean? How do you know this?” Trystan knew he should shut this down. Chance was being borderline insubordinate—he was pushing buttons, testing boundaries. And yet, Trystan couldn’t bring himself to stop the man. He hadn’t dared think of her over the past two weeks. In his dreams he made love to her every night. In his nightmares, she laughed at him and cruelly mocked his vulnerability and stupidity for trusting her and confiding in her. And yet, in reality, he hadn’t once dared to find out how much she was enjoying all of her fame and notoriety at his expense.
“It’s my job to know things. She’s a potential threat to your safety?—”
“Iris?” Trystan scoffed, genuinely shocked at Chance’s statement. “She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Someone who wouldn’t hurt a fly would never have written all of those personal things about you.”
“What are you doing?” Trystan asked through stiff lips, leveling a frigid glare at the man. “This is none of your fucking business.”
