Chapter Four

The greenish LED display on the dash blinked 6:28 before Tristan killed the motor in the alley behind Téa's home once more on Sunday evening. The neighborhood where she lived was noisy with passing cars and people in the last-minute scurry for home and dinner. Every window was rolled up tight, and most of the faces he saw on the way there were grim and exhausted with the heat.

He threw his right leg over the saddle of his bike and popped the transmission into neutral. The machine rolled easily forward as he walked it the last few feet down the alley to the dancer's driveway. Her family was home, but the lights were still brightly burning upstairs in the studio – maybe she was packing for the trip on Monday.

The back entry was wide open, spilling polished yellow light down on the driveway. He was so busy staring at it that he nearly fell when his front wheel bumped into something solid. The car he'd run into jounced in its shocks, and Tristan staggered. He had a thing against touching other people's vehicles, but with the choice between groping someone's ride or possibly getting crushed between a chrome bumper and a hot Honda muffler, his hand instinctively lashed out to grab the corner of the trunk.

It landed on the point of a high Cadillac tailfin.

Tristan took a moment for a closer look, letting the saddle of his bike lean against his hip. Even in the dark of the alley, the car was silvery pale, and in better light Tristan assumed correctly that it'd be mint green. The original paint of course, and in pristine condition.

Duke's car.

Lucky bastard.

Wait. He was still here?

Violating another one of his rules, Tristan let his fingertips trace the chrome vee on the trunk lid. He felt a pang of guilt. If Duke was here, he'd have to deal with what had happened earlier today. The only reason that he was there at all was to pick up the duffel bag he'd forgotten – and he'd waited until this late to do it to avoid the possibility of the older boy being there.

He could just leave it and get it tomorrow. He'd be back anyway.

But then, so would Duke. And then Téa wouldn't even be there to mediate in case dice boy was still offended and tried to take his head off.

He had the opportunity – why pass it up?

Gently, he turned his bike and maneuvered it in beside the Cadillac, then lifted off his helmet and set it on the saddle. He climbed the stairs to the back entry. Téa would be leaving Duke a key to this door while she was gone.

Because of the heat, the door was propped wide open with a huge floor fan – it was new, he hadn't seen it before – sucking in the relatively cooler night air. It impeded any further movement without hurdling it and possibly giving himself away. He could see his duffel, shoved under the bench across the room, beneath the windows.

He could hear the sound of an argument inside, but the fan drowned out the words until all that could be heard were the high notes and the angry pitch. A painted screen Téa added on the left side of the door blocked his view of the room. He identified the voices as those of his two dance 'teachers,' but really, he would have been surprised if it hadn't been.

It sounded to him like Téa was trying to be reasonable – though the fragments seemed loose and nervous. Duke, on the other hand, was completely unhinged. His voice was naturally hoarse, keeping his volume lower than the girl's, but he still managed to be pretty loud.

Then he made out one clear word at the end of a long string, as conveniently as though the fan had hiccupped just for him to let the buzz of voices solidify. But everyone could recognize their own name. Clear as day. He'd heard it. It was Téa who said it – the young brunet dancer's voice was pitched to carry. Tristan didn't catch anything other than an aggravated rumble in reply.

Though moving forward was already difficult because of the fan, Tristan suddenly had no desire to move from the spot. Why had his name come up? Was Duke still hacked about the morning? Tristan had never known the guy to hang onto grudges, so what was the big deal? Was he waiting for an apology?

Hadn't he already gotten one?

Well, in a way he had, Tristan admitted, but not really. He'd reflexively apologized. While that was good enough for things like stepping on someone's foot or bumping into them at the library, he suspected that he'd have to make more of an effort. But what was the big deal, anyway? So he'd made a dumb connection. So sue him – everybody did once or twice in their lives. So why was Duke so damned upset?

The argument inside had gotten worse, and now Téa no longer sounded reasonable. Gingerly, Tristan rested his hand on top of the fan, and eased his right leg over the frame, teeth gritted, just like getting on a bike. When his ears cleared the roaring wind tunnel to the other side, the voices were suddenly frighteningly clear.

"I don't want to see anybody get hurt!" Téa. "I can't leave you guys alone now – God knows what'll happen! You could kill each other!"

"You don't think I can behave myself?" Duke retorted, scalding enough to peel paint off the wall, "You and Tristan are two of a kind!"

"I don't believe for one minute that you know what you're doing, Duke Devlin. I care about them! But I care about you too and I think Joey might—"

"I know. You told me already."

Frozen in place straddling the fan, Tristan suddenly entertained the image of Duke, hands gripping the sides of his head, lips pulled back in an angry grimace.

"Why?" Duke demanded, out of the blue. Behind the word were unspoken others, but Tristan couldn't make sense of them.

"It won't always be this way," Téa's voice was still tight, but softer, "just let me make sure. If there's one person I don't want to get hurt, it's—"

"—Me. Yeah, I know."

It was hard, standing on the balls of his feet in order to get his crotch clear of the fan, and by the time Tristan gauged it for an entrance, his legs were tired and clumsy.

He didn't hold his foot high enough on the way over, stumbled, and crashed to the floor in a heap, taking the fan with him.

The former combatants broke off abruptly, and from his position stretched out with one shoulder and most of his face ground into the floor, he could feel the tremor of their steps as they ran to see what had knocked over the fan. They stopped right in front of him, but the fan kept going, thrumming between Tristan's legs like an angry wasp. Duke untangled him and hauled him to his feet.

"Tristan?" Téa bounded to a stop in front of them, a few scant seconds behind the older boy, voice bouncing with the same force as her generous chest.

"What the hell were you doing?" Duke demanded, eyes narrowed.

"Falling on my ass," Tristan replied, when his jaw cooperated at last. He rolled his shoulder and felt it pop. Ouch.

"Like that's anything new," Duke retorted, but turned aside when his companion laid her hand on his arm, and they exchanged a long look that made Tristan uncomfortable. He could guess what they were saying to each other. Do you think he heard us?

"I came to get my duffel bag," he reassured them, tone as natural as he could manage, and pointed to where it lay slouched against the opposite wall. When both pairs of eyes turned away from him, he sucked in an uneasy breath. "I heard somebody yelling from downstairs and thought…y'know…I'd wait until it was over." That was atypical Tristan behavior and he knew it, and when the blue and the green eyes met his again, he knew that they knew it.

"I didn't think you'd be here," he added, looking at Duke.

The other boy said nothing.

"Well, you may as well get it," Téa replied, when the silence started drawing out, and moved aside, "we're done. It wasn't anything, Tristan."

He nodded, and slid past them, ignoring the silence behind him because they were probably looking at each other again. He bent to pick up his practice bag.

"I should be going anyway," he heard Duke saying to Téa. She murmured back, too low for Tristan to make out the words, but her tone was apologetic. Tristan turned in time to see the older boy shaking his head.

"Hey, don't leave on my account," Tristan shrugged, walking toward them with the duffel slung over his shoulder, "I'm leaving."

"No good-bye?" Téa spread her hands, smiling at him. He wondered, then, if Duke had told her what he'd said, but he decided not to worry about it. When he didn't move immediately to hug her, she took it on herself, stretching up to wrap her arms around his neck. "Don't get in any trouble while I'm gone, all right?"

"Don't worry about us," Tristan grinned, "what's the worst that could happen?"

"Don't say that," Téa hissed, "now I am going to worry!"

"You worry too much," He retorted, and squeezed her briefly before letting go. "you and all those old people you're going to see next week should get along just fine."

She rolled her eyes and released him, and he gave the floor fan a wide berth on his way out the door to the back stairs.

A few moments after the door closed behind Duke, the lights in the upstairs studio flicked off. Tristan sat astride his bike, strapping his duffel down to the back. "I wanna talk to you," he said, not looking up, as soon as the older boy was in hearing range.

"Too bad," He could hear Duke's shrug in the dark, "I don't want to talk to you." Slim, long-fingered hands braced on the door panel and wrapped around the corner of the convertible's windshield, and Duke bounced, leaping over the side to land in the driver's seat. The shocks squeaked in protest, and the whole car leaned heavily to the left. Halogen security lamps across the alley caught the trim and threw white-hot racing stripes over the fenders.

"C'mon, please? I'm really sorry about today."

Duke wrapped his hands slowly around the polished grips of his steering wheel. He said nothing at once, focused intently on the task of fitting each finger perfectly into the molded grooves. The rings on each middle finger reflected the halogen, the same as the Cadillac. Linking the boy to the car as he moved. "I know you are," He said, with a one-shouldered shrug.

Their engines were still quiet. Téa would be looking for them, soon.

"Then why the hell are you being such a hard-ass about it?"

Duke dragged his eyes up from his study of the dashboard. They turned to study the boy on the motorcycle instead. "You wouldn't understand."

"Yes I would," Tristan retorted. The heat made both of them slow, and there were darker, sweat-stained shadows on Duke's collar that he could see from where he sat.

"All right, fair enough, you probably would. But I don't feel like telling you why." the Cadillac engine even sounded heavy when it started up, and the rising roar as he touched the accelerator made discussion impossible for another thirty seconds. Was he doing it intentionally? Of course he was.

Tristan squinted against the noise, having ducked low instinctively over his motorcycle when the car at his hip suddenly sprang to life. He knew when he was being put off, and it irritated him. "That's a cop-out."

"Maybe it is. Or maybe I really don't want to talk about it."

Hm. Switch to a simpler topic. "So you're not still mad about the Téa thing?"

"Why should I be upset? I know I didn't sleep with her, and I'm not spreading rumors about it—"

"Neither am I!"

"—Which makes it between you and her, then."

"You told her?"

"Of course not."

"Oh. So that's why she didn't want to kill me."

"Give her time," Duke's smile played at the corners of his lips, then slowly grew to take over, exposing a row of perfect white teeth. "she'll come up with another reason." Despite his earlier protest, it seemed that Duke had no immediate intentions of leaving the driveway. His convertible had an older model engine, and the hollow popping purr was soft enough to talk over.

Tristan let his bike lean a little further to the left, toward the car. "I really didn't mean to say that. It just slipped out," He added, in a lower tone.

"That's how it usually goes with you, I've noticed." Duke leaned back in his seat – the bench seats were pressed white vinyl, or was that leather? – Tristan noted, drinking in the details of the pristine car. The study eventually led him to the dark shadow of Duke's hips, and his eyes did a quick jerk up from there. Duke curled his arm over the back of the front seat, looking at him – smirking at him. Waiting for a response? He was supposed to make one now? Oh…oh, right.

"I'm just trying to say I'm sorry, you prick." Tristan retorted.

"But you already said that once," Duke replied, shrugging, only one hand sliding across the polished ridges of the steering wheel now. His lips drew up into a smirk once more, "unless you're apologizing for checking me out – and if that's the case—don't."

"What?" Stare. Two. Three. "What!"

But Duke's right hand had already drifted down to the transmission, and jerked it cruelly into reverse as his left foot popped up on the clutch. He tore backwards, scaring Tristan enough to throw his bike hard to the right, skidded to a stop, and pealed down the alley, right arm raised high in an ironic, silent salute. It carried him to the end of the alley, ponytail flying, and then out of sight.

Tristan watched him go, and then watched the place where he'd been, a ghost reflection of green tailfins and red lights hanging in the air. He hadn't had a chance to ask what the argument was about.

Bastard.

He didn't even signal.