Newsprint

By Queen Anne

August 8, 2003

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The air conditioner was broken again, and she couldn't possibly stay in the house until Luke had the time to fix it. She found him at the club, fending off women, fending off business, fending off his mother and her ever-present force.

"You have a pool in your building," she said, ignoring the water he splashed onto her as he toweled off his hair. "Why aren't you there?"

"What, and miss the chance to see my darling mother as well as the most eligible debutantes from the last four years? I think not, Rory," he grinned, shrugging on the french blue shirt she held out to him.

"Yes, I'm sure that the club's absolutely enthralling. I love that my grandma makes me appear here. Lord, the people are terrible."

"That's your point of view, darling," he told her as they walked arm in arm to the clubhouse. "I think that Muffy and Buffy are absolutely enchanting." Innuendo did happen to be Tristan's premier hobby. She laughed, the sound floating up gracefully as they walked close together, heads leaned conspiratorily into each other.

Tristan was silent for a second. Then, "Mother wants me to get married."

Rory stopped. The world stopped, he stopped, for a split second. Recovering, she grinned. "What if you tell her you're running away to join a colony of Buddhist monks living in Bora Bora?"

He didn't laugh. He repeated it. "Mother wants me to get married."

Something inside of Rory felt that was wrong, but she didn't know what it was. Something inside of her said he couldn't get married. But . . . it was just because she knew that him getting married would change things, would change them. "Do you want to?"

"It doesn't matter. I have to." They were in the clubhouse now, and being ushered very quickly to a private lounge on the second floor. Rory sat down, he poured a drink. Drank deeply, then another. She grabbed the second one out of his hand and downed it. It burned, but so did his gaze sometimes, and she could control the drink.

"What do you mean, you have to?" she scoffed. Tristan was Tristan, he was not a puppet. He didn't do anything he didn't want to, and she . . . well, that's what she hoped. The couch she sat on was burgundy, a dark, muted passion, soft brocade, and achingly comfortable. She wished he would sit down next to her, it seemed so weird.

"My father. You know, Rory. I . . . I could never say no to mother in the first place. Now, there's no way not to. I've got to do it."

"Yes, I guess you do." Then he did sit next to her, and kissed her softly on the cheek. As he did, Rory moved instinctively to the side, capturing his lips with hers, moving against them softly, a whisper of a kiss, barely there at all. A light kiss, a brush of the lips, and she looked up. "Tris . . . I . . ." she breathed, and then Tristan was crushing his lips to hers, powerless passion pouring through to her, his tongue sweeping at the line of her mouth, begging entrance, seeking closeness, and she obliged on a moan, opening to him, almost choking on the emotion that flowed through her. Shocked, for a moment, and slightly still, she wrapped her arms around his neck as he leaned her back against the supple arm of the couch, and the feelings that shot through her body make her gasp, made her moan and move against him, surprising him, surprising her, and her eyes opened to see his looking down at her.

"Rory, I . . . I'm sorry." She was a virgin, still, he knew, but still again, it hurt. He couldn't do it. To Muffy or Buffy out there, he almost laughed, a fling in one of the private lounges would be fun, sport, nothing more. But Rory . . . it would hurt him almost as much as it would hurt Rory.

"Tristan, don't apologize." She smoothed her hair. "So, who are you going to marry?" she asked quickly, looking down at the burgundy brocade wistfully.

Tristan closed his eyes, turned away from her. Almost cried.

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Please review, and I promise I'll try and update more often. -- Annest