Title: Slipping Under The Surface

Chapter: 1—Being That Guy

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I don't own anything buy my laptop, and trust me, you don't want this laptop…

Description: Sequel to Untouched… Another Trory… It starts out M because Untouched was M…

She deserved the kind of guy that doted on her.

A boy that spent his time with her, or, in the very least, thinking about the next opportunity he'd have to be in her presence. The boy that was truly deserving of her would keep his hands in viewer-friendly locales in public and had funny anecdotes at the ready to make her mother love him.

Even just thinking about this guy made him want to sucker punch him. He pulled the foil open and slid a thin stick out of the package. He ignored the looks of disapproval he garnered from the instructor that noticed the extraction as he neared the door to the courtyard. He mused if the frustration that was coursing through him was the reason that she was yet to invite him over to her house in the hours that the sun graced the earth.

Not that he was complaining.

If she didn't ask, then he didn't have to feel guilty for evading the issue. It was just one less way he was letting her down. And it entering his consciousness just another sign for him to know she was different.

He could barely light up his cigarette, as his lips upturned at the very thought of making an attempt to impress her mother. The polite conversation. The chaste kiss he'd have to plant on her in departure as her mother no doubt looked on for signs of inappropriate behavior. He wondered if she'd even recognize him.

Yeah. It was probably for the best, no matter how much it was starting to wear on them.

He heard the soft click of her saddle shoes as she made her way across the stone pad walkways of the main courtyard. He knew it was her, not only from the syncopation of her steps, but the sheer fact that no one dared to come up to him when he was venting his frustrations. It wasn't that she was braver than anyone else in this school—she just saw what the others couldn't see.

"You're unbelievable," she began, her cheeks already flushed in anger as she got within reach of him.

"Is that so?" he asked, letting the cigarette fall from his hand as he pulled her against him. His hands separated to conquer her—one snaking around her waist and managing to find the soft skin at her waist; the other sliding up to loosen the tight pull she'd arranged her hair up into earlier this morning. The taste of tobacco was lost as his tongue grazed over hers, forcing her to fight against him through parted lips, slowly bruising each other until he was nearly satisfied.

Her fisted grip on his blazer released, so that she could use her palms to push her body backward from him. "God," she griped, moving to smooth her hair and retuck her shirt at the same time.

"What, you want me to quit?" he asked, unable to sound innocent of the acts he partook in.

"Yes," she leveled him with her eyes, making him wish for her to be armed with daggers instead. At his maintained eye contact—the dangerous look of want for more of the same, more of her, she crossed her arms over her chest to protect herself from the sheer proximity to him.

"Can't," he reached out to graze her cheek with his fingertips as his shoe stepped over to ground out the remainder of his cigarette. "I'm addicted."

"You're going to get expelled," she warned.

"Worse things have happened."

"Did something happen with your dad?" she asked, clearly at the ready to be a sounding board. He didn't want a sounding board, he just wanted her to agree to get in his car and go where ever he ended up—to be there to take his mind off of everything.

"You're gonna be late for class, and don't tell me you don't care."

"Tristan," she bit her lip, causing the redness from their interaction to remain.

"I'll pick you up after you're done with the Franklin," he promised. "You still have a couple of hours after?"

She nodded. "You can talk to me," she said finally, after pushing the grass around in different flattened patterns with her shoe for a couple of extended moments.

"Four o'clock?" he asked, stepping in to cover her upper arms with his hands.

"Fine," she agreed, leaning up to meet him in another kiss—one that he made sure would last in her memory from now until after her meeting. Or in the very least, one that would get him through the next few hours.


Her body language was stiff and disjointed when she threw her bag into the backseat of his car and slid into the passenger seat. He put his hand on her knee, only to feel her muscles flinch under the pressure of his palm. He squeezed the sides of her knee, and she smacked at his hand.


"Nothing. Can you drive a little slower, please?"

"Paris, again?"

"It's nothing," she lied.

"I'm taking care of this," he said simply.

"No, you're not," she turned in her seat, leaving his hand to rest on the leather of the seat as she now faced him, her legs tucked up under her. "It's not your battle."

"She's been Super Bitch to you since the day the school found out about us. There is no reason to let it go on any longer," he pointed out.

She let out a deep sigh. "I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself."

"Goddamnit," he pulled the car off the side of the road in a nearly blind rage. "So, explain something to me," he gritted his teeth. "How is it okay for Dean to stand up to me for you at the Winter Formal, but not okay for me to stand up for you against Paris now?"

She was silent, knowing in the deepest part of herself there was no difference, save for in her mind that just wasn't who she saw him as. He wasn't her protector; he was the one she had to protect.

"Tell me."

"You'll just use the same back-handed slander that she uses, and I don't want to stoop to her level. They'll get bored eventually, there will be something more scandalous than our being together pop up soon enough."

"Oh, get off it and just say what you're really thinking," he raised his voice up to the next level.

"Oh, you know me so well, why don't you just tell me what I'm thinking?" she matched him, in no mood to deal with his insecurity after whatever torture their classmate had inflicted upon her.

"You don't want to admit it!"

"Admit what?"

"If you don't fight Paris, it's just like all the times before, when you were able to deny any association with me. You don't want to be pulled down, to my level, I believe you just called it."

"I didn't mean," she said softly, reaching out to touch his hand. He withdrew it quickly.


"Tristan," she shook her head. "Paris is just something I feel I need to take care of on my own. I appreciate that you want to help," she began, as diplomatically as she could, to take his anger down a notch. She knew what would really take his anger down properly, but she still held fast to the morals that kept her from calming him in such a manner on the side of the highway—tinted windows or no.

"You want me to take you home?" he asked after a moment, as her hand rested on his thigh.

"No," she shook her head. "We still have time," she smiled knowingly. Gone was the frustration that she put herself through every day at school, in its place was the fire that he swore only he was able to bring out in her. Some days he worried that he was imagining it, like he'd daydreamed of her so many times before they got together.

God, he just wanted someone else to see her look at him like that.


"You know, pretty soon the school year will be over, and you'll have three glorious months without Paris and her cronies to put you in such a bad mood."

"You're afraid that I won't need you at all?" she teased, skimming her hand up his chest—his shirt having been lost over an hour ago off the edge of his king-sized bed. She remained, amazingly, in the t-shirt he'd afforded her to wear in place of her uniform. It hung like a mini-dress on her when standing, but rode up gloriously to reveal the bottom of her panty line as they lounged in his bed.

"I'm just saying your attention can be put to much more productive means," he leaned down to kiss her, relishing in the last few minutes before her common sense would force her up out of his bed and back into the stodgy clothes that she'd left the house in early this morning.

"It's going to be weird, all the wedding plans," she said suddenly. "Max is coming to Friday night dinner tonight," she made a face he couldn't quite decipher.

"First time?"

"First time," she said slowly, her lips pursing and pouting as the finished forming the second word. Her thoughts seemed to be swirling around her brain, unsure as to whether or not it was safe to escape altogether.

"You think your grandparents won't approve?" he hedged a guess.

She shook her head and looked at him as if startled that he were sitting so close, despite the fact that she had her hand on his chest.

"No, it's just," she took a breath in and squinted at him. "My mom sort of suggested that maybe I'd like to invite you along."

"Would you?" his voice came out a bit raspy, as if he needed to clear his throat instead of his actual sudden urge to pace.

She frowned. "Would I what?"

"Like me to be there," he reiterated, having to smile at her ability to lose the train of conversation through to this point. Clearly she had expected him to beg off straightaway. He wanted too much from her to do that, despite the voice in his head that told him it would be the wisest plan of action if he wished to be her boyfriend tomorrow.

"Oh, well, I hadn't really given it much thought," she lifted her hand to enable her index finger to encircle a lock of hair, curling it and unfurling it again and again until the single section began to take a new shape.

"Liar," he baited, taking her telling hand into his.

"I didn't think you'd want to, I mean, we haven't done the whole meeting of families," she looked up at him through still lowered lashes. She was referring to the fact that she hadn't gotten to meet his grandfather since the whole ordeal of his being in the hospital. Despite her being there for Tristan, she'd not been allowed into the ICU unit, and never once during their long stretches of waiting for news did any of his other relatives show up to join them in the family lounge.

Finally his throat lost the tickle that had been building up as he realized what she wanted to hear. "Grandfather hasn't been up to guests, but he told me on Wednesday that the second he's been cleared by the doctor, he wants to have us over."

"What about you?"

He kissed her knuckles. "I would like you to meet my grandfather."

"What about your parents?"

"I would love to save you from the ordeal that would be meeting my parents," he said just as sincerely. "But you never answered my question."

"It's not that I don't want you to go," she began carefully. "It's more that I don't trust the situation to play in our favor."

"Meaning your mother is going to hate me."

She looked ashamed, but she answered. "That depends," she pulled at the edges of the t-shirt, creating a tent as she hitched it over her bent knees and letting it come to rest down near her ankles.


Her eyebrow raised. "On? Your badass factor. Lorelai can see right through any act, and she won't put up with certain qualities."

"Such as?" his teeth ground together in back. If these lines of conversations kept up, he was going to be paying his dentist a small fortune.

"Smoking, drinking, having sex with her teenage daughter—or alluding to your ability to have sex with her teenage daughter," she narrowed her eyes knowingly.

"Maybe I should call Dean and have him give me tips?" he suggested, his tone coming out much more snidely than he'd anticipated.

Maybe she was right in worrying that her mother would hate him.

"No," she sighed angrily. "In a perfect world I'd like for you to be able to come over and hang out, whether Mom was there or not, or asleep or not for that matter," her cheeks flamed with recognition of her having snuck him in for midnight encounters more than once in the last few weeks.

"I'm your boyfriend," he informed her.

"I realize that," she glared.

"I'm perfectly capable of meeting your mother without bloodshed being involved."

"So, what, you want to come?" she asked, now incredulous.

"I'm just saying it can't be as bad as you make it out to be," he spat out too fast.

"You're sure?"

Now her voice was hopeful. His head was spinning at the realization as to what she'd just accomplished in five minutes or less. There was no way out without backing down—and with her sitting engulfed in his shirt, her big blue eyes cresting with hope and excitement, he was incapable even if he believed in backing down.

"Yes, I'm sure," he won and lost all in one moment.

"Because if you think," she began, but he groaned, pulling her in for a kiss—and pulling her legs out from the net she'd encased them in.

"Don't think I don't know what you just did," he growled, snaking his hand up under the thin layer of cotton that nearly covered her.

"Tristan!" she shrieked, giggling more as she squirmed harder against his roaming hands.

"I have to get all my bad behavior out now, don't I? I mean, what if I pent the urge to touch you up until tonight, and I just couldn't control myself?" he looked her in the eyes as he lifted the hem up far enough to reveal her belly button to temporarily rest the palm of his warm hand against her cooler skin. "What would your mother think?"

"How much could get pent up between now and two hours from now?" she demanded, her naivety filling him so much that he almost didn't have the heart to show her.

"You really wanna know?" his breath caught up on her skin as his lips lowered down to the peach fuzz that covered the skin just north of the panty line that he'd been careful not to disturb since that night that they'd come so close to throwing away the last of the barriers that separated them.

He just couldn't admit to her that it'd scared him maybe more than it'd scared her.

"I want to know you," she put her hand over his, sliding it down on top of her exposed underwear.

For the briefest of moments, he knew there was one way in which he could never let her down.

His fingers traced down in the wake of where she was removing her clothing, doing his best to assuage her doubts by showing her what he needed from her. What she evoked in him made it impossible not to give her what she wanted. All he was sure of was that it was his touch that made her come back for more, and he's always been one to play to his strengths.

Her fingers ran the length of his jaw on both sides as she curled up toward his head, giggling and gasping, bringing his attention back up on her face. She shivered in pleasure as he slid his lean frame up level to hers.

"That's a lot of energy for two hours," she batted her eyelashes at him, her eyes spinning even as she centered in on him, his lips as always seeking at hers.

"There's more where that came from," he promised.

"You're putting that Energizer bunny to shame," she giggled, which made him shake his head and duck it under the edge of her too-big t-shirt.

"Poor bunny," she gasped as he found even more ways to exert himself and her by extension.


"Shouldn't we give her some warning?" he asked as they turned off the highway, her using the mirror on the passenger-side visor to apply fresh lip gloss to hide the fact she'd rubbed them raw against his body.

"She told me to invite you," she reminded. "Relax," she smirked, clearly enjoying the way his palms were beating against his steering wheel to fend off his nerves. "Or is that all that sexual frustration building again?"

"Don't remind me," he looked over, his eye catching at the way her skirt bunched up on her thigh.

Following his gaze, she tugged at her skirt quickly, causing him to smirk.

"I realize I'll owe you," she admitted, albeit dejectedly.

"Damn straight. You know that party I was going to drag you to over your dead body?"

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"Yes," he smirked. "Come on, would letting loose in front of other people every once in a while be such a bad thing?"

"You know how I feel about all that," she accused.

"And you know that I won't let anything bad happen to you. These are my friends."

"So go."

"Rory," he pounded one fist against the center of the steering wheel. "You want a boyfriend you can bring home to your mother? I'm here. I want a girlfriend that is willing to be seen with me in public."

"That's not--," she began, but it was too late. Heat raced up his spine; he was pissed.

"That's how it fucking looks!" he yelled.

"Fine!" she yelled back. "You get through this evening without any incidents with my mother, Max, or my grandparents, and I will go to that stupid end of the year party," she gave in.

He wasn't sure how he was to pull this feat off, but he was bound and determined to do what she'd asked—to let her know him. He couldn't keep denying what he wanted and still be himself. Deep down she had to know that, no matter how much she fought him on it.

Hell, maybe she just liked to fight.

"Don't underestimate the bunny."

And with that she had to smile. "I hate you," she informed him, as she tugged valiantly at the corners of her mouth, determined to stay upset with him for as long as humanly possible.

"Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart," he said as he pulled his car to a stop in front of her mother's house, ready to face what the night would bring.

He'd never be accused of doting on her, but no one would ever say that he was lacking in passion for her.