Текст книги "Beautiful Addictions"

Автор книги: Season Vining

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

9. Albedo

A measure of reflective power.

They sat at the last table on the patio at Edgewater Grill. The restaurant wasn’t crowded, but the low hum of surrounding conversations was enough to give the couple a sense of sociability. Utensils wrapped in soft linen sat just below the water glasses. A single candle marked the center of the table, its flickering warm light washing the two in swaying shadows and a honey-yellow glow. Sporadically, the salty breeze would drift in from the bay, bringing with it the cooler ocean air and a breath of repose.

Tristan ordered a Stella Artois and Josie asked for a glass of red wine.

“What kind of red would you like, miss?”

Josie glanced at Tristan and back at the expectant waiter; she didn’t know the answer. Monica had advised her that self-respecting women ordered wine at dinner and did not get so drunk they had to be carried out. Just as panic began to overwhelm her, Tristan rescued her from embarrassment.

“She’ll have the 2007 Talisman Vineyard Pinot Noir. Thanks.”

“Of course,” the waiter said before smiling tightly and turning to fetch their drinks.

Following more of Monica’s instructions, Josie unfolded her napkin and laid it across her lap. She kept her elbows off the table and sat stiffly in her chair. Glancing over the menu, she felt a bit overwhelmed by the choices and the prices attached to them.

“Relax, Josie,” Tristan teased, nudging her foot beneath the table.

She loosened her posture just a bit, wondering if everyone could tell she didn’t belong here. Selections were made, food was ordered, but conversation was mostly absent. Tristan wondered why Josie was at ease with him within the confines of her apartment, but here she seemed unreachable.

Josie’s eyes scanned the bay, the black glossy surface dotted with specks of light on each ripple. Boats sailed by, returning from their sunset cruises, cutting through the water with no resistance. Josie had never before noticed the sleek lines and curves of these vessels and suddenly longed to sketch them out on her pristine napkin. She recognized her need to return to consoling habits, but with no tools available she sipped her water instead.

There were so many sets of eyes here and she felt like all were bearing down on her. Josie resisted checking the faces at each table. She knew that they weren’t here, the eyes of her longtime demons. This place was too refined for them, for her too, if she was being honest. Like a shadow that followed her even in darkness, Josie always feared running into her foster parents. She knew they still lived here, though she’d made sure they couldn’t take in any more kids. Most of the time she could ignore that they lived in the same city.

“Are you okay?” Tristan asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she offered.

“‘I’m fine’ is the biggest white lie ever told.”

“Because it’s easy. Usually, when people ask how you are, they don’t really care about the answer anyway. So they take for granted that you’re telling the truth,” Josie said. “And what is a white lie? Why white? Are there other color lies?”

“No, it’s based on the idea of opposites. White meaning good and black meaning bad. White lies are thought to be harmless and trivial, lying without ill intent.”

“Harmless. That’s a joke. I’ve told that lie hundreds of times and no one cared enough to call me out on it.”

“I care,” he said softly.

Josie shifted in her seat, her eyes scanned the restaurant again, getting stuck on a familiar face.

“I know that guy.”

Tristan turned toward the main dining room.

“Which one?” he asked.

“The Asian waiter with the glasses.”

“How well do you know him?” Tristan asked.

Josie smirked, loving how easily he was baited.

“Well enough to know that he wears boxer briefs and likes to be spanked.”

Tristan felt the possessive anger bubbling up inside and it was all he could do to not growl when the kid passed by.

“Something wrong?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“No. I’m fine,” he hissed. “We all have a past. It doesn’t matter who you’ve slept with.”

“Good, because I don’t remember half of them.”

Tristan slid closer to the corner, allowing his leg to lean against hers. Beneath the frosted glass tabletop, she watched as his hand slid from his own thigh to hers, resting just above her knee.

“I know what you’re trying to do, Josie. It won’t work.”

“And what is that?”

“You’re trying to make me jealous. I’m not a dog pissing on my territory here. I don’t need to sleep with you to prove that you’re mine.”

Josie scoffed at the idea. Of course he needed to sleep with her. How else would anyone believe that he was with a girl like her?

“Do you believe that people, in general, are good?” Josie asked, abandoning one heavy conversation for another.

“I guess it depends on how you define good. I don’t think there’s any genetic predisposition toward the idea of being good. I mean, Nazi youth were considered righteous, suicide bombers are honored by supporters of their cause. Does that make them good? I think becoming a good person has more to do with your environment, your caregivers, and society.”

“Look at my environment, my caregivers. How could I possibly be good?”

Tristan was confused by her question. Of course she was good. She was everything.

“Buddha said, ‘Neither fire nor wind, birth nor death can erase our good deeds.’ Before you suffered at the hands of those evil people, you were raised by two loving parents. Even though you may not remember it, I believe those ideas and values are ingrained into who you are.”

Josie looked down at his hand still covering her thigh, his thumb tracing a small sweeping arc across the denim. She could feel the heat coming from his palm, the slight squeeze as his fingers curled around her. It was hard to believe that she was good, but she wanted to. She wanted to be good for him.

“Tristan, there are things that you don’t know about me. Things that…”

Just as the words stuck in her throat, the waiter appeared, sliding their dinner onto the table. The sight and smell appealed to her starved senses and she forgot what she had wanted to say.

As much as Tristan wanted her to open up to him, this was not the place. He knew that Josie thought she could scare him away with her past, but she underestimated his dedication.

They ate in silence, though it wasn’t the uneasy kind. It was peaceful and amicable. The wine was flavorful and Josie never remembered tasting food so good. She wondered if the company had anything to do with it.

During dinner, Tristan tried to keep himself from staring. She was always beautiful, but tonight she was otherworldly. Even with the anxious energy, she was the most stunning creature he’d ever seen. Sometimes it still floored him that she was here, alive and in his life. He often became overwhelmed when holding her or kissing her, remembering how he’d once begged for such a gift.

“Do you ever think about what would have happened if I’d never moved away?” Josie asked.

She’d thought about nothing else since she’d learned of their connection. She imagined a different life, where she could become someone her parents would have been proud of. She could have been on the honor roll and yearbook staff. She could have gone to college and studied art. She could have ruled the world with this man by her side.

“I’ve thought about it a lot since the day you left.”

“Tell me,” Josie requested, folding her napkin and laying it on the table.

She let her fingers trace over the ink on his skin, outlining the trunk and limbs just below his cuffed sleeve. Tristan smiled at the hundreds of memories surrounding the old oak.

“The night before you moved to New York, you came over for dinner. My mom made your favorite fudge peanut butter brownies for dessert. My parents tried to make us enjoy ourselves, but you were a mess and I was really angry. We spent the whole meal sulking.”

Tristan took a cleansing breath and finished his beer. Just the memory of losing her made his chest ache again.

“After dinner, we went to sit in our tree. You wore my favorite blue shirt and the jeans with holes in the knees. I remember pretending to play with the hanging threads just for an excuse to touch you. We sat in silence for a while, ignoring the time counting down. When it got late, your dad called to say he was coming to pick you up. My mom yelled for us to come inside, but you wouldn’t budge. You clung to me and begged me to stay up there with you. You figured if you didn’t come down, you’d be able to stay in Louisiana.”

“Sounds like my logic,” Josie said sarcastically.

“An hour later, after threats from your dad and a million promises between us, we climbed down together. That was the last time I saw you.”

Though Josie couldn’t recall the scene like Tristan could, it hurt her all the same. In a way, she felt lucky that she had none of those memories. She wasn’t sure if she could have survived all the old hurt and new hurt. It may have killed her long ago.

“Did I cry? I bet I was a crier.”

“No. You didn’t. You were so strong.”

As Tristan paid for dinner, Josie wondered where that strength had gotten her, half dead and with no memories.

They walked hand in hand through Seaport Village, pausing to window-shop, though neither one paid much attention to the items. Tristan focused on the way her tiny fingers wrapped around his, the click-clack rhythm of her shoes against the pavement, and their distorted reflection in the shop windows.

“What does this one represent?” Josie asked, tapping her finger over a watch face tattooed on the inside of his left wrist.

“My birth, the exact minute I joined the living.”

“What about this one?”

Josie reached up to the side of his neck, running her thumb along the two lines of script below his ear.

“‘Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt,’” he said. “Vonnegut’s protagonist in Slaughterhouse-Five coins the phrase regarding death. Sort of something to look forward to.”

Josie’s eyes searched his own, getting lost in his ability to make her understand such complicated notions.

“Come on,” he said lightly, tugging on her hand.

He dragged her into a hat shop, where they tried on hats and laughed at each other until their sides hurt. Tristan stuck an enormous beach hat onto Josie’s head and tugged on the floppy brim. She smiled and slid a fedora onto him. He pulled it down over one eye, and they stood in front of the large framed mirror.

“You look hot,” she said, staring at his reflection.

“Sold,” Tristan replied, winking at her.

Josie blushed and placed her hat back on the shelf while Tristan paid for his. She found it odd that despite all the deviant things she’d done, she’d never felt timid. Tristan could bring these alien feelings to the surface. He had a way of making her believe she was worthy of innocence.

When they stepped into Upstart Crow, a coffeehouse and bookstore, Josie could see how Tristan delighted in being surrounded by the written word. She just knew he could spend hours scouring every shelf for books. While she didn’t share his passion, she loved seeing him happy and in his element.

“Don’t worry, I’ll limit myself,” he said, placing a kiss on her cheek.

He pulled her down row after row of books. When something caught his attention, he would examine the cover as if studying a painting. Then he’d flip to the back and read whatever review or description was there. Last, he’d fan the pages a few times. Josie marveled at the ritual and smiled every time he handed her one to buy.

Thirty minutes and four books later, they shared a piece of cheesecake and an iced mocha in the coffeehouse.

Tristan persuaded Josie to ride the carousel with him, so they parked themselves on the bench surrounded by parading animals. The golden lights and mirrors reflected the couple, and Tristan couldn’t help but think about what a sight they were. As the ride began to move, he pulled her in closer with his arm around her shoulders.

“Did you know carousels were first used as combat training devices by the Turkish? There’s proof of their existence all the way back to 500 A.D.”

Josie smiled at his fact reciting, loving all the useless information.

“Really? Tell me more,” she teased.

Tristan rolled his eyes and placed a soft kiss below her ear. They watched as children bobbed up and down on their horses and tigers. The organ music lulled them into a state of ease as they spun, like two lovers rotating around their own axis.

When the ride was over, he led her to the water, where they stood beneath one of the lamps dotting the bay. One by one, the shop windows went dark. The day finished with Closed signs and locked doors. Tristan leaned against the rail, his back to the water, and pulled Josie in against him. He tilted his chin down and captured her lips. Josie moaned into his mouth as his hands slid down to her lower back. She could feel his racing pulse against her body, his warmth and heat surrounding her. She wanted more. She always wanted more.

Tristan spun them and held Josie against the rail, trapping her with his arms on each side. His body pressed into her back as she sighed and looked out over the water. The lights from Coronado shone from the island, bouncing off the water like rippling ribbons. The sky hosted a blanket of stars and the waxing moon shone just for them. Josie closed her eyes, wanting to memorize every bit of this moment. She just knew it would never get better than this.

* * *

Rob met Monica at her apartment. They’d made plans to stay in and watch a movie. She had no need for formal dates and grand gestures. They’d just skip over the usual dating rituals and get right to the heart of it, time alone and lots of it.

This feeling that engulfed them and held them to each other was powerful. Monica found it easy to be herself around Rob, though for so long she wasn’t sure who that was. She was so consumed with work and the children that she didn’t know what things made her whole.

He leaned against her doorframe, his dirty blond hair hanging in his eyes. His casual stance was pure confidence. The way his baby blues lit up when Monica was near made her want to run away with him and disappear into the night. Rob stepped aside and let her unlock the door while he peppered kisses on her neck from behind. Her attention faltered as she fumbled with her keys. When she finally unlocked the door, he pulled the giant bag from her shoulder and set it down inside.

“Damn, babe. What do you have in there? A dead body?” Rob asked.

“No, not today. Today it’s just clothes and accessories. All the essentials for a perfect date. Well, not my date, of course. Josie’s date. She’s a friend. Well, kind of a friend. She met this new guy, only he’s not new. She knew him before. Well, before some crazy shit went down. I was just helping her get ready.”

“Don’t even ask me to recap that,” Rob said, grinning.

Monica felt just a little reprieve from the suffocating guilt usually associated with Josie Banks. She’d done a good deed today. She’d been so excited when Josie called asking for assistance. Anything she could do to make amends with this girl, she would. If there was something Monica had practice with, it was dating. She’d been on so many in the last decade she’d lost count. While not all of them had been miserable failures, none of them had felt right. Not like Rob. He felt perfect and final, like the end of her searching.

“Can you believe I had to go shopping today because someone stole almost all of my underwear yesterday?” Monica yelled from her bedroom.

“What?”

“Yeah, I brought a load of laundry down to the basement but forgot my quarters for the machine. So I left it. Ran up here to get the money. By the time I got back down there, the entire basket was gone. Oh! I was so pissed off. I mean, who would want dirty laundry?”

“You have some weird neighbors,” Rob answered, troubled by the missing laundry.

“No shit,” Monica said absently, flipping through her mail.

“What movie did you get?”

“Some horror movie where everyone gets hacked up and no one gets out alive,” she answered. “I’m sure all the standard rules apply. Never say ‘I’ll be right back.’ Don’t go check out that strange noise.” Monica entered the living room and smirked at him. “And never, ever have sex. That’s a sure way to get yourself dead.”

“Those killers must be advocates for celibacy,” he muttered. “The idiots.”

“Well, we could just skip the movie and hump like bunnies,” she offered.

“Only if you can ensure our safety from psychotic serial killers, darlin’.”

“There are no guarantees,” Monica teased, unbuttoning her blouse as she backed slowly toward the bedroom.

“Well, ma’am. I’ll take my chances.”

* * *

As Tristan drove home, he found himself humming along with the radio despite not knowing any of the pop songs. If it weren’t so pathetic, he’d laugh at what this girl had turned him into. Though he still had his edge and always his pistol, he felt his sharp attitude beginning to retreat. It was a glimpse of the boy he used to be, before he’d been betrayed and hurt. He felt lighter and hopeful again.

He was in luck, finding a parking spot on his block. Tristan retrieved his gun from under the seat, secured his car, and lit a cigarette for the short walk.

It had been so hard to leave Josie’s apartment. He’d tried to be a gentleman, but when she pulled him by the collar and attacked his mouth, he’d lost all control. There, against her door, he’d ground his hips into hers, introducing every bit of his need. She rocked against him, and it was all he could do not to take her right there.

Josie had invited him in, begging to continue their evening. He knew what she wanted. Hell, he wanted it too, but not yet. Not before he could make her believe that she was worth it. Thankfully, Alex had come home, cutting through their sexual tension and wishing them good night. Tristan wanted to thank him and kill him at the same time.

“Fallbrook,” a familiar voice called out as he approached his building.

The sound of that voice made Tristan’s stomach drop and he immediately reached for his piece. He spun to find Padre parked on a bench outside his building. He was shorter than Tristan but just as intimidating. Always wearing a stiff button-down shirt and Dockers, Padre more closely resembled a Wall Street executive than a deadly assassin. His smile was sinister and sharply interrupted by a maroon scar that carved down the left side of his face. He was Tristan’s former assistant and a man who’d left the priesthood to carry out revenge for his murdered brother. He’d never returned.

“Nice hat,” Padre said, grinning.

“Fuck you,” Tristan replied.

They embraced in a one-armed hug and stepped back to a safe distance. In this business, people who were once your allies didn’t always remain that way.

“Long time, no see, vato.”

“I had to get out,” Tristan answered simply.

“Yeah, well, I guess I should be thanking you. I was promoted when you bounced.”

“Congratulations. I’m guessing this isn’t a friendly visit.”

“Moloney sent me to give you a message.”

The air shifted, a serious rope of threat surrounded the men, tying them to each other.

“So get on with it,” Tristan spat, losing his patience.

“He says no one leaves the operation alive, but he’s feeling generous. He’ll let you live if you find and kill this girl.”

Padre handed him a folded photo with torn edges. Tristan felt nauseous as he looked into the eyes of a young McKenzi Delaune. Using every bit of strength he possessed, he kept his face indifferent.

“This girl is dead.”

“Nah, man. Moloney says she’s alive and well. He has it on good authority she’s here in San Diego. I was just told to deliver that. Of course, there’s another employee looking for her, but if you find her first, you live.”

“I’m not spending my time chasing ghosts!” Tristan shouted at the man’s retreating form.

“I’m just the messenger, Fallbrook. Don’t make me come back here.”

Just like that, he was gone. Tristan knew this was not just a scare tactic. Moloney would never waste time or money on idle threats. The message was loud and clear. If Tristan didn’t deliver, they’d come back and take payment from his flesh.

It had been three miserable, sleepless hours since Padre left Tristan standing confounded on the sidewalk. He’d dropped a figurative bomb and disappeared into the aftermath’s smoke. Now Tristan lay in bed, the old photo of McKenzi still clutched in his fingers. An innocent, unscathed face stared back at him from the glossy paper. This is the girl he remembered, the girl he’d grieved for. In all honesty, this girl was dead. As if featured in one of those campy daytime soap operas, the part of McKenzi Delaune was now being played by a darker, forbidding Josie Banks.

* * *

He’d been a wreck since learning of the hit out on Josie. First, anger hammered at his chest and he tore through his apartment breaking everything within reach. It wasn’t a fit of calculated rage, more of an unrestrained therapy of destruction. Shattered glass dotted the floor, while his treasured books lay in a jumbled heap beneath an overturned shelf. There were holes in the drywall, a broken trail leading to his bedroom, where he’d finally collapsed. Maroon ribbons of dried blood twisted around his fingers and he scoffed at how symbolic they were. His hands were tied.

When his fury had dissipated, he was left only with mind-numbing fear. Not for himself but for Josie. Without a second thought, he knew that he would make any sacrifice if it meant that she’d go unharmed. He would never turn her over to that monster of a man, but that didn’t mean someone else wouldn’t. Padre had told him that there was another person out there looking for her. If they were on Moloney’s payroll, they were good. It wouldn’t be long before she was found.

There was no escape from the business, no calling it quits without some sort of payment, flesh or monetary. Even when he had run away, Tristan knew this. At the time, he’d rather have been dead than stay near Fiona and her unfaithful heart. How lucky he’d been to find his long-lost love perched on a fire escape.

Tristan wondered if Moloney had somehow connected him to Josie, if he’d ordered the hit only as a punishment or a test. He wondered about all that dark space in Josie’s memory and what could possibly warrant her death. Mostly he wondered what he was going to do about it.

He’d be willing to bet that Moloney was responsible for her father’s death and Josie’s amnesia. What other reason could Moloney have for wanting her dead? They must be connected through her father.

He thought about running. He could pick up Josie, force her if necessary, and drag her away to some far-off country where they would hide out among the locals. Realistically, Tristan knew this plan would never work. They’d be checking over their shoulders for the rest of their lives, just waiting for the axe to drop. Josie deserved a better life than that. What he needed was a bargaining chip, something Moloney wanted more than Josie. He huffed and rolled over, tucking her photo beneath the cool underside of his pillow, and finally drifted off to sleep.