Beautiful Addictions (17 page)

Unsure what to do with herself, Josie approached him carefully. She’d dealt with irate
people too many times to count and considered herself schooled in the ways of diversion.
Not so long ago, in a house that she’d been forced to call home, it had been a way
of life. She’d become an expert at dissolving hostile situations with minimal damage.

For some reason, she was clueless about what to do with Tristan. He had never spoken
to her so harshly before. Tristan scrubbed at his face, taking a deep breath and blowing
it out slowly. Josie thought he looked like he needed a cigarette. She cursed the
fact that she didn’t have any. So she gave him all that she did have.

Crawling into Tristan’s lap, Josie straddled his legs. She took his worried face between
her hands and looked deep into his eyes. She placed herself at his mercy, wanting
so badly to decipher his thoughts, to ease his mind.

“What’s wrong? What did I do?” she whispered.

Tristan shook his head, disgusted with himself. His careless actions had made her
feel like she’d committed some sort of crime. Her words only fueled his anger, creating
a desire to punish himself for his ill manners. Tristan needed to make her understand
just how much she meant to him. He needed to make her see that the girl from his past
and the girl before him now owned his heart. She always had. His temper had gotten
the best of him and he’d misdirected it at the one person who would never deserve
it.

“Nothing, Josie. You did nothing. I’m just an ass. I’m having a bad day,” he answered,
placing a kiss on her forehead.

Tristan leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes, trying to calm his overactive
mind. His heart raced at her nearness, the warmth of her body on top of his. His mind
was staggered with thoughts of approaching danger and impossible choices. A treacherous
situation had been presented, and for now, he could see no way out.

“Let me make it better.”

Her nimble fingers worked quickly, skillfully unlatching his belt buckle. When it
was pulled free, she popped open each button of his fly. Slowly, with purpose, she
traced the length of him.

“Josie, you … you don’t have to,” he stuttered before being distracted by her touch.

“I want to.”

For too long he had denied physical satisfaction with Josie, and he would punish himself
no more. He felt as though she might need this just as much as he did. For a few minutes,
he could forget about the threats on McKenzi and focus on the talents of Josie.

Tristan cleared his throat, causing Josie’s eyes to meet his own. The apartment was
eerily silent as they absorbed each other’s breaths and desire. His eyes were dark
and hungry and begging for more.
More,
Josie chanted in her head,
more.
She wanted to give him more. She wanted to be more.

Tristan fisted the sofa cushion, a breathy grunt escaping his lips as he watched Josie
descend onto him. While this was far from his first blow job, it was certainly his
most intense. He’d come over in a foul mood, unable to stay away from her any longer.
He was confused and frightened for Josie’s safety. He was tired of just existing in
a swirling mess and not living. With Josie’s soft lips wrapped around him, he lived.

Josie had never wanted to please someone so badly. She’d never wanted to give so freely.
She knew this meant more than just the physical act itself, but she couldn’t admit
what it was. Soon, Tristan’s hips rocked, rising up to meet her. His fingers wrapped
tighter in her hair.

She felt the ache in her jaw, the burn and shake of her arms holding her over his
lap, but she ignored the discomfort. Tristan climaxed almost violently, calling her
name on labored breaths. She had given more and taken more. She had a feeling, with
Tristan, it could never be enough.

“That was not why I came over here,” Tristan said as he tucked himself back into his
pants. “Though I must admit your powers of distraction are amazingly effective.”

Josie remained quiet, refusing to excuse the most exquisite orgasm she’d ever been
witness to. Instead, she pulled in closer, squeezing tight around his ribs. Tristan
exhaled heavily as ran his fingers through her hair.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you. I just really needed to see you,” he admitted.

Josie sat up so that she could look into his face. She ran the tips of her fingers
over his brow, smoothing out the worried lines there. His expression displayed guilt
and she wanted nothing more than to erase it.

“You do see me. You always see me. That’s what’s so scary.”

He kissed her lips, at a loss for how to make her understand that she didn’t need
to be scared, not of him, anyway. Tristan had debated whether to tell her about the
threat from Moloney. He didn’t want to make decisions without involving her, but he
didn’t want to be responsible for pushing her too hard. His biggest fear was that
she would disappear again. He knew, without a doubt, that he’d never survive it a
second time.

*   *   *

Mort had spent three days combing through Balboa Park looking for the girl. He’d even
dressed in torn and dirty clothes to try to assimilate himself into the band of vagrants.
During the day, most of them hid away in the shadows of the canyon or panhandled downtown.
By night, they roamed the park freely in search of food or anything else worth having.

He made small talk and asked around, but never did he find Josie Banks. Sometimes
he would swear that he’d seen her face, but it always turned out to be some other
girl with dark eyes and a tortured past. Poverty and hard luck had no predilection
for a certain type of person. Teenagers, kids, even whole families of every race and
color found themselves in its hopeless grip. It was easy enough to imagine himself
in their position had he never found the employment of Dean Moloney.

It was by chance that Mort seated himself on the very bench that Josie often visited.
He was bent over, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, when he felt someone
sit beside him.

“You’re new here.”

Mort nodded, not looking up.

“I’m Gavin, your concierge for the evening. Whatcha looking for?”

“A girl.”

“Well, today’s your lucky day, handsome.”

Mort sighed and sat back before sliding his eyes over to his new friend. She looked
tired and weathered, but something in her eyes was content.

“A specific girl.”

“Oh, well, I get it. I’m not your type. No worries, you’re not mine either.”

“A girl named Josie,” Mort said through gritted teeth.

“Josie? Why didn’t you just say that? Haven’t seen her in a couple weeks, but you’re
definitely in the right place.”

Gavin pointed to the elaborate JayBee signature on the bench between them. Mort’s
spine straightened severely and he tried to keep the look of triumph from his face.

“Cool. That’s cool.”

“What you want with her?” Gavin asked, suddenly wary.

“I owe her some money. You know where I can find her?”

“Uh, I might. But I don’t know you, dude. What if she don’t want to be found?”

Instantly, Mort’s expression morphed from innocent to sinister. He pulled his switchblade
and held it against Gavin’s throat.

“You’ll tell me or you’ll fucking die.”

Gavin’s mind ran wild as she felt death grab hold. This man would end her, she knew
that. If she didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, her life would end here on this
bench. She eyed one of Josie’s drawings, a simple self-portrait. There was no decision
to make.

“Then I guess I’m meeting my maker tonight,” she answered in a firm voice.

There was no scream as the blade penetrated her flesh. She didn’t beg for her life.
There was no change of heart. Gavin closed her eyes and slipped away silently beneath
the lush green canopy.

An hour later, Mort returned to his apartment, where he washed the blood and disappointment
from his hands. When he was clean again, he lay in bed and pondered what his next
move would be. Just as he began to doze off, his phone buzzed.

“Mort,” he answered.

“Any word on the girl?” the sinister voice asked.

Mort glanced at the phone, as if the man could come through and grab him by the throat
if his answer was not satisfactory.

“All I’ve got is a lead on her case worker.”

“Be aggressive. Those fuckers in New York really dropped the ball on this,” Moloney
sneered.

“I’ve got this.”

“I have a former employee looking for her as well. If he finds her first, you are
out of luck, my friend.”

The line disconnected, and Mort slumped against his pillow. The word “friend” resonated
through the air, dripping with disdain and anything but camaraderie. He’d dedicated
so much time to this job, and just like that, Moloney would send someone else to finish
it. Mort recognized this for what it was, a motivational threat. He needed this money,
his whole future depended on it.

Throwing his phone onto the table, he vowed to step up his game. Mort hacked into
the internal archives of the Child Services office. Within minutes he was logged in
as a registered user and began his search for Josie Banks.

He pulled up her file and noted the assigned case worker was Monica Templeton and
smiled satisfactorily. He followed Josie’s path through the failing child protective
system, noting the methodical check-ins every twelve weeks.

First she was placed in a girls’ home in north San Diego County. After six months,
she was put into a foster home with Mr. and Mrs. Spangler. The couple lived in a decent
uptown neighborhood and seemed an ideal family on paper.

Mort scrolled through the folder, finding it pathetic that almost four years of this
girl’s childhood could be so easily accounted for and condensed into this small file.
As he read the notes detailing the horrific abuse she suffered, it hit him like a
suffocating blow.

“Mr. and Mrs. Spangler were charged with criminal negligence and physical abuse while
serving as Josie Banks’s guardians. They were both convicted and served time separately.
Denise, released early in March 2010, and her husband, Stephen, released in November
2010, remain residents of San Diego County. See notes below for parole information,”
Mort read, sickened by the words.

The details of the case stated that none of the abuse had been discovered until Josie
had turned eighteen and was no longer a ward of the state.

He felt a wave of nausea shoot through his body. In the business he was in, Mort had
seen many things. He’d experienced enough blood and carnage to last him several lifetimes.
This was something entirely different. He too had suffered abuse at the hands of adults
he’d trusted, an unforgivable act in his book. These people were monsters.

While he felt sorry for Josie and all that she’d endured, he had a job to do and it
would be best if he just viewed her as a paycheck. He knew he needed to act quickly,
otherwise he might be thwarted by Moloney’s other man. He quickly logged out of the
program and shut down his computer.

11. Umbra

A shadow that blocks out illumination.

It was raining in Southern California and no one knew how to behave. Pedestrians scurried
down the streets, taking cover under the eaves of various restaurants and secondhand
bookstores. The strangers huddled so tightly together that personal space and physical
boundaries were breached. The falling rain assembled into puddles along street curbs
and on the dry fronds of palm trees.

Monica huffed at the inconvenience as she hurried down the sidewalk. The coffee shop
sign lured her in, the neon glow immediately reminding her body of its requirement
of caffeine. She weaved in and out of the crowds, sometimes darting through the downpour
to reach her destination. The man before her, the one dressed in appropriate rain
gear and designer shoes, swung the door too hard, knocking her over. Monica yelped
and grabbed his sleeve to keep from falling, only to send them both careening to the
ground.

“Shit!” Monica exclaimed, feeling the water seep through the seat of her pencil skirt.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, jumping up quickly, offering his hand and an apologetic smile.

She took it and let him pull her in beneath the shelter of his jacket. Once inside,
Monica tried to assess the damage. She knew her ass was wet and maybe bruised, her
hair was a mess, and she’d broken a nail. That shit always happens just when you get
them all to the same length, she thought.

“Are you okay?” the man asked, concern lacing his voice.

His face was a bit round and childlike while still remaining handsome. His curly brown
hair was cropped short, while his devious smile hinted that there was more beneath
the surface. His oxford shirt hugged his chest, indicating a muscled body beneath
such common clothes. Soon, for no reason at all, Monica found herself smiling back.

“I’m fine, really.”

“Well, if you’re sure. Hey, let me buy you a coffee. Pick your poison,” he said, gesturing
to the menu.

Monica blushed and stepped to the counter, placing her usual order. He followed and
ordered the same. There was a recognized silence between them as they waited for the
drinks—a lingering glance, the faintest smile, all telltale signs of flirting. Even
though all she could do was compare this man to Rob, Monica was flattered.

“Can you believe how people freak out when it rains?” he finally said.

“I know, right? It’s like I want to scream at them, ‘It’s just water!’”

He laughed wholeheartedly, his dimples deepening, further softening his face. Their
order was called and they retrieved their cups from the counter.

“So you must not be from here?” she asked.

“Nah, I’m from Tacoma. What gave it away?”

“You’re wearing a raincoat, an item that none of us locals even own.” She twisted
the cup nervously in her hands. “So you should be an expert, right? I hear the sun
never shines up there. People have vitamin D deficiencies and it, like, rains every
day?”