Beautiful Addictions (23 page)

“Yeah, I plan on driving eight to ten hours a day, so I should get there by Saturday
night.”

Josie stood in the doorway to her bedroom, watching him watch her. She smiled at the
sight of Tristan on her mattress with his paperback book and his glasses firmly in
place. He fit here with her; she couldn’t imagine anyone else ever doing so.

“Just let me finish this chapter and I’ll get the light,” he mumbled, not looking
up from his page.

She crawled in next to him and lay back against the borrowed pillow. Josie loved the
new sheets and fluffy pillows. It was a luxury she didn’t even know she missed.

Tristan closed his book and folded his glasses, placing them both on the floor. He
turned to Josie and pulled her closer, wanting nothing more than to memorize the feel
of her arms wrapped around him. They’d spent so much time together lately, he wasn’t
sure how he’d survive time apart.

“I’m going to miss you,” he said into the quiet room, squeezing her tighter. “It’s
going to be a long, lonely drive back to Louisiana.”

Josie avoided eye contact and any real emotional declarations.

“Do you think you’ll be able to find out anything? It could be dangerous. I don’t
think you should go.”

“I’ll be fine. I have connections there, people who can help.”

Josie nodded, knowing he felt like he had to do this. She wanted to scream and cry
and beg him to stay, but she knew her effort would be futile. So instead she sat up
and placed kisses on his chest. She brought his forearm across his body and traced
the lines of their tree on his skin.

“Is that my old hoodie?” Tristan asked, spying the black article tucked into the corner
of the room.

“Yeah. I used to sleep in it, but it doesn’t smell like you anymore.” Josie took a
deep breath, exhaling slowly to kill her building panic. “Please come back to me,”
she whispered.

“I promise,” he answered, lifting her chin so that she was forced to meet his eyes.

“Promises are only your best intentions,” she reminded him.

For the rest of the night, they alternated between making love and sleeping. Each
time he touched her, they would ravage and cling to each other, whispering words of
devotion. In the early hours of morning, just before sunrise, Josie woke him one last
time. This time, with tears of desperation, she begged him. She didn’t want soft and
sweet, she wanted hard, possessive fucking. She longed for her body to remind her
of this night with bouts of soreness and aching thighs.

Tristan gave her what she wanted. When she was passed out, he wrapped her in the cool
sheets and placed a kiss on her temple. He was exhausted but forced himself to shower.

As the early light tried to push its way through the thick curtain, Tristan stood
at the foot of the mattress, watching Josie sleep. Even in her slumber, she called
to him. He eyed his packed bag waiting by the door. Tristan summoned his strength
and whispered his good-bye. Remembering his old hoodie, he grabbed it and threw it
on, knowing that it would be as close as he could get to being wrapped up in Josie.

15. Occultation

The act of one celestial body obscuring another.

Tristan had done some hard things in his life. He’d faced his own demons and those
of others. He’d been shot at, threatened, and survived heartbreak, but nothing had
been harder than leaving the girl he loved.

In her slumber, her face was no longer stamped with the hardness and doubt like when
she was awake. Her lashes cast tiny shadows on her freckled cheeks. Despite the way
they turned down into a natural frown, her pouty lips had begged to be kissed. Like
some kind of foreshadowed tragedy, Tristan had got this feeling in his gut that he’d
never see her again. It’s what made it so hard to leave.

In the dark and dingy hall of her building, he’d pounded on Alex’s door until rousing
the man from his sleep. The door swung open and a Glock was pointed directly at his
head. Tristan didn’t even flinch as he waited for Alex to recognize him. He knew what
being on the business end of a piece of steel felt like, and through the years he’d
grown indifferent to it. Alex smiled and dropped the gun to his side.

“Damn, man. What the hell couldn’t wait until the sun comes up?” Alex asked, gesturing
for Tristan to come in.

Tristan declined.

“I need you to keep an eye on her, more than usual. There’s a hit out on her. A professional.
I’m heading back home to see what I can find out.”

“I’ll kill anyone who comes near her,” Alex growled. “Why not bring her?”

“I can’t take her with me. It’s too dangerous. I thought about taking her to my place,
but they know where I live. She’ll be safer here.”

Alex leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, exhaling loudly.

“You know I got her. You fuck with me, you fuckin’ with the best!”

“Nice, Tony Montana.”

The two bumped fists in solidarity, a silent vow between them to trust each other
unreservedly.

As Tristan traveled east on the I-10, he found himself frustrated with the amount
of time he had to spend alone. He wasn’t sure how closely he was being watched by
Moloney’s men, so he stuck with driving back to Louisiana instead of flying. It was
easier to stay off their radar this way.

For the past thirty-eight hours, every waking thought had been of Josie. Trapped with
no one to converse with but the open road, he became a prisoner of his memories. There
were no distractions here, just the rhythmic passing of mile marker signs and his
fellow travelers tucked away in their vehicles. He wondered where they were headed
and what they expected to find when they got there. He wondered the same for himself.
Sometimes he’d drive for hours without even recognizing where he was or where he’d
been.

As he navigated away from the West Coast, he felt the shift in the air as it became
warmer and denser. The South presented the familiar scene of more trees than buildings.
Pine and oak and cypress flew by in a streaked green blur past his window. It felt
like home.

Home was where his parents lived, in their ostentatious Victorian-style house on the
West Bank. It was where he lived his entire childhood, surrounded by the same common
faces and same group of peers. Home was where all the memories of McKenzi began and
ended. It was where Fiona entered his life, where he made hasty decisions and had
thrown away his future. It was where he sat on the leather couch in their living room
and broke his parents’ hearts.

Tristan had debated whether to call his mother and father to let them know he was
coming. Eventually, his cowardice won out and he decided to just surprise them. A
sly grin crept across his lips as he thought of the heart attack his father would
have at the sight of him. The prestigious Dr. Daniel Fallbrook would surely not embrace
his only child looking like a common criminal. Tristan knew, though, that his mother
wouldn’t care one bit. She would cling to him and bathe him with her tears, just happy
to have him back. Suddenly, he didn’t dread heading back home and he pushed the accelerator
down.

Just before eleven o’clock in the evening, Tristan turned down the long driveway lined
by hundred-year-old oak trees draped with Spanish moss. His nerves got the better
of him and he wiped his sweating palms on the thighs of his jeans. His pulse quickened,
and he struggled to understand why anxiety was plaguing him. Then it occurred to him—he
was afraid of rejection.

He parked behind his father’s car and killed the headlights. For a full two minutes
he sat there debating whether to back out and find a hotel in the city. It was then
that the old, familiar tree came into focus. Sitting at the edge of their property,
it was barely visible with no moonlight filtering through the cloudy night sky. It
sent a warm feeling through his chest, and he remembered that he’d come here for Josie
above all else.

“Stop being such a pussy. Rejection is to discard as defective or useless. They wouldn’t
do that,” he told himself.

Tristan shook his head, threw his bag over his shoulder, and decided to leave his
pistol beneath the driver’s seat. He climbed the steps to the front door and took
a deep breath before ringing the bell. It felt odd, considering he’d never rung the
bell at his own house before.

Time passed slowly, each second exponentially increasing his unease. He rang the bell
again and exhaled, needing to get this part over with so he could focus on Josie.
A few seconds later, he heard shuffling feet and whispered conversation on the other
side of the door. The red door creaked open and both of his parents stood there gawking.
Tristan squared his shoulders and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, waiting
for the moment of recognition.

They looked tired and weary. His mother was as beautiful as ever. Even huddled behind
her husband in her nightclothes, not a hair was out of place. Tristan’s father looked
a bit older, the graying hair at his temples giving him away. Their eyes started at
his feet and did a synchronized dance up his frame, lingering on the art on his skin
and finally reaching his face. His mother gasped aloud, her trembling hand flying
to her open mouth.

“Tristan?” Daniel’s crackling voice barely got out.

“Hi,” Tristan answered, shuffling his feet while one hand rubbed at the back of his
neck.

Bitsy pushed her husband aside, no longer frozen from shock. With tears in her eyes,
she threw herself at Tristan, burying her face in his chest. Tristan wrapped his mother
in a firm embrace.

“You’re here? You’re really here?” she whispered between sniffles.

“Yeah, Ma. I’m here.”

Tristan placed a kiss on top of her head just as she released him and took a step
back. Daniel watched the reunion with conflicting emotions. Elation, concern, and
relief billowed around his head, making a conscious decision impossible. Instinctively,
he held out his hand and hoped it would convey his forgiveness.

“Son,” Daniel said.

“Dad,” Tristan answered, taking his father’s hand and shaking it.

Without letting go, Daniel pulled him in for a hug. Despite their disagreements in
the past, this was his child, his flesh and blood, and he loved him unconditionally.

Bitsy ushered them inside, immediately assuming her motherly responsibilities again.
She felt so first-rate in that role, so fulfilled. Tears filled her eyes as she watched
Tristan sit at the bar practically inhaling the sandwich she’d made. Her boy had become
a man. He looked different, so grown up. He looked like a stranger sitting in her
kitchen.

Daniel joined his wife and watched their son in fascination. Of all the paths he’d
imagined for Tristan, he wondered which one the boy had ventured down. He wondered
which one had led him to become this man, the one with cropped hair and tattoos.

“Tristan, it’s really good to see you.” Daniel spoke softly, not knowing how to broach
the subject of Tristan’s motives. “What brought you back to us?”

Tristan stopped midchew and stared at his father. Of course they deserved an explanation
of his sudden arrival, but he couldn’t bring himself to share the entire story just
yet. He threw the last bite of sandwich in his mouth and swallowed quickly.

“Can we talk tomorrow? I just drove for three days. I really need to crash.”

“Of course,” his mother answered, a sad smile pulling at her lips.

“We
will
talk in the morning,” his father said, daring Tristan to refuse.

Without another word, Bitsy led Tristan up to his old room, where he discovered that
they hadn’t changed a thing. His eyes scanned the room and he smiled at all the memories
he found there. Each shelf was still filled with his book and music collections, not
a speck of dust covering them. Too tired to explore, he fell onto his bed, face first.

“Do you need anything, baby?” his mother asked.

“No, I’m good. Just tired. So tired,” he mumbled into the mattress.

“Okay, well, you know where we are if you need anything. Throw a rock.”

Bitsy smiled at the sight of his large frame sprawled out across the bed. His feet
hung over the edge and his spread arms touched each edge. She wanted to go to him,
tuck herself in beside him, and hold him, but she knew he’d have none of that. She
resisted the urge to kiss him good night and quietly closed the door behind her.

That night, as they all slept the deepest of slumbers, the Fallbrook house, made of
brick and mortar, magically transformed back into a home.

*   *   *

Feeling like a hostage, Josie paced the perimeter of her apartment for the twentieth
time. She’d never had a problem with confinement before. She’d spent so much time
in small spaces, so much time alone that she should be used to this. She knew it had
everything to do with the fact that both Tristan and Alex had forbidden her to leave
the apartment. Solitude was okay only when it was on her terms.

This was the third morning she’d endured since Tristan had left. While she tried to
remember what her life was like before she’d found him, she couldn’t. All she knew
was that she wanted him here. She wanted him safe and happy. She just wanted him.

A bang at the door jarred her from her inner ramblings. She flew across the living
room to open it. She had two of the locks undone before she remembered to ask who
it was.

“Alex,
mami,
” he shouted.

Josie let him in the apartment, along with the delicious-smelling breakfast calling
to her from a Styrofoam container.

“Ohhh, what’s that?” she asked, holding out her hands.

He gave her the food, took a seat on her couch, and propped his large boots up on
her coffee table.

“A breakfast burrito from Sombrero.
De nada.
”

“Thanks,” she mumbled with a mouth full of food.

Alex nodded and flipped on her television, grumbling about her lack of channels.