Beautiful Addictions (25 page)

All the promises of fat living and easy money were fulfilled, but he hadn’t been prepared
for living for the job. He soon realized that his life was not his own. He was owned
by Moloney and was reminded of that on a daily basis. Eventually, Earl Delaune had
wangled up charges against six of Moloney’s men, Mort included, landing him in prison
for a short time. He served his time quietly, fueled by anger and plans for retribution.

Years went by in the blink of an eye, and he found himself with the reputation of
a heartless killer. Mort didn’t mind, though; it secured the respect of his associates
and kept his enemies in check. When this job was thrown at him, he was only too happy
to oblige. Not only would it supply enough money to retire with, it would allow him
to carry out his vengeance on a dead man. After almost a year of digging and chasing
and loathing the idea of this girl, he’d finally found her. Despite all records, McKenzi
Delaune lived and breathed. Not for much longer.

17. Earthshine

Sunlight that is reflected back from Earth onto the moon.

Tristan lay in his childhood bed, his phone trapped between his cheek and pillow.
Josie’s purple diary sat propped open before him.

“‘August 3, 2002. New York is like so chaotic I sometimes feel like I can’t breathe.’”

Tristan read aloud. He could hear Josie’s anxious breath over the phone.

“‘I’ve never met our neighbors, but I do know that they have a loud dog that lives
there. Dad and I have made the trip to my new school a few times so that I could get
comfortable with the bus and the walk. It’s a big brick building that looks nothing
like Gretna High School.

“‘I probably won’t be able to make friends here. But who cares. Just three years and
then I’ll head back home. I miss all the green and the trees. Central Park is the
closest thing I have to home and I find myself wanting to go there all the time. I
miss Tristan so much. Talking on the phone just depresses me because I can’t see him
or kiss him. God, I miss kissing him. Plus, we’ve got a ten-minute time limit, so
I barely have time to tell him anything! Daddy says I’ll get over it, but he’s wrong.

“‘August 8, 2002. Dad and I got into a huge fight yesterday. I cried and screamed
at him and blamed him for making me miserable. I hate this city. He held me while
I cried and tried to explain his reasons. He said that we’d had to move because we
were in danger from a powerful man because of a case he worked on. He said that he
was trying to make it all better. Later, I heard him on the phone telling someone
he thinks this man was responsible for my mother’s death. I don’t understand how that’s
possible when she died in a car accident. I miss her so much.

“‘I want to call Tristan and have him tell me that everything is going to be okay.
I want to hear that he misses me half as much as I miss him. I want to climb into
our tree and kiss him until he makes that humming sound in the back of his throat.
Meanwhile, I’m stuck in this fifth-floor walk-up, listening to Vanessa Carlton’s “A
Thousand Miles” song over and over. I can just hear Tristan complaining to turn it
off because he’s sick of hearing it. I just bet Tracy Veltin is thinking of ways to
sink her shiny, glittered nails into my boyfriend. Stupid frosted-hair-C-cup Tracy
Veltin.’”

“That song is awful. Who is Tracy?” Josie asked.

“Just some girl.”

“Huh. Some girl who wanted to hump you?”

“Maybe,” Tristan said.

“Was she pretty?”

“I don’t remember, Josie.”

“Liar. You remember everything.”

Tristan laughed and quickly moved on.

“This is the last entry. ‘August 13, 2002. Dad called this morning and told me not
to leave the apartment today. He sounded bad. It kind of freaked me out, but he told
me not to worry. He’s been working longer and longer every day, and I feel like we
never even see each other.

“‘Some men in suits came by last night, and he sent me to my room so that they could
talk. I hate how he treats me like a damn child all the time. I’m practically an adult.

“‘This is the last page of my journal. Who knew that I’d ever fill up this entire
thing with my nonsense? I’ll admit, some pages just have drawings on them, but mostly
it’s filled with the last two years of my life. Good times, bad times. There’s only
one person I’d ever share it with.

“‘Tristan, please keep this journal. From this far away, it is the only thing I can
give you. Save it, and when we are together again, you can return it. Love, McKenzi.’”

“Wow. I was such a whiny twat,” Josie said, laughing uncomfortably.

“You were a kid, Josie. I think you were probably a typical fourteen-year-old girl.”

“Yeah, I guess. So, your mom had this the whole time?”

“She thought a clean break would be best for me. What a fucking joke. Now she’s created
parental trust issues.”

“Translate.”

“I no longer believe my mother knows what’s best for me.”

“What kid does?”

“I mean, she hid away the only connection I had to you.”

“She was only trying to help.”

“I know.” He sighed and closed the diary, setting it on the nightstand.

“You think that my dad was involved with Moloney back in New Orleans and we moved
to escape him?”

“Yeah, I think that much is clear. The fact that your dad was suspicious of Moloney
being responsible for your mother’s death would be enough to scare him across the
country, especially if he thought you were in danger.”

“Moloney caught up with us in New York?”

“It’s a theory.”

Josie sighed and mumbled something about theories. Tristan could hear the weariness
in her voice. He longed to hold her and kiss away all her fears, but again, distance
was their enemy.

“I miss you,” Tristan said into the phone, staring out his window blackened by the
night sky.

“God, I miss you too. I hate being stuck in this damn apartment with my only human
contact being Alex. His idea of fun is counting pills and doing pull-ups on my doorframes.”

“You could call Monica. You guys could do a girls’ night or something.”

“Do I come across as someone who enjoys having a girls’ night? No, what I want is
to go back to Seaport Village with you. We could ride the carousel again and I’d let
you buy me a hat this time.”

Her frustration was palpable. On instinct alone, Tristan wanted to grant her wish.
He never wanted to deny her anything, but safety deemed that she stay put.

“I’m sorry. When I get back, we’ll do that.”

“You bet your fine ass we will.”

Tristan chuckled and felt relieved at her teasing tone.

“You think my ass is fine?” he asked.

“I think all of you is fine,” Josie said dryly.

“By what ratio do you like my ass compared to the rest of my body, considering it
only represents approximately 9 percent of my 575 inches of overall body surface area,”
he teased. “Is my ass your favorite part?”

“No. Your dick is my favorite part. It’s so perfect I want to construct a twenty-foot
statue in its honor so that I may kneel before it and worship every day.”

Tristan sat stunned by her words, a deep sensation stirred in his groin. He finally
released the breath he’d been holding and fumbled with the phone.

“Fuck, Josie,” he breathed out.

“Good night, Tristan.”

“Wait! What? You’re hanging up?”

“Yeah, I’ve got to go wash my hair or something. Smooches,” she teased, barely holding
in her laughter.

“Uh, bye.”

The line disconnected before he’d even uttered his pathetic parting words.

*   *   *

The breeze was warm and damp, but it felt like a reprieve on Tristan’s heated flesh.
He sucked on his cigarette, needing its toxins more than air. He’d brought one of
the old books from his room to read, but he couldn’t bear turning on the harsh porch
light. He loved the dark of this land. No city lights glowed here. Crickets serenaded
each other and he found a sense of calm in their song.

Bitsy stepped lightly across the porch and took a seat beside him. As much as it pained
him to do so, Tristan didn’t acknowledge his mother’s presence.

“I know that you’re upset with me, Tristan. I know what I did was wrong. I can see
that now,” Bitsy said softly. “Back then, honey, I was only trying to protect you.
You were already in such a fragile state and I just couldn’t add to that hurt. I wanted
to take away your sadness and I just didn’t see how prolonging your connection with
McKenzi would do that.”

Tristan exhaled, watching the smoke float between their faces, creating an effective
curtain that, in reality, had always been there. His mother had never really seen
him. Like everyone else, she’d never looked past the charming façade and the brainy
performances. For most of his life, Tristan had felt like Bitsy was more like an adoring
fan than a mother. She’d always said how smart he was, how handsome and polite, but
she’d never really gotten to know him. She sure as hell didn’t know him now.

“I didn’t understand what she meant to you, Tristan. I wish I could go back and do
things right. You know what they say. If wishes were horses we could all ride away.”

Bitsy looked out over the dark yard, the treetops creating sharp silhouettes against
a gray clouded sky. She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes before the tears could fall.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are, Ma.”

Bitsy sat back, smoothing her hair and swiping at the black makeup smeared beneath
her eyes. She always said a Southern woman must look her best, even at her worst.

“It doesn’t change anything. I’m not ready to forgive you.”

Bitsy looked back toward the house, as if searching for Daniel.

“Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone I’m in town.”

Tristan stood and made his way to the back door.

“To err is human; to forgive, divine,” Bitsy said to his back.

Tristan kept his eyes on the door.

“‘We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell,’” he responded.

Tristan left his mother on the porch, alone with her tears and the words of Oscar
Wilde.

*   *   *

The street was quiet as Mort made his way around the house. He checked each door and
window, finally finding one that was unlocked. Once inside, he let his eyes adjust
to the dim lighting and began his investigation.

The house was typical of a single man. Not much decor, not much food in the fridge,
and not much security. He made his way through each room, finding nothing out of the
ordinary. When he pushed the door open to the small office, Mort had to press his
lips together to keep the foul words from escaping. On one wall sat a small desk and
laptop computer. The adjacent wall held hundreds of photos of Monica Templeton taped
and stapled to the wall, forming a collage. Photos of her leaving work, leaving her
apartment, in her car, eating lunch, and having drinks. Among the photos were random
items attached to the wall as well. Gum wrappers, a pair of lace panties, and her
missing work badge.

In slow, calculated movements, Mort removed every photo, every item from the wall
and placed it in a small bag to take with him. He had come here for information, but
now his plans had changed. He would have to dispatch this nuisance.

Satisfied when the wall was bare, he pulled his piece from his waistband and made
his way toward the bedroom.

“Wake up, bitch,” Mort spoke loudly into the quiet room.

The man stirred in his sleep but failed to realize that he was not alone.

“I said, wake up!”

Evan shot up in bed, panicked by the booming voice. When his eyes adjusted to the
dark room, he found himself at the end of a very large gun.

“What the…?” he shouted, scrambling back, trying to press himself into the headboard.
Evan’s panicked voice cracked like a pubescent boy’s.

“Go ahead and try to run, it will only make this more enjoyable.”

The voice was cold and sickly evil. It sent a terror-filled chill down his spine when
his eyes finally landed on its owner. He could barely see the man standing over him
in the shadows, but his identity was unmistakable.

“Rob? How did you get in here?”

Dread settled in his stomach, making him nauseous. Fear prickled across his skin,
and he knew his time was limited.

“I found your little shrine to Monica,” Rob said, waving his gun toward the hall.
“I took it all down. Don’t want a piece of shit like you to be connected to my girl
in any way. You’re quite the fucking stalker.”

“No. It’s not what you think! I swear!”

“What is it, then? You working for Moloney?”

“Who?” Evan asked.

“That’s what I thought. How long?”

“How long what?” Evan’s eyes scanned the room, searching for an escape.

“How long have you been stalking her?”

“I haven’t been stal—”

Mort placed his gun to Evan’s forehead.

“I dare you to finish that sentence.”

“Ni-nine months,” Evan stuttered.

“Ah, so in all fairness you did find her first. Too bad. I just needed her for a job.
She was my link to someone else. But she got me. I couldn’t help but want her.”

“So you understand,” Evan hedged, “her appeal. How amazing she is.”

“I understand her in a way you never will.”

“I’ll stop. I swear. I’ll leave her alone. Just let me live,” Evan begged through
heaving breaths.

“Such a fucking coward. That’s not dedication. You’re willing to give her up to save
yourself. She’s worth way more than that. It’s too late for you.”

“What can I do? What do you want?” Evan asked, thinking he’d trade anything to save
his own life.

“I wanted you to stay away from my girl, but you just couldn’t help yourself.”

Rob placed the end of the silencer to Evan’s forehead and before the man could even
beg for his life, he pulled the trigger. He didn’t wait around to watch the light
fade from Evan’s eyes, he didn’t need to. The kill itself had been more satisfying
than anything he’d ever felt. This man was a thief, out to steal his most prized possession.