Beautiful Addictions (16 page)

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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.

10. Perigee

Point in the moon’s orbit where it is closest to Earth.

The night air was cool as Alex made his way to the Darkroom. When the sign came into
view, he wished that he’d done research on what kind of place it was. He suddenly
felt like a roughneck among suits. Not that it mattered. He was on a mission. He knew
what he was doing was going to sound cliché and dramatic, but he just couldn’t help
himself.

Ignoring the incredulous looks, Alex took a seat at the bar and waited for Tristan.
A blond waitress placed her tray on the bar and sighed. As Tristan filled her drink
orders, Alex was momentarily distracted by the way her ass moved beneath her skirt.

“What can I get you?” Tristan asked.

“I’m not here for a drink,” Alex answered.

“Well, you’re parked at my bar, so I say you are. How about a light and fruity cocktail?”

The two men eyed each other in an unspoken standoff.

“Nah, man. Shout out to my homeland with a Dos Equis,” Alex ordered.

Tristan opened the bottle and set it on the pristine bar.

“Actually, Dos Equis was started by a German man who immigrated to Mexico.”

“Whatever, man.”

Alex took a few bills from his pocket and laid them on the bar. Tristan slid the money
back to Alex.

“On the house.”

“Look, I came here to talk to you without Jo around. She’d be pissed if she knew.”

“So I guess this is the part where you tell me to stay away from her. I’m not good
enough, right?”

“Nah. Neither one of you assholes would listen. I’ll make it simple, Don Perfecto.
I know you care, but this girl’s got issues.”

“I don’t need your advice on how to handle her issues.”

“If you hurt her, I’ll come after you,” Alex threatened.

“Ah, the ‘I’ll kill you’ speech. I judged the approach all wrong. Consider me warned.”

“I’m serious. I took care of her before you showed up,” Alex said, raising his eyebrows
to insinuate more than he would dare say.

“I’m sure you did,” Tristan bit out between clenched teeth.

“I’ll be there long after you’re gone,
vato
.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tristan sneered.

“I can afford to have you killed.”

“Get in line.” A stiff air sat between them, electrically charged with passion and
intended warnings. “I would never hurt her. Thanks for stopping by.”

Just like that, Alex had been dismissed. Tristan walked to the other end of the bar
and, with his mask of a smile in place, began filling orders again.

Satisfied his message had been delivered, Alex threw a few bills on the bar and left
his untouched beer where it sat. By the time he made it back home, Alex was exhausted.
He settled in bed with SportsCenter on the television and drifted off to sleep.

Hours later, Alex woke to the sound of screaming. He sprang from the comfort of twelve-hundred-thread-count
sheets, ready for confrontation. Within seconds of his feet hitting the floor, his
pistol slid from the nightstand into his familiar grip. Soon he realized the sound
was just Mrs. Thompson yelling at her cat again. He laughed and crawled back into
bed, settling his Beretta back into its home.

Sleep escaped Alex as he lay in bed. His mind worked to piece together the coming
day. There was a delivery to pick up, which would need to be inventoried and distributed.
One of the downsides of being a one-man operation is that he had to play the roles
of CEO, Sales, and Accounting. Job responsibilities kept him busy for much of the
day. After lunch, he’d head down to Chula Vista to take care of a debt. He let no
one take advantage of his generous nature. Alex would be paid. One day, these punk
kids would learn that he was not to be fucked with.

Alex wasn’t sure how he landed in the game he played so well. It seemed to be a path
carved out for him since birth. He was a thug now, a true-to-life dealer. Most transactions
were with the rich kids of Bankers Hill, the middle-aged uptowners, and the queers
in Hillcrest. Though his mother wished for a better life for her children, it was
hard to provide that with no male role model in the house. His father sold drugs and
his oldest brother did too. They’d both paid the price. His brother was killed for
the contents of his wallet and a dime bag while his father was incarcerated for most
of Alex’s childhood. When he was released, he tried to teach the boy about being a
man. He showed him how to fire a gun, how to outsmart the streets, and how to keep
women in their place. The lessons had not been lost on an impressionable boy.

For as long as he could remember, Alex had had the same basic priorities in life:
wealth, power, and pussy. Not necessarily in that order. He’d accumulated a hefty
savings, a sizable collection of drug and blood money washed clean of its sins and
folded neatly in an uptown bank. Power had always come easy to him, his hulking size
and self-appointed authority ensured that. Pussy was a whole different story.

Alex rolled over and huffed. He was pissed that the old lady had disturbed him from
his sleep and, consequently, a hot dream involving twins. It had been two weeks since
he’d gotten laid, but what worried him the most is that he didn’t even care. Sex was
usually just a means to an end. Call up one of his regulars, drill her until she was
speechless, and leave before her head hit the pillow. His skills soon pushed cringeworthy
words and phrases from the lips of satiated women.
Date, dinner, boyfriend.
When the girls became too attached, he would attack their vulnerable side and, when
needing the big guns, insult their sexual prowess.

Relationships were unheard of in his business. Trusting someone enough to hold your
secrets and know your innermost thoughts was not practical. Alex was happy where he
was, alone with his fifty-inch flat-screen television, free weights, and imported
beer. At least that’s what he told himself.

It took seeing Tristan and Josie together to force him to face the truth of his loneliness.
Alex had never seen such substantial love between two people. Every time Tristan looked
at the girl, Alex burned with such jealousy that he couldn’t be in their presence
for long. It wasn’t that he had developed feelings for his neighbor; he was simply
resentful of their connection. Jealous of what he hadn’t even known he wanted. For
the first time in his life, what Alex coveted couldn’t be bought or sold, no matter
the amount of wealth, power, or pussy he possessed.

*   *   *

Josie woke feeling better than she could ever remember. There was a crackling electricity
in the air, a heat radiating from within her own body. Her lips still tingled with
the memory of Tristan’s teeth scraping against them. Her body still burned where his
hands had gripped so tightly. The midday sun greeted her through the window, doing
a shadowless rainbow dance across her legs. She felt unfamiliar, like a stranger was
living inside her. Something was different, not bad, but different. Her hands slid
up her body, over her stomach and eventually up to her face, where she found the distinction
immediately. She’d woken up with a smile.

While still a creature of habit, Josie recently found herself deviating from her norm
more and more. She’d been sketching less, the faces no longer calling out to be recorded.
She hadn’t been out tagging in a while. While she loved the cloak of night, the whooshing
sound of paint, and the vibrant images she left behind, she didn’t need it like she
used to.

She now made eye contact with strangers and waved at her deranged old neighbor, Mrs.
Thompson, when passing at the mailboxes. She still visited Gavin, though less frequently.
She felt herself disconnecting from her old life and clinging to something new. Alex
still came by, bringing food and staying until she ate. She found comfort in his protectiveness
and longed to thank him, but she could not imagine anything appropriate.

It had been three days since Tristan and Josie’s date, but already she grew nervous
at the separation. The air was harder to process in his absence. The lights seemed
dimmer and the emptiness made her queasy. If Tristan wasn’t within the paper-thin
walls of her apartment, she didn’t want to be there either. She questioned if it was
healthy to feel this attached to someone so quickly. She decided she didn’t care.

For hours at a time, she would sit on the bare mattress of her bedroom and stare at
the pencil-drawn faces before her. There were so many versions of Tristan, each so
detailed and true to life. Josie wondered how she’d ever forgotten him.

Her mother had the kindest smile, just like Josie imagined every mother should. Warm
eyes stared back, the roughly drawn charcoal lines doing nothing to diminish her softness.
Tristan had described Josie’s mother as a fun free spirit who cared deeply for her
family. She had died in a car accident a year before they moved away.

Her father was handsome, but his eyes seemed to reflect worry and sadness in every
drawing. Perhaps her only memory of Earl had been after her mother’s passing. She
wanted, so badly, to remember what his hugs felt like or the timbre of his voice.

Tristan’s parents were represented on her wall of memories as well. His mother, Bitsy,
and father, Daniel, were such beautiful people. It was easy to see how Tristan had
turned out so stunning. There was anger and sadness in his voice when he spoke of
them, but Josie knew he missed them. From what he’d told her, they were good people
who had only wanted the best for their son. As outsiders, they were able to see the
poisonous future that lay ahead with Fiona and had tried to warn him against it.

The sun was setting on another day, and as the fiery glow flooded her apartment, she
thought of endings and beginnings. Josie recognized the need she had for Tristan,
the need to end her aimless wandering through life and begin again with him. Fear
ate away at her, making her feel undeserving of such notions.

Josie wanted to call Tristan and ask him to come over, but she didn’t want to scare
him off by being too clingy. She suddenly hated being alone. Before he had come along,
when Josie got this feeling, she would go out and find someone to bed. It was always
easy on her end, a tiny flirt, a lingering gaze, and they’d be putty in her hands.
All she wanted was a warm bed and protective arms around her. Orgasms and various
drugs had just been a bonus.

This wasn’t an option anymore. She didn’t want just any arms around her, she wanted
his strong inked arms. She wanted to devour and consume him. She wanted to exist for
Tristan and only Tristan.

Resigning herself to a night of tagging, she threw on Tristan’s hoodie, grabbed her
bag, and tied a bandanna around her neck. It wasn’t a fashion statement, it worked
for covering her face while writing. She was searching the apartment for her shoes
when a knock sounded at the door.

Running across her apartment, her socked feet having trouble gaining traction against
the hardwood, she skidded to a stop and threw the door open. The relief at seeing
Tristan standing there was more than she could handle. Josie leaned against the doorframe
to keep herself upright.

“Don’t ever just open your door like that, Josie. At least fucking ask who it is first,”
he grumbled at her.

Her face fell as his harsh words struck her with the force of fists. Tristan barreled
into the apartment, slamming the door behind him and locking it up. He threw himself
down on her sofa, crushing random sketches beneath his feet with no regard.

“Thirty-eight percent of assaults and sixty fucking percent of rapes happen in the
home. Do you want to be another statistic? I can’t stand the thought of you being
measured using some goddamned algorithm compared to a set of data on the San Diego
crime rate scale.”