by L. B. Dunbar
The Truth of Tristan Lyons
L.B. Dunbar
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
© 2015 Laura Dunbar
Cover Design – Kari Ayasha
Stock Cover Image Copyright – 123rf.com
Format – Brenda Wright, Formatting Done Wright
Edit – Karen Hrdlicka – Barren Acres Editing
Other Books by L.B. Dunbar
Sensations Collection
Sound Advice
Taste Test
Fragrance Free
Touch Screen
Sight Words
Legendary Rock Stars Series
The Legend of Arturo King
The Story of Lansing Lotte
The Quest of Perkins Vale
The Trials of Guinevere DeGrane (coming Fall 2015)
Dedication
For Mr. Dunbar…
and the celebration of 20 years of marriage
* * *
Sung by the Bards of old, a tale was told.
How the truth began,
Questioned all that came before.
For on an island, hid Time to pass.
A troubled man found his way to shore.
A lonely beauty unlocked the gate
Though struggled to keep a beast at bay
Then opened her heart to patiently wait.
The musician played his tales of woe;
The lady let her patience grow.
Into her heart, she let him begin,
Before sadder news drown him in.
A thirst for power on another shore
Encouraged comfort to shed the light
Until water nourished the thought of more.
Love sprang forth from red bottled wine;
It blossomed by the feast of sunshine,
To be rejected under black of night
Til pleasure washed away the sting
And risking all, left love to bloom.
When moonlight joined two as one,
A familiar dragon came to slay.
Flight in hopes, lovers they’d be,
Brought dreams to hold the future at bay.
Yet more enemies blocked the start
When claws raked deep to the heart.
A cry for love, begged for peace.
A tale is told to the band.
When love uncontrolled demands release
Forces hold the two apart
And one reunion would not please
Until thoughts of innocence light a spark.
Stolen kisses allow time to pass.
Sinister forces pushed the man to act.
Lovers are determined to find a way
Until questions unanswered reveal the fact.
Confrontation sets forth the truth.
The music of love performed the proof.
A past appears to make things right,
And lovers will be joined as man and wife.
Moral of this tale: Nothing is truer than love.
Chapter 1
[Tristan]
How the truth began,
I walked out of the private jet, faltering in the bright sunlight and stumbling down the stairs into the heat of the Caribbean island. I probably shouldn’t have had that last drink on the plane, but I’d needed it to make it through the flight. I wasn’t afraid of flying. The drink was more to numb my thoughts.
Thoughts of a best friend, who had basically disappeared, lost himself in a senseless accident trying to save a girl; a girl that didn’t even belong to him. Damn chivalry. He ruined his life trying to spare her. He ruined the band’s life. He ruined my life.
What was I supposed to do now? No Arturo King. No The Nights.
Sure, the band could try to replace him, but that wouldn’t be the same. The Nights would never be the same without Arturo King, lead singer, songwriter, and guitarist. I would never be the same either.
As the bass guitarist for The Nights, I needed to play. The guitar had been my out. Strumming had been my salvation. As the nephew of Mark Cornwall, owner of Cornwall Industries, I was raised by a tyrannical man who was driven by money and greed. He was blinded by the bling of his riches. He demanded that same drive in me, and I had it. Only it was in my need to play the guitar. Being in the band, however, wasn’t what my uncle had intended for me, and I hated to disappoint him.
When my parents were killed, my uncle was too young to lay claim to me, so I was entrusted to family friends of my parents, while I was still an infant. When I came of age, my uncle took me in and finished raising me. Mark became more of a mentor than a father figure, teaching me life’s lessons. The only lesson he didn’t teach was playing the guitar. That I learned on my own. I was constantly trying to prove my worth and the value of my music. As The Nights grew in popularity, I believed I was beginning to show Mark that my guitar playing was not a waste of time. Unfortunately, I currently had lots of time on my hands, as the future of the band was undefined.
I collected my guitar from the valet and followed the driver to the waiting car. I let the man put my bags in the trunk, but I wanted my guitar with me. I placed it over my knees like a security blanket in the back of the vehicle. I closed my eyes to the bright light of the sun. The island was an escape, and I relished the idea of getting away. Away from Guinevere and her pain. Away from Arturo, who had basically disappeared. Away from the other two, who were busy falling in love. Fuck.
The sunlight was too bright for the slow headache beginning to form between my temples. I couldn’t be hungover already, but it wasn’t uncommon for me to be hungover during the day. It was happening more and more often. Again, it was a time issue. I had too much time on my hands; too much time to think and drink.
The driver closed my door and slid into the front seat on the right side of the car. Why did every country previously belonging to the English have to follow in their footsteps? I hated driving on the left side of the road, on the right side of the car. While I had the coordination for it, it just involved too much thought. This ruled out me renting a car. It didn’t matter. I didn’t plan to go anywhere anyway.
Kaye Sirs, the manager of the band and adoptive brother of Arturo King, had rented the house for me. He knew someone who knew someone. The place wasn’t secluded, but I could still seclude myself in it, if I wished. Located on Seven Mile Road, amongst hotel resorts and private condos on the white sandy beach of the Grand Cayman Island, I didn’t intend to do anything other than hide out. And drink.
I was assured the house would be properly stocked with my favorite: Grey Goose Vodka. Food would be provided, as well as staff for cleaning. I didn’t care about any of that. I wanted warmth in the sun, cool vodka in a glass, and nothing else. Well, I might want a girl or two, but that would be easy enough to come by on my own. The locals always knew where to find the right woman and maybe a few of the island’s other delights. This wasn’t the States after all.
The driver pulled through the iron gates onto a squat semi-circular gravel driveway, which was a rather short path to an expansively sprawled one level bungalow. The description claimed it had five bedrooms with five baths, but I only needed one of each. I was assured I would be the only one present, for as long as I liked.
As soon as my bags were placed inside the cool tiled front hall, I tipped the driver and
locked the front door. I found my way immediately to the freezer. Discovering a bottle of my poison, I poured three fingers full into a cut crystal glass. I didn’t bother with the rocks for now. I drank slowly as I wandered out of the kitchen, which appeared to be located in the rear of the home off the main entrance.
A large dining room table stood in an alcove, before three large glass panes, with an ugly white-glass chandelier hanging dangerously low over it. Next to the dining area were three more identical windows, providing a view of the gleaming blue ocean, a strip of white sand, and a large covered patio. I placed my forehead on the window for a moment and took another slow pull of my drink. The living room, open to the dining area, was where I stood to admire the view. Behind me was a large pit couch, encompassing three sides. It filled the main floor space with an oversized square ottoman, in a matching light gray color, in the center. A flat screen television and a fireplace completed the room.
Taking another slow drink, I noticed the door farthest to the left that provided entrance to the patio and separately an entrance to a long hallway. I stumbled on my feet again as I entered the hall, taking in the number of doors. I opened the first one to discover a large bed in the center of the room, curtains closed to block out the sun, a low dresser with another large screen television above it, and a private bathroom included. This room would be perfect.
I kicked off each shoe as I crossed the flat carpeted floor, took a final drink of my vodka, and fell face first onto the bed.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed before I heard a loud thump and a shout of “Fuck. Ow!” coming from somewhere within the house.
Fuck, I thought as well. Couldn’t I get any peace?
I heard the thud-thud-thud of what sounded like wheels on tile getting closer and closer to my door. The noise came to an abrupt stop. The following silence was eerie.
I raised myself, push-up style, noted the tight ache in my head, and forced myself off the bed. Yanking open the door with more force than I intended, I stumbled into the living room to find a woman staring out the glass windows. Her eyes were closed and she seemed deep in thought. So deep, I might have assumed she was sleeping standing upright.
I didn’t care if she was sleeping. I wanted to know who she was. Scratch that, I didn’t care who she was. I wanted to know how she got in the house. Damn these fangirls, sometimes. They knew no shame.
“Hey,” I said grabbing her upper arm. “How did you get in here?”
She seemed caught unaware of my approach and screamed loudly, pushing at my chest hard enough, the sheer surprise forced me to let go of her.
With her hand on her chest and her breasts rising and falling in great agitation, I was able to see her big blue eyes and the sprinkle of freckles across her nose. Her chin length blonde hair fell forward as she bent to clasp her knees and catch her breath.
Standing up almost as quickly as she bent over, she spoke to me through delicious looking pink lips.
“Who the fuck are you?” she growled.
“Who the fuck, are you?” I returned.
“I’m…”
“You know what, never mind. You need to go,” I said, cutting her off and reaching for her upper arm again. “I don’t know how you got in here, where you came from, or how you found me, but you need to go.”
I began to tug her toward the front entry, her feet sliding in her flip-flops across the tile flooring. She pulled back, and the force made her skid on an angle across the slippery surface as I dragged her. She continued to glare at me quizzically, leaning away from me.
“I don’t know what you are talking about?”
“Did you follow me, is that it? See me in the airport?”
“What?”
“Okay, I love you too, now you need to go. Okay?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am?”
“I don’t.”
I stopped, still holding firmly to her arm. Something in her voice sounded like she was being serious.
“I’m Tristan.”
She blinked, confusion clearly on her face. I was thoughtful for a moment. It was the innocence in her blue eyes, and the fact she looked like she might cry. Something wasn’t right with this scenario.
“Trist – an,” I said slowly, as if she had some type of hearing impairment.
“Who?”
I narrowed my eyes at her.
“What kind of music do you listen to?”
“Country,” she answered so quickly, she didn’t even blink an eye or stop for thought. On top of that, she said it in such a way that showed she was thoroughly confused, and almost disgusted with me, for even asking such a ridiculous question. She wrinkled her nose.
“Look, I know the owner, and you shouldn’t be here.”
“I know the owner,” I repeated, “and you shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m not leaving,” she said, pulling at her own arm again and sticking out a hand to press against my chest as leverage. I had tugged my shirt off at some point while I was passed out, and her warm hand felt good on my air-conditioned cool skin. Her hand was tiny, I noticed. All of her was thin.
“I’m supposed to be here. Alone,” I emphasized again.
She didn’t respond, so I added, “I think I’ll just call the owner myself, to see where the mix up is.”
“No,” she blurted, stopping in her physical struggle against me. Her eyes opened even wider, if that was possible, and her face was suddenly full of something I couldn’t read. Her blue eyes brightened in a frightening sort of way. Was that fear? Good, she should be afraid.
“Please. I swear. I’m allowed to be here. You don’t need to call Isa.”
She had me. I didn’t really know who Isa was, and the girl sounded confident enough that I let her call my bluff.
“If there is a mistake, and you were scheduled to stay as well, I won’t complain. As a matter of fact, I won’t even be in your way. You won’t even know I’m here. I plan to keep to myself.” Her eyes were glassy, and again I worried she was about to cry.
I released her arm and she pulled it back quickly. She fisted the hand of that arm, holding it against her chest. She began rubbing her upper arm with the opposite hand. I noticed again that she was thin, as were her breasts. I didn’t care for small chested girls. I didn’t care for her.
“Well, I’m Tristan, whom you claim to not know, and you are?”
“I’m…Ireland.”
“Ireland what?”
“Just…Ireland.”
I shook my head.
“So this is how we’re going to play it? Fine, my Irish Isle. What are you doing in the Caymans?”
She looked at me for a moment, then leaned toward me and sniffed. She held the disgusted expression on her face and wrinkled her nose as she pulled back.
“Probably the same thing as you.”
“Drinking myself into oblivion?” I laughed, crossing my arms over my bare chest defensively.
“Hiding,” she replied.
Chapter 2
[Ireland]
Questioned all that came before.
I panicked. As soon as the strange man said he was going to call Isa, I began to beg. I was close to tears. I couldn’t go back. Not yet. I just needed some time to wrap my head around everything. I was tired of fighting with Isa because she wouldn’t listen to reason. Well, at least not my reasons. Isa was determined that I would do what she said, despite being twenty-one years old. She was always in charge, or I paid the price, and I was certainly going to pay now for my running away stunt.
When I entered the Cayman house, I immediately fell over three suitcases carelessly placed in the front hall. Not expecting anyone to be in the home, I hadn’t seen the bags as I struggled with my own, while I passed through the front door. I couldn’t hire a car. I preferred to travel in disguise for my venture. I used cash to pay the cab driver and asked him to drop me at the condo building next door, preferring to act as if tha
t was my destination, instead of the private home on the waterfront. It would not go unnoticed that I arrived…alone.
For all this man’s concern, this Tristan person, who thought I knew him, I was more worried at first that he might recognize me. I knew without the make-up, I looked years younger. With make-up, I could be made to look an innocent teenager, a seductive temptress, or twenty-something sophisticate. Without it, I had blonde hair that hung straight to my chin, freckles on my nose that Isa threatened to have removed by laser treatment, and a body that was thin enough to be almost awkward looking. Isa had me practically starving myself for the shoots this summer, and I hadn’t recovered all the weight that made me look more human.
In his drunken state, the man hardly seemed like he’d recognize himself in the mirror, though. He was gorgeous. I’d seen the look before. I’d modeled across from and up against men that looked like him. Chiseled cheeks, deep moss colored eyes, light brown waves slicked back, but curling on his neck. It was a popular style for the times and he wore it well. But when I looked deeper, I saw the circles under his eyes, which were slightly red-rimmed and blood shot. He looked like I woke him, as his hair was slightly disheveled, flat on one side of his head. More importantly, he smelled. Alcohol seemed to be emanating from his pores.
His body was solid, and I would only know this because my hand had been on his chest in an attempt to get away from him. He had a large dragon looking tattoo across the left side of him, which curled under his arm and around to his back. Firm chest muscles and taunt abs that were accentuated in hills and valleys on his body totaled six solid bumps: an undeniable six pack. His pants hung low, exposing a light trail of soft looking hair leading into his jeans and two hard hipbones. In my brief moment of pushing against him with my hand, I was able to take all this in. Unfortunately, I had made no progress in pushing him away. He was stronger, but I was used to this maneuver of pushing on the chest, using it to hold off…no, I wouldn’t think of him. Not yet. I needed time and this was my time.
