The Truth of Tristan Lyons

by L. B. Dunbar

  I passed the couch, ignoring the drunken stranger. He looked younger lying there with his mouth hanging open, snoring slightly. The back of his t-shirt was damp, and I realized he played the guitar hard, like I trained physically to keep my body in shape. Two hours a day of yoga, cardio-kick boxing, and toning in a variety of combinations kept my thin figure. Although at this point, I was too thin. The cardio-kick boxing, however, might actually turn out to be more necessary than just a mere exercise I decided, not for the first time.

  I entered the kitchen and found the ingredients to make a salad. The great thing about the tropics was the addition of fruit, like mangoes, in a salad. It dressed up the typical, boring lettuce. I made extra for my unworthy house-guest, as I promised him I’d cook. I didn’t see any additional utensils or plates in the sink or dishwasher, so I assumed he hadn’t eaten all day. Drinking as he did, he would rot his stomach before he killed his liver.

  I didn’t question his drinking, though. It was obvious he was hiding out, and he openly admitted to drinking himself into oblivion. It wasn’t my concern either way, however, I was curious. I knew why I was hiding. I just found it ironic that someone else might feel the need to hide from life, too.

  I really wanted to watch mindless television, or maybe put in a movie to drown out my thoughts. I didn’t like the idea of taking the food to my room. I was okay being alone. I was fine with the relative seclusion of the house, but I didn’t want to be a recluse, only staking out my bedroom.

  I said his name softly, and he snorted then swallowed several times. I said his name again, and he didn’t budge. I decided it might be safe to simply turn the television on low and sit on the one side of the couch. Tristan was sprawled out with his feet in one corner and his head bent at an angle in the other. He had to be taller than six feet as this position was the only way to accommodate his body. I admired his long legs and his strong forearms. He looked peaceful for the moment, and I decided against trying to wake him.

  I ate my dinner, perched on the side of the couch, while I watched a movie about a teenager wishing to be older. The girl got a chance to go back and do it all again, in the end. I would go back to being thirteen, if I could. Then I’d put my foot down and be a normal teenager. I would have told my mother off, eaten what I wanted, and had a boyfriend. Instead, I had photoshoots, which often caused me to miss school. I was on a strict diet, and I’d never had a boyfriend.

  Co-working models didn’t make good companions. I always felt like I was in competition with them, as well. I hated that guys could outdress me when necessary, and often got more than their share of attention. Women could be so bold toward good-looking men. For that fact, men could often be daring to the point of being abrasive to good-looking women, as I found out on a few occasions. More often than not, my photo shoot partners were gay. Either way, I didn’t go out much publicly, unless it was absolutely required. That was the only way I could fit in the work for my college courses. Stay in to study.

  My mother didn’t appreciate my attempts to earn a college degree, but she didn’t stop me from trying. She told me it was honorable but unnecessary. I would marry a wealthy man and be set for life. I wouldn’t need that degree for any other purpose. But for me, there was a purpose. I wanted the degree to prove to myself that I was more than a pretty face. I had a brain. I could do some good with it, if I was ever allowed to be on my own.

  As the movie played on, I put a pillow by Tristan’s feet, and lay down on my back. I was still able to see the television as the set was raised above the fireplace. I placed my feet on the armrest of the sofa, crossing them at the ankles and continued to watch the movie, fighting the pull of my eyelids to close.

  I woke with a start when a warm body covered mine.

  “My Irish Isle, come to join me on the couch?” Tristan breathed in my face as he stroked back my hair. I froze at his touch. How did he get on me, and a better question was why?

  His lips pressed against my neck tenderly, but I pushed on his chest, willing myself not to panic.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “You crawled onto my couch,” he sighed warmly against my neck. “Thought you were joining me.”

  “I did no such thing,” I growled, as he continued to nip at my neck.

  “Mmmm…you smell good,” he sighed, sniffing me then letting his breath tickle my skin.

  “Get. Off. Me,” I said slowly, calmly.

  “But you came on my couch.”

  “It’s my couch,” I bit back.

  “Well, I want you to come on your couch then,” he laughed. I could tell he was still drunk, but he was dead weight on me. I couldn’t get him to budge off of me. He nuzzled my neck again before he spoke.

  “Want to change the rules, Irish?”

  “What rules?”

  “The alone rules.”

  “No,” I remarked adamantly. I didn’t even know what he was talking about, but I had a good sense of what he wanted. I could feel it pressed against my stomach, and my thighs clenched closed as my ankles were still crossed.

  “Tristan, get off me,” I said again, pushing on his chest with gentle force. This only seemed to reinforce his counterbalance to press back on me.

  “I need relief,” he sighed, kissing my shoulder.

  “Well, I don’t.” I shoved harder.

  “Yes, you do. You’re uptight.”

  “I am not.” I tried again, the exertion of pushing on him straining my voice.

  “Yes, you are. Look how hard you’re pushing me, and I’m barely holding you down.”

  “Are you listening to yourself? You’re holding me down. Against my will.”

  “I promise you’ll like it.” He smiled crookedly. For a flicker of a millisecond, I almost gave in with that smile.

  Dammit.

  “Get off!” I shoved with both hands and twisted my hips, putting my whole body into it.

  This forced him to roll to the side, falling off the couch, but dragging me with him. His body wedged between the ottoman and the couch as I lay on top of him. I could still feel his excitement. I was pissed. I pushed up on his chest, but he gripped my hips to hold me in place.

  “Ah, right there, honey,” he groaned, as he rotated his hips to push against me.

  “Let. Me. Go,” I said, my hands firmly pressing into his chest, attempting to raise my hips off him. He only closed his eyes, and his hips rolled upward again. My own body responded against my will and his eyes sprang open. Glazed over moss met mine. He smiled crookedly at me.

  “No,” I said holding his gaze.

  His lopsided smile continued to mock me, and he moved his hips upward once more. This time I held myself still.

  “Fuck no,” I emphasized, hitting his chest.

  “Oh yeah, baby, say dirty words to me.”

  “You’re pathetic,” I snapped.

  “That’s not nice.” He fake pouted in response.

  “You’re not nice,” I answered back.

  “I can be very nice,” he laughed. I shifted to balance on one hand and slapped him with the other. Thank you yoga moves, I silently cheered. That exercise might come in handy after all, too.

  “What the fuck?” he growled.

  I used his surprise to scramble off him and stand. He remained on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

  “I hate you,” I yelled. “And if you touch me again, I’ll have you out of here and back to whatever you’re hiding from faster than you can say your own name.”

  With that proclamation, I ran to my room. After locking the door, I slid down it from shaky legs that could no longer hold me.

  Chapter 5

  [Ireland]

  A lonely beauty unlocked the gate

  The next morning I trained hard. I ran the entire length of the beach, not quite a true seven miles as the road claimed. I crossed over to said street, with its famous name, and ran end to end, despite the heat. Soaking in sweat, I entered the house from the front door and found Trista
n had finally moved from the floor. He was still passed out on it this morning before I left.

  True to my word, I had changed his sheets and made his bed at five a.m. when I woke. I had no idea why I did it, though. He was an asshole. Did I think he meant to hurt me last night? No. Was I scared? Yes. Despite his good looks, and that crooked tempting smile, a drunken man was not a good man. I wasn’t about to have sex for the first time with someone like him. I’d been saving myself for the love of my life, whoever that person might be, even if I had to marry for money or debts. I could only hope a profession of love was authentic, even if I wasn’t sure what it was supposed to feel like to love another.

  Knowing that Tristan was probably in his room, since the door was closed, I went to the freezer and began removing the bottles of vodka. If he wanted to drink, he was going to have to go out, and do his business elsewhere. If he couldn’t make it back to the house, that wasn’t my problem. He wasn’t going to drink in the house anymore.

  I was in a focused rage of dumping large volumes of liquor down the kitchen sink, a bottle in each hand, when I heard a deep voice behind me.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  I dropped one bottle and it bounced around inside the sink. Surprisingly, it didn’t break as it continued to spew alcohol down the drain. The other bottle was almost empty and I held it against my chest as if I could use it for a protective shield.

  “Trying to save you from yourself,” I said.

  “I don’t need you to save me,” he retorted, as he narrowed his bloodshot eyes at me.

  “Then I’m trying to save me from you,” I responded.

  He opened his moss green eyes wide. The red rims accentuated today.

  “What do you mean, save you from me?”

  I gripped the bottle tightly in my hand, beginning to wring the neck of it. I focused on moving my fingers around it, back and forth, rubbing it as if it was a talisman.

  “Don’t you remember last night?”

  “No…well, yeah, I fell asleep on the couch.”

  “You…you passed out, you mean?”

  “I didn’t pass out,” he said disgruntled. “I closed my eyes and fell asleep.”

  “You attacked me last night.”

  “I…” He looked me up and down, thinking of something before changing tactics. “Did you like it?” He smirked.

  “You’re a pig,” I spit as I reached out to slap him again, but he caught my wrist.

  “Careful, Irish.”

  He was holding my wrist tightly, and he gripped it harder when I tried to pull it out of his grasp.

  “Let go of me,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Ah, I seem to be recalling some things. Did you slap me last night?” he questioned me, as if teasing me, but his tone spoke otherwise.

  “Yes. Now let go of me,” I said again, tugging at my arm. He only held me tighter, taking a step toward me, into my personal space.

  “I seem to also recall those same words, but I think…let me see, I think you pressed into me when you said them.” He moved swiftly to press me against the sink, with the weight of his body and the fullness of his arousal.

  I tried to pull my wrist free again and used my hand, still holding the bottle, to press against his chest. This was that familiar move: being held against my will, and still attempting to get free with my other hand.

  He reached for the bottle with his free hand, but I swung my arm out in an effort to get the decanter away from him. His reach was longer than mine, and he easily clasped the bottom of the bottle as I held the neck. The motion forced us to collide together. We then stood firmly pressed chest to chest. Mine was rising and falling with fear and adrenaline. Tristan paused for a moment to look down at my breasts, which were tightly constrained against him. The force of our connection pushed them upward, bulging out through the neckline of my tank. Using his glance as a distraction, I twisted my outstretched wrist and turned the bottle to pour the remaining liquid on the floor next to us.

  “You are seriously starting to piss me off,” he growled in my face, tugging me one more time by the imprisoned wrist.

  “And you are seriously hurting me,” I whimpered, as I tried to keep my voice strong. Tears pricked my eyes. I didn’t want to cry, but my wrist was throbbing.

  He dropped both my arms immediately. Stepping back, he stared into my eyes. His deep green looked at me under pinched eyebrows for a moment, as I brought my arms to cover my chest. My wrist was raw and red. I balanced the bottle under one arm while rubbing my wrist with tender fingers.

  He watched me smoothing my hand, over and over again, across the irritated skin. He stared at the motion as if studying what I was doing. He looked back at my face and blinked like he hadn’t seen me standing there before. Then it hit him. I saw it instantly. Horror filled his eyes.

  Chapter 6

  [Tristan]

  Though struggled to keep a beast at bay.

  What was I doing? What the fuck was I doing?

  I had to get away from her.

  I willed my legs to move. I turned my back on her. I took large strides to reach my room and slammed the door behind me, pressing my back into it as I breathed heavily.

  Oh my God, I sighed.

  Oh my God. I didn’t mean to hurt her.

  I didn’t think I was hurting her.

  I would never hurt a woman.

  I would never hurt her.

  The shame almost brought me to tears. I shook with the desire for a drink. It hit me.

  That was the problem. Had I done what she said? Did I attack her last night?

  I couldn’t remember. There had been many nights I had blacked out and couldn’t remember, but not like that. Not like that.

  I opened the door again with enough force to send it crashing into the wall behind. I strode back out to the kitchen, but the sink was clear, the bottles gone, and Ireland missing again.

  That was how the morning started. I had a hazy memory of kissing her neck, of her tropical smell, of her pressing into me, and of her being on top of me. I blew it all off as some drunken dream, when I awoke on the hard floor, on my sore back, staring up at the ceiling of the living room. When I couldn’t find her to confront her, I began to pace the beach in search of her. I found the walk particularly soothing as I travelled back and forth on the sand before the house. I had time to think on that walk and talk myself into believing that I had dreamed it all. There was no reason to confront her or apologize. I hadn’t done anything.

  When I saw her in the kitchen, pouring out my passion, something snapped. I reached for her, like Mark used to reach for me. I stood in the empty space of the kitchen, staring at nothing, frozen in time. The horror of the thought sent me back to my room. I noticed then that she had made my bed and changed the sheets like I teased her the day before.

  That simple act of kindness took my breath away, and I sank to the floor bracing my back against the bed. Placing my head in my hands, balancing my elbows on my knees, I let the emotion take me. I cried. For the first time in a long time, I cried for everything lost.

  I didn’t dare to leave my room for the first twenty-four hours. The vomiting helped at first, but the shakes and the headache were painful. I took it as my penance for almost hurting a woman, actually for hurting her.

  When I couldn’t stand it any longer and knew I needed food, I travelled to the kitchen the following morning to find her not present. Her bedroom door was shut, but I was certain she was not inside. I made myself some toast and noticed again the full pot of coffee. It struck me that the first day I thought it was the staff girl, Estella, who made the coffee and placed a cup there for me. I realized in hindsight, it had been Ireland all along. She had done generous acts, probably without thinking, and all I had done was scare the crap out of her and hurt her.

  I ate slowly at the dining room table, watching the waves roll onto the beach. From where I sat, I wasn’t able to see people walking the sand. It was nice to know no one
could see me. I was still so ashamed, and I needed to apologize. I wanted to apologize.

  It seemed like an infinitely long time passed, but Ireland still did not return. I would have liked to walk on the beach, but my shaky legs couldn’t hold me. I smelled funky from sweating so much, and I would change my own sheets, later. A shower was definitely in order. I put on khaki cargo shorts, with a green t-shirt and no shoes. The shower took most of my energy, but I decided I needed new scenery, so I went onto the raised patio to sit in the shade and feel the tropical heat.

  From that position, I could see that Ireland lay on a chaise longue in the sand, down by the water. Her legs stretched long, a hat on her head, and a book in her hands. She wore a coral colored bikini. I would have liked to approach her and apologize, to get it over with, but then again, I didn’t want to disturb her. I thought back to the first day I met her. I had grabbed her then, too, but what had she said to me.

  She accused me of hiding, but that wasn’t it.

  She said, I was probably doing the same thing as her.

  Was she hiding?

  From what, I wondered. Or who? She obviously had some secrets or issues, and she didn’t need me to add to whatever troubled her.

  I sighed as I began to sweat again. I wasn’t sure if it was the heat or the withdrawal, but I needed the air conditioning and some darkness. Without addressing her, I reentered the house, leaving Ireland in peace, and went to my room to sleep some more.

  Chapter 7

  [Ireland]