by L. B. Dunbar
I stepped into her space and reached around her to grab my own drink that the bartender placed on the bar. I didn’t step back, but stayed within an inch of her. The two men on either side of her walked away, and the bartenders began taking orders from other customers.
“What are you doing?” I growled.
“Just having a drink. You should know…”
“Careful, Irish Isle,” I warned, cutting her off.
She took another drink of the rum punch, swallowing it down like she was guzzling water. I reached for her cup, removing it from her hands.
“What’s happening here?” I growled again, as I stared into her eyes.
“Just testing out various flavors,” she bit.
“Flavors? You aren’t a…wait a minute…are you jealous?”
“Jealous? Of what?” she sneered, brushing passed me, but I wrapped my hand around her wrist. She stopped as I tugged her arm, forcing her to turn and face me.
“Don’t be jealous,” I laughed, drawing her to my chest. “You’re my favorite flavor.”
“For now.” She smirked then tried to laugh, too.
It had just grown dark when Ireland announced she was starving. She had on another sundress, this time in bright yellow, and black flip-flops, which made her look even tinier compared to me. Her air-dried hair was kinky like earlier. I noticed, not for the first time, that she was naturally beautiful with the freckles on her nose.
I was more than happy to go down the street to a local outdoor bar, with a large screen TV, for burgers at Ireland’s request. I hoped to catch a college basketball game, while enjoying the cool evening air and Ireland’s company. Again, I believed that public was better, because I wanted nothing more than to kiss her, touch her, and taste her. I couldn’t be alone with her and trust myself. I almost kissed her on the boat, but that public display of affection would have been misinterpreted by the curious passengers, who witnessed our apparent lover’s quarrel.
I was actually slightly honored that she was jealous earlier. It wasn’t the insulting fangirl, though, as much as the mention of flavors that seemed to upset her. It was an acknowledgement that I had a variety of women in my past. She laughed when I tried to say she was my favorite flavor. Internally, I hadn’t had her enough to know what flavor she was, but the sampling I’d had assured me her flavor might be distinguished above the rest.
I held her hand as we walked to the bar-restaurant. It was so strange that it seemed like such a casual, normal thing to do as we talked about what we saw during the day. I promised to show her what I filmed from our adventure when we reached the bar. I had downloaded the footage to my phone. We sat down at a high table in the back and watched the large screen projecting college basketball, while we sipped beers and listened to a shaky guitar player sing Jimmy Buffet songs. Before our burgers arrived, I asked Ireland to dance and led her to the small space before the solo guitarist. Pulling her into my arms, as I had longed to do all day, she laid her head on my chest. We weren’t so much formally dancing, as embracing as we swayed to the music.
I recognized the singer attempting to sing an acoustic version of my original song, “Run Away.” In an effort to overshadow the guitarist, I began to sing softly in Ireland’s ear, setting my lips to rest against her lobe.
Need to get away
Find a place to stay
Not a crushing home
Of broken brick
Or bloody bones
Need a love to stay
Lick the wounds away
A bond of mended glass
Holding true the task
To help me run away
Keep me safe and stay
Hold me tight with love
Mend me up with love
“That was so beautiful,” Ireland whispered. “You should sing more often.”
I smiled crookedly. “Nah, I’m fine with Arturo being the lead.” She made a face at me. I realized that what I just said was a casual reference to our leader. I hadn’t told her much about Arturo’s disappearance, and she hadn’t asked me any questions directly about the band, letting me tell her what I did or didn’t want her to know. I sometimes felt she held back her secrets, as well, but I didn’t mind. Sharing wasn’t the reason we were here. Avoiding was the reason.
The waitress interrupted us, to tell us our burgers were on the table, and we returned in time for a brief news update on the projected screen.
“And in entertainment news,” the reporter began, “Arturo King was seen outside a Portland, Oregon rehabilitation earlier this week. The lead singer of The Nights mysteriously disappeared in August after a motorcycle accident caused by the paparazzi. Presumed dead on impact, the lack of his body kept family and fans skeptical. His confirmed presence at the exclusive recovery center leaves the legendary music leader’s followers questioning, where has the King been for over eight months?”
The weight of Ireland’s eyes on me was heavy before her hand covered mine. I ignored her touch as the image of Arturo standing outside a brown brick building, head bent, body draped in a leather jacket, brought back a flood of memories and hurt.
“Tristan?” Ireland spoke softly, a hundred questions in my name.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” I answered, without looking at her. I removed my hand from under hers to signal for the waitress. “Do you mind if we leave?”
Ireland wiped her lips and placed her napkin on the table as her consent. She stood and reached to take my hand, but I slipped my own into each of my short’s pockets.
We walked back to the house in silence. The darkness of the night seemed to engulf us deeper into that quiet. When we entered the house, I was heading straight to my room to make some calls, when I felt a tug on my short’s waistband. I turned to look at her.
“Hey,” she began, “don’t shut me out. You can talk to me.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“I don’t know what happened.”
“Tristan, please. Let me help you.”
“Help me? You can’t help me.”
“Let me in,” she stressed, as she stepped closer to me, placing her hands on my chest. I was oblivious to her palms rubbing in small strokes over my chest, around my own nipples, and down to my abs. She began to gently tug my t-shirt upward, exposing my skin, and brushing a hand lightly across it above my waistband.
“Let me distract you,” she breathed, knowing I wasn’t going to offer her any more information. “Let me help you forget, for a little while.”
“Like you’re forgetting, Ireland?” My voice came out rough. “Like you keep forgetting that you’re engaged, or about to be engaged, to another man?” My pitch was rising, and I wiped a hand over my face in frustration, as I gently pushed her off my chest. I couldn’t deal with her right now. I had to make some calls. I had to contact Kaye. I planned to call Guinevere to hear if she knew anything or not.
I’d just seen Arturo King in the flesh, standing up, walking. I was the only one in the band that hadn’t seen him in person yet. My mind was on overload with questions: questions of concern and relief. Concern for Arturo that all was actually well for him. Relief that Arturo did look well. Hope rose in my heart that things might actually go back to what they were before. Before the accident. Before Ireland.
I glanced at her, as if I had forgotten she was standing there. The look on her face was pure pain. If I’d slapped her, I don’t think she would have looked as hurt as she looked then. Her blue eyes were cloudy and her hands were shaking as she removed them from me. She tried to steady them, by squeezing them tight, by clenching and unclenching her entwined fingers.
“What?” I bit.
“Nothing,” she replied, so weakly I almost didn’t hear her. “Thank you for dinner and earlier today.” She turned and walked quickly away from me, turning around the corner that hid the hall before I could think to follow after her.
Chapter 17
[Ireland]
To be rejected under black of night
I felt utterly rejected. I didn’t know what to do for Tristan. I wanted to assure him that I was willing to listen, if he wanted to talk. It was obvious he didn’t. I was even willing to do anything physical, sexual, that might distract him, if that would help wipe the sadness off his face. It was obvious he didn’t want that either. I was horrible at seduction. After the other night, I wanted him to touch me, and I wanted to touch him in reciprocation. Then he made his cruel comments about my engagement.
I wasn’t sure if I was more upset that a man known as The Heartbreaker, calling his conquests flavors, had rejected me, or if it was the fact that the man I was beginning to know as Tristan, who had been kind and friendly all day, suddenly shut me out. Perhaps, it was that a man, who had been a generous lover nights before, didn’t want any more to do with me. That was where the heartbreak came from, that rejection.
I climbed onto my pure white bed in the honeymoon suite and let a slow tear fall. It was a reminder of things to come for me. I recalled Tristan’s words, Like you’re forgetting, Ireland. I was not ashamed to admit that Tristan was making me forget. He was making me hopeful that I could find satisfaction. He was making me believe it might be possible to love. I was a foolish girl, though. He was Tristan Lyons, a known player. It couldn’t be someone like me that would take his mind off whatever ruined our night.
I didn’t know anything about Arturo King, or what happened to him, other than the numerous news accounts and the notorious gossip rags. He was presumed dead. It seemed almost impossible to believe the accident hadn’t been fatal. The media images showed motorcycle wreckage, so severe, it was hard to picture the metal was originally a racing bike made for speed. It was heavily rumored that he did survive, but was in seclusion for an intensive recovery. Nothing was ever confirmed or denied, and eventually the general public seemed to lose interest in the story. Gossip magazines still followed stories about the band members as they tried to cope with Arturo’s loss, and the question of whether the band would regroup or dismantle without Arturo King as their leader.
It was within those gossip magazines, that I read how Tristan Lyons was plowing through girls faster than a farmer tills his soil. He didn’t have that reputation of The Chivalrous Lover like Arturo King, who made all girls want an experience with him, until he met Guinevere DeGrance. He didn’t have the quiet resolve of Perkins Vale, who was rumored to be a witness to the accident, as he was the one riding a separate motorcycle next to Arturo when the crash took place. Although, I knew better than to believe anything the gossip mongers published, I couldn’t help but wonder about the truth of Tristan Lyons, as I saw the many, many pictures of him with a variety of woman.
Thoughts of those other women increased my disappointment. I should have known better than to hope I could attract a man like Tristan. Isa had often commented on my lack of seduction, persuasion as she tried to glorify the term. It was part of the reason I was being forced to marry one selected for me. I wasn’t attracting the right sort of man. It wasn’t that I wasn’t attractive, but it had to be more than physical magnetism for Isa to be happy with my catch. Money and stability were the only characteristics that would satisfy Isa. A necessity to fulfill all the debts owed to others.
I suddenly felt very unattractive. If someone like Tristan Lyons, who wasn’t too particular about his women, wouldn’t let me be one of his, what did that say about me? I already admitted to him I didn’t have the power or the experience to seduce a man. A man like Tristan wouldn’t want to be distracted by an inexperienced girl. He needed a woman, who knew what she was doing, to take his mind off that sadness. I cursed myself further, because I didn’t really want to be one of his many, anyway. I wanted him to be interested in me for me. I wanted any man to be interested in me for me. He was right; I wasn’t available to him.
A soft rap on my door interrupted my sorrowful thoughts, and I wiped another large tear that slowly dripped down my cheeks.
“Come in,” I said quietly. I twisted to glance in the direction of the door briefly. Knowing it could only be Tristan, I needed the quick reassurance that it was him, before I turned away to stare at the white walls of my room.
“Ireland,” he said quietly, as the bed depressed behind me. He placed a hand on my shoulder, and I wiped my cheek free of another tear.
“Ireland, I’m sorry,” he sighed as he ran his hand down my arm. “I overreacted.”
I couldn’t say anything, for fear I would embarrass myself more.
“Seeing Arturo. It just made…”
“You don’t have to tell me,” I cut him off. “You don’t have to share anything with me.” I twisted my neck to look over my shoulder. He was still kneeling behind me, his hand on my arm. He removed his hand and I turned away. The bed shifted as I sensed him lay down behind me.“I want to tell you,” he said. He paused for a moment as if thinking where to begin. I rolled to face him. He laid on his back and put a hand under his head as he stared at the ceiling.
“It was so frustrating at first. That night was so chaotic. The concert. Mel Agent. The girl. It was one of the most frantic shows we ever played. As soon as the set ended, Perk and Arturo were gone, and I…I was doing my typical make on a girl. When the call came the next morning that there had been an accident; that was all we knew. No body. No nothing. We couldn’t be sure he was dead without a body. It just didn’t feel right to any of us.
That same night, Mure Linn, our band mentor, disappeared, too. Ingrid Tintagel, Arturo’s mother, had faith in Mure. She was convinced he’d be the one to find Arturo, save him, if possible. She remained aloof. And Arturo’s stepsister, Ana LeFaye, who has a comment about every fucking thing was surprisingly quiet. The band believed they knew something, but weren’t telling us. After a month, Ana claimed she wanted to return to Paris for work. Ingrid followed shortly thereafter, saying she needed to get away from all the speculation. She supposedly went to Paris to stay with Ana. None of us believed either of them.
But we didn’t have any leads. We didn’t have any answers. Arturo hadn’t been taken anywhere local, that we knew. No hospitals reported an unknown or unidentified man admitted from an extreme motorcycle accident that night.”
My hands were still under my head, clasped as if in prayer, in order to keep them from reaching to comfort him. Tristan continued to stare at the dark ceiling, focusing on the soft spin of a ceiling fan. I imagined he only saw the mangled metal in his mind.
“That was in late August. It’s nearly the end of April. Where the hell has he been? And what the fuck happened?” He huffed to the ceiling. His arm was close to mine, and I tentatively rubbed his forearm to soothe his angry words. He didn’t push me away. If I had to guess, he probably didn’t even notice my touch. I pressed my fingers firmer as I traced up and down the tendons of his arm.
“We had to cancel our tour. The promotion company was pissed as hell to lose out on the revenue, but thankfully Kaye, and Guinie’s father, Leo, were able to assist in the penalty fees, ticket sale returns, etc. That isn’t my area. We were more concerned with whether the band could last without Arturo. We didn’t want to go on without him. Suddenly, we were lost without him.”
Tristan rolled on his side to face me. He lay in a mirror reflection of me as I removed my hand, returning it under my head. He scooted closer to me, so I could feel the breeze of his breath as he softly continued.
“Arturo saved my life. When we met in college, I needed…something. A connection. He gave it to me. I completed the band he had already developed in high school with Perk and Lansing. We hit it big during that time. By the time we graduated, we were struggling to keep up with classes only because of our upcoming album. But it wasn’t just the music making that saved me.
I lived with my uncle, and let’s just say, things had been rough, as I told you. Arturo moved me into his mother’s home when school started, and I never looked back. He was like my brother in arms. We were a band of brothers,
literally. I’d lost more than a bandmate. I lost a best friend and brother when he disappeared.”
His voice was sad. I desperately wanted to hold him in hopes of comforting him. I didn’t know what to say, and I was ready to admit that when he continued.
“I knew he was coming back. The day I found out you were engaged, Kaye had called to say Arturo had contacted him. He would be home in a few months, Kaye thought. It was overwhelming to learn, but a relief to know he was alive. It just didn’t seem real, though, until I saw him on the television. He is alive. He was standing and moving. It was almost surreal.”
I did reach for his forearm then, and he slid a hand down to cover mine. He gently stroked the back of my hand with his thumb. I remained silent for several minutes, giving him time if he wanted to share more, if he even had more to say. I also wasn’t sure how to respond to all he had said. I was letting it all sink in when something struck me about his monologue.
“You found out I was engaged from Kaye Sirs? How?”
“He said that your mother called him. She’s the owner, right? Asked if you were here with me. Said you were missing and she was concerned. Mentioned you had a fiancé and he was worried.”
Panic set in immediately, and I sat up straight.
“You didn’t…you didn’t mention that I was here, did you?”
“No. I didn’t act like I had seen a girl at all, other than the maid.”
Tugging on my hand, Tristan tightened his hold on me, forcing me to lie back down. My voice was a whisper.
“Why didn’t you say something? You could have sent me home right then, and I would have been out of your way. You could have had the maid.” I didn’t mean it to sound snippy, but it did.
“I didn’t say anything,” he said softly, his breath coming closer to my lips, “because I didn’t want to let you go, despite hearing you had a fiancé.”
