The Truth of Tristan Lyons

by L. B. Dunbar

  I stared at her, incredulously. Frightened me? He barged into the house and verbally attacked me, implying things that weren’t true, and making comments that he shouldn’t be allowed to say. He fought with Tristan, who tried to defend my honor.

  Tristan. It all felt like a dream: a wonderful fantasy from which I wished to never wake.

  “You’re eyes are puffy as well, darling. You said you slept well. Maybe you should come home.” Isa narrowed her eyes at me, taking a quick scan over my face again.

  I mirrored her stare, shocked that she even questioned whether I should return home, to my own home, versus staying at Mark’s.

  “I want to go home,” I said, trying to sound convincing. “I think I might sleep better there. Not to mention, all my things are there. In my room. At our home.”

  My mother smiled at me, her blue eyes sparkling as she understood what I was trying to do.

  “Okay. Home, we go,” she said, as she smoothed my hair again, framing my face with her hand and resting it gently under my chin. I tried not to flinch as my mother touched where Mark had grabbed me the night before.

  “Is there anything you want to share with me about the Caymans?” Isa stared at me, her eyes briefly looking concerned for my well-being.

  I tried to keep the longing out of my eyes, as I would have liked nothing more than to share with someone the wonderful feelings I had when I thought of the Island. But just as tormenting was the pain of all I had lost.

  “No, Mother. There’s nothing to tell.”

  I was slightly relieved to return to my parents’ apartment in Upper Manhattan. Trinity Modeling owned several units within the building, but the fifty-fourth floor was all ours. It wasn’t exactly a penthouse, but it was a suite all the same. The lower units, within the building, were only two or three bedroom apartments that were home for four to eight models at a time.

  My room was still slightly girlish, with its soft flowing curtains and a double canopy bed, but it was home and I enjoyed the privacy. The room wasn’t the same as the bedroom from when I was fourteen. The room didn’t hold any teenage memories. As I grew older, the posters came off the walls and pictures of plants and flowers replaced them. My windowsills held too many plants and herbs, important for medicinal purposes, as part of my course work from UCLA. One concession to coming home was that my mother accepted my continued study of botany, and I would transfer to a NYC city college.

  Slowly I was trying to gain some independence and establish my own needs with my overbearing mother. It had been a week since I returned. The Cayman Islands seemed like nothing more than my imagination. Tristan did not contact me after the first twenty-four hours, and as much as I felt the need to explain myself, I didn’t know what to say to him. It was hard to talk to someone that wasn’t willing to listen.

  Mark Cornwall had allowed my return to my parents’ home at my mother’s request. It was one of those rare times he was a good man. He didn’t want to do anything to damage the pending relationship between his industry, the modeling agency, and Marshall’s connections. While it might have seemed like a strange combination, the merger through marriage was all about business and networking. Mark’s industrial business was growing, but he needed connections. Trinity Modeling had societal connections with the rich and famous. Marshall had additional connections with the influential and powerful, with dirt on many important people. It was a trifecta of connections that would intertwine with one another.

  Unfortunately, tragedy struck this fragile connection when Marshall Dragon was found dead in the house on Seven Mile Road. Isa got the call a few days after my return home. When Marshall wasn’t returning any of Isa’s calls, she began to worry about him alone in the Caymans. She scolded me for leaving my uncle, despite my explanation that a nurse had been provided. She wasn’t exactly a nurse, but Estella had worked for the family for years. We trusted her to take care of Marshall.

  When Isa didn’t hear from Marshall after two days, she contacted Estella’s family and asked her sister to go to the house to check on the patient and his nurse. What her sister found was a dead body and a frantic sister. The authorities ruled it a drug overdose, due to the paraphernalia found next to his bed. Given Marshall’s condition, a concussion, it was assumed that he was treating his headaches with the prescribed pain medication, but also took additional drugs: a lethal combination. Estella was beside herself with grief and fear when her sister arrived.

  My father, Hurmon, as next of kin, was asked to come to the Island to claim the body and bring Marshall home for a proper burial. The day of the phone call was the first day that I felt sick to my stomach. My mother was ill, as well, and had taken to her own room to mourn in silent tears. My mother’s great devotion to a younger brother was something I never understood. Not having a sibling myself, it was a relationship I didn’t comprehend. I couldn’t understand the affection for someone who seemed so ruthless and perverted, but Isa did love her brother and she felt his loss.

  I tried to text Tristan again, requesting to meet him, but he still did not respond. I needed to talk to him about Marshall’s death: the potential blessing of Marshall’s death. With Marshall gone, there was no debt to be repaid by my father. Mark could not collect a debt from a man that was no longer alive. Surely Mark would not hold me responsible to fulfill what Marshall had promised? It changed everything in my opinion.

  Chapter 26

  [Tristan]

  A cry for love, begged for peace.

  I was hung-over, and the best cure for a hangover is to start drinking again, which is exactly what I was doing. My liquid breakfast consisted of coffee in a paper cup and Jack Daniels straight from the bottle.

  Lansing Lotte, Perkins Vale, and Kaye Sirs agreed to meet with me at The Round Table. I wanted to share with them my new songs and the acoustics in the empty bar were perfect. The Round Table’s name was appropriate for the circular structure made of brick blocks that looked ancient. Set a story below street level, the walls rose high and narrow in a cylinder shape. The place was simple with a stage on one side and a mirrored bar on the other, typically sparkling with the colors of liquor bottles. In the morning hours, the pit lights were low and the bar was dark. Leo DeGrance owned the place and lived on the third floor, which could only be accessed by a private elevator from the bar floor. His space housed an office on one side of the elevator and his home with his daughter, Guinevere, on the other.

  After Arturo’s disappearance, Guinevere moved home, refusing to remain in Arturo’s apartment due to all the memories. I hadn’t seen Guinevere since my return from the Cayman Islands. I didn’t want to lie to her about Arturo’s pending return and avoiding her was the best way to keep the secret.

  I took a swig from the whiskey bottle on the edge of the stage and chased it with a sip of coffee. Perk grimaced from his place behind his drums and Lansing, with a smirk on his face, only shook his head. Lansing didn’t care, one way or another, what I did. Kaye, on the other hand, was the eager one, clapping his hands, desperate to get the band playing. I had already given the guys the music and they would have practiced on their own. However, I was ready to hear the sound put together, hoping it would come out the way I heard it in my head.

  I strummed the introduction and began to sing the first few lines.

  You were the sun

  And I the drowning sand

  Drifting with the tide

  You held me up

  When I was sad

  I continued to play the start of the chorus when I heard Perk stumble on the drums, and Lansing let the last stroke of his strings fall. I had my back to the empty bar as I sang, and I looked from Perk to Lansing in question. As both men stood with their mouths hanging open, I turned to glance over my shoulder. I couldn’t see what they saw, at first. The low light caught my eyes and blinded me for a moment, like a camera flash in the face. Slowly, my vision cleared, and I noticed Guinevere standing next to a leggy blonde. Her hair was straight to her shoulders, and she wore one o
f those fashionable scarves that chicks like to wear. She had a cropped black leather jacket, over a white t-shirt, and tight dark skinny jeans that hugged her long legs. High-heeled ankle boots finished off her ensemble. I swallowed hard as I took in the girl, who looked like a casual runway model.

  Until I realized that she was one.

  Isolde Ireland fidgeted with a cup of coffee in her hands, her bright blue eyes looking at me hopefully, as she stood next to Guinevere DeGrance.

  “Holy fuck, is that Isolde Ireland?” Lansing spoke into his microphone, without realizing it was still on. His mouth was too close to it.

  Guinevere giggled as Ireland smiled, but I knew enough about Ireland to know it wasn’t a full smile. It didn’t reach her eyes.

  Perk blurted out next: “You’re gorgeous.”

  With this admission, I rounded on my friends.

  “Okay, let’s take five,” I snapped, as I propped my guitar next to an amp and proceeded to exit the stage. Kaye Sirs had already approached Ireland and Guinevere, and Guinevere was making the introductions.

  “Kaye, this is Isolde Ireland. She’s an old family friend of my father and mine, but we haven’t seen her for years. She also claims she’s a friend of Tristan’s.” Guinevere had blue eyes like Ireland, however, hers were more aquamarine in color. She pierced me with her glare as she mentioned Ireland was my friend.

  I choked as I muttered, “Friend?” I turned away from the group and reached for the bottle of Jack on the stage, taking a quick pull before I heard my name.

  “Tristan, please.” Her voice had haunted me each night while I slept and each day while I sang. I heard her cries of pleasure and her deep laughter. I heard her whispered pleas for, again and faster, and her hushed moans of satisfaction. I heard her soft murmers telling me about herself and her eager voice as she talked about her studies.

  I turned back to her to see that Guinevere had pulled Kaye to the edge of the stage, leaving Ireland and me alone, but within viewing distance.

  “Marshall’s dead,” she began.

  I couldn’t respond. I swallowed the Jack that swirled in my mouth and let out a choke. I coughed for several seconds trying to get out the word, “What?”

  “He was found a few days ago. He was mixing his pain meds with…something stronger. The condemning syringe was found on the stand next to the bed when Estella found his body.”

  I was silent for a moment and pointed to an empty table for us to take a seat. I carried the liquor bottle with me, holding it in front of my body like a shield against her. She was so beautiful. She looked different, though. Her face was definitely made up: her lashes thicker, her lips colored, her eyes shadowed. She looked good, but different. Something was off. I realized as we sat, it was her freckles.

  “Where are your freckles?” My voice came out slightly slurred. “They’re gone.”

  “Mark doesn’t like them. He says it makes me look too young.”

  “Mark?” I growled.

  “Tristan,” she pleaded, “you have to let me explain. I didn’t know Mark was your uncle.”

  “Of course not. You never mentioned his name.”

  “I just couldn’t say it. I didn’t want to spoil anything.”

  “Spoil anything?” I laughed. “Like telling me your real name might have spoiled things.”

  “Tristan,” she pleaded again softly. “Ireland is my real name.”

  I went to pull the bottle to my mouth, but her hand reached across the table to grab it. I felt the gentle tug as she tried to take it from me, but I held tight. We had a silent tug of war for a moment, before I slammed the bottle on the table. She released her hand letting it slip to touch mine. Whether by accident or on purpose, I felt a spark travel through my fingers and pulled back directly. She stared into my eyes and removed her hands from view by placing them under her own legs, as if holding them captive so she wouldn’t touch me again.

  “You are young,” I blurted without thinking.

  She blinked at me.

  “You’re only twenty-two and Mark is forty.”

  I watched as Ireland hung her head slightly, averting her eyes from my cold glare.

  “You know I didn’t have a choice in this.”

  I did know and I would have done anything to save her. Anything. But I couldn’t go against Mark.

  “I would have tried to save you from anyone. Anyone,” I slapped the top of the table, “but I can’t save you from Mark. My uncle, Mark.”

  She stared at me. Sapphire eyes penetrated the hard glare I was holding against her. It was written on her face. She didn’t want Mark.

  “I didn’t need you to save me from Mark, Tristan. I needed you to be with me like I wanted to be with you.”

  I noticed the use of the past tense, as if I didn’t already know it was over. We were over.

  “That’s part of the reason I never mentioned my name. I wanted you to know me for me, not a supermodel. I wanted you to like me for me, not because of some fantasy about a face or body.”

  I snorted.

  “Oh, like you were so honest at first,” her voice rose with a bit of anger. “You didn’t tell me you were Tristan Lyons, until I figured it out. You didn’t want me to see you as a rock star either, remember?”

  “But you figured out who I was. You didn’t bother to tell me who you were.”

  “I’m Ireland,” she pleaded. “You know me.”

  “I have no idea who you are,” I replied.

  She looked down at the table and removed a hand from under her leg to push her hair behind her ears.

  “Well,” she said, looking up at me, a steely resolve in her sapphire blue eyes, “I guess I know who you are now. The real you.”

  She stood by pressing a hand on the table and swiped the bottle with her other hand as I rose. I reached for it, but she pulled it back behind her.

  “Hey,” Perkins yelled from the stage. It was a warning that if I went after Ireland, there would be Perk to deal with. He wasn’t a small guy, and although I held my own against Marshall, I didn’t want to fight with Perkins.

  I leaned back and crossed my arms as Ireland walked backward to the bar. She held my gaze until she was at the side of the long wooden structure. Spotting a trashcan at the bar’s end, I knew before she did it what she intended to do.

  “You wouldn’t,” I growled at her.

  “You know, I would,” she replied, as she dumped the remainder of the bottle in the trash.

  “Newsflash, we’re in a bar.”

  “Newsflash, I hate you,” she said with a shaky voice, as she dropped the empty bottle in the bin. Then she turned to exit through the main passageway that led up to the street level and out of The Round Table.

  Time froze as I watched her go. Then like a swirl in a kaleidoscope, several things happened at once. Guinevere ran after Ireland. Kaye followed slowly behind. When I turned to Lansing and Perkins, I saw the devil in both their eyes.

  “What the fuck was that?” Lansing laughed.

  “I wouldn’t believe it, if I didn’t see it,” laughed Perk.

  “What?” I snarled at them both as I approached the stage stairs and climbed.

  “Was that a lover’s quarrel or a bitch slap, I just saw happen to Tristan Lyons?” Lansing laughed again.

  “It was definitely a lover’s quarrel,” Perkins replied as he snapped his sticks together. “And I can’t believe it. Has The Heartbreaker fallen in love?” Perk’s devious voice didn’t match the spark in his eyes as he spoke to me.

  “Shut the fuck up, both of you, and play,” I demanded, as I pulled on my guitar and let my fingers strum violently down the strings. A loud laugh came from the corner of the bar. We turned in the direction of the shadows to see Arturo King standing on the edge of darkness.

  Chapter 27

  [Tristan]

  A tale is told to the band.

  I blinked as if I’d seen a mirage before my face. Lost at sea and hopeful of land, I swayed as if I had sea legs, while I ro
unded the mic stand and shielded my eyes from the crowd lights to get a better view into the darkness edging the circular room.

  Stepping out of the shadows, Arturo King stood before us, with his choppy dark waves, his dark soulful eyes, and a scruff of stubble on his face. He looked thin but healthy. He had a black leather jacket on and his hands were in the coat pockets. He stared at his band as we stared back at him.

  “Heard there was band practice without me?” he said, a smile in his voice.

  “Oh, thank God,” Perk said. I heard him stumble, kicking his drum set as he rounded it before jumping off the stage and embracing Arturo. I noticed that Arturo didn’t return the hug.

  “Dude, it’s really you?” Perk said, as he pulled back and stared at the lead singer of The Nights. I looked over at Lansing, who stood still as a statue. His mouth closed in tight lips, his eyes liquidy, as he stared at his oldest friend. My heart dropped for my fellow guitarist. Lansing had a heavy secret. The return of Arturo would bring it all into the light.

  Lansing still hadn’t moved. I returned my gaze to Arturo and proceeded to exit the stage, once again, by the stairs. I carried my guitar with me as I approached my lost friend. A man I considered a brother months ago.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” I snapped.

  Arturo only glanced at me before Perk interceded.

  “First off, we’re so happy you are alive. And well?”

  Perkins eyed me then shifted his gaze back to Arturo.

  “Alive, I suppose. Well? I don’t know.”

  I did a quick scan of Arturo’s stature and noticed he still had his hands in his pockets. He looked otherwise okay, but there was no way to know what scars lay beneath his clothing or within his soul.

  “I’m sorry, man. It’s been a rough morning.”

  “So I see. Or rather heard. What’s the deal?”

  I bit my lip before I decided to tell my tale to the band. I explained that I went to the Island to get away and think. There I encountered Ireland, who was actually Isolde, the super model. I explained how I had no idea who she was, and how I thought she was a fangirl at first. We’d come to an agreement after she dumped all my alcohol down the sink, and we developed a friendship as I tried to teach her to play the guitar. The guys laughed at the disposal of my alcohol, as they had just witnessed the same scenario. Lansing asked if she might be good at guitar.