Black Heart

by R. L. Mathewson

  He merely shrugged off her comments. “It’s over.” Most men that she knew, including her father, would have taken that as a cue to tell her all about it with the typical embellishments added. Not Tristan. Even as a child he’d hated talking about himself or bringing any attention his way no matter the reason.

  “Tell me about school,” he demanded softly. It seemed things really hadn’t changed. He’d always been interested in what she had to say even if the topic was crayons, dresses, or boys picking on her. He’d always been so sweet and patient with her. She didn’t entirely believe his reputation of being a cold bastard. He’d always been kind to her even when she’d acted like a brat.

  “It’s going well,” she said quickly. She was really in no mood to talk about school since she was up to her eyeballs in reading just to finish her thesis. Her personal life was out as well since she didn’t really have one. The guy she'd kind of been seeing whenever she wasn’t too busy dumped her today via a text.

  Could you dump someone that you hadn’t seen in over a month? She didn’t think so. After not seeing or hearing from someone in over, let’s say a week and a half, a break up should be a mutual understanding. But if Jonathan needed closure he had it now.

  Then there was her professional life. The bar she’d worked at for the past year and a half fired her earlier today. The new manager was unhappy that she wouldn’t embrace his new managerial style like the rest of his “good” employees.

  In other words, she’d refused to wear the skimpy halter top with “Joe’s Bar” written across her chest and “Come get some” stamped across the back of the skimpy shorts that went along with the shirt. After a five-minute standoff, she was given her last paycheck and a dirty look.

  Thankfully nepotism was still alive and thriving. Her father, the Chief of the State Police in their area, decided to give her part of the job that she was supposed to start when she graduated, early. Since she was a few months shy of having her master’s degree in forensic criminology, she couldn’t very well start that job yet. So, her father was creating a position for her even though he swore up and down that it was needed. She was going to act as a personal assistant to one of the detectives. That way she would get more hands on experience. Whatever, she just hoped whoever it was didn’t expect her to fetch coffee.

  Then there was driving home while begging her car not to die on her until she made it home. Someone up there must love her because the car didn’t die until she reached the driveway. She already knew the car was gone. The mechanic told her the next time the engine died that was it. To top off her day, she locked herself out of the house when she went to get the mail. Now, she wasn’t sure if seeing him after all these years was a good or bad point in her day.

  He raised a brow expectantly. Apparently he desired more details. Things really hadn’t changed that much after all. He’d always wanted her to talk, more like demanded it. She could still remember when she was four years old following after him wherever he went, talking a mile a minute about anything and everything while he simply nodded.

  She knew that he wasn’t nodding out of politeness or a way to placate a young child. Any time she stopped speaking he would stop whatever he was doing and look at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue. She learned very early on that he hated complete silence. If she wasn’t speaking, he covered the silence with music or television for background noise. She missed those times with him.

  Not once had he told her to go away or lost his patience with her. Even when his friends were around, she’d always been welcomed. He was her hero, the one she went to when she skinned her knees and the one she yelled for whenever she got stuck up in a tree. He always came for her. Always. He would quietly take care of her before placing a gentle kiss on her boo-boo.

  Even as they grew older and he hit his teenage years, he was there for her. By then the connection that she’d felt with him had developed into a bit of a crush. He was handsome, quiet and easy going, well as long you didn’t get on his bad side. There hadn’t been a time when girls weren’t trying to hang off him, but he never seemed to notice them, never really seemed to care.

  During her freshmen year in high school she remembered sitting back and watching as girls competed for his attention. He dated a few of them, once or twice, but never anything serious. He didn’t want any type of relationship and, from what she’d heard from Beth and Tom, he still didn’t.

  Things had been very difficult for her when they started drifting apart. Even though he’d still lived across the street from her while he’d gone to college, their relationship was never the same. Eventually they became virtual strangers except for the occasional run in. It was weird sitting on his bed in his childhood room being asked to talk once again.

  “I heard you’re working on your thesis this semester,” he said, the soft baritones of his voice managed to pull her out of her daze and back into a situation that would only end with her crying into her pillow later tonight.

  *-*-*-*

  He wanted her to talk, needed it badly. He was surprised how much it pained him to see her in his old room, sitting on his bed again. After all these years, he thought he'd grown immune to her and this goddamn connection that he felt with her. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, distancing himself from her and not a day went by that he didn’t think about her, but it was because he cared about her that he did it. He couldn’t drag her into his hell. Nobody deserved that, least of all her.

  Over the years he’d told himself that as long as she was able to have a long happy life that’s all that mattered. Nothing on this earth would make him happier than knowing that Marty was safe, happy, and living the life that she deserved. As much as it pained him, he knew that he didn’t deserve to be in her life. She deserved more than a freak, and he would make sure that she got it, but for now he just wanted to sit here and listen to the soothing tones of her voice. Just one last time. That’s all it would be, he inwardly swore to himself and to her. Then he would once again walk away.

  *-*-*-*

  The problem was that she didn’t feel like talking about herself. For once she wanted to hear about him. She was sick of finding out everything about him from her father and friends. It was never enough to tell her the one thing that would make this distance tolerable. She wanted to know if he was happy.

  Her eyes darted around the room, hoping to stumble upon something that would get him to talk. She nibbled on her bottom lip as she looked out the window towards her house, quickly coming up with something that she hoped would have him talking for a little while.

  “How do you like your new house?” she asked, hoping that she didn’t sound too eager. Please don’t let her sound pathetic.

  Tristan leaned against the side of the large chair as he eyed her pile of books. He propped his elbow on the arm of the chair and pressed two fingers to the side of his temple, making his bicep bulge. Marty forced herself to look away from all that muscle and ignore the unbelievably sexy pose he was striking.

  “Too big,” he said, sounding annoyed.

  She nodded in agreement even as she bit back a smile. Truth was, the old Thompson place was the biggest house in Stanton. Over the past few years, only large families and a few residential programs had showed any interest in that house. She was surprised when she’d heard that he’d bought it. It was ridiculously large for a bachelor.

  “Why did you buy it? If you don’t mind me asking,” she said, hoping to encourage him to continue talking.

  He looked away before he muttered, “I couldn’t beat the price.”

  “Oh.” She sounded disappointed even to herself. Had she really expected him to say that he’d bought the house because he wanted to be closer to her? She really was pathetic. They hadn’t spoken in years and here she was harboring fantasies that he missed her, even cared about her.

  “I’d rather own my own home than deal with a possible rent hike or pain in the ass tenants and landlords.”

  She nodded absently as
she thumbed through her notebook. “That’s why I decided not to live at the dorm.”

  “Yeah, dorm life can be pretty hectic,” he said distractedly.

  Marty looked up at him and frowned. His jaw was clenched tightly shut and he seemed to be averting his eyes to the left. His posture had gone from sexy to ramrod stiff in the short time since she’d looked away from him. The backs of his knuckles were bleached bone white against the dark tan skin covering his now clenched hands.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, concerned that his shoulder was troubling him.

  “Fine,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’ve gotta go.”

  He stood up, moving slightly to the left as if he were avoiding something in front of him even though there was nothing even remotely close to him and headed for the door. She noted that his eyes were still avoiding looking anywhere to the left.

  “O-okay, I guess I’ll see you around then,” she said, frowning as he practically stormed out of the room. A minute later she climbed off the bed to watch him walk across the street. Whatever they were giving him for pain wasn’t enough, she thought as she watched him walk stiffly towards his house.

  Chapter 3

  Tristan could feel several pairs of eyes watching him as he walked across the street. He knew without looking back that his mother was undoubtedly watching him as she tsked at him.

  He had no idea what the woman wanted from him, never had. Truth was he loved her, more than he’d ever loved his birth mother. For as long as he could remember, he tried not to love her or even like her. He did his damndest to keep his new parents and older brother at a distance, but slowly they’d managed to make him love and accept them. Problem was that it felt wrong. He was a freak, a mistake. He used to feel like he was tricking them into loving him. Now he loved them more than anything and couldn’t imagine a life without them, which made him more careful around them. If they ever found out…..

  A slight tremor ran up his back, letting him know that Marty was also watching him. He fought against the urge to look back even while wondering if he’d see her smiling at him or frowning. Probably frowning, he was a cold bastard after all. He knew the way he’d walked out on her just now was rude, but he hadn’t had much of a choice. He wouldn’t have been able to sit there any longer while enduring the screams.

  “Hey! Look at me! I know you can see me!” the bastard who wouldn't shut the hell up demanded.

  Tristan cringed inwardly, but on the outside he remained calm, cold and unaffected. A few seconds later the man screamed in frustration as he jumped in front of him, trying to block Tristan’s path. Tristan rubbed the back of his neck as he smoothly sidestepped the man and the metal pipe sticking out of his neck.

  Tristan could have easily stepped through him and dealt with the sudden chilling effect that always accompanied that move, but he detested that sensation, always had. As calmly as he could, he walked straight for his front door, leaving the man trailing after him.

  “Come on, don’t be a dick! All I want you to do is go to my house while my wife is away and grab some things out of the house before she finds them. I don’t want her to find out that I’ve been fucking her sister!” the man snapped.

  Tristan shook his head in disgust. Why was he surprised? He really shouldn’t have been. The requests he received from the dead were never selfless. They either wanted help catching their killer, which as a detective, he really didn’t mind doing. Hell, it was the reason he took the job. He figured he’d put his abnormality to good use. Other than that, he received requests for revenge. He couldn’t even count the number of times ghosts begged him to kill on their behalf. Other times he was asked, no, more like ordered, to straighten out the shit the dead left behind. They wanted to make sure the relatives that they’d hated didn’t see a cent of their money, or they wanted to rub it in their spouse’s face that they screwed around. No one ever sought him out with an unselfish motive.

  Well, that wasn’t completely true. Shayne had come to him eighteen years ago to help him as unbelievable as that sounded. Back then, he’d been an eleven year old kid, scared shitless and angry at everything and everyone. His parents were at their wits end, but unlike his birth parents they weren’t willing to give up on him. They did the opposite in fact.

  His father started to refuse overtime so that he could spend more time with him. They went to ballgames, weekend trips to Boston, movies and just hung out. His mother bent over backwards to race home between classes so that she could be there when he got home from school everyday. She’d bake him cookies, play a game with him or help him with his homework before she had to race back to Reese College to teach her next class. Hell, even his brother Denny started dragging him along on his dates and, when any of his girlfriends bitched about having a little kid along, she was history.

  It helped quite a bit at the time, but none of their good intentions fixed what was really wrong. During the day he was still harassed and assaulted by the dead. He’d learned after he was adopted how to act like nothing hurt or bothered him. By the time he was ten, he could sit in algebra class answering a question while he was being punched, kicked, and clawed by the dead who were pissed at being ignored by the only person that could see them. He’d also learned that the best way to keep his parents and teachers from asking about his bruises and cuts was to keep them covered. At night he’d figured out that sleeping under his bed made it more difficult for them to hurt him.

  Nothing helped the rage building inside of him. He hated his life. Most of all he hated the fact that he was different and couldn’t tell anyone or he’d be taken from his family. He lived in constant fear that he would say or do something that would ruin everything. The only time he felt at ease was when Marty was around. She made him feel almost human. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stop him from getting hurt and she’d been too young to confide in.

  By the time Shayne came around, Tristan was a shell of his former self. For so long he’d acted like nothing mattered until it finally hadn’t. He didn’t think anything could be worse than being stalked by the dead. The night Shayne showed up proved that he didn’t know shit.

  Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred that night to clue him into the hell that awaited him. He’d said goodnight to his parents. Then after scoffing down ice cream with Denny he went to his room. He was halfway under the bed when a cold hand clamped down around his ankle.

  Tristan prepared himself for a fight as he was dragged out from under the bed. He didn’t have much time to react before he was pinned to the floor and his pajama bottoms were torn from his body. To this day he could still remember that raspy voice in his ear.

  “I’m going to fuck you hard, boy,” the ghost had said, cruelly laughing while Tristan struggled against the urge to scream.

  He’d never been more afraid in his life. Desperately he tried to free himself, but the man had been stronger. Tristan vomited the ice cream he’d just consumed all over the floor as the man rubbed against him. He sobbed quietly, knowing there was nothing he could do or say to escape. Yelling for help wouldn’t have done anything except bring him more shame and he’d had more than enough of that. Just when he’d accepted what was about to happen to him, Shayne arrived.

  “Get your hands off the lad,” Shayne had said with a thick Irish brogue.

  In seconds, Tristan was free to crawl back beneath the bed where he squeezed his eyes shut and desperately tried to stop crying. He listened as the men fought, praying that they would just leave him alone.

  “Come on out, lad. He’s gone,” Shayne said calmly a few minutes later when the sounds of fighting and shouting suddenly stopped.

  Tristan lay beneath the bed, trembling and terrified of what would happen to him if they got their hands on him again. “N-no.”

  Shayne sighed heavily, “That’s fine, lad. I’ll just sit here and make sure that no else bothers ye tonight. When ye feel comfortable, ye come on out and I’ll tuck ye into bed.”

  Tristan didn’t trust him so he
stayed under the bed, quietly sobbing. He didn’t know how he was going to make it through another day, especially knowing that he could be hurt in other ways now. Beatings were one thing he’d come to accept, being molested was something that he would never be able to live with.

  When morning came, he had no choice but to crawl out from under his bed. He wondered how many ghosts were in his room ready to pounce on him with their demands and hurt him when he couldn’t help them. To his complete shock, there was only one ghost in his room waiting for him.

  From a glance he could tell there was something different about this one. Every ghost looked solid to him. So much so that sometimes he had to pay attention to the little things that gave them away like walking through things and not being able to touch anything, but him.

  This man comfortably sat on the love seat in his room. He’d never seen a ghost able to handle their form well enough to manage that. Normally they fell through the couch. This man sat there studying the welts and bruises that covered Tristan with sympathetic green eyes that matched his own.

  Shayne gave Tristan a friendly smile. “Good morning, lad.” He cocked his head to the side to study Tristan. “Everything’s fine. They’ll never hurt ye again,” he’d promised.

  Tristan didn’t believe him, didn’t trust him so he did what he always did with ghosts. He ignored him. Shayne didn’t seem to take it personally. He remained by Tristan’s side day and night for several weeks before Tristan slowly began to trust him. Soon Tristan was sleeping in his bed without fear and his body for the first time in his life was free of cuts and bruises.

  Not long after that, Tristan began to talk with Shayne, who’d explained that when he’d been alive he’d suffered the same curse as Tristan. He’d led a tormented life because of the curse and, as a result, led his life with a death wish thinking only in death would he be able to find peace. When death finally came at the ripe old age of thirty in a violent act, he was stunned to realize that he’d been cursed in death as well.