Melancholy weeds over my mood after I hang up. I pick up my cell and thumb the unlock screen again. The number keys glare brightly, slowly I let go a held breath and type in the first two of Alex’s number. Digging my nails into my other palm, I take and hold another deep breath, telling myself to relax.
Two knocks at my open bedroom door startle me and my phone bounces off my desk onto the floor. I look up like I just got caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
“Umm…Tris? This was on the porch. It doesn’t have your name on it, but by the note, I think these were meant for you.” Jones stands at the door looking impatient. He must have been there when I was on the phone with Mr. P.
The white and pink roses are magnificent. Even though I prefer lilies, I light up at the gorgeous arrangement.
Oh Alex!
I scramble up from my desk, and take the arrangement from Jones, burying my nose in the sweet fragrance.
“Who’s B?” he asks, handing me the little floral card.
Iciness slams into me and spreads over my body. Darkness snuffs out any joy from the token. The card he extends is a cypher, but not to me. I stare at it, not wanting to touch it, but Jones holds it out expectantly. My stomach clenches painfully and the air feels thick in my throat. I gingerly take the card from Jones as if the poison from it will seep into my fingers.
Jones notices and stiffens. “You didn’t fall down the stairs did you? Your poker face can fool Mom, but I knew that story was bullshit,” he says, crossing his arms.
On the little card, the note reads, “Glad to see you made it home okay. –B”
What the hell? He knows where I live? The little card shakes. I can’t control my hand that holds it.
Jones steps closer. “Tris. What’s the matter?”
I back away from him with fear driven tears; chills crash over my body. The bed finds me too quickly, but I’m grateful. Shivers take over and my legs give way in the spinning room. I let out a haggard breath, and can’t stop the tremors enslaving my muscles.
“Trista, what’s going on? Did this guy hurt you?” Jones asks, sitting beside me on the bed. My tears fall from my eyes as they close.
There’s no remaining strength I can fake, my resolute shriveled by unwelcome flowers. No get-out-of-jail card with this; FUBAR has trampled the sanctity of my home.
His arm goes around my shoulder, which only makes the tears flow faster. I’m convulsively crying at this point. “Tris, you’re scaring the shit out of me. What happened to you?”
My sobbing silences any words, so he just holds me tighter. “Shhh. Don’t cry. I’ll kick his ass and everything will be fine.” There’s no way I’m getting my little brother involved, but I crumble in Jones’ arms, grasping at the safety he tries to provide.
The little boy that used to call me “Tiss” because he had trouble pronouncing his ‘R’s, is trying to protect me. Long gone are his baby-fat cheeks, but he’s still my baby brother. The blonde, tow-headed pain-in-my-ass, that used to put boogers in my hair, has somehow become his own man.
Disgusted, I push away from him a bit woozy and shake my head.
I double-blink and touch my cheeks which are still moist from tears. What the fuck? She’s crying again? What now? I look around bewildered at what to do. Jones is staring at me confused.
“Ew! Get off me!” I yell, and push him off the bed.
“What the hell, Trista!?” he says, tumbling to the floor.
Snatching a tissue from the nightstand, I wipe the tears and the snot from my nose. When I stand, a little floral card falls to the floor. I cock my head looking at the note. An exasperated sigh whooshes out. I recognize the handwriting. Flopping back to the bed, I purse my lips. “Ah shit. That motherfucker.”
FEAR. THAT’S WHY I’m here this time. That pussy can’t handle it, so I’m here to protect her ass again.
“You’re there to face what you started,” the cockroach’s voice whispers.
Fuck.
I get up off Trista’s bed and go to the desk for her cell phone. The number I dial from the card between her homework is something I didn’t want to do so soon. “Hey, it’s Marvy. I need to talk to you. Something happened, and we need to make a move. The club? Now? Uhh…no,” I cast a glance at Trista’s baffled brother. “I’m right in the middle of something. Tomorrow. Eleven o’clock? Where? Ok, I’ll be there.”
“Who the hell is Marvy? What club? What the fuck is going on, Tris?” Jones yells from the floor.
Shit, I really don’t have the patience for Jones’ Q and A. When he was younger, he’d always ask stupid questions and follow me and Ty around. Fucking little tailgater. Ty always let him, said we had to teach and protect him as the older siblings. We were six, what could we teach him? That mealy-mouthed Trista never argued with Ty, him a whole two minutes, eleven seconds older. As Jones got older, I’d hoped his obsession with video games would keep him out of my hair. It’s worked very well, until now.
I tap a rhythm with my nails, drumming against Trista’s math homework and spin her cell phone on the desk at the same time. “Look Jonsey, I’m in a bit of trouble. You can’t tell anyone, only Kitta knows. Marvy is my club name. A while back, I got into some shit. The only way out of it is to get something from this guy,” I say, pointing at the card on the floor.
“You got into some shit? YOU?” he asks incredulously, pointing at me.
Indignantly, I huff with my hands on my hips. “Yes me, dumbass! I’m not as vanilla as everyone thinks.” God, I’m sick of her life!
Jones narrows his eyes. “So who are you meeting tomorrow? Don’t you have to open up the shop? I heard you tell Peterson you’d be there at ten a.m.”
“What?! Aaarrrgh! Fuuuck!” I growl.
An air of shock swirls around Jones. “Did you just drop the F–bomb?”
Grimacing with my forehead crinkled, I shoot him a “whatever” look.
Trista doesn’t have many contacts in her phone, so it’s easy to find the number I’m looking for. The call is answered quickly as if expected. “Hey, it’s Mar…Trista,” my eyes glance sideways at the busybody Jones hanging on every word. “I need you to come over. I have to tell you something.”
Jones moves from the floor to the bed remaining in his dumbfounded state. “So this ‘B’ guy. What’s his name?” He crosses his arms determined.
“Bryson, you don’t know him,” I say, finishing off Trista’s math homework. An action to which I expected Jones to take as a hint of dismissal. He doesn’t. I feel his eyes plastered to my back.
“Did you meet him at this club?” he persists.
“Yes.” I move to Trista’s French translations pretending to concentrate.
“Is he the one that hurt you?”
I slam my hand on the desk and turn around riled up with his hungry mosquito questions needling me. “Is this the Goddamn Spanish Inquisition or something? I got this, okay? Go back to your video games!” I turn back to the French lesson, praying he’ll get frustrated and leave.
Instead, he snorts. “You obviously don’t ‘got this.’ You were bawling in my arms after you read that note.”
I look up from the page and give an irritated huff.
His voice softens, “Look Tris, you’re my sister. I know we don’t do stuff together and shit, but I do care. You seem really scared of this Bryson guy. I swear to God if he is the one that hurt you…I’ll kill him.”
I press my palms to my eyes and attempt to rub my frustration back. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I mutter. After a few seconds of staring blindly at Trista’s homework, I take a deep breath and turn to face his raised worried brow. His eyes are still the size of quarters after my use of the F-word. Jones’ hair is sticking straight up from raking his hands through it a few times. The blonde hair has always been unmanageable. That’s how he got his name; an 80’s singer named Howard Jones. When he was born, he had punk rock spikes in all directions. Though, I don’t think Trista’s mom and dad thought that through thoroughly. I listened to h
is songs and they’re depressing as hell. Though I suppose it’s better than the other name they considered–Billy Idol.
“That’s sweet Jonsey but I got myself into this. After tomorrow night, I should be in the clear. Okay?”
Shaking his head, he stands. “No way. If you go back to that club tomorrow night, I’m going with you.”
“So am I,” Kitta interjects, walking in.
My head drops forward releasing a back of the throat, gravely, frustrated noise.
KITTA SITS ON THE BED, the two of them unrelenting. “OKAY, I need to talk to Kitta,” I say, hoping to encourage Jones to go away.
“I’m not leaving so you guys can make a plan without me. I’m going with you if I have to follow you around all day.”
Both palms press into my eyes. “Fuck! Why are you trying to make this so complicated?”
“It IS complicated, Tris!” Kitta yells. “I know you don’t want to get us involved, but obviously you’ve been unsuccessful! And now he knows where you live? How the hell did that happen?”
“I don’t know!” I give her an ‘It’s me–Marvy, dummy!’ look. “We must have picked up a tail when we left Xander’s.”
Kitta tenses and examines me. I bug out my eyes, giving her a tight smile and a small nod. Kitta finally conveys an ‘Ahhhh! I get it.’
Putting down one of Trista’s electronic gizmos, Jones cocks his head. “Who’s Xander?”
I grab his arm and start pushing Jones out of the room. “Never mind. Okay, you can go with me.”
“Us,” Kitta chimes in.
I dagger her with another look. “Okay, you can go with us tomorrow night. Now get–we have girl stuff we need to talk about.” Before he can say anything else, I shut the door in his face. A half a minute goes by with my ear to the door. I peek out to make sure Jones has actually left.
Just in case, I whisper to Kitta, “I have to go talk to Dawson about this note tomorrow at eleven in the morning, but apparently Trista is supposed to open the shop at 10 a.m. Think you can ditch school, and meet me at Mr. P’s by 10:30?”
Kitta nods. “Friday’s are light. I can bail after first period.”
“Can we swap cars at Petersons? I’ll park out front and slip out the back so if I’m still being followed, they’ll never know I left. I’ll come back to the shop before Mr. P gets back and then we can come here to get ready. Sound good?”
Snapping her fingers sideways, Kitta impressively says, “Damn girl! You’re good at this! This isn’t your first rodeo ditching guys.”
I grimace. “Yeah, I have a fuckin’ blue ribbon in the event.” Kitta’s not the type, but I ask anyway. “You don’t smoke do you?”
“Uh…no, and you shouldn’t either around Jones and Mrs. Dividir.”
Cue the eye roll.
Kitta puckers her face in thought. “So…um…think I can borrow something for tomorrow night? My closet is a little thin in the party dress category,” she asks, nervously.
Trista and Kitta loved shopping the nasty ass second-hand stores. I’m sure you can find some fantastic discards, but they never bought anything fabulous. I roll my eyes again. “Sure. Whatever.”
Kitta begins picking at her nails. “Th…Think you could show me how you do that eye shadow thing that makes you have cat eyes?”
I’ve always thought Kitta was a pretty girl, not glam-pretty, but that natural kind of pretty. Her eyes are spectacular. Wide and huge, and a gorgeous shade of brown. They remind me of an expensive mahogany whiskey. She’s not as clueless as Trista, but not too far ahead of her either.
“Are we bonding or something?” I ask with an eyebrow cocked and a little smile.
She pushes off the bed. “Pshhh…never mind.” Kitta heads to the door, shoulders slightly slouched, hands shoved in her jeans front pockets, and head down.
As her hand stretches for the door knob, I reach in the closet. “This one would look good with your curves,” I say, handing Kitta an electric blue cocktail dress with a black lace overlay. “It’ll be a good color on you.”
Kitta’s huge smile and twinkling eyes could probably be seen from the moon. My eyes roll again, but it accompanies a smile too.
IN THE MORNING I MEET Kitta at Mr. Peterson’s shop as planned. She parks in the back so I can take her car, and leave without notice. When I get to the agreed upon meeting place, a Mom and Pop coffee shop off Main Street, I tell Dawson and Pulson about the card and flowers.
“He knows where I fucking live! We have to wrap this up this weekend. Too many people are getting involved. I can’t endanger my family.” The bit about Jones and Kitta wanting to tag along is not something they need to know since I can ditch them. “You can’t protect my family AND Xander AND cover me while I’m at the club.”
Dawson averts his eyes and takes a sip of his coffee. “We can. We have the man power. Marvy, this is a big investigation. That’s another reason why the DEA and Vice partnered for this special op. Seviride has his hands in many pies.”
I drum my freshly painted black nails against the cheap Formica table. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
My reflection stares back at me through Pulson’s mirrored aviators. I get the feeling he’s watching my reactions and movements. At least I think he’s looking at me, I really can’t tell. But by the look on his stupid smirky face, he is. I drift my eyes to his coat pocket, noticing the outlined shape of a pack of cigarettes; my mouth begins to water. When my eyes shoot up, I think I catch his eyes.
My eyebrows knit and my eyes dart down, then back up to his. Is he looking at my boobs?
“We can’t make any promises but get us the information about Sunday, and this will all be over.” The way his lips move and with his accent is creeping me out.
Anxiety fuels my nails to drum a faster rhythm. Dawson puts his hand over mine to calm them. “The hotel room will be completely bugged. Just get him drunk and give him two of those pills. When you ask him questions, he’ll tell you everything we need to know.”
“Yeah and when it blows up in his face on Sunday, he’ll never suspect me,” I say with derision and pull away. “Do either of you smoke?” They both shake their heads. Pulson, you fuckin’ liar.
Feeling no more assured than when I arrived, I leave the coffee shop and drive around aimlessly. Buildings and streets start to become familiar and for some reason I find myself at Xander’s. A piece of skin begins to bleed from chewing on my lip as I sit in the car staring at the front doors of his building. The metallic taste fills my mouth while I debate whether to go back to the shop, or walk through those glass doors in front of me. If I hang out at Xander’s, Jones and Kitta won’t go to the club. They can’t get in since neither are twenty-one. This idea of keeping them out of my way is appealing and ultimately, a deciding factor. I loosen my grip from the steering wheel, peel my hands away, and get out of the car. The condo guard at the desk peeks up from his book as soon as I walk in.
“Hello Marvy! Long time no see!” the man cheerily says.
“Hi Richie! You got your hair cut. It looks good!” I reply in my friendliest voice.
He glows from the compliment. “Hey, thanks! Going to see Mr. Rush? Should I let him know you’re on your way up?”
“No thanks. I want to surprise him.”
Richie smiles at me, being witness to my late night or early morning sneak outs. He calls the elevator and slides his key card to give me access to the penthouse floor. To complete my faux duplicity, I give him one of my famous winks and blow him a kiss, which makes him blush.
THE ELEVATOR SLIDES open and I step out into silence. “Hello?”
Raking my fingers through my hair, I walk to the kitchen, but no one is there. The coffee pot is still hot so I know he’s home. When I enter the bedroom, Xander is lying down with ear buds in, listening to music. I can hear the Trance Electronica music blaring though. He must be listening to a new DJ for the club because he is taking notes on a yellow legal pad.
He looks up and his face explodes w
ith happiness. His million dollar smile is wide from ear to ear, complimenting his shining eyes. It hits me so hard I can’t help but smile back. Xander Rush is not just hot, he’s beautiful.
“Hi! I didn’t know you were coming!”
The earbuds go flying when he jumps from the bed and runs over to sweep me up in his arms. “I’m so glad you’re here!” Xander brushes the back of his fingers against my cheek. “I’m so happy you came back to me.”
His words are like a punch in the gut. He thinks I’m her.
Xander leans down for a kiss, which I don’t reject. The jealousy knifes its way across my skin, so I play along. What does Trista have that I don’t?
His lips tenderly brush my eyelids, the tip of my nose, and finally to my mouth. I haven’t been with Xander for days and I miss his touch. I impetuously accept his tongue as he explores my mouth. My arms weave around his neck thinking this is what Trista would do. Xander’s kisses become wanting as his hands move from my hips, to my lower back drawing me to him. The hand on my lower back draws pressured circles above my ass and it works like a ‘Get Wet’ button. Slipping my hands through the soft dark curls at the nape of his neck, I push in with my hips to give him permission. I’m dressed like Trista since I didn’t want Jones or Trista’s mother to suspect anything. I shake off the army jacket, but remain connected to Xander. He pulls me back to him and smoothly runs his hands up my back. Lust wildly spins through my core and I realize I haven’t had sex in almost a week. Not only am I incredibly horny, this is Xander we’re talking about. He’s walking sex on a fucking stick. Literally; we’ve done that.
His silken hair feels so damn good without product, I grab as much as I can and push his mouth further into mine, my tongue seeking out his. I bite down just enough to slide it between my teeth. I force his head to kiss the spot on my neck that takes over my senses. Xander can do wicked things with his mouth and those talented fingers, but I need his magnificent cock in me—like, NOW. This man inebriates me and weakens my affectation. My Trista veneer slips because of my need to be sated.
Pieces Of One, Part 1 (The Dark Life Collection) Page 11
