Pieces Of One, Part 2 (The Dark Life Collection)

by Ricketts, SVC

  Can a person build a life on love and discover shared interests as you go along? Or does one build love on commonalities? My parents were lucky. They grew up on the same block, went to the same schools, and basically knew everything about each other before they even started dating. They were the typical coming of age love story. One day, boom…they were in love.

  Daddy used to say he always knew she was special from the moment he laid eyes on her. As they grew up, they hung out with the same crowd so they were always friends. One day, Daddy’s cat got stuck up a tree so he went up to get it. The stupid cat kept climbing higher the closer Daddy got and before he knew it, he was forty feet up. I’m sure that’s an exaggeration, but that’s the story I’ve been told a million times. He tried to climb down with the cat, but lost his footing and hit a large branch and got stuck. Mom was walking home from gymnastics practice and heard him calling out for help. She called 9-1-1 and stayed with him till the fire department came. Mom hung out with him at the hospital till Grandma and Grandpa arrived. After she signed the cast on his broken arm with hearts and flowers, he was a goner for her. That was their first kiss and the rest is history.

  Is love intellectual or an illogical leap of faith? Which over-powers the other for a happily-ever-after kind of permanence? Does it mature over time or is there such a thing as insta-love in real life? I’m beginning to hate those people that “just know.”

  “MARRY ME, TRISTA.”

  Shocked at the ridiculousness of the question, I turn to look up at Bryson. “What?” I ask incredulously. Not the conversation starter I expected on the way to the passport forgery guy’s place.

  “I just asked you to marry me.” His nonchalant smile warrants deeper suspicion. He’s practically chortling. Henry, who barely fits in the passenger seat, does a slow exorcist head turn and stares at Bryson. The back of the limo has shrunken like that weird room in the Willy Wonka movie.

  “Thanks, I heard you,” I say tersely. “You have got to be joking.” My eyes thin and lips pucker. “It’s absurd. Why?”

  I think my pulse may be breaking a world record. I sure as heck know I’m having trouble keeping my breathing level.

  He must be yanking my chain. Look at that idiotic smile he’s trying to hide. Okay, I’ll play along.

  Chuckling, he wipes a tear from his eye. “Okay, okay. When I called Pete to let him know we’re on our way to pick up your passport, he advised it would be better to be husband and wife when we travel. It would draw too much attention if we were just jaunting off together. The paparazzo always follow me and they sometimes show up at the airport.”

  “Pete, your black-market documents creator guy, Pete?”

  Bryson pretends to be offended. “Hey, Pete’s a good guy! He is using the gifts God gave him.”

  “Yeah okay, if you say so. Wouldn’t people suspect something anyway if you were all of a sudden married? I can see the headline, PLAYBOY BAZILLIONAIRE JETS OFF TO blah, blah, blah WITH NEW WIFE.”

  An itty-bitty part of me glows with the idea, but it’s ludicrous.

  Again, Bryson laughs and shakes his head. He holds his hands up and makes two L’s with his index and thumbs. “They would never print a headline that long. It would be something like ‘PLAYBOY SETTLES DOWN WITH NEW HOTTIE!’”

  My lack of equaled amusement speaks through my glare.

  “Trista relax, it’s a paper wedding. You know, just for show.” Bryson’s tone is joking, but he seems a bit wounded by my unenthused reaction.

  I push my fingers in my eyes and sigh. “Bryson, you don’t want to sleep with me under the circumstances and now you want to marry me? Even if it’s just for show, that’s a pretty big deal. You don’t even know me. I mean really know me.”

  Uneasy, he shrugs. “Yes, this is true. But that’s real and sex is a commitment, this wouldn’t be. What about just wearing an engagement ring?”

  My lips twitch trying to hold back the smile threatening to break loose. I hate that this idea appeals to me. “A fake engagement with a real ring? Just for Show & Tell?”

  Raising his hands, he scoffs, “Of course!”

  “I can’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I told you, I can’t leave. I have family and obligations. Besides, fake or not, they’d freak if they read it in the papers or some stupid entertainment show. My mom watches them religiously.”

  Something else nags at me, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

  “Besides, you do realize I’m not eighteen yet,” I say, hoping that’s a good deterrent to this absurd idea.

  Nothing about his reaction tells me he’s surprised. In fact, he has no reaction what-so-ever. If he already knew, what else does he know? How much does he know? Am I being played? Does he know I’m playing him? Well, sort of playing him.

  “Trista, it’s safer for everyone if we get out of town as quickly as possible. People will eventually come looking for me, and if they make the connection to you, or Marvy, things will go south very fast. Your entire family is in potential danger. The only way out is if we can smooth things over directly with the bosses. Since they hold family connections in the highest regard, being married to me is your only protection.”

  My questions and what he’s saying pummel my head. It drops heavily and I close my eyes, rubbing my lip raw with my thumbnail.

  Oh hell, he’s right. I’m just getting deeper and deeper. I can’t protect my family if I don’t finish this—or am dead.

  “What do I tell my family? I think my mom would call the National Guard if I don’t come home soon. Heck, she probably already has!”

  She would too. Mom’s been weird since we moved here, even before Daddy died. She hovers and sticks her nose in my business all the time. Back in Kentucky, Tyson, Jones, and I rode horses like we were rodeo cowboys, jumped out of trees into the lake, swung from the barn rafters and she never said too much other than letting us know when dinner was ready. We were kids, and she let us be kids. But when we moved here, BAM! She turned into a mother hen. After Daddy died, it got exponentially worse. I think the other reason she pushed for Mr. P’s fix-it job was so she could keep tabs on me during my free time. What was her plan when I went to Baylor?

  Baylor. Shit. That is so far off my radar right now, it’s not even funny. I blindly stare out the window watching my future disappear before my eyes.

  His warm hands cup mine. “I’ll work with my media team to keep it out of the papers. Or have them spin the story so just our engagement is printed. My taking you on a holiday can be sort of an engagement present.”

  He came up with that solution pretty fast…I’m starting to think this was pre-planned instead of a spontaneous brainstorm.

  Regardless of how my body craves him, I need to keep my game-face on. I need to get a hold of Dawson. If this is the only way, so be it.

  Mustering enough enthusiasm to show, I nod. “Okay, yes, Bryson Seviride, I’ll be fake engaged to you.” Forsaking any logic, for some reason I catch myself beaming as I say the words, even if it is just part of the game.

  As soon as I say it, Bryson is handed a briefcase by Harry. Hugo? Harold? What the hell is his name?

  I double and triple blink when Bryson opens the case. Stacks of cash, a firearm, a few folders, and a small fuzzy box lay inside. He removes the fuzzy box and closes the case, handing it back to…Hank?

  At six foot, four inches and roughly two-twenty, maybe two-thirty pounds, it is comical watching him try to get down on one knee in the back of the limo. The vehicle jolts unexpectedly and he falters to the side. Bryson shoots a glare at Hank because the road is a straight-shot, no need for drastic maneuvers.

  Giving me his full attention, he shrugs with a boyish blush and opens the fuzzy royal blue box. “Trista Dividir, will you fake promise to be my wife?”

  “You had that handy,” I say cynically, but gasp when I see the ring.

  Honestly, I cannot help but be awed by its beauty. The little perfect white metal circle, perhaps platinum, the way it shines, cradles b
aguette diamonds that surround a large brilliant, and intricately cut square diamond. It looks like a mini set of stairs leading up to the big diamond and casts a prism of reflective light across his face. The craftsmanship is astonishing.

  The ring blurs in my vision and I struggle for focus. Bashfully, I lower my eyes. “It’s beautiful!”

  Bryson’s smile seems to shine brighter than the center diamond itself. “It was my nonna’s. She was married for forty-two years with this ring. You wearing it would be honoring my nonna and me.”

  My heart falls. “Oh Bryson, I can’t. This is meant for a real engagement for a real wedding and a real wife for you to spend your life with. I can’t accept this, even if this is pretend. Don’t you have a cigar band or something? This means too much for you to just give away on a farce.”

  “Trista, this has to look believable. A man like me wouldn’t give the love of his life a cigar band,” he says with a stern sarcastic look.

  I lose myself in his words, “love of his life.” My gut wrenches tight with flooding thoughts of Alex. I have to push him out of my mind. This is a necessary step in order to get my life back.

  I hesitate, staring at the ring for a few more moments contemplating this nonsense.

  “I know this isn’t the ideal proposal. You’re scared and have your doubts about me.” He swallows, looking nervous and chewing his lip. “But I care about you. This is my fault. I did this to you, and this is the only way I can think of to protect you.”

  The glint in his eyes hints of a longing for a forgotten self, and resonate through in his words; his thoughts traveling from deep within. He holds my hand with such grace and delicacy, I see the sorrow in his eyes; loneliness. Maybe it’s pity, but my heart bleeds to see him pained.

  I close my eyes with a sigh. After calming my thoughts, I open them and smile. “Yes, Bryson Seviride. I will be your fake wife, and spend the rest of our fake lives together.”

  I swear I see a tear swell in Bryson’s eye as he slips the beautiful ring that holds such sentiment on my finger. Though my heart is conflicted, I tilt forward and seal my fate with a kiss. Hope shimmers in his unquestioning eyes, and guilt washes over mine.

  “I’ll be the best fake husband you’ve ever had,” he says, yanking me onto his lap.

  I yelp as he picks me up, my body reminding me of the gift he has not given me yet. As soon as his mouth comes down on mine, all thought melts away. When his fingers go into my hair and he deepens our kiss, I am lost in a haze. My synapses are shooting off like crazy and a warmth envelops and floods my heart. I want to climb into his body and cocoon myself. Become one with him, breathe his air, walk beside him, live in his world, and never not have this.

  This isn’t supposed to be, I can feel it in my bones. My brain screams its protest, yet my heart isn’t listening. It beats rapid as his tongue explores my mouth, syphoning the soul from my body. He is a succubus, stripping me of logical thought.

  I need to keep my shit together. I cannot yield to emotions and let them overrule my doubts and suspicions. I have to stay in control. I am playing him, not the other way around.

  If all this is true, why do I feel like crying over the beauty of this moment? Why is there this irrational desperation to devour him? To imbed myself within him so deep, he can never let me go? Why do I already feel like I’m dying?

  AT THE “BUSINESS office,” if you could call it that, the guy, Pete, takes my photo for the passport. His place is actually a large storage unit, but holds so much equipment, I can barely move. Bryson informs me it’s so he can keep under the radar.

  Pete is a paunchy man with a scraggly light brown beard, thinning hair, and glasses. An old, faded rock band t-shirt barely covers his one too many burgers tummy, and his jeans look as old as his t-shirt. He cracks lame jokes as if they’ve never been told in my lifetime and rough-houses with Bryson like a frat brother. I immediately like him.

  Bryson makes a few phone calls to arrange our trip while waiting for Pete to finish. I suppose he’s talking to his assistant by the way his voice changes to one of authority and in command. This side of him is captivating; he’s so in control and confident. Another reason I have little fear going through with this insane plan, he killed a man for me, to protect me. If I can get more information about this meeting, like who the real major players are, I can talk Dawson and Pulson out of their interest in Bryson. They think he’s the big fish, but in actuality, he’s just a cog in the wheel. Maybe he can be a witness to testify against them or give them information they need for a solid conviction. He shouldn’t go to jail or if anything, at least have a fair trial with the truth on his side. Until I know more though, I need to keep my mouth shut and eyes open.

  “Congratulations on your nuptials!” Pete says, handing over the freshly made passport. “I wish you nothing but the happiest, most glorious years ahead!”

  The name on the little blue booklet reads, Christina Seviride. Curious and a tad offended, I frown. “Why the fake name? My full name is Tristiana.” I don’t like butchering my name. I think it’s pretty and elegant. “And I thought we were only ‘fake’ engaged. Not ‘fake’ married already.”

  “Well for one, although Tristiana is a beautiful name befitting you well my dear, a phony name is for your protection. Secondly, I just figured since it’s fake anyway, and you two look so good together, why not just make it unofficially official,” he chuckles. Bryson beams looking at my passport.

  Bryson gets my elbow to his ribs. “Shut it, Seviride.”

  Clearing his throat, Pete’s demeanor changes to serious and he scrubs his nose. “So Bryson, one of my regulars called a few days ago asking if I’d heard from you. At the time, I hadn’t yet, so I told him I haven’t seen you for months. Thought I’d let you know though, watch your back.” He shifted his eyes to me and then back to Bryson.

  “Who called?” Bryson asks through his clenched jaw.

  Ticking his head back and forth, Pete refuses, “Nah dude, I’m not snitching on my clients, like I wouldn’t do on you. It’s none of my business and I’m keeping it that way. I’m not going to ask because I don’t want to know. I just wanted to give you the head’s up.”

  A gentleman amongst thieves.

  Bryson nods. “Fair enough,” he replies and shakes Pete’s hand. “Thanks, man. What do I owe you for the rush job?”

  “It’s on the house; a wedding present, if you will!” Pete wraps me up in a big bear hug making me wince with lingering rib pain. I need to take another pain killer very soon. I hug the burly man back as best I can since I’m being crushed by him. “Take good care of my bud, okay?” My forehead pinches a bit stupefied.

  Me take care of him? What an odd thing to say.

  BACK AT THE beach house, I feel giddy. I can’t help but admire the sparkly bauble sitting on my left ring finger. The sunlight bursts into flairs of color when it hits it and I can almost feel Bryson’s grandparent’s love resonate through it.

  Strong arms wrap around my waist, and a wonderfully scented man whispers, “Happy?”

  “I’ve never been happier, Bryson,” I murmur, leaning my head back to his chest.

  I need to shake this sadness that cloaks my heart. This is all fantasy; a ruse. Eventually, all the truths will come out and I will lose him. Lose what should and could never be my future.

  Carpe diem, live in the present and don’t worry about the future. People say that all the time and I can’t think of a moment more appropriate than this. “I think we should celebrate our nuptials appropriately. You know it’s not binding if it’s not consummated.”

  Swiping a page from Marvy’s playbook, I spin to face him. His eyes are mesmerizing, yet I let my hands do the work unbuttoning his shirt slowly. I want to savor every second of undressing him. The golden color of his skin appears beneath the light blue shirt that I will shortly dispose of. The minty, citrusy cologne partners well with the light dusting of chest hair. I inhale up the open path I’ve created as if a whiff isn’t enough. “
God, you smell so good. I love your scent.”

  “Trista, no,” he mumbles.

  I don’t stop. I won’t take his rejection again.

  Running my fingers through his chest hair, I explore and admire his defined pectoral muscles. I move my hands over his smooth shoulders, relieving him of his shirt and drop it to the floor.

  His body is much different than Alex’s. Where Alex is an athlete, he has a lean, but muscularly tone body. Bryson on the other hand is all ripped muscle, but not overwhelming. Not like some ‘roid-freak who spends nine hours in the gym and drinks raw eggs for breakfast or anything. The definition between Bryson’s oblique and abdominal muscles are a fitness magazine kind of quality in sight, and are better to touch, and yet they quiver under my fingertips.

  I step back to move around him. “I want to feel every inch of you.” Tracing a path from his stomach to his back, I exhale, “Wow.”

  He looks back, ego dancing in his eyes. “Yeah?”

  “You have beautiful deltoids and your traps are amazing.” My hands roam over his Teres Major and down his lats. “Your back is a work of art.”

  Gliding my hands down his back, I slip them under his arms and move them down the ‘v’ below his abs. Passing his belt, I swallow my pool of saliva with an exaggerated, yet seemingly loud gulp; Bryson is much bigger than Alex. The fact that I can’t even reach the tip makes my heart beat faster. The front of Bryson’s slacks is not made to accommodate his erection. I press my fingers around the stretch of fabric, feeling the ridges of his length. It must not be comfortable because he bucks when I do. A different kind of pool soaks through my silk panties.

  He twists around and leans in, touching his lips to mine. My tongue has a mind of its own and slips between his kiss, beginning a slow dance with his. I reach behind his neck grabbing his hair, needing to feel him closer. The twirls and tango scorch my body. Swiftly, he lifts me and I wrap my arms and legs around him. We cling to each other with a fevered connection, not breaking the kiss. He lowers us to the bed gently; beneath him, I can feel the pressure of his body pressing into me. His scent mixes with the beginning of sweat and he is shaking. I cannot imagine it was from carrying me. The tightness coils to the point of pain. That uncontrollable desire resurrects itself, to which I do not bother to suppress this time and let it flow from every pore. Bryson’s kisses are different from what I’ve experienced in the past, they are lightly soft but filled with purpose. His hand touches my body in the same manner, almost weightless as it slides down my silk top.