“How about the support group down at the community center? Have you been there lately? I hear the director’s quite a dreamboat. Oh, and he’s an art major at SDSU. I bet you two would have a lot in common.”
“No, Monica, I haven’t been down to the community center. I don’t want to listen to people talk about their terrible childhoods and compare it to mine. I don’t want their looks of pity. I get enough of that from you. And who the fuck uses the word ‘dreamboat’ anymore?” Josie said.
“Also, I don’t eat three meals a day. I get high whenever possible. I have sex with strangers, many strangers. I don’t exercise and I pick fights with drug dealers.” She paused, catching her breath before delivering the final blow. “Don’t you have an abused kid somewhere to save?”
Monica averted her watery eyes, picked up her purse, and left without waiting for an apology. She knew not to expect feelings of regret from the stone-cold girl. The words were wounding and her buttons were pressed. As much as she had tried to atone for her mistakes, Monica always suffered at the hands of Josie. She took it because she deserved it. Holding back tears as she ran down the steps, Monica fled from the first and last kid she had ever let down.
* * *
After such a long and gruesome day on the job, Monica found herself parked on a barstool, sipping a strong vodka tonic. Mellow music drifted through the room, adding to the ambient noise of conversation and clinking glass. The whole place was deep mahogany, as if it had grown out of the earth or had been carved out of one giant tree. With the wall sconces and pendant lighting, the top of the room glowed a rich, golden honey before fading into a chocolate floor. Monica felt warmed and at ease here.
She blew out a breath and pushed the negative energy from her lungs. For once, she was glad to be alone. She enjoyed the feeling of alcohol seeping into her blood, creating detachment from her job. It was days like this that had begun to wear on her positive attitude. No form of meditation could prepare or repair the angst she faced in Josie Banks. Josie had a way of draining the fight from Monica. Monica had a way of letting her.
A prickling chill ran down her spine as she felt another’s gaze upon her. In the stagnant air of the room, it felt as though a breeze had drifted across her skin, rousing her defeated spirit. Monica looked up from her melting ice cubes and found two stunning blue eyes looking back.
He was handsome with his wavy blond hair and broad shoulders. His tanned skin seemed to glow beneath the lights. His jeans looked soft and worn, in a natural way. In a prowling and unapologetic stride, he approached her, taking a seat on the next stool.
“Hi,” Monica said.
“Hello. Looks like you need another drink.”
His declarative statement and deep voice stirred a flutter in her stomach.
“Well, I don’t usually accept drinks from strangers.”
“My name’s Robin Nettles, but my friends call me Rob.”
“I’m Monica.”
“Well, darlin’, it seems we’re no longer strangers.”
Monica smiled and shook her head. His charming introduction and smooth Southern drawl left her feeling like an inexperienced schoolgirl with a crush. They fell into conversation easily, discussing sports allegiances and Rob’s recent move to the city, but never work. It was refreshing.
“Recap,” Rob said.
It was a game Monica had started to make sure he’d been listening to her rambling. She’d gone out with so many men who had perfected the smile-and-nod technique to deal with her incessant talking. Not one of them had ever really listened to her. After so much information, she would call for a recap. It was declared a test of attention spans and soberness. Rob passed every time and even took to testing her.
“You don’t know who Michael Kors is, you’ve never heard of sexting, and your favorite movie is The Getaway. Not the remake, the original 1972 film with Steve McQueen.”
“You’ve been paying attention.”
“Of course I have. I’m a woman. We are famous multitaskers. I’m probably better at it than most. It may even be in my job description. Your turn.”
“Okay, let’s see. You’ve never been to Mississippi,” he said, frowning as he placed a hand over his heart as if wounded by the idea. “You love the smell of fingernail polish, your mother is an accountant, and your favorite place in the city is a tie between Sunset Cliffs and the Horton Plaza Mall.”
“I do declare, sir, you are correct,” Monica said using her best Southern accent.
“Well, ma’am, it’s a good thing you’re beautiful, because that accent was terrible.”
“What? It couldn’t be that bad. I’ve seen Gone with the Wind like a hundred times.”
“I believe the entire Confederate infantry just turned over in their graves.”
Monica laughed before emptying her glass. It felt amazing to have the attention of such a handsome man, and she wondered how she’d gotten so lucky. She flirted as best she could, touching his forearm to keep his attention and adjusting her cleavage discreetly. She’d been out of the dating game for a while, swearing off awkward meetings and cheap bastards for the past year. Somehow she knew coming out of retirement for this man would be worth it.
When he excused himself to use the restroom, she pulled out her compact and reapplied her vanilla-flavored gloss. She barely recognized her tired eyes as they stared back at her. While she still felt youthful, the tiny lines around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes gave her away. Perhaps if she didn’t worry so much, Monica thought, pulling taut the soft skin to smooth it out.
“Want to get out of here, darlin’?” he whispered from behind her, while his hands came to rest on her hips.
Monica could feel his body against her back, his warm breath sliding down her neck and settling over her skin. Every touch felt undeniably right.
Without another word, she nodded and signaled to the bartender to close her tab. There was no uncomfortable air as they shared a cab in silence. Within the confines of her modest yet impeccably decorated apartment, they discussed her passion for changing the world and his passion for burning it.
Monica delighted in Rob’s daredevil approach to life and his lilting drawl. Among hours of conversation, they kissed until breathless and held each other tight. By the time the morning sun’s rays filtered through her curtains, Monica Templeton had fallen in love. She never knew it would be so easy.
* * *
On the other side of the city, Tristan stirred from his sleep. He rolled over and found a book pressed into his back. He reached beneath him, pulled it out, and marked the page. He wondered if its sharp dialogue and methodical plot had spurred the fantastic dreams of sexual banter and foreplay in a sleek limousine with Josie. He could still picture her straddling his lap with her hands braced on the roof. Soft lighting highlighted her face while the black windows blocked out the bustling world. He could almost hear her voice chanting his name in pleasure. Tristan groaned at the memory and willed away his morning wood.
He worked the early shift today, and that meant that he’d see Josie soon. He ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous habit developed years ago, but his hair was gone. A couple weeks ago, he’d needed a change, so he’d shaved it off. While liberating, it had left him with nothing to calm his anxiety. His hand passed over the fuzz, but it didn’t have the same effect.
Tristan’s theory was that this new coif would make him less recognizable to his former associates. Those people were tainted by Fiona and her father’s manipulations, not to mention they held all his secrets. When he left the business, Tristan assumed they would come for him, but apparently he’d overestimated his worth. Still, he slept with his cold steel piece tucked safely beneath his pillow each night.
Smirking up at his ceiling, Tristan considered what his pompous father’s reaction would be to the black oxide Desert Eagle pistol that had saved his life too many times to count. He pictured rolling up to the Fallbrook estate in his 1967 Impala and mowing down a few of the perfectly manic
ured hedges. Parading his branded skin, he would shove bars through his flesh, filling each pierced hole just for the reunion. His poor, docile mother would have a stroke and his father would call the authorities before he even recognized his own son. Tristan laughed at the absurdity of it all.
Some days, he missed them. He missed his mother’s hugs and the way she sang church hymns as she cooked that evening’s dinner. Even though he’d read them all, he missed his father’s library and their afternoons of “man time” spent fishing or watching football. The country singer Kinky Friedman had said, “A happy childhood is the worst possible preparation for life.” Tristan couldn’t agree more. He hadn’t been prepared for any of this.
He found his nerves frayed and anxious for Josie again. His chest seemed to vibrate with the need to see her, touch her. Soon, the need to move, to fly took over, and he flung himself from the bed.
Tristan threw on some shorts and a T-shirt while trying not to glimpse his pathetic face in the mirror. He laced his running shoes and stretched his hands toward the ceiling before heading outside. Mornings on the California coast were so different from back home. The air was cool and welcoming. His steps sounded off left, then right, left, right. He emptied his head and pushed himself harder, sprinting up every hill until his lungs screamed for more air.
Every piece of graffiti caught his eye. Every colorful scene, every line of illegible text brought him back to her. He wondered if any of them had been done by Josie. By the time he made it back to his block, he was exhausted. He felt emptied and exorcised.
A young couple passed him on the sidewalk. Their joined hands swinging between them as if love could not nail them down. They barely noticed Tristan there, huffing and puffing.
It was easy to imagine a different life, playing out in an alternate universe. He would be graduating from college about now, then moving on to law school. Nothing but pride would reflect back at him from his family.
Dreams were something his parents encouraged. For a long time, Tristan had dreamed of McKenzi. In all the times he’d imagined a bright, shining future, he’d pictured her by his side.
Tristan had always been the most accomplished student, the shining example. He’d won science fair ribbons, academic awards, and scholarships to the nation’s most prestigious universities. Through all his accomplishments, Tristan never disclosed, not to his jealous classmates or his adoring teachers, the secret behind his success. It was his ace in the hole, the one thing that guaranteed a future. However, when it had come time to cash in his chips, he’d thrown it all away for the love of a girl. Perhaps if McKenzi hadn’t left him with an expansive pit of sadness and hurt, he would have never sought out the company of Fiona Moloney. He wouldn’t have been dragged into Fiona’s world and her crooked family. He wouldn’t be a shadow of his former self.
Though he may have been misguided and misled, he’d made every bad decision on his own. He didn’t blame McKenzi or her father, Earl. Tristan understood now what he never could as a child. McKenzi was taken from him by a father who wanted only to provide a new beginning for his little girl. After suffering the loss of his wife, he was hurting and wrecked and needed to distance himself from everything familiar. He doomed them by trying to save them.
Tristan took the stairs to his apartment two at a time. He thought of a cold shower, then falling back into bed and more dreams of Josie. But the thought of seeing her in the flesh kept him motivated. Today, he’d be a half hour early for his shift.
* * *
Josie approached the Darkroom knowing that Tristan would already be a couple of hours into his shift. She walked down the sidewalk, flitting between other pedestrians. She slid down the urban hill, watching the sun disappear into the bay. The orange hues looked like flames on the water. Soon the night would come, that purple-blue polka-dotted sky that embraced her like nothing else. Josie turned the corner and sighed at what she found there.
Tristan was leaning against the brick, smoking a cigarette like it was his last before execution. She watched as his eyes squinted when he inhaled and the long fingers of his free hand tapped against his thigh. When finished, he threw the cigarette into the street, letting it roll downhill and out of sight. She stepped closer, finally gaining his attention.
His lips volleyed between a half smile and nervous frown as he took in her appearance. Every curve of her body called to him, every nerve ending felt frayed and drawn to her. Free from the oversize hoodie, she looked amazing, and he instantly felt the familiar stirring of lust.
Silently, Josie made her way over, grabbing his hand to tow him along. She didn’t shy away from his shocked expression. They ducked into the alley and she pushed him against the wall. Her small, frenzied hands ran from his belt buckle, up the hard planes of his chest, and around his neck. His eyes flicked back and forth between her mouth and her cleavage, while he denied the temptation to return her touch.
Her slight pucker hovered just below his, her heels giving her the perfect height to reach him. Their ragged breaths washed over each other while the heat radiating between their bodies created an almost visual aura of need. She had always taken her conquests with no apologies, but with Tristan it was different. More than she wanted him, she wanted him to want her too. Josie hung there, just out of reach, waiting to make sure he would not reject her. She wasn’t sure if he gave in or gave up, but she moved forward when his eyes fluttered closed.
Josie crushed her mouth to his, finding purchase on his delicious bottom lip. He moaned against her mouth, only fueling the hunger that grew inside.
Unable to resist any longer, Tristan pulled her flush against his body. The way she molded to him, a perfect puzzle piece, told him this was right. They were a mess of roaming hands and lips, a dance of lust and claim-staking kisses. They were reunited after what seemed like a lifetime of purgatory, though the moment would be short-lived.
Tristan reluctantly pulled himself from her lips, willing his physical and emotional need to dissipate. Josie attempted to pull him closer, but he found the strength to resist.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, annoyed with his resistance.
“I mourned you,” he said.
“I’m not dead.”
“I didn’t believe you were dead at first. I begged my mom to take me to New York so that I could look for you. Well, until I found out there’re eight million people there.”
“You were a kid.”
Tristan shook his head.
“I was pissed at your dad. So mad that he took you away from me just for a better job. Now I wonder if that’s really why you left, if there wasn’t more to it. You broke my heart, McKenzi, and here you are. It’s just too much.”
She didn’t correct her name. Instead, Josie was silent as she tried to work out his declaration. Was she too much? She’d never been too much for anyone. She’d never even been enough.
“I loved you from the first time I saw you,” he whispered, placing a soft kiss against her neck. “We were seven years old. Your hair was in braids. You were new to school and had nowhere to sit at lunch. You marched over and offered me your pudding if I’d let you sit down.”
Josie blinked, trying to visualize the scene through his words. She’d never wished for her memory to come back, scared to tap into the darkness locked away. Now that she knew there was more than pain, she wished for the ability to reminisce.
“Did you let me sit down?” she asked.
“Hell, yes. It was chocolate pudding.”
He smiled at Josie, his green eyes bright as he tried to push the images from his head into hers. She started to return his smile before she caught herself and corrected it. Was this guy for real?
“No one falls in love when they’re seven,” she stated, dropping her hands from his body and taking a step away.
“‘The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can ever end,’” Tristan quoted. “Of all the things I’ve ever been unsure of, my feelings for you were never questioned. It wasn’t puppy love o
r teenage infatuation, it was real. You loved me too, Mac.”
“My name is Josie.”
She took another step back, fearing the sudden shift in direction. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. Lust, greed, hurt, pain, fear—these things she knew. She knew nothing of love.
Tristan had romantically loved only two people in all of his twenty-two years, and each of them had broken him in her own way. McKenzi had provided him an innocent beginning, paving the way for many of his firsts. Their relationship had been exciting and fun, built around a solid friendship. With her gone, he’d lost so much more than just a girlfriend. Fiona had destroyed him to the very core, crippling his trust and his future. Every rational fiber screamed at him to use caution, remain distant. Still, here he was professing his faith in love, surprising even himself.
Josie thought about what a contradiction Tristan was. His exterior was industrial-strength steel, designed to keep intruders out, but beneath that lay a kind and honest soul. She squeezed her arms tighter around her body, wondering if he could save her. Did she want to be saved?
“I’m not McKenzi. She’s dead.”
Josie needed to make this clear. She felt his curiosity, his adoration, for who she used to be. McKenzi once had him. Josie would never deserve him.
Tristan stepped toward her, cautiously closing the distance between them. He felt the warning in her words. He understood the significance of her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her fingers clawing at her ribs.
“But Josie’s not dead.” He spoke softly, placing his large palm over the left side of her chest. “Every second, your heart valves push blood through here and snap shut, creating a thump, thump.” He paused. “Thump, thump. You can hear it. It’s proof that you’re still alive.”
Josie sucked in a deep breath, her brain reeling from his words. Her eyes looked everywhere but at his face. She knew his sympathetic gaze would unravel every bit of her protective housing. After a few breaths of silence, she looked anyway.
Beautiful Addictions Page 6
