“Yeah, well, I don’t know where she is. After the trial she kind of just disappeared. We only lived together for the two months before I went away to college. Everything seemed normal back then.” The man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “She’s probably one of those bums living in Balboa by now, she used to like to go there.”
“Well, thanks for your help.”
With a convincingly appreciative smile, Mort left the middle-class home no closer to finding the girl. It was a long shot, but he’d have to check out Balboa Park. Maybe Josie had run away and disappeared into the streets like so many discarded children before her. She could be living under the freeway, begging for change, or sleeping on benches. He grimaced, knowing that it would be near impossible to find her.
He reached for his phone and dialed the familiar number.
“Speak.”
“Barry, it’s Mort. I think the girl is here in San Diego, but I don’t have proof yet. She goes by Josie Banks now.”
“I’ll let Moloney know. We’re on a deadline here. Gino Gallo has asked for a meeting next month.”
Mort ended the call and blew out a breath. He had to be missing something. He was close now, he could feel it deep in the marrow of his bones. Like a mother sensing her lost child, he suspected that she was still here in the city. Mort knew, without question, that his life could never return to normal until hers was extinguished.
* * *
Josie sat on the floor of the apartment, familiar terrain for her. A tablet lay open in her lap while she sketched Tristan’s handsome features. It was easy to see the similarity to the boy’s face she’d drawn for so long—same piercing eyes, same twisted grin, same look of mischief even when at rest. He sat on the floor as well, leaning against the sofa reading the autobiography of Keith Richards. His long legs were straight and crossed at the ankles with Josie’s thrown over them. It had become habit—if they were in the same room, they were touching. As if intertwined legs or joined hands sparked some kind of current that made them truly exist.
Josie craved his touch and she couldn’t understand why they hadn’t had sex yet, or any form of it. She wanted it; her fingers ached to touch him in places she’d only yet imagined. It was obvious that Tristan felt the same way, so she failed to make sense of his need to take things slow. She longed to feel his sweat-slicked skin against hers and inhale the scent of their bodies combined. Not ready to admit any kind of emotional connection, she desperately needed a physical one. It was the only thing she was comfortable with.
She found it curious that her dependency seemed to be shifting. No longer did she need meaningless sex or drugs to numb her. Josie wanted only to submerge herself in Tristan, to soak up everything he offered. He was her new addiction.
Tristan was in a constant state of arousal in Josie’s company. Never able to completely relax, his muscles remained tense and rigid with yearning. If it had been any other girl, he would have taken her already, hard and fast, several times. But he knew that Josie used sex to avoid attachment. He didn’t want to be just another mark on her therapeutically notched bedpost. To him, Josie was something new yet familiar, something he wanted to cherish. He felt like two ancient souls, separated for a lifetime, had suddenly been reunited.
Unable to contain the sexual tension clawing at her skin, Josie slid her notebook from her lap and straddled Tristan. He gave her his lopsided grin as his long fingers wrapped around her waist. Josie smiled triumphantly, thinking that she’d already won.
“What are you up to?” he asked, dipping his head so that his lips pressed ever so softly to her shoulder.
“I need to feel you, Tristan. Just touch me.”
The sound of Josie’s words echoed around the quiet room. She winced when they hit her ears, noting that she sounded so desperate. Never having to beg for her release before, the statement sounded foreign and troublesome. When Tristan placed another kiss at the base of her throat, she decided she didn’t care. She would beg him with humbling adulation if she had to.
Losing patience with his stalling, Josie grabbed his face in both hands and brought his lips to hers. They crashed together. Tristan’s hands slid to her back and pressed her to his chest. She moaned into his mouth at the feel of his hard body pushing into her soft one.
Tristan’s lips sucked on hers, her tongue was sweet, not laced with one hint of the bitterness she lived with. When Josie rocked her hips against the button fly of his jeans, he felt every ounce of control slip away. A conflict of emotions and physical need warred in his mind.
“I want you.”
Those three little words left him breathless. Such a brazen statement from Josie sent his willpower into a faltering tailspin. He hummed in agreement, sliding his kisses down to her neck. Josie’s arms crossed between them, where she grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head.
Josie ran her nails along Tristan’s scalp, making his eyes close in contentment. The feel of her hot body pressing down on him caused momentary insanity, totally emptying his brain of rational thought. He wanted her more than anything he’d ever wanted before. Not here, not now. There was so much more to say.
“Can I take you out?” Tristan asked, suddenly moving his hands back down to her waist and resuming a neutral position.
“That’s an interesting question to ask while my fucking shirt’s off,” she deadpanned.
Tristan grabbed the garment and pulled it back over her shoulders. Defeated, Josie slipped her arms inside and slid back onto his thighs. She did not look up.
“There. So, can I take you out?” he repeated.
“Out of the apartment?”
“Out on a date,” he clarified.
“A date?” Josie asked, her frightened voice making the words sound foreign.
“You know, an appointment for a particular time, especially with a person to whom one is sexually or romantically attached.”
“Are we attached?” she asked, not really knowing what she wanted the answer to be.
“More than you know,” he answered.
While it would be easy to fall into an intensely wild physical relationship with Josie, Tristan wanted more. He wanted to show her that she deserved more than this shallow life she was treading through. He wanted to lure her out of her protective shell and wrap her in his love. Yes, he knew it was love. Even after all this time, it had always been.
Josie jumped out of his lap. She had never been on a date in her life. She didn’t pretend to know what people even did on dates. She’d always felt the tradition was so antiquated and pointless. It was a meeting of two strangers whose ultimate goal was to have sex. She’d always found it easiest to skip the awkward conversations and formal mealtimes.
“A date? Like in a fancy restaurant with lots of strangers?” she said while pacing back and forth in front of Tristan.
Her arms flailed about as if they kept her balanced on a tightrope of panic. She looked to the kitchen drawer that housed her drugs and back to his waiting face. Josie recognized her need to kill the anxious feelings rising inside of her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She pictured a chain and lock around that drawer, forcing herself to stay present and deal with this.
“Mac.”
He spoke softly as if appeasing a belligerent child.
“No! I’m not her. I don’t do dates. I mean, what do you expect from me, Tristan?” His mouth bobbed open like his jaw was unhinged and broken. “Well?” Josie asked again.
Speechlessness was not something Tristan was used to. Though he tried to form thoughts to comfort her, to find the right words to talk her down from the ledge, he simply could not. So he fell back on things that he knew absolutely.
“‘There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.’”
“Stop reciting shit from your perfect memory, Tristan. Tell me what you want!”
“I want you. All of you. I want to possess you. I want to love you and protect you.”
His he
avy words knocked Josie to her knees, their eyes now level again.
“Too much,” she said, her anger dying off and being reborn into something new and delicate.
“Then I’ll settle for a date,” he answered. “Just us. No expectations. No requirements.”
“I don’t know if I can. Besides, what’s in it for me?”
“Riveting conversation and a free meal,” Tristan said.
“You can do better than that,” she hedged, running her fingers down his chest and tugging on his belt buckle.
“Are you proposing sexual favors in exchange for going on a date with me?”
“Tit for tat.”
Tristan chuckled, a dark kind of laugh that drove her crazy.
“Sex bartering is usually reserved for long-time married couples. She wants some ice cream, but she wants him to go get it. She offers something easy first. If the weather is nice and the store is close, the husband might agree.”
“But if there’s a snowstorm and he has to walk barefoot, uphill, both ways, he will want to negotiate for something better,” Josie says, playing along.
“Right. There’s negotiation and analysis involved. Are both parties getting something they want?”
“You want a date. I want to see your O-face. Sounds reasonable to me,” Josie answered.
Tristan took a deep breath and reminded himself of the reasons to hold out on their physical relationship. It was for the best. It would prove to Josie that he wanted her on every level. It would prove that she was more than a pretty face and willing partner. While these things were true, staring into her pleading eyes made him want to abandon reason.
After a long moment, he nodded his consent.
“Okay,” she said, “I’ll go on a date with you.”
He smiled cautiously and reached for her hand. Tristan knew that he already belonged to Josie. He had since he was seven years old. But he understood that the woman in front him was not the same girl she used to be. There was so much more to learn.
“Tomorrow night,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
She nodded and chewed her bottom lip uneasily. Sex she could do. Seduction, conquering, abandoning were her trademarks. Josie figured that she could teach a class on how to remain emotionally unattached and still get what you want. But a date would test her.
Tristan’s thumb slid across her mouth, freeing her lip from its confines. He placed a gentle kiss there before heading off to work.
* * *
As Tristan took his place behind the bar, he found Erin, Brandie, and Lee talking. With only a few customers to serve, they were happy to sit idly and gossip about the big tippers or the latest episode of a reality television show. He stood a few feet away as Brandie glared at him, not yet over his rejection.
“Haven’t seen Bundy in a while,” Erin muttered while inspecting her new nail polish.
“Who’s Bundy?” Brandie asked.
“This freaky girl who used to come in here all the time,” Lee answered. “Erin thinks she may be a serial killer.”
Tristan cringed at those words, so careless and cold.
“Yeah,” Erin said. “Maybe one of her victims fought back and took her down.”
“I sure hope not. That bitch was hot,” Lee chimed in.
“What did she look like?” Brandie asked.
“Sort of like Wednesday Addams meets Audrey Hepburn,” Erin answered.
“I bet she was crazy in the sack too. I’d like to bang the freaky right out of her.”
“You’re a pig!” Erin chastised.
When the words left Lee’s mouth, Tristan found himself in motion. In three short steps he was there, twisting Lee’s arm behind his back and slamming his face into the bar. The surge of adrenaline pumping through his veins made him feel like he could crush the man’s skull into the countertop. Tristan leaned down so that his angry breaths were heavy in Lee’s ear.
“Don’t you ever talk about her like that. In fact, don’t ever speak about her again or I’ll fucking kill you.”
Tristan released him and stomped his way outside for a breath of fresh air. He slid down the wall, squatting in place, his hands in his nonexistent hair again. He wasn’t sorry for what he did, he was only sorry that he’d lost his cool at work. Surely this incident would get back to his boss and he’d be job hunting again.
“Hey,” a soft voice called to him. Tristan raised his eyes to find Erin watching with a worried expression. “Are you okay?”
“Shouldn’t you be asking Lee that question?” he growled at her.
Tristan stood and lit a cigarette, offering one to Erin. She declined and leaned against the wall beside him, watching his calm demeanor return.
“Nah, screw that asshole. He had it coming.”
They both chuckled and felt most of the tension slip away.
“So you and Bundy, huh?” she asked.
“Her name is Josie,” Tristan replied with a bit of hostility.
“Okay, Josie,” she replied, holding up her hands in apologetic surrender. “How’d that even happen? She never talks to anyone.”
Tristan took a deep drag and blew it out above their heads.
“I knew her when we were kids. She’s an old friend.”
“Well, she seems like an interesting girl. I hope that works out for you. Lord knows it’s hard to find anyone decent in this city. I seem to only attract guys who are more muscle than brain or still live with their parents.”
“They can’t all be bad,” Tristan said. “If there hadn’t been women we’d still be squatting in a cave eating raw meat. We made civilization in order to impress our girlfriends.”
Erin laughed and smiled at him.
“That’s clever,” she said.
“It’s not mine. Orson Welles said it. But it’s true.”
“Well, the last man who impressed me was my daddy.”
Erin patted his forearm and stepped back inside.
* * *
Monica stood before Josie, her arms crossed, eyes scanning in inspection mode. Josie suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at the tiny woman’s appraisal because she didn’t want to offend her. Not this time. She watched Monica’s eyes rake over her body and immediately wondered what the woman saw there. Pain and pleasure weren’t etched into her skin like Tristan. Josie wore her scars inside.
Normal girls had friends to call for backup, friends who would dress you and tease your hair and tell you what gloss to wear. Josie didn’t have any such friends, so she figured Monica would do. Once summoned, Monica Templeton eagerly came running. Josie didn’t know if it was customary for your social worker to keep in touch long after her legal obligations had ended, but there Monica was, an immovable pillar. She never blamed Monica for what had happened to her in those homes, everyone had played their roles so convincingly. She simply enjoyed toying with the woman’s sensibilities. She loved being in control of something for once. Punishing Monica by withholding her forgiveness was the one thing Josie had.
The fact that Josie and Tristan already knew each other did nothing to appease her anxiety. Their lopsided relationship was emotionally difficult to navigate. Though Josie couldn’t recall their beginnings, she felt in her bones that what they had was concrete. She had fought with herself all day, almost canceling on him two hours ago, but she couldn’t bring herself to deny this newly developing affair. She also couldn’t wait to take whatever physical pleasure he would give her.
Josie thought about getting high one last time to calm her nerves, bargaining that she’d be more likable, more at ease. They’d both have a better time. But she didn’t want to disappoint Tristan.
She was a nervous mess. What did Tristan expect from her? Even with her nerves, Josie suddenly found herself wanting to spend time with him outside of the protective walls of her apartment. She wanted to be seen with him and claim him for her own. She took a seat on the edge of the bathtub and put her head in her hands. Monica knelt before her and pulled Josie’s hands away from her fa
ce. She held them up and smiled.
“No charcoal, no paint,” Monica pointed out.
Josie nodded.
“I worked all afternoon on them.”
Monica looked into Josie’s eyes next.
“You’re not high either.”
“Nope. I do feel like I’m going to puke, though,” Josie said.
“Listen to me. No matter where you go tonight, it will still be you and Tristan. Just like when you’re here.”
“No, we’ll be out there, with people watching us. What if I embarrass him?”
A date meant restaurants and crowds. A date meant being vulnerable and honest and learning to rediscover her humanity. Until now, Josie had been free to be a societal vagabond, answering to nothing and no one. She never felt like she could operate within the realm of the law-abiding, white bread squares of today’s population. She feared that no matter what clothes she wore, they would see straight through to what she really was—trash.
“I have a feeling you could never embarrass him, Josie. You certainly don’t see yourself clearly.”
“What the hell am I’m doing?” Josie cried.
“Josie, calm down. Tons of girls go on dates every day. I’ve probably been on hundreds of dates. Look at me. It eventually led to Mr. Right. You’ll be fine.”
“I’m not tons of girls,” Josie said, taking a deep breath. “I’m Josie Banks, fuckup extraordinaire.”
Monica cautiously placed a hand on each shoulder and looked into her brown eyes. She stilled her gum chomping and gave Josie a smile.
“You are not a fuckup. You are fierce and intelligent and one of the strongest people I’ve ever known.” She pulled Josie up and spun her toward the mirror. “You are stunningly beautiful and mysterious and every other thing that men love.”
The two women’s gazes met through the mirror’s reflection, each wishing to understand the other more clearly. Josie longed to see the things Monica saw. She wanted to believe those praising words and attach them to herself like tags.
“Something’s missing. Oh! I know!” Monica screeched, startling Josie.
Monica dug into her oversize bag and pulled out what looked like a tackle box. Josie watched with amazement as she rifled through the thing, picking through each compartment in search of a specific item.
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