Beautiful Addictions

by Season Vining

  * * *

  Rob met Monica at her apartment. They’d made plans to stay in and watch a movie. She had no need for formal dates and grand gestures. They’d just skip over the usual dating rituals and get right to the heart of it, time alone and lots of it.

  This feeling that engulfed them and held them to each other was powerful. Monica found it easy to be herself around Rob, though for so long she wasn’t sure who that was. She was so consumed with work and the children that she didn’t know what things made her whole.

  He leaned against her doorframe, his dirty blond hair hanging in his eyes. His casual stance was pure confidence. The way his baby blues lit up when Monica was near made her want to run away with him and disappear into the night. Rob stepped aside and let her unlock the door while he peppered kisses on her neck from behind. Her attention faltered as she fumbled with her keys. When she finally unlocked the door, he pulled the giant bag from her shoulder and set it down inside.

  “Damn, babe. What do you have in there? A dead body?” Rob asked.

  “No, not today. Today it’s just clothes and accessories. All the essentials for a perfect date. Well, not my date, of course. Josie’s date. She’s a friend. Well, kind of a friend. She met this new guy, only he’s not new. She knew him before. Well, before some crazy shit went down. I was just helping her get ready.”

  “Don’t even ask me to recap that,” Rob said, grinning.

  Monica felt just a little reprieve from the suffocating guilt usually associated with Josie Banks. She’d done a good deed today. She’d been so excited when Josie called asking for assistance. Anything she could do to make amends with this girl, she would. If there was something Monica had practice with, it was dating. She’d been on so many in the last decade she’d lost count. While not all of them had been miserable failures, none of them had felt right. Not like Rob. He felt perfect and final, like the end of her searching.

  “Can you believe I had to go shopping today because someone stole almost all of my underwear yesterday?” Monica yelled from her bedroom.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I brought a load of laundry down to the basement but forgot my quarters for the machine. So I left it. Ran up here to get the money. By the time I got back down there, the entire basket was gone. Oh! I was so pissed off. I mean, who would want dirty laundry?”

  “You have some weird neighbors,” Rob answered, troubled by the missing laundry.

  “No shit,” Monica said absently, flipping through her mail.

  “What movie did you get?”

  “Some horror movie where everyone gets hacked up and no one gets out alive,” she answered. “I’m sure all the standard rules apply. Never say ‘I’ll be right back.’ Don’t go check out that strange noise.” Monica entered the living room and smirked at him. “And never, ever have sex. That’s a sure way to get yourself dead.”

  “Those killers must be advocates for celibacy,” he muttered. “The idiots.”

  “Well, we could just skip the movie and hump like bunnies,” she offered.

  “Only if you can ensure our safety from psychotic serial killers, darlin’.”

  “There are no guarantees,” Monica teased, unbuttoning her blouse as she backed slowly toward the bedroom.

  “Well, ma’am. I’ll take my chances.”

  * * *

  As Tristan drove home, he found himself humming along with the radio despite not knowing any of the pop songs. If it weren’t so pathetic, he’d laugh at what this girl had turned him into. Though he still had his edge and always his pistol, he felt his sharp attitude beginning to retreat. It was a glimpse of the boy he used to be, before he’d been betrayed and hurt. He felt lighter and hopeful again.

  He was in luck, finding a parking spot on his block. Tristan retrieved his gun from under the seat, secured his car, and lit a cigarette for the short walk.

  It had been so hard to leave Josie’s apartment. He’d tried to be a gentleman, but when she pulled him by the collar and attacked his mouth, he’d lost all control. There, against her door, he’d ground his hips into hers, introducing every bit of his need. She rocked against him, and it was all he could do not to take her right there.

  Josie had invited him in, begging to continue their evening. He knew what she wanted. Hell, he wanted it too, but not yet. Not before he could make her believe that she was worth it. Thankfully, Alex had come home, cutting through their sexual tension and wishing them good night. Tristan wanted to thank him and kill him at the same time.

  “Fallbrook,” a familiar voice called out as he approached his building.

  The sound of that voice made Tristan’s stomach drop and he immediately reached for his piece. He spun to find Padre parked on a bench outside his building. He was shorter than Tristan but just as intimidating. Always wearing a stiff button-down shirt and Dockers, Padre more closely resembled a Wall Street executive than a deadly assassin. His smile was sinister and sharply interrupted by a maroon scar that carved down the left side of his face. He was Tristan’s former assistant and a man who’d left the priesthood to carry out revenge for his murdered brother. He’d never returned.

  “Nice hat,” Padre said, grinning.

  “Fuck you,” Tristan replied.

  They embraced in a one-armed hug and stepped back to a safe distance. In this business, people who were once your allies didn’t always remain that way.

  “Long time, no see, vato.”

  “I had to get out,” Tristan answered simply.

  “Yeah, well, I guess I should be thanking you. I was promoted when you bounced.”

  “Congratulations. I’m guessing this isn’t a friendly visit.”

  “Moloney sent me to give you a message.”

  The air shifted, a serious rope of threat surrounded the men, tying them to each other.

  “So get on with it,” Tristan spat, losing his patience.

  “He says no one leaves the operation alive, but he’s feeling generous. He’ll let you live if you find and kill this girl.”

  Padre handed him a folded photo with torn edges. Tristan felt nauseous as he looked into the eyes of a young McKenzi Delaune. Using every bit of strength he possessed, he kept his face indifferent.

  “This girl is dead.”

  “Nah, man. Moloney says she’s alive and well. He has it on good authority she’s here in San Diego. I was just told to deliver that. Of course, there’s another employee looking for her, but if you find her first, you live.”

  “I’m not spending my time chasing ghosts!” Tristan shouted at the man’s retreating form.

  “I’m just the messenger, Fallbrook. Don’t make me come back here.”

  Just like that, he was gone. Tristan knew this was not just a scare tactic. Moloney would never waste time or money on idle threats. The message was loud and clear. If Tristan didn’t deliver, they’d come back and take payment from his flesh.

  It had been three miserable, sleepless hours since Padre left Tristan standing confounded on the sidewalk. He’d dropped a figurative bomb and disappeared into the aftermath’s smoke. Now Tristan lay in bed, the old photo of McKenzi still clutched in his fingers. An innocent, unscathed face stared back at him from the glossy paper. This is the girl he remembered, the girl he’d grieved for. In all honesty, this girl was dead. As if featured in one of those campy daytime soap operas, the part of McKenzi Delaune was now being played by a darker, forbidding Josie Banks.

  * * *

  He’d been a wreck since learning of the hit out on Josie. First, anger hammered at his chest and he tore through his apartment breaking everything within reach. It wasn’t a fit of calculated rage, more of an unrestrained therapy of destruction. Shattered glass dotted the floor, while his treasured books lay in a jumbled heap beneath an overturned shelf. There were holes in the drywall, a broken trail leading to his bedroom, where he’d finally collapsed. Maroon ribbons of dried blood twisted around his fingers and he scoffed at how symbolic they were. His hands were tied.

>   When his fury had dissipated, he was left only with mind-numbing fear. Not for himself but for Josie. Without a second thought, he knew that he would make any sacrifice if it meant that she’d go unharmed. He would never turn her over to that monster of a man, but that didn’t mean someone else wouldn’t. Padre had told him that there was another person out there looking for her. If they were on Moloney’s payroll, they were good. It wouldn’t be long before she was found.

  There was no escape from the business, no calling it quits without some sort of payment, flesh or monetary. Even when he had run away, Tristan knew this. At the time, he’d rather have been dead than stay near Fiona and her unfaithful heart. How lucky he’d been to find his long-lost love perched on a fire escape.

  Tristan wondered if Moloney had somehow connected him to Josie, if he’d ordered the hit only as a punishment or a test. He wondered about all that dark space in Josie’s memory and what could possibly warrant her death. Mostly he wondered what he was going to do about it.

  He’d be willing to bet that Moloney was responsible for her father’s death and Josie’s amnesia. What other reason could Moloney have for wanting her dead? They must be connected through her father.

  He thought about running. He could pick up Josie, force her if necessary, and drag her away to some far-off country where they would hide out among the locals. Realistically, Tristan knew this plan would never work. They’d be checking over their shoulders for the rest of their lives, just waiting for the axe to drop. Josie deserved a better life than that. What he needed was a bargaining chip, something Moloney wanted more than Josie. He huffed and rolled over, tucking her photo beneath the cool underside of his pillow, and finally drifted off to sleep.

  10. Perigee

  Point in the moon’s orbit where it is closest to Earth.

  The night air was cool as Alex made his way to the Darkroom. When the sign came into view, he wished that he’d done research on what kind of place it was. He suddenly felt like a roughneck among suits. Not that it mattered. He was on a mission. He knew what he was doing was going to sound cliché and dramatic, but he just couldn’t help himself.

  Ignoring the incredulous looks, Alex took a seat at the bar and waited for Tristan. A blond waitress placed her tray on the bar and sighed. As Tristan filled her drink orders, Alex was momentarily distracted by the way her ass moved beneath her skirt.

  “What can I get you?” Tristan asked.

  “I’m not here for a drink,” Alex answered.

  “Well, you’re parked at my bar, so I say you are. How about a light and fruity cocktail?”

  The two men eyed each other in an unspoken standoff.

  “Nah, man. Shout out to my homeland with a Dos Equis,” Alex ordered.

  Tristan opened the bottle and set it on the pristine bar.

  “Actually, Dos Equis was started by a German man who immigrated to Mexico.”

  “Whatever, man.”

  Alex took a few bills from his pocket and laid them on the bar. Tristan slid the money back to Alex.

  “On the house.”

  “Look, I came here to talk to you without Jo around. She’d be pissed if she knew.”

  “So I guess this is the part where you tell me to stay away from her. I’m not good enough, right?”

  “Nah. Neither one of you assholes would listen. I’ll make it simple, Don Perfecto. I know you care, but this girl’s got issues.”

  “I don’t need your advice on how to handle her issues.”

  “If you hurt her, I’ll come after you,” Alex threatened.

  “Ah, the ‘I’ll kill you’ speech. I judged the approach all wrong. Consider me warned.”

  “I’m serious. I took care of her before you showed up,” Alex said, raising his eyebrows to insinuate more than he would dare say.

  “I’m sure you did,” Tristan bit out between clenched teeth.

  “I’ll be there long after you’re gone, vato.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Tristan sneered.

  “I can afford to have you killed.”

  “Get in line.” A stiff air sat between them, electrically charged with passion and intended warnings. “I would never hurt her. Thanks for stopping by.”

  Just like that, Alex had been dismissed. Tristan walked to the other end of the bar and, with his mask of a smile in place, began filling orders again.

  Satisfied his message had been delivered, Alex threw a few bills on the bar and left his untouched beer where it sat. By the time he made it back home, Alex was exhausted. He settled in bed with SportsCenter on the television and drifted off to sleep.

  Hours later, Alex woke to the sound of screaming. He sprang from the comfort of twelve-hundred-thread-count sheets, ready for confrontation. Within seconds of his feet hitting the floor, his pistol slid from the nightstand into his familiar grip. Soon he realized the sound was just Mrs. Thompson yelling at her cat again. He laughed and crawled back into bed, settling his Beretta back into its home.

  Sleep escaped Alex as he lay in bed. His mind worked to piece together the coming day. There was a delivery to pick up, which would need to be inventoried and distributed. One of the downsides of being a one-man operation is that he had to play the roles of CEO, Sales, and Accounting. Job responsibilities kept him busy for much of the day. After lunch, he’d head down to Chula Vista to take care of a debt. He let no one take advantage of his generous nature. Alex would be paid. One day, these punk kids would learn that he was not to be fucked with.

  Alex wasn’t sure how he landed in the game he played so well. It seemed to be a path carved out for him since birth. He was a thug now, a true-to-life dealer. Most transactions were with the rich kids of Bankers Hill, the middle-aged uptowners, and the queers in Hillcrest. Though his mother wished for a better life for her children, it was hard to provide that with no male role model in the house. His father sold drugs and his oldest brother did too. They’d both paid the price. His brother was killed for the contents of his wallet and a dime bag while his father was incarcerated for most of Alex’s childhood. When he was released, he tried to teach the boy about being a man. He showed him how to fire a gun, how to outsmart the streets, and how to keep women in their place. The lessons had not been lost on an impressionable boy.

  For as long as he could remember, Alex had had the same basic priorities in life: wealth, power, and pussy. Not necessarily in that order. He’d accumulated a hefty savings, a sizable collection of drug and blood money washed clean of its sins and folded neatly in an uptown bank. Power had always come easy to him, his hulking size and self-appointed authority ensured that. Pussy was a whole different story.

  Alex rolled over and huffed. He was pissed that the old lady had disturbed him from his sleep and, consequently, a hot dream involving twins. It had been two weeks since he’d gotten laid, but what worried him the most is that he didn’t even care. Sex was usually just a means to an end. Call up one of his regulars, drill her until she was speechless, and leave before her head hit the pillow. His skills soon pushed cringeworthy words and phrases from the lips of satiated women. Date, dinner, boyfriend. When the girls became too attached, he would attack their vulnerable side and, when needing the big guns, insult their sexual prowess.

  Relationships were unheard of in his business. Trusting someone enough to hold your secrets and know your innermost thoughts was not practical. Alex was happy where he was, alone with his fifty-inch flat-screen television, free weights, and imported beer. At least that’s what he told himself.

  It took seeing Tristan and Josie together to force him to face the truth of his loneliness. Alex had never seen such substantial love between two people. Every time Tristan looked at the girl, Alex burned with such jealousy that he couldn’t be in their presence for long. It wasn’t that he had developed feelings for his neighbor; he was simply resentful of their connection. Jealous of what he hadn’t even known he wanted. For the first time in his life, what Alex coveted couldn’t be bought or sold, no matter the a
mount of wealth, power, or pussy he possessed.

  * * *

  Josie woke feeling better than she could ever remember. There was a crackling electricity in the air, a heat radiating from within her own body. Her lips still tingled with the memory of Tristan’s teeth scraping against them. Her body still burned where his hands had gripped so tightly. The midday sun greeted her through the window, doing a shadowless rainbow dance across her legs. She felt unfamiliar, like a stranger was living inside her. Something was different, not bad, but different. Her hands slid up her body, over her stomach and eventually up to her face, where she found the distinction immediately. She’d woken up with a smile.

  While still a creature of habit, Josie recently found herself deviating from her norm more and more. She’d been sketching less, the faces no longer calling out to be recorded. She hadn’t been out tagging in a while. While she loved the cloak of night, the whooshing sound of paint, and the vibrant images she left behind, she didn’t need it like she used to.

  She now made eye contact with strangers and waved at her deranged old neighbor, Mrs. Thompson, when passing at the mailboxes. She still visited Gavin, though less frequently. She felt herself disconnecting from her old life and clinging to something new. Alex still came by, bringing food and staying until she ate. She found comfort in his protectiveness and longed to thank him, but she could not imagine anything appropriate.

  It had been three days since Tristan and Josie’s date, but already she grew nervous at the separation. The air was harder to process in his absence. The lights seemed dimmer and the emptiness made her queasy. If Tristan wasn’t within the paper-thin walls of her apartment, she didn’t want to be there either. She questioned if it was healthy to feel this attached to someone so quickly. She decided she didn’t care.

  For hours at a time, she would sit on the bare mattress of her bedroom and stare at the pencil-drawn faces before her. There were so many versions of Tristan, each so detailed and true to life. Josie wondered how she’d ever forgotten him.