Beautiful Addictions

by Season Vining

  Her mother had the kindest smile, just like Josie imagined every mother should. Warm eyes stared back, the roughly drawn charcoal lines doing nothing to diminish her softness. Tristan had described Josie’s mother as a fun free spirit who cared deeply for her family. She had died in a car accident a year before they moved away.

  Her father was handsome, but his eyes seemed to reflect worry and sadness in every drawing. Perhaps her only memory of Earl had been after her mother’s passing. She wanted, so badly, to remember what his hugs felt like or the timbre of his voice.

  Tristan’s parents were represented on her wall of memories as well. His mother, Bitsy, and father, Daniel, were such beautiful people. It was easy to see how Tristan had turned out so stunning. There was anger and sadness in his voice when he spoke of them, but Josie knew he missed them. From what he’d told her, they were good people who had only wanted the best for their son. As outsiders, they were able to see the poisonous future that lay ahead with Fiona and had tried to warn him against it.

  The sun was setting on another day, and as the fiery glow flooded her apartment, she thought of endings and beginnings. Josie recognized the need she had for Tristan, the need to end her aimless wandering through life and begin again with him. Fear ate away at her, making her feel undeserving of such notions.

  Josie wanted to call Tristan and ask him to come over, but she didn’t want to scare him off by being too clingy. She suddenly hated being alone. Before he had come along, when Josie got this feeling, she would go out and find someone to bed. It was always easy on her end, a tiny flirt, a lingering gaze, and they’d be putty in her hands. All she wanted was a warm bed and protective arms around her. Orgasms and various drugs had just been a bonus.

  This wasn’t an option anymore. She didn’t want just any arms around her, she wanted his strong inked arms. She wanted to devour and consume him. She wanted to exist for Tristan and only Tristan.

  Resigning herself to a night of tagging, she threw on Tristan’s hoodie, grabbed her bag, and tied a bandanna around her neck. It wasn’t a fashion statement, it worked for covering her face while writing. She was searching the apartment for her shoes when a knock sounded at the door.

  Running across her apartment, her socked feet having trouble gaining traction against the hardwood, she skidded to a stop and threw the door open. The relief at seeing Tristan standing there was more than she could handle. Josie leaned against the doorframe to keep herself upright.

  “Don’t ever just open your door like that, Josie. At least fucking ask who it is first,” he grumbled at her.

  Her face fell as his harsh words struck her with the force of fists. Tristan barreled into the apartment, slamming the door behind him and locking it up. He threw himself down on her sofa, crushing random sketches beneath his feet with no regard.

  “Thirty-eight percent of assaults and sixty fucking percent of rapes happen in the home. Do you want to be another statistic? I can’t stand the thought of you being measured using some goddamned algorithm compared to a set of data on the San Diego crime rate scale.”

  Unsure what to do with herself, Josie approached him carefully. She’d dealt with irate people too many times to count and considered herself schooled in the ways of diversion. Not so long ago, in a house that she’d been forced to call home, it had been a way of life. She’d become an expert at dissolving hostile situations with minimal damage.

  For some reason, she was clueless about what to do with Tristan. He had never spoken to her so harshly before. Tristan scrubbed at his face, taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly. Josie thought he looked like he needed a cigarette. She cursed the fact that she didn’t have any. So she gave him all that she did have.

  Crawling into Tristan’s lap, Josie straddled his legs. She took his worried face between her hands and looked deep into his eyes. She placed herself at his mercy, wanting so badly to decipher his thoughts, to ease his mind.

  “What’s wrong? What did I do?” she whispered.

  Tristan shook his head, disgusted with himself. His careless actions had made her feel like she’d committed some sort of crime. Her words only fueled his anger, creating a desire to punish himself for his ill manners. Tristan needed to make her understand just how much she meant to him. He needed to make her see that the girl from his past and the girl before him now owned his heart. She always had. His temper had gotten the best of him and he’d misdirected it at the one person who would never deserve it.

  “Nothing, Josie. You did nothing. I’m just an ass. I’m having a bad day,” he answered, placing a kiss on her forehead.

  Tristan leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes, trying to calm his overactive mind. His heart raced at her nearness, the warmth of her body on top of his. His mind was staggered with thoughts of approaching danger and impossible choices. A treacherous situation had been presented, and for now, he could see no way out.

  “Let me make it better.”

  Her nimble fingers worked quickly, skillfully unlatching his belt buckle. When it was pulled free, she popped open each button of his fly. Slowly, with purpose, she traced the length of him.

  “Josie, you … you don’t have to,” he stuttered before being distracted by her touch.

  “I want to.”

  For too long he had denied physical satisfaction with Josie, and he would punish himself no more. He felt as though she might need this just as much as he did. For a few minutes, he could forget about the threats on McKenzi and focus on the talents of Josie.

  Tristan cleared his throat, causing Josie’s eyes to meet his own. The apartment was eerily silent as they absorbed each other’s breaths and desire. His eyes were dark and hungry and begging for more. More, Josie chanted in her head, more. She wanted to give him more. She wanted to be more.

  Tristan fisted the sofa cushion, a breathy grunt escaping his lips as he watched Josie descend onto him. While this was far from his first blow job, it was certainly his most intense. He’d come over in a foul mood, unable to stay away from her any longer. He was confused and frightened for Josie’s safety. He was tired of just existing in a swirling mess and not living. With Josie’s soft lips wrapped around him, he lived.

  Josie had never wanted to please someone so badly. She’d never wanted to give so freely. She knew this meant more than just the physical act itself, but she couldn’t admit what it was. Soon, Tristan’s hips rocked, rising up to meet her. His fingers wrapped tighter in her hair.

  She felt the ache in her jaw, the burn and shake of her arms holding her over his lap, but she ignored the discomfort. Tristan climaxed almost violently, calling her name on labored breaths. She had given more and taken more. She had a feeling, with Tristan, it could never be enough.

  “That was not why I came over here,” Tristan said as he tucked himself back into his pants. “Though I must admit your powers of distraction are amazingly effective.”

  Josie remained quiet, refusing to excuse the most exquisite orgasm she’d ever been witness to. Instead, she pulled in closer, squeezing tight around his ribs. Tristan exhaled heavily as ran his fingers through her hair.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I just really needed to see you,” he admitted.

  Josie sat up so that she could look into his face. She ran the tips of her fingers over his brow, smoothing out the worried lines there. His expression displayed guilt and she wanted nothing more than to erase it.

  “You do see me. You always see me. That’s what’s so scary.”

  He kissed her lips, at a loss for how to make her understand that she didn’t need to be scared, not of him, anyway. Tristan had debated whether to tell her about the threat from Moloney. He didn’t want to make decisions without involving her, but he didn’t want to be responsible for pushing her too hard. His biggest fear was that she would disappear again. He knew, without a doubt, that he’d never survive it a second time.

  * * *

  Mort had spent three days combing through Balboa Park looking
for the girl. He’d even dressed in torn and dirty clothes to try to assimilate himself into the band of vagrants. During the day, most of them hid away in the shadows of the canyon or panhandled downtown. By night, they roamed the park freely in search of food or anything else worth having.

  He made small talk and asked around, but never did he find Josie Banks. Sometimes he would swear that he’d seen her face, but it always turned out to be some other girl with dark eyes and a tortured past. Poverty and hard luck had no predilection for a certain type of person. Teenagers, kids, even whole families of every race and color found themselves in its hopeless grip. It was easy enough to imagine himself in their position had he never found the employment of Dean Moloney.

  It was by chance that Mort seated himself on the very bench that Josie often visited. He was bent over, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, when he felt someone sit beside him.

  “You’re new here.”

  Mort nodded, not looking up.

  “I’m Gavin, your concierge for the evening. Whatcha looking for?”

  “A girl.”

  “Well, today’s your lucky day, handsome.”

  Mort sighed and sat back before sliding his eyes over to his new friend. She looked tired and weathered, but something in her eyes was content.

  “A specific girl.”

  “Oh, well, I get it. I’m not your type. No worries, you’re not mine either.”

  “A girl named Josie,” Mort said through gritted teeth.

  “Josie? Why didn’t you just say that? Haven’t seen her in a couple weeks, but you’re definitely in the right place.”

  Gavin pointed to the elaborate JayBee signature on the bench between them. Mort’s spine straightened severely and he tried to keep the look of triumph from his face.

  “Cool. That’s cool.”

  “What you want with her?” Gavin asked, suddenly wary.

  “I owe her some money. You know where I can find her?”

  “Uh, I might. But I don’t know you, dude. What if she don’t want to be found?”

  Instantly, Mort’s expression morphed from innocent to sinister. He pulled his switchblade and held it against Gavin’s throat.

  “You’ll tell me or you’ll fucking die.”

  Gavin’s mind ran wild as she felt death grab hold. This man would end her, she knew that. If she didn’t tell him what he wanted to know, her life would end here on this bench. She eyed one of Josie’s drawings, a simple self-portrait. There was no decision to make.

  “Then I guess I’m meeting my maker tonight,” she answered in a firm voice.

  There was no scream as the blade penetrated her flesh. She didn’t beg for her life. There was no change of heart. Gavin closed her eyes and slipped away silently beneath the lush green canopy.

  An hour later, Mort returned to his apartment, where he washed the blood and disappointment from his hands. When he was clean again, he lay in bed and pondered what his next move would be. Just as he began to doze off, his phone buzzed.

  “Mort,” he answered.

  “Any word on the girl?” the sinister voice asked.

  Mort glanced at the phone, as if the man could come through and grab him by the throat if his answer was not satisfactory.

  “All I’ve got is a lead on her case worker.”

  “Be aggressive. Those fuckers in New York really dropped the ball on this,” Moloney sneered.

  “I’ve got this.”

  “I have a former employee looking for her as well. If he finds her first, you are out of luck, my friend.”

  The line disconnected, and Mort slumped against his pillow. The word “friend” resonated through the air, dripping with disdain and anything but camaraderie. He’d dedicated so much time to this job, and just like that, Moloney would send someone else to finish it. Mort recognized this for what it was, a motivational threat. He needed this money, his whole future depended on it.

  Throwing his phone onto the table, he vowed to step up his game. Mort hacked into the internal archives of the Child Services office. Within minutes he was logged in as a registered user and began his search for Josie Banks.

  He pulled up her file and noted the assigned case worker was Monica Templeton and smiled satisfactorily. He followed Josie’s path through the failing child protective system, noting the methodical check-ins every twelve weeks.

  First she was placed in a girls’ home in north San Diego County. After six months, she was put into a foster home with Mr. and Mrs. Spangler. The couple lived in a decent uptown neighborhood and seemed an ideal family on paper.

  Mort scrolled through the folder, finding it pathetic that almost four years of this girl’s childhood could be so easily accounted for and condensed into this small file. As he read the notes detailing the horrific abuse she suffered, it hit him like a suffocating blow.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Spangler were charged with criminal negligence and physical abuse while serving as Josie Banks’s guardians. They were both convicted and served time separately. Denise, released early in March 2010, and her husband, Stephen, released in November 2010, remain residents of San Diego County. See notes below for parole information,” Mort read, sickened by the words.

  The details of the case stated that none of the abuse had been discovered until Josie had turned eighteen and was no longer a ward of the state.

  He felt a wave of nausea shoot through his body. In the business he was in, Mort had seen many things. He’d experienced enough blood and carnage to last him several lifetimes. This was something entirely different. He too had suffered abuse at the hands of adults he’d trusted, an unforgivable act in his book. These people were monsters.

  While he felt sorry for Josie and all that she’d endured, he had a job to do and it would be best if he just viewed her as a paycheck. He knew he needed to act quickly, otherwise he might be thwarted by Moloney’s other man. He quickly logged out of the program and shut down his computer.

  11. Umbra

  A shadow that blocks out illumination.

  It was raining in Southern California and no one knew how to behave. Pedestrians scurried down the streets, taking cover under the eaves of various restaurants and secondhand bookstores. The strangers huddled so tightly together that personal space and physical boundaries were breached. The falling rain assembled into puddles along street curbs and on the dry fronds of palm trees.

  Monica huffed at the inconvenience as she hurried down the sidewalk. The coffee shop sign lured her in, the neon glow immediately reminding her body of its requirement of caffeine. She weaved in and out of the crowds, sometimes darting through the downpour to reach her destination. The man before her, the one dressed in appropriate rain gear and designer shoes, swung the door too hard, knocking her over. Monica yelped and grabbed his sleeve to keep from falling, only to send them both careening to the ground.

  “Shit!” Monica exclaimed, feeling the water seep through the seat of her pencil skirt.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, jumping up quickly, offering his hand and an apologetic smile.

  She took it and let him pull her in beneath the shelter of his jacket. Once inside, Monica tried to assess the damage. She knew her ass was wet and maybe bruised, her hair was a mess, and she’d broken a nail. That shit always happens just when you get them all to the same length, she thought.

  “Are you okay?” the man asked, concern lacing his voice.

  His face was a bit round and childlike while still remaining handsome. His curly brown hair was cropped short, while his devious smile hinted that there was more beneath the surface. His oxford shirt hugged his chest, indicating a muscled body beneath such common clothes. Soon, for no reason at all, Monica found herself smiling back.

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “Well, if you’re sure. Hey, let me buy you a coffee. Pick your poison,” he said, gesturing to the menu.

  Monica blushed and stepped to the counter, placing her usual order. He followed and ordered the same. There was a recogn
ized silence between them as they waited for the drinks—a lingering glance, the faintest smile, all telltale signs of flirting. Even though all she could do was compare this man to Rob, Monica was flattered.

  “Can you believe how people freak out when it rains?” he finally said.

  “I know, right? It’s like I want to scream at them, ‘It’s just water!’”

  He laughed wholeheartedly, his dimples deepening, further softening his face. Their order was called and they retrieved their cups from the counter.

  “So you must not be from here?” she asked.

  “Nah, I’m from Tacoma. What gave it away?”

  “You’re wearing a raincoat, an item that none of us locals even own.” She twisted the cup nervously in her hands. “So you should be an expert, right? I hear the sun never shines up there. People have vitamin D deficiencies and it, like, rains every day?”

  He shook his head and grinned at her. “It’s not quite that bad.”

  “Well, thanks for the coffee…” Monica paused waiting for his name.

  “Evan.”

  “Evan,” she repeated. “I’m Monica. Thanks again, and good luck out there. Try to stay upright for the rest of the day.”

  “You too,” he countered, raising his cup and grinning triumphantly at her retreating form.

  * * *

  Josie let Tristan’s statement sink in. Her crazed eyes could almost see the words breeze across the room and enter her head. He’d said them so matter-of-factly, so interestingly, as if reciting more of his random facts.

  “You’re telling me that Dean Moloney, crime lord, wants me dead? Not only that, but he’s asked you to do it?” Josie screeched.

  “Yes,” Tristan answered calmly.

  “Why me? Who is this other person looking for me? Do you know him? Does Moloney know that you know me? He couldn’t possibly.”

  “I’m not sure if he’s connected us to each other yet. We were just kids back then. But I bet this has something to do with your amnesia. We can assume that he may be responsible for your father’s death and your disappearance. Would you be willing to try hypnotherapy to recover your memory?”