Beautiful Addictions

by Season Vining

  They talked about love and life and changes to come, planning their future as if it were guaranteed. Rob admitted to never being in love before. While Monica couldn’t admit the same, she was sure that it had never felt quite like this. Rob complained about the unrealistic expectations of his job and his fears of failure. So much responsibility sat on his shoulders and the weight of it felt crushing at times. Monica admitted that, though demanding, she loved her job.

  “It’s so fulfilling,” she confessed. “I mean, these kids, who have been abandoned in some form or another, have no one to look out for them. That’s where I come in. It’s my job to make sure that they’re safe. I want them to have a fair chance to reach their potential.”

  “Yeah, but don’t you get tired of taking responsibility for other people’s children? Don’t you just wish parents would be parents?”

  “I do wish people would be accountable for their children, but I feel a responsibility to help,” Monica answered.

  For her, it was simple. She was capable of helping, so she did.

  “When I was younger, I thought I could save them all. I was stupid. I made mistakes that were covered up by my superiors, swept under the rug with a slight slap on the wrist. It makes me sick now to think of me getting off so easy when this innocent girl paid the price.”

  Monica felt tears prick at her eyes. She blinked quickly, willing them away.

  “What happened? Is she…?” Rob inquired but couldn’t finish the thought.

  Monica shook her head. “She’d had a really rough life already. She lost both of her parents, then she was shipped cross-country. She was only my third assignment. I placed her in a foster home with this couple who seemed perfect. They had a safe home and full-time jobs and an older son who was about to leave for college. They wanted to offer their home to a teenage girl. I put her there. I did that to her.”

  The tears rolled down her cheeks now, and she didn’t care to stop them.

  “It’s okay,” Rob whispered, clutching her hand in his and running his thumb back and forth in a sweeping motion.

  “It’s not okay. They did horrible things to her, Rob, things that you can’t even imagine. It was my fault for not seeing through their lies. It was my fault.”

  This had been the subject of nightmares, the cause of therapy, a never-ending black cloud looming over her. No matter what, Monica could not let go of the guilt and shame associated with Josie Banks.

  “Can you imagine being responsible for something so horrible?”

  “It’s not your fault those people were terrible.”

  “It’s my fault she had to live with them, my fault that she was too scared to tell me the truth about them. She’s twenty-two years old now. She uses drugs and sex and God knows what else to avoid having any real relationships. She’s so damn talented, an artist. I check in on her, always trying to guide her toward a better life, to save her from herself. Josie doesn’t want to be saved, though. I guess I’m just being selfish. Because if she turned out okay, that would mean I didn’t fail.”

  She broke down again, this time losing all control. She sobbed against his shoulder, painting his shirt in misshapen circles of salt water. Monica clutched his arm, needing to feel and consume his strength. She sighed when she felt his hand rub comforting circles on her back. The feel of Rob’s love made it easier to manage.

  “Darlin’, you did what you could. I’m sure she knows you didn’t intend for any of that to happen.”

  Monica swiped at her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. She forced a smile down at Rob’s worried face, regretting burdening him with such tragedy.

  “I know. I do. I just want her to be happy. I almost feel guiltier now that I’ve found you.”

  “Monica?” a deep voice called from a few feet away.

  She looked up to find her coffee beau, Evan, standing there. She forced a smile and glanced around, trying to figure out where he had come from. Feeling vulnerable, she wondered if he’d overheard any of their conversation. Rob sat up quickly but remained relaxed as Evan approached.

  “Hi, Evan. Fancy seeing you here,” she said, shielding her eyes from the sun so that she could look up at him.

  “Yeah, I was heading to the museum with some friends when I spotted you. You’re looking much better than the last time I saw you.”

  Both Monica and Rob looked around for his friends but found no one waiting.

  “Yeah, a day off will do that,” she said. “Oh, Evan, this is Rob. Rob, this is Evan.”

  Evan stepped closer, enjoying how he towered over the seated man. He offered his hand in a gesture of forced politeness. It would gain him points with Monica if he remained casually friendly to the boyfriend. Rob gripped his hand and Evan almost grunted from the force of his hold. The corded muscles and tendons of Rob’s forearm were evident as he kept his expression indifferent and his hand crushing Evan’s.

  Rob nodded and released his grip from the would-be suitor, hoping that his warning was clear. She’s mine.

  “Evan knocked me on my ass the other day in the rain. He bought me coffee to make up for it,” Monica offered, completely unaware of what had just transpired between the two men.

  “Did he?” Rob asked.

  “It was the least I could do,” Evan acknowledged. He looked around, wringing his hands together before turning back to address the couple. “Well, I’d better get going. It was good to see you again, Monica. Rob, nice meeting you.”

  “Likewise,” Rob spat at his retreating form.

  When he was out of sight, Monica turned to Rob only to find his gaze still trained to the empty space where Evan had been. His blue eyes were slits and his face was contorted into a menacing scowl.

  “Rob? He’s gone, you can stop crushing my hand now.”

  Rob snapped out of his jealous daze and released her hand. She smiled at him and shook out her fingers, exaggerating the pain just a bit.

  “That guy’s a douche bag.”

  “Aww, sweetie, you’re jealous,” she teased. “That’s so cute.”

  “No, I’m not,” he denied.

  Monica straddled his lap and kissed him on his forehead, then his nose, then his lips.

  “Yes, you are, but it’s adorable. The green-eyed monster suits you.”

  “You could have introduced me as your boyfriend, you know.”

  “Is that what you are?”

  Rob shrugged, suddenly aware of their unidentified relationship.

  “Boyfriend seems so juvenile. You can be my partner, my lover, my special guy,” she sang in a dramatic declaration.

  Rob chuckled, letting his anger slip away.

  “Regardless, I don’t like Khaki Pants Church Clothes Evan. I want you to stay away from him.”

  Monica laughed and placed more distracting kisses on his face along his hairline. She combed her fingers through his hair and gave him an obedient smile.

  “He’s nobody. I’ll never lay eyes on him again,” she promised, though she couldn’t know how far from the truth that statement would prove to be.

  * * *

  Tristan lay awake for nearly an hour, holding Josie close and memorizing her sleeping face. When she began to stir, he placed a kiss on top of her hair and inhaled. He found her intoxicating.

  “Good morning,” he whispered, his lips still pressed into her hair.

  Josie hummed in response and squeezed him closer. Perfect, she thought, everything is perfect. She marveled at how soundly she’d slept and how utterly content she felt.

  “REM sleep usually only accounts for twenty-five percent of our sleep, but with you it seems much higher. Do you remember your dreams?”

  “I used to just see all those faces, yours, my parents’, but now I don’t remember anything. I bet they’re mostly about you.”

  “I hope so,” he answered, running his hand down the curve of her spine. “Josie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Didn’t you ever want to know about your life before amnesia?”

/>   “I would sometimes think that I wanted to know, but I was too scared to face it. I thought, what if it’s worse than what I do remember? I was happy to leave it alone. That way I could imagine it was a good life.”

  “It was a good life,” he confirmed.

  “Thanks to you, I know that now,” she answered, smiling.

  “When we were thirteen, you forced me to go see the movie A Knight’s Tale. You were obsessed with Heath Ledger. I begged you to go see Joe Dirt. I couldn’t stand the thought of sitting in that theater for two hours while you sighed and drooled over that guy.”

  Josie laughed.

  “Well, he was beautiful. I was crushed when he died.”

  “Anyway, I gave in and went to see your movie. You went on and on about how hot he was. I was so jealous,” Tristan said, laughing at the memory. “It worked out in my favor, though.”

  Josie lifted her head and rested her chin on his chest.

  “How’s that?”

  “After the movie, you were so worked up that you dragged me into the bookstore and attacked me in the self-help section.”

  “I attacked you?”

  “Yes, attacked. It may be the only time in my life that I was oblivious to books. The best parts of that night were the smell of paperback books and your perfume combined, the shelves cutting across my body and my hands in the back pockets of your jeans. We made out until one of the employees busted us. You gave me my first hickey and let me feel your boob. By thirteen-year-old-boy standards, it was epic.”

  Josie laughed and lay her head back down, wishing she could remember the moment. She wanted to see his adolescent face surprised by her aggressive behavior. More than anything, she longed for that connection to a boy who had shared so many of her firsts.

  “It also happens to be the same night my mom caught me masturbating,” Tristan added.

  “Ha! No way!”

  “Yes, it was traumatic. I don’t think I looked her in the eye for a month.”

  She let her fingers trace his ribs, tapping out a soft rhythm like pressing piano keys.

  “Stay with me for another week,” Josie whispered.

  “I can’t. The sooner I find out what’s going on, the sooner you’ll be safe.”

  “Five days?” Josie begged, placing a kiss over the red-and-blue anatomically correct heart tattooed on his chest. “Imagine how many times we can do this in five days,” she teased, shifting her naked body against his.

  “One day,” he bartered, trying to remain unaffected by her charms.

  “Three,” Josie countered, nibbling gently on the edge of his jaw.

  Her fingers drifted down his body, beneath the sheet, tracing invisible patterns below his navel. She lowered her hand and continued with a feather-light touch to where he wanted her most.

  “Deal,” Tristan barely got out.

  Josie grinned triumphantly and kissed his lips. He smiled and pressed his lips back to hers, wanting nothing more than to devour her again. Now that he’d tasted the sweetest flesh, he would never settle for anything less.

  Josie shifted her hips. She usually felt empowered by the way she could coax physical reactions from the men she subjugated. Josie would become drunk on the power of seduction. With Tristan, it was different. His body moving beneath hers and his salty inked skin alone made her euphoric. She’d gladly relinquish all authority just to be with him.

  Tristan sat up in bed holding Josie. Her legs straddled his lap and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Skin to skin, they cradled each other in a warm embrace, each breathing in the other and wishing to never leave the moment.

  “Can we stay like this for the next three days?” Tristan asked, reaching behind her to pull back the curtain.

  Bright morning light flooded the room, highlighting their combined form like a spotlight. Josie’s messy hair glowed a fiery red in the white-hot light, the wavy tendrils like flames. She stared into his eyes, which were usually dark emerald but in the sunlight had become the color of springtime grass. The hair on his face gave a beautiful shadow that look stippled in by pencil.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Forever.”

  * * *

  Mort slid stealthily through the apartment. The sound of the shower running let him know that he had approximately ten minutes to complete this search. His shoes made no sound against the tiled floor as he glided from room to room. Ghosting his fingers along the kitchen counter, he paused briefly to flip through a few pieces of mail, finding junk and several bills. Next, he entered the small office nestled next to the den and opened her idle laptop. It was password protected, so he closed it and moved on.

  Slipping into her bedroom, he could now smell the floral scent of her soap and shampoo, mixed with the steam escaping from the cracked bathroom door. He didn’t bother checking her dresser or nightstand; he knew that those searches never revealed much more than perverted sexual secrets. Instead, he was drawn to her logo-emblazoned designer bag, sitting on the corner of her bed. Still comforted by the running water, he dug through the cavernous purse and fished out her smartphone. All he needed was a contact, some kind of physical connection to Josie, and he would be set.

  He knew for sure that she was still here in the city, and that Monica still had contact with the girl. He couldn’t believe his good fortune when he’d discovered that little gem, courtesy of a Monica Templeton breakdown. The poor woman hadn’t even known she was confessing the much needed information and it took Mort only a few seconds to connect the dots. Scrolling through her contacts, he came across Josie’s name. He entered the number into his own phone before returning Monica’s to her purse. With today’s technology and a small fee, this number could be used to track down Josie’s exact location.

  The water cut off, and through the door he could hear Monica’s soft voice singing Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face.” He smirked, imagining her petite, curvy body covered in water droplets and steam coming off her skin. He adjusted himself, took one last look around, and slipped out of her room.

  Monica emerged from the warm confines of her bathroom to find absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

  13. Phases

  Different illuminations that the moon undergoes during its orbit.

  Josie left Trader Joe’s loaded down with bags. Tristan was working his last shift at the Darkroom, so she didn’t have the convenience of a car to carry them in.

  She liked Gavin and she liked making sure the kids down at the plaza had enough to eat. When she was comfortable in her apartment with running water and a roof over her head, she felt guilty for having things they didn’t. Her time on the streets had been short compared to most of them. Many had been homeless for years.

  It had been during those nights of wandering empty streets that she’d noticed graffiti. At first she saw the big pieces, entire walls or top to bottom on a train. They were always such a stark contrast to the whitewashed bricks or gray metal. The way each one had a identifiable style amazed her. Later, Josie started to notice the smaller pieces. Someone’s name thrown up on a bus shelter or one-word mantras on freeway signs. She realized that it was everywhere.

  Soon she stole her first set of permanent markers and was tagging JayBee on every pristine surface she could reach. Then she moved on to paint markers. She adored the bigger selection of colors and the way the glossy paint looked when it was dry.

  While sneaking through the streets of San Diego, she’d run into a couple of other taggers. There was never any animosity, only an understanding that this was their art. A mutual appreciation for self-expression and attack against society was their binding force. There were rules to this art, though, and through trial and error, she learned them. Gangs claimed parts of the city and Josie avoided them at all costs. She was just a girl putting herself out there; she didn’t want to fight their fight.

  As she turned onto Sixth Street, Josie noticed a small piece thrown up on the side of a dumpster. It was a three-color job. The outline was messy and ran down in tiny dripping r
ivers. She smiled and shook her head. This was someone just starting, just learning how to control the flow. Eventually, he or she would learn to cut the caps or tighten the wrist movement.

  Josie had bought a few extra things, and the weight of the bag handles were cutting into her palms. She flexed her fingers and shifted the bags a bit to relieve the ache. Taking the familiar path through the park, she was surprised to find no one there. Usually Gavin would be sitting on the left side, her large frame and dirty clothes covering the green slats. Every drawing and inked word was visible on the empty bench. It chilled Josie to the core.

  She set the bags on the bench and looked around.

  “Gavin?” she called out.

  She didn’t want to be too loud. In these late hours, hidden away from the main path, sometimes people you didn’t want to find, found you.

  Josie sat on the bench and waited for her friend. After an hour, she was annoyed. She felt like maybe Gavin didn’t appreciate what she brought. Maybe Gavin was upset that Josie came around less these days. Nigel came by offering his usual products, but Josie declined.

  “Have you seen Gavin around?” Josie asked.

  “Nah. Not last week neither.”

  “Shit.”

  “No worries. I’m sure she just found a sugar momma to take care of her. It’s a shame too. You two were my regulars. Now I don’t got shit.”

  He left disappointed and unconcerned with Gavin’s whereabouts.

  After two hours, Josie was scared. It was a feeling that sank deep into her gut. It made her nauseous and shaky. Those kids down at the plaza were important to Gavin, she wouldn’t just abandon them. Something had to be wrong.

  Josie didn’t want to bother Tristan at work, but she had a really bad feeling. She stared at one of the streetlamps off in the distance. Even from here she could see the moths fluttering around it and throwing themselves toward the light. It reminded her of Gavin’s approach to life. She was never afraid of the streets. She’d try anything. She’d throw herself into a fire if it meant she’d feel something.