The Truth of Tristan Lyons

by L. B. Dunbar

  When Tristan finally did release me, I recognized the pain in my arm. I had felt that pain before. Not enough to bruise, but tight enough to hurt. I should have been scared, but it was a feeling I was growing used to. A feeling I wasn’t sure how to handle, which was part of the reason I was here. I needed time to make sense of everything.

  Tristan seemed to be resolved to let me stay, especially when I begged. I promised he wouldn’t even know I was around, and I planned to stick to that promise. I didn’t want to spend time with someone. I wanted to be alone.

  That is exactly how Tristan left me. After I said he was hiding, he turned away from me, ran a hand through his disheveled hair, mumbling something I didn’t hear, before slamming the door to the bedroom I wanted. The room he took was on the waterfront, and the sliding doors went right onto the raised patio. He probably didn’t appreciate the view. He seemed like the type that didn’t appreciate anything.

  He definitely felt some entitlement, but for what I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I took my bag and pulled it down the hall to the last bedroom at the rear of the house. It was a pretty room. The bed was raised up, with four posts, white sheets, white comforter and extra pillows. This was the wedding room, as I affectionately called it when I was younger. All that white screamed of a honeymoon suite. I wasn’t exactly comfortable taking the room, but I had to be far enough away from the stranger.

  I should have been frightened to share a home with an unfamiliar man for a few days. I didn’t know him, and he didn’t know me, but he did seem to know Isa. I couldn’t risk him calling her. I was still worried, as I entered the bedroom that he might make the call, but something told me he wasn’t going to, at least not yet.

  I closed the door and sank to the floor, instead of sitting on the bed. I hung my head between my knees as I thought, What am I doing here? But more importantly, how was I going to get out of the mess I made? A mess I just might have accelerated to unsalvageable wreckage.

  Chapter 3

  [Tristan]

  For on an island, hid Time to pass.

  The house was quiet when I awoke. I peeked outside the closed curtains to see the sun was rising, signifying another day. I had slept over twelve hours. A surprising feat, since I normally only slept for a few hours at a time before I was woken up by Guinevere’s tears, or Kaye’s constant phone calling, or some girl nagging at me. I surprisingly still had a headache, despite the sleep. I now attributed it to lack of coffee and food. I needed sustenance…and a shower.

  I had a vague recollection of the day before. A girl. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Fear. Did I imagine it all? I thought as I washed my hair, closing my eyes as warm water rinsed my body. I let the spray cascade over me. There was something familiar about her, yet she didn’t recognize me. Was it possible that we knew each other? Or did I dream it all? I hoped it was a drunken mirage, because I wasn’t in the mood to see or talk to anyone, or explain myself to some random girl.

  I wrapped myself in a towel and wandered out to the kitchen. My hair still dripped wet onto my bare back. I didn’t bother to shave, despite the stubble on my chin and cheeks.

  The service staff must be somewhere within the home because coffee was made in the pot. I noticed a cup next to it as if waiting for me. I poured the liquid gold and walked to the expanse of windows. The patio was completely shaded from the dawning of bright sunlight that reflected off the blue ocean waters. The whiteness of the sand was almost blinding.

  I raised my cup for a sip, when I saw a thin blonde in a tight tank top and loose running shorts, walking slowly up the beach. Her hair was blowing in the wind as she moved closer to the house. I felt a stir against my damp towel. I needed to find someone on the island and soon. I needed the release. I’d never gone long without the comfort a woman could bring me. Of course, it wasn’t really comfort I was looking for, but what a woman could bring to me nonetheless.

  I continued to watch the girl as she meandered slowly in front of the home. She kept pushing her hair out of her eyes with her fingers, occasionally glancing up the beach ahead of her. More often, she was looking out at the water. I watched her bend over to pick up something off the sand, and my dick sprang to fullness. Her heart-shaped ass pointed in my direction with her legs spread long and straight. I had an immediate image of impaling her from behind.

  “It’s not polite to stare,” said a sweet-accented voice behind me. In my surprise, I sprayed coffee out of my mouth on the window before me. I turned in my towel to give the Hispanic beauty behind me a full view of what I could offer a woman. Dark hair pulled tight at her neck. Dark eyes sparkled playfully at me. Her lips were painted red, despite the early morning hours, and her gray maid’s outfit hugged each curve. She definitely had curves. I wasn’t opposed to role-playing the naughty maid come to clean me up, but this wasn’t exactly what I expected so early in the morning.

  “Well, who are you?” I asked, sauntering toward her after I placed my coffee cup on a table.

  “Estella.” She smiled.

  “Well, Astella, your timing to clean my room is impeccable.”

  She smiled further, and bit her lip. “It’s E-stella,” she emphasized.

  “Whatever,” I mumbled, as I slipped my hands on her cappuccino-colored cheeks and lowered my head to kiss her.

  “It’s normally best to get her name right. You know, so when you cry out in ecstasy you call the correct name,” muttered another female voice from behind me.

  I looked over my shoulder to find the woman I had been ogling outside was my very own nightmare-come-true. She was the girl from yesterday, and she was very much back in the house. I couldn’t help myself when I spoke.

  “That’s what names like ‘sugar’ and ‘baby’ are for.”

  The Caribbean beauty cleared her throat and stepped out of my hands.

  “Good morning, Miss Ireland,” she said softly, looking down at the ground before her.

  “Good morning, Estella,” Ireland spoke to the girl. “Your services won’t be needed this week. However, I will pay you for your time.” Ireland moved around me toward the long hallway of bedrooms.

  “Wait,” I spoke. “What?”

  “I said,” she spoke slowly, as if to a five-year-old, “her services won’t be needed this week. I’m going to my room to get money to pay her.” With that, she turned the corner and proceeded down the hall.

  “Wait right here,” I commanded of Estella before I followed Ireland to her room.

  “What do you think you’re doing? What if I want her services for the week?”

  “I’ll cook for you.”

  “I want my room cleaned,” I smirked.

  “Fine. I’ll clean it.”

  “Fresh sheets daily. I might make a mess,” I said and winked at her.

  She scrunched up her nose like she had done the day before when she smelled me. It was actually kind of cute on her.

  “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “What if I want her to stay…for other services?”

  “That’s your business. I’ll pay her for the housekeeping, but I’m not paying her to have sex with you.”

  “I’m not paying her, either. I don’t need to pay for sex.”

  She only sneered as she turned her back on me and went to a dresser drawer for cash. She pushed past me to return to Estella. I followed after her again, watching, as she placed several folded bills into Estella’s palm and closing her fingers around them. Ireland stood for a moment holding Estella’s hand.

  “I gave you extra, not to contact Isa.” Ireland shook the maid’s hand, nodding at her as if emphasizing her demand. “Do you understand, Estella?”

  Estella looked down at her hand encompassed by Ireland’s.

  “Understand,” she said then looked over at me.

  “Oh, fuck it,” I said. I went to my room and returned with Cayman money. I took the money out of Estella’s hands, replacing it with the new cash and returned the bundle to Ireland. She stared at me, then down a
t her own hand.

  “Leave your number,” I said to Estella, as I winked at Ireland and exited the living room for my bedroom.

  Moments later I heard Ireland’s voice passing my room. “I thought you didn’t pay for sex, Heartbreaker.” She laughed, sweetly.

  After the morning’s escapades, I had to take another shower to calm myself. I hated doing it, but it was necessary for the moment. I was too worked up after watching Ireland and thinking I would get relief from Estella. The two women were quite a contrast, but I didn’t want them both. I wasn’t bothered by having two at once; it just wasn’t going to be those two.

  When I exited my room, I had a direct visual to Ireland’s door at the opposite end of the hall, and her door was closed. Assuming she was inside, I took my guitar and went to the living room. Despite the gorgeous day, I didn’t want to go outside. I plopped down on the couch and took out my Fender. It was harder to play an electric guitar without an amp, so I often travelled with a small portable one to perfect the sound I wanted to hear.

  Despite the cancellation of the world tour, Arturo had written almost an entire new album of songs. Inspired by his love for Guinevere, the songs were a newer version of the band’s style: intimate, edgy, full of angst, but sweet; songs that our fans, and possibly newcomers, would easily connect with. That was the thing about writing songs, it had to be relatable, or the message was lost. Arturo went through a phase of trying to be too profound. Mure Linn, our band mentor, told Arturo he was acting too old for his age, despite being wise beyond his years. Arturo also went through a dry spell. Although the world tour was scheduled, there was some fear of what would happen next, if there were no new inspiration for lyrics.

  I blest Guinevere for entering Arturo’s life. She was Arturo’s muse for songwriting, and write he did, for her. My shoulders slumped when I thought of Guinevere. She was just as messed up as the rest of us. Her uncertainty of where Arturo was, or what happened to him, was almost as frustrating as shutting out the band. I wanted to punch Arturo myself for hurting her, like he was, by keeping her out.

  Hell, I wanted to punch Arturo for keeping us all in the dark.

  I began to play the first song for the new album, a love ballad about breaking down the walls. Walls needed to hold a house and protect the heart. I couldn’t relate to this song, although I understood the words. I hadn’t been in love. I was perfectly content to continue to play the field: different girls in every city, new girls every other night. It made no difference to me. I hardly saw the same girl twice. They wanted me for my status. I wanted them to please me.

  Problem was, I was getting bored with the randomness. I wasn’t going to be a hypocrite. I loved women: all shapes, all sizes, all colors. I enjoyed them, and they enjoyed me. I wasn’t being an asshole, but I knew I was good looking. I’d been told it enough times. I might have even intimidated some women with the differences in our physical compatibility, but I was never turned down when I offered. Never.

  But I was starting to think I wanted something like Arturo and Guinevere. Maybe not the same exact thing, as they seemed to have their share of troubles before the disappearance of Arturo, but something similar. I knew, without a doubt, how Arturo felt about Guinevere. He loved her. It was that simple and that complicated, all rolled into one. Poor Guinevere, she was just so confused, at the moment. She would have never questioned that love, if Arturo hadn’t disappeared.

  That was the thing with love. It could hurt at times, and that’s why I had never considered it. I’d been hurt enough in the name of love. Mark claimed to love me. He said it every time, after he beat me, when I was a child. He assured me it was love that drove his rage. He needed me to understand that love drove men to do things they didn’t want to do, but it was necessary all the same.

  Of course, those beatings stopped once I was old enough and large enough to fight back. Mark no longer seemed disappointed in me, then. He told me I was becoming a man by fighting back. He was actually proud of me the first time I hit him in response. But that pride soon faded when Mark realized that I hadn’t given up the guitar. Once Mark stopped beating me, he took it out on my guitars. He broke several of them, until I got smart enough to keep the guitars at Raul’s home, instead.

  It wasn’t until college that I met Arturo. Mark was initially upset when I befriended Arturo King, unaware of the lineage of Arturo. He didn’t approve of guitar playing; he most certainly did not approve of a band. Once Mark found out Arturo King was the illegitimate son of Locke Uther, who had died and left his entire empire to Arturo, Mark actually encouraged the relationship. His reason for a sudden change in perspective became clear the first time he came to a band dinner and openly offered to purchase Camelot Records from Arturo.

  Mark Cornwall had been business enemies with Locke Uther of Pendragon Empire Inc. for years. Socially, they mingled and schmoozed one another, but behind closed business doors, they were ruthless antagonists. Of course, Mark had always wanted that to be my future. He claimed he was building an empire of his own, for me to one day rule after Mark, but I didn’t want that life. After that fateful dinner, I realized that Mark wanted to use my friendship with Arturo for his own purposes.

  My concern lay more in my relationship with Arturo and the band. I needed them. The opposite of what I expected happened. Arturo held no grudge against me. He agreed to let me continue with the band, and he helped me move out of Mark’s home during the first year of college. I was eighteen, so I was legal. At twenty-six, most of that seemed like water under the bridge, but the memories of it all still stung. That guilt of disappointing someone, who had been generous enough to take me in as an orphan, continually nagged at me.

  Flashing back to memories of Mark’s cowardly brutality made me need a drink. I wasn’t sure what time of day it was, and I was a little surprised I hadn’t seen Ireland for what seemed like a long time. True to her word, she was staying out of my way. I poured myself another crystal glass with three fingers then added ice. I would nurse the drink, as my fingers would be busy on the guitar. I returned to the couch and continued to play, until I felt the delicious calm of drinking take over my body. My fingers fumbled on the strings. I knew better than to try to play while I was drunk. I’d broken many a strings playing too hard, trying to make the string work, when it was the control of my fingers that faltered.

  I set the guitar to the side of me, angling it against the couch as I tipped my head back and closed my eyes. Balancing the glass on my thigh, I thought again of my uncle Mark. Random clips kept flashing in my mind. I needed to play to block out the memories. I set the drink aside, took up the Fender again, and concentrated, pouring myself into the music.

  I’d been playing hard for a while, really beginning to rock out. A trickle of sweat rolled down my back and the edges of my hairline were damp. I was lost inside my head and the sound when I heard a voice yelling over the heart racing music.

  “You play really well,” she shouted.

  I stopped abruptly. Why was she always sneaking up behind me?

  I twisted my position to look over the back of the couch and held my breath at the sight before me. Standing in nothing but a yellow bikini with black edging, Ireland was slick with suntan oil over bronzing skin. Her hair was pulled back with some sort of headband, and she held a towel and a book in front of her. I could still see almost all of her. She was thin. Too thin as I noticed the day before, but she was pretty, very natural looking.

  I released a breath.

  “Where have you been?” I growled, unintentionally.

  “I was at the beach. I moved up toward the patio a while ago, but you seemed too lost in playing to notice. I could hear the music drifting out the windows.”

  She paused and pulled the towel open slightly, in order to partially cover herself. I didn’t think I was staring, but I must have been because she suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

  “I’m going to my room now, so…so you can keep playing,” she stammered and then scampered off
to the hall without waiting for a response from me.

  Chapter 4

  [Ireland]

  A troubled man found his way to shore.

  I showered and put on a pair of shorts with a t-shirt. I loved to dress casual when I could, as compared to all the times I had to dress up. I thought back with dread on the numerous outfits I had worn over the years, in all my beauty pageants as a child, before moving on to modeling. My mother had all the connections necessary to model, but she felt competition was good for me. It would build my character, she told me, to learn to lose and realize I wouldn’t always be the prettiest one. I never felt that way about myself. I didn’t feel pretty, despite my appearance.

  I had been called beautiful plenty of times. I was often praised for it, but only when I was all made up. Without the make-up and the designer clothes, I wasn’t sure I was much of anything. I had always longed for more, and I studied botany when I could fit in a college class at UCLA. I was intrigued with herbs, plants, and flowers, which lead to a slight skill in cooking as I knew what to mix with what for the best flavors. My interest lay more in the medicinal purposes. I always thought I might want to be a pharmacist or a nutritionist. More of someone in natural medicine, but then it was modeling that stole the show.

  My mother had been a model. I would be a model. My mother married well. I would marry well. That would be my life. However, there was more to any marriage than I could obtain. My uncle was owed a debt by my parents, and that liability was forcing my hand. I shook my head refusing again to think of it. I told myself one week. One week I would relax. Next week I would decide. I would return.

  I returned to the living room to find Tristan passed out on the couch. Well, he certainly was easy company, I thought. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been around people who drank too much or were constantly stoned. In the modeling business, I was surrounded with such people: drinking to calm down, taking drugs to get up. The irony wasn’t lost on me that my uncle, my mother’s brother, had made his living from drug distribution. He was a powerful man. I wasn’t involved in his lifestyle, refusing to begin, knowing what resulted in the end from the excessive behavior. My mother allowed me this one refusal. She wanted me to stay pure and innocent until my wedding day. After that, she probably wouldn’t care what I did.