The Truth of Tristan Lyons

by L. B. Dunbar

  “Ireland,” I called.

  She didn’t respond as she stared at me, treading water while I approached. When I was finally upon her, I saw that she was crying.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, my voice filled with concern. Had she hurt herself? Had something hurt her? Before I could think of another scenario, she lunged at me, clasping her arms around my neck and squeezing me tight.

  “Tristan? Oh my God. Tristan! Are you alright?” she whimpered without breaking her hold on me, breathing the words heavily in my ear. She wasn’t letting go of me. Her life-preserving hold on me dragged us both down in the water, so I gently pushed the water, swimming to shallower depths in order to stand.

  “What’s this?” I said, putting an arm around her lower back as I used the other arm to paddle us where I might have some footing.

  “I thought…I thought…” A sob broke out of her as she continued to squeeze me. If she clamped any tighter, she was going to cut off my breathing.

  “Hey. I’m okay. I’m okay. What’s going on?” I inquired soothingly, as I rubbed her back when I stopped where I could comfortably stand. She was still hugging me, and she let her legs drag in the water to wrap around my waist.

  “After yesterday…” she cried, still not looking at me, “and I said I should have let you drown…and then I didn’t see you…”

  “Shh. It’s okay,” I continued softly again, rubbing both hands up and down her back, making small circle motions.

  “Nothing happened to me,” I added. “I was swimming with a sea turtle.”

  When she pulled back, she looked at me with those deep blue eyes that matched the water’s color. I mean, into me. After a moment, she kissed me frantically on the forehead, my cheeks, my nose, and my eyes.

  “I. Am. So. Relieved,” she said between each kiss and finally hiccupped on a last sob. Her legs wrapped around my waist, anchoring her to me as she used her hands around my neck to balance. She glided her lips over each part of my face. When she finally pulled back to look into my eyes again, the excitement between my legs sent a direct line to my heart. I kissed her, hard.

  I didn’t hold back. My lips engulfed hers, my hands reaching up to hold her head still as I placed them on her cheeks. Her small hands were still on my shoulders. I took her lips as my captive. I kissed her again and again, pulling back as if I might slow and then attacking in surprise. Ireland was my willing prisoner, at the moment. She met me kiss for kiss, even nipping my lip once. I nipped her back, gentler, and she opened her mouth to gasp. I took this invitation to invade her with my tongue, and she dueled against mine. The fight between us was pure passion, which could have boiled the water that surrounded us.

  Ireland squeezed her legs around my waist, sliding herself against me. My hands slipped down to her hips. I moved her lower against my body to match us in our points of pleasure. There wasn’t enough between us with my thin suit and the slip of cloth she called a bikini. I could have her in less than a second, and it would be over in five, but I didn’t want to have Ireland like that. I wanted to experience all of her. I would make it last long enough that she begged me for her relief.

  We continued to kiss and rub against one another, slipping in the water that lapped around our bodies. My hands wandered up her sides and over her small breasts. She whimpered in pure pleasure, as I let my hands cup her before sliding up her neck and slowing the kiss. I pulled back first and she was hesitant to let me go. She gripped my shoulders to hold me to her, but I gently pulled back from her. I felt the loss of her when she immediately let her legs unwrap from me. She pushed against my chest to float away from me. I was quick, though. The adrenaline racing through my body allowed me to reach for her upper arm.

  “Don’t run away,” I said directly into her sapphire eyes.

  I linked my arm around her waist, and we began an awkward walk in flippers back to the shore.

  “Were you really that worried about me?” I asked nervously.

  “Terrified,” she said softly, looking toward the house as we stumbled through the water.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “For what?” she asked, as she looked at me, then lowered her eyes away from mine.

  “For caring about me.” She smiled, but it didn’t touch her eyes. We finished the climb out of the water in silence.

  When we reached the sand, we lay in the warming sun, letting it dry our bodies and clear our minds. Ireland was on her back and I was on my stomach, so the back of my tattoo was exposed to her.

  “Will you tell me something?” she asked, hesitantly.

  I held my breath for a moment. I was worried what she might ask.

  “Maybe,” I said slowly.

  “What’s your tattoo mean?”

  I laughed, relieved at the question, then realizing it would be a sad story to tell. She looked at me with eager eyes, as she rolled on her side toward me in the opposite chaise lounge and waited. I couldn’t deny her. I wanted to tell her. I was relieved that someone wanted to know.

  “It goes back before I was born. My father was killed and my mother fatally injured while pregnant with me. My mother came from money, my father, not as much. They wanted to make it on their own, being young and in love, so they lived a less opulent life in a community that had some questionable characters. At least this is what I was told. One day my parents were hit by a drive by shooter from a gang. It was never confirmed if it was a random act of initiation, or if my parents were targeted specifically because it was known they came from more than where they lived. Either way, my father died almost instantly. My mother, who was almost at full term, delivered me before she died. I was given to a family friend, as that was my parents’ request. At the time, my mother’s younger brother, who was to be my guardian, was too young to take me. He was only fifteen and still a kid himself.

  The gang’s name was the Dragons.

  When I was twelve, I was starting to get beat up within the neighborhood. The area was going downhill and my foster parents, Raul and his wife, Regina, decided that I should finally move in with my uncle. He was twenty-seven at the time and making his way in business. He was kind, in a strange way. Doting and happy that he had a nephew, as a remembrance of his oldest sister. He was not pleased to be strapped with a child while he tried to grow his company. I became rebellious in my newer surroundings, and he didn’t appreciate the trouble. He took it out on me.”

  I was looking at Ireland while I spoke. When I mentioned the last part, she opened her mouth in a small O. She waited for me to continue.

  “Uncle liked things, just so: neat, tidy, structured, organized. At twelve, thirteen, and fourteen, I wasn’t any of those things, and he had a unique way to punish me. By fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen, I began to travel back to the old hood, inviting trouble, looking for Dragons to slay in retribution for my parents. It did me no good. The gang had moved on to other neighborhoods, after destroying the original one. Raul and Regina moved to a better part of the city, in order to see me more often, and Raul gave me a second hand guitar when I was fifteen. He told me to take my anger out in music not fights.

  My uncle disagreed. He smashed that first guitar and several others, until I got smart enough to leave them at Raul’s. I taught myself to play there. Raul knew some music, but I worked hard to surpass him.”

  “That answers my next question,” she laughed without humor. “Why the guitar?”

  “I love the sound. I love that loud ripple when the first chord is struck. It sends an electric current through me, which seems cliché, but true. I feel attached to the instrument like I was always meant to play.”

  She smiled and I paused, thinking she had heard enough.

  “You haven’t finished the dragon tattoo story,” she prodded.

  “When I was seventeen, my uncle came at me. It was the last time. I always felt I owed him, so I didn’t fight back. He took me in without complaint. Well, generally speaking. He provided for me, and I had more than I had with Raul and Regina. Alth
ough he beat me, I didn’t resent him as much as I felt I deserved it. He always told me he loved me; that I made him do it, to teach me a lesson. One day, I just didn’t want the lesson anymore. Despite the guilt I later felt, I let him have it back. He was so shocked, but more shocking was he was proud. He said I should have been fighting him all along. He said I let the Dragons get me down when I should have been beating them up. I got the tattoo after I hit him back. It’s a reminder of what they took from me.”

  I rolled on my side and traced over my own heart with my finger.

  “The position shows that as much as it claws and breathes fire over my heart, I will always smother it and hold down the beast.”

  I exaggerated the motion of clamping my arm against my side, almost flapping my elbow, in a motion to stomp down the dragon.

  “You have a scar through the neck of the dragon. What happened there?”

  “You noticed that?” I looked at her puzzled. I took a deep breath before I spoke.

  “My uncle was into breaking my guitars, like I told you. Before I even had the tattoo, we were struggling over a guitar. He had the body and I had the neck. We were each tugging, and being stronger than me, he pushed the instrument down, snapping the neck off. The jagged edge of the neck dangled in my hands, strings still attached to the bottom of the guitar. I took the wooden point and scratched myself with it, swearing that he could break every guitar I owned, but the music would also be in my heart. It was dramatic and only a flesh wound, but it was deep enough to spurt blood, which only upset my uncle further. It left that scar.”

  I absentmindedly drew a finger across the mark without looking at it.

  Our lounges were a few short inches apart, and Ireland leaned up on her elbow like me. She reached a shaky hand across the space and traced a heart shape over my dry, warm skin, then laid her small hand flat against my chest, holding it for a brief moment over my beating heart. I covered hers, with my own, holding hers in place for several minutes.

  “Ireland,” I swallowed, “Have dinner with me?”

  She flicked her blue eyes up to mine.

  It was wrong. I shouldn’t have asked. It would seem like a date. It would be too intimate.

  “We don’t have to make it a thing. We can go casual. It’s just…”

  “Yes,” she cut me off. “I would love to go to dinner with you. I know just the place.”

  Chapter 15

  [Ireland]

  Love sprang forth from red bottled wine;

  I made a reservation and told Tristan I’d meet him in the living room at seven. Being that it was still springtime, the night would be dark early, but not cool. He decided we would call a taxi and wait outside the gate, hoping the taxi driver wouldn’t realize we were actually from the house.

  When I entered the living space, Tristan stood with his hands in the front pockets of his long shorts, looking comfortable and casual in his deliciously tanning skin. My breath escaped me as he smiled that crooked smile in my direction. His mossy green eyes practically fire-worked with specks of gold. He could have hypnotized me with the look emanating from his stare. I was consumed with the need to give him anything he asked for, in return for his hands on me or his lips on mine; his kiss, from earlier in the day, lingered. His chiseled cheeks and scruffy chin added to the ideal model look, a look men paid for, but structures that came naturally to Tristan. His hair was still wet from his shower and slicked back, but it would dry without loosening and lay wavy against his neck. I smiled, realizing I knew these things about him. His attire was complete with a light blue, untucked, long-sleeved button down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and sandals on his feet. He was runway material in the living room.

  “You look beautiful,” he said to me, as I finally willed my legs to walk toward him. I glanced down self-consciously at my orange t-shirt dress and strappy orange, wedged sandals. A large charm bracelet and curls in my shorter hair completed the simplicity of what I wore.

  “You look beautiful, too.” I smiled and bit my lip. He laughed.

  We waited only minutes for the taxi, which drove us less than a mile and a half down the road to The Wharf, a famous restaurant known for seafood entrees and tarpon feedings at night. The large, ugly looking fish were attracted to this restaurant, as were the visitors to see the feeding of these creatures under a blue light that highlighted them in the dark water. That wasn’t the reason I picked the restaurant, though. I was hoping to sit outside, in a secluded area, so no one would recognize Tristan. When the hostess asked if we would like a table in the sand, Tristan responded “Why not?” It was the perfect spot, as we had the farthest table set on the beach, away from the restaurant veranda, which was packed.

  Once seated, I immediately realized the setting was rather romantic, maybe too romantic. The portable outdoor light was turned so low I could hardly read my menu. I had to laugh when Tristan used his phone to highlight the words for us to order. A bottle of wine was brought to the table and set in a standing wine chiller, forced into the sand, to the side of the table. Candles were lit and placed on the table, as well.

  “It’s so peaceful,” Tristan said, looking out toward the inky black sea, distinguished from the dark sky by the ripple of the waves. I knocked his feet under the table and apologized.

  “Put your foot up here,” he said, patting his lap.

  “What? Why?” I giggled.

  “Give me your foot,” he growled playfully. When I did, he began removing my strappy sandal.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Relax. Let your toes play with the sand while you have dinner.”

  I giggled again as I dug my feet into the cool evening sand. The grains spread through my toes, and I took comfort in the sensation. The beauty of the setting, and the silliness of having bare feet under the table, digging in the sand was perfect.

  Throughout dinner, we talked of generic things. He spoke animatedly again about the sea turtle that distracted him earlier. I mentioned growing up in California. He mentioned growing up in New York, then moving to Connecticut. We traded stories of high school and college studies, plus his music career. I explained my determination to get the college degree, even if I never needed it. He told me about his determination to finish the album.

  I didn’t pry into the situation of Arturo King. I didn’t know much more than the fact that there had been a terrible motorcycle accident, something involving paparazzi, and the disappearance of his body. Arturo was presumed alive, but he’d cut off communication with the public, and from what it appeared, his own band. I didn’t ask for further details, as Tristan didn’t seem to want to share them beyond the need to finish an album without Arturo King.

  He ordered a second bottle of the local red wine. I noticed I might have been drinking more of it than him. He paid for dinner, took the wine bottle in one hand, and my shoes in the other, directing me to walk down the beach with him. We had to pass around a rocky jetty that allowed only a thin strip of exposed sand, because of the rising tide. Tristan gave me the wine and my shoes before he positioned himself so I could hop on his back. He literally gave me a piggyback ride.

  When we reached the other side, I saw the lights of various hotels and condos along the beachfront. We walked slowly, side by side, sharing the bottle of wine as we went. Chatting casually at times, for the most part we walked in comfortable silence, talked out at the moment. My thoughts drifted to the contrast between my future husband and Tristan, a dangerous comparison.

  He was older, established, and strict. Tristan was young, unpredictable, and laid back. He was wealthy and flashy, escorting me like a prize. Tristan was wealthy and unconcerned, treating me like I was special. He was attractive for an older gentleman, but not seductive or enticing. Tristan’s body language screamed, “strip-me-of-my-clothing-and-have-your-way-with-me.” My memory flashed back to his kiss earlier. I’d never been kissed like that before.

  When we reached the house, Tristan collapsed in one of the metal lounges on the raised pat
io.

  “Mind if I sit with you?” I asked, as he lay back in the lounger with his hands behind his head. He’d placed the wine bottle on the ground next to the chair.

  “No. Of course not,” he said lazily, looking out at the brightness of a partial moon reflecting in a light beam across the water.

  Feeling bold, and slightly tipsy from the wine, I moved his legs and climbed between them to sit, literally, with him.

  “Ireland,” his voice warned, “what are you doing?”

  “Just sitting,” I replied quietly, as I leaned back and rested against him. My back lay against his chest, and he loosely rubbed one hand along my arm before returning it behind his head.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked. “You seemed far away when we walked back.”

  “I don’t think I should say,” I replied to the warm night air, not able to look at him behind me.

  “Now you have to say,” he laughed, and it raised me up and down a little with the motion as I lay against him. He reached for my arm again, as I started to slide, and he righted me between his legs.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I said quietly.

  Tristan didn’t answer.

  “I’ve never…I don’t know…I don’t think we will be compatible.”

  “You haven’t tried?” he asked, his voice low in my ear. He sounded surprised, but not condemning.

  “No. I don’t want to. Not yet. Not with him, actually.”

  Tristan remained quiet.

  “I’m supposed to seduce him. My mother says it will help. I don’t know how to do that,” I said with frustration.

  “Maybe he doesn’t know what he’s doing?”

  “I don’t know,” I sighed. “I just want to be satisfied. I mean I want it to be satisfying. I mean…”

  “Sounds like you might have to satisfy yourself.” He cut me off from speaking by squeezing my arm.

  “I don’t do that.”

  “Don’t what, Ireland?” I heard him swallow behind me.