by Marie Wathen
“Stay the fuck out of my business, cuz,” he snaps angrily, “Where in the hell are we?”
Frustrated by his lack of concern by what I hoped was a means of reaching him before he commits the biggest indiscretion of his life, I toss back, “Everyone is behind us, and we’ll explain everything soon.”
“What are you talking about?” He glances toward the house and then back through the rear window, narrowing his eyes on the row of high-beams lined up at the gate. “What the hell is going on?”
“Get out,” I instruct, shutting off the car and stepping out.
Three vehicles screech to a halt beside us and Tristan follows my command. Sam hops out of Marcus’ Jeep and leads the group over.
“I’m sure you have a million questions,” she says kindly to Tristan. “Let’s get inside and change first. It looks like a storm is coming.”
We all glance up and notice the bright full moon from earlier has been eclipsed. I can almost taste the briny air of a rainstorm moving in. Once inside, Sam begins telling Tristan what she’s discovered. He sits silently through her spill, but the disturbance in his normally jovial attitude is palpable like the boom energy from a supersonic aircraft during takeoff.
“Someone has been drugging me?” He demands, leaning forward with his elbows pressing into the tops of his knees and narrowing his darkening eyes on my sister. “Fucking prove it!”
“What the hell do you mean prove it?” She snaps back. “I’ve told you everything. There is no reason for me to make this shit up. I’m reaching the end of my rope with you, little cousin. It’s all true.”
“So, you’re saying that wanting Elise is from this mind manipulating drug?” he asks sarcastically.
“Yes, Tristan,” she huffs frustrated.
“Tristan,” Rhys interrupts, joining us after rushing his brother to the emergency room, “You need to know something. I’ve said all along that someone should have told you this sooner, but,” He glances over at Sam before finishing. “They are afraid of how you’ll take it.”
“What are they hiding from me?” Tristan growls angrily, standing and walking over to meet Rhys at the doorway.
“Rhys?” Sam whispers, her eyes begging him to use a touch of finesse in what we know is a reveal that has the potential of fucking Tristan up worse.
“I’ll tell him,” Marcus insists strolling over toward him. He places a hand on Tristan’s shoulder and looks in directly in the eyes. “Before the shooting,” he inhales and exhales loudly, clearly bothered by telling the confused man about his past. He straightens his shoulders, firming his resolve and then continues, “You were in love with a woman who has held your heart since we were kids.” Tristan’s eyes shift away from Marcus, scanning around the room of people watching him curiously. “Anna Knight was your girlfriend and she was with you the night you were shot.” His focus returns to Marcus.
“Anna,” He tests saying her name, his tone softening and almost reverent. He pulls away from Marcus’ hold to prop on an arm of the large leather sectional sofa.
“Yes, when you woke up we thought her name would be the first you called out, but when you asked for your father, I knew something was wrong.”
“You’re saying that I’ve forgotten a woman that I’m supposed to love?”
“We assumed the head injury was causing this mild amnesia–”
Tristan interrupts Marcus’ explanation, “Mild, because I remember some people, but not the one person who is supposed to be the most important to me?” he asks, his tone growing suspicious again. He is bowed up tightly, like he’s ready to fight somebody.
“Right,” Sam confirms and he glares at her, “But after watching your personality changes for myself, I determined that there was definitely something more going on, especially after what you did to Breesan.”
Tristan inquires, “Breesan?”
“Anna’s best friend,” Marcus clarifies, shaking his head at Sam and then resuming control of the conversation. “We can get back to that in a minute, but first let’s talk about the facts.” After a few frozen moments, Tristan nods halfheartedly. “When you came home, there were incidents that proved you weren’t exactly the same as before the head injury. Sam moved in and began watching you. Then she sent off a sample of your hair to the ABI Forensics in Mobile where they confirmed you have been dosed with Ryske.”
“How the fuck could someone drug me?” Tristan growls, his fists clenching tightly. “And why?”
“We don’t know the answer to either question,” Marcus confesses. “But you can bet your ass, I will find out–”
Rhys interrupts, “We will find out.”
Marcus gives him a curt nod and then continues telling Tristan the truth. “The concern about this new drug is the uncertainty of the effects. There hasn’t been much discovery or opportunity for prolonged study. From what the doctors have determined on the hundred or so patients they’ve treated to date, every case is unique. Some patients have experienced short term disruptions, where they simply go back to the way they were before their usage. Other cases are proving long term, especially after extended use. It has been a slow progression, but with treatment, some are regaining the lives they enjoyed before. However, the majority are not curable, leaving the person in a state of turmoil and depression. And that is the reason we procrastinated telling you all of this before tonight. Your mental health was already questionable due to the injury.” Tristan grunts, shaking his head disagreeably. “I can’t guarantee that getting you away from Granddad’s and out of the reach of the person doing this to you will be the magic cure-all, but we’re going to trust that it will,” Marcus finishes confidently.
Tristan surrenders his fight against us and grows quiet, staring down at the hardwood floor. He is completely vulnerable and defeated. Broken. A condition that I’ve never witness before with someone so confident. He has no idea the value of what he has lost, but it’s almost as if he morns the passing of a great love.
Finally, Tristan asks, “So, where is this Anna that I allegedly love so much?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Breesan
Prior to answering the front door, I literally bite my tongue and then smile weakly. Somewhat happy to see the charming smirk glaring back at me, I release the breath held captive in my lungs. With less force than I expected to conjure up seeing him again, I present a full grin. Like flipping a switch, I can play the part of an ordinary person, even though I feel like some subterranean creature creeping below the human race. After a decade of relentless conditioning on how to adapt in every situation, all at the hands of my brutal stepmother, faking any emotion is like second-nature. However, a person can only take so much before failure becomes not only your best friend, but a quickly-achieved goal. Because when you’re prepared for it, you are no longer disillusioned, and it won’t hurt nearly as bad.
Honestly though, I’m hemorrhaging from a metaphorical knife wound, inflicting severe hurt in my heart. One slice at a time, I relive the last night that I saw the one responsible and heard his fatal lies. Crashing and burning from a lost love, severed through the perforation of my life-giving organ and the spirit symbolic of true happiness, which turns-out to be anything but truth. Long before I gave him my love, I knew that it was a deadly mistake. I’ve been told that love is blind, but I’m convinced that it’s more like a rotting corpse–significant to zilch. Reflecting back on our short affair, I can see where I dimmed my awareness and allowed him to fool me into total compliance. But…God, I miss Marcus so badly.
“Hey,” I offer politely, stepping out on the landing and pulling the door closed behind me.
“You look amazing as ever,” Kole says, his eyes scanning over my newest costume meant to camouflage me within a packed goth crowd. I shrug in response to his compliment and he turns around, walking down the front steps with me following behind. He opens the passenger door and I slide inside wordlessly.
For six straight days, I refused to speak to anyone. Not that Marcus
has tried to call or text me once since I told him I needed time. For that matter, neither has my mother, and even though I’m completely pissed off with both of them, it hurts that they’ve cut off communication with me. I’m the one who feels betrayed by what they did.
Since Ensley called every five minutes for an hour straight yesterday, I begrudgingly answered. She insisted that she’s strapped for help at the club and begged me to cover for Tracelyn’s midnight shift tonight, so I agreed on going out with Kole. Mostly, I’ve agreed to return to the land of the living because he is taking me to the Summer Shutdown Mixed Martial Arts championship. His was the only text message that I responded to this week. Blowing off Morgan wasn’t easy, but necessary. It would hurt too much to look at the face that mirrors the source of my broken heart.
“B,” Kole starts, and I can tell from his tone that he is going to go there, “I’m glad that we get to spend some time together, since you are ‘taking a break.’ I’ve missed the old days, when we met up every day at the gym or at the park track and hit it hard.”
Looking out the side window, I nod while biting down hard on my bottom lip. After the mention of me and Marcus breaking up, I feel the pressure of failure nip at my decayed resistance. This was a bad idea. I should have just stayed hidden, forging my figurative walls around my damaged heart again.
“He’s out of town again–”
“I can’t, Kole. Please?” I beg, swallowing down the pathetic heartbreak and growing anger. “I don’t care and I don’t want to know.”
“This is–”
Slamming my hand against the dashboard, I shout, “I’m serious, Goddammit! Either drop the subject or take me the hell home. I will not speak about this shit!”
He mumbles, “Stubborn-ass women.”
With Kole’s connections, we get the best seats in the house. Then after watching Webber retain his undefeated title against his most feared competitor, he surprises me by taking me backstage to meet the champ. Both Webber and his wife, Della, are some of the most down-to-earth people I’ve met in a long time, but the brokenness inside blurs out all excitement from one of my most beloved pastimes, and I skate by being just barely cordial. Kole invites them over to the club for a celebration drink and then we leave.
“I hate this,” Kole complains as Club Toxic comes into view. “We need to talk, Breesan.”
My chin quivers and it pisses me off that I can’t find the strength that I know I have in me to control this shit. But when it comes to relationships, I am a freaking gooey mess.
“Give me a break, Kole,” I beg adamantly, “I will hear whatever it is you want to say, if you will just give me some time.”
“Hear this now,” he forces, thumping his palm hard against the steering wheel, “What he’s doing, everything that we’ve all done, is to help protect you and it’s unfair that this bullshit is cutting between what we have. This fucking breakup is tearing you away from everyone and that shit isn’t healthy. In the beginning, I didn’t like the idea of you two together.” His eyes flick over at me briefly before falling back to the highway stretched out before us, “You know that I care about you, right?”
I nod and confirm, “I’ve never had the guts to admit it before, but you are one of the most important people in my life. Friendship is all that I’ve been able offer anyone recently, but right now, I’m not so sure that I can give that much.”
Shaking his head, he huffs, “I don’t want to see you go back to the way things were. Take time, but don’t you dare back out of this like a punk.” He steers his car into a parking space at the side of the club, puts it in park and then twists around to face me “I won’t tolerate it and honestly, Marcus is suffering too.”
The words sink into my head and the pain I carry just doubled, pummeling the hell out of my soul, like Webber did to his rival earlier. Whether I’m okay with wallowing in my own self-pity or not, something deep inside me aches because my love is hurting too. Like a domino, I’m balancing on a thin line between pain with him and pain without him, teetering on falling face first. Doesn’t matter which direction I go, they’ll both hurt. I know that Kole is only trying to be a good friend, but I’m not sure if it’s to help me or his other friend, who he’s known longer.
Shoving open the car door, I slam it with too much hostility, but don’t bother apologizing and stomp my way toward the back door.
“B,” he calls out and reluctantly I face him once again, “Stay away from Tyle.”
Yeah, he’s definitely speaking for Marcus with that jealously crap.
I jerk open the door and trudge through the filled lower-level, needing far away from that dead-end conversation. Ensley sits at the small employee table, wearing a waitress apron, which is hugely out of character for the club manager. Evidently, she wasn’t lying about being shorthanded. Her eyebrows shoot up to the sky and a twinkle pops in her crazy eyes a moment before she bursts out of her chair. Rushing over, she grabs me in a firm embrace and laughs.
“Holy shit,” she exclaims, pulling away to check out my gothic gear. “I mean, damn you look, beautiful.”
My baby pink, patent leather bustier is trimmed in black lace over the top and corded with a black satin ribbon up the back and front. A matching micro skirt with black laced petticoat, combined with a jet-black wig hanging down to my knees is all so very eye-catching. And, it’s way over the limits, for my comfort, but makes me look bombshell-sexy. I’ve never come close to anything this risqué before. While goofing around on the internet one night, Marcus and I picked out the costume as a joke. It was really only ever meant for his eyes. Wearing it tonight is sort of a rebel act against our relationship. Too bad he won’t see it.
“Thanks,” I smile sweetly, wrapping the black apron strings around my waist before tucking my ticket-book into the front pocket. The pounding base drum beat sends vibrations through the spiked-heel of my pale pink stilettos, reminding that Miller is on stage. No doubt, sometime tonight we will come face to face. This time, I’m expecting it to turn disastrous. No way will she catch me unguarded again. Glancing back up, I notice Ensley watching me. The concern on her face casts a shadow sedating her normal boisterousness.
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing,” I lie, not ready to share how blue my world has turned recently.
“You’re sure?” she prods, crossing her arms over her chest. I notice with that small movement she looks different–weak, sickly even.
“I’m fine, but you don’t look so well,” I feel like shit as soon as the words leave my mouth. “I’m sorry, Ensley. I forgot that you and Tox broke up. How are things with him?” With everything that has stacked on top of me since my mother’s arrival, I have shirked basically everyone and all responsibility.
She scoffs, “Non-existent.” She turns away from me, dabbing the corner of her eye and shaking her head. “He isn’t the problem. I hate men. I’m swearing off all of them.” Apparently, she’s had another man treat her like shit. As I prepare to dismiss her hinting about wanting to talk about this new guy, our newest co-worker steps into the room. Edge not only sees us in an intense moment, the scared look in his violet-colored eyes says he senses it is all about man-hating. He smartly retreats, like his ass is on fire.
“I’m with you,” I mumble, referencing her claim of swearing off men. I watch the door still swinging on the hinge, avoiding eye contact when she turns around again.
“Still no luck on the love-front with you either, huh?”
“I would have a better chance surviving the intense turbulence of a tsunami head-on, than falling in love and making a relationship work.”
“Dang girl,” she moves over and sizes me up. In one scan, she hits the proverbial nail on the head, “You sound as though someone has recently done a number on you. Have I missed something since you moved out of Rhys’?”
I shake my head disagreeably and stress, “No, this is residual from what happened with Joe.”
“Joe?” she repeats, tilting her head to
the side, like a puppy dog does when they are focused. “That’s funny.” Feeling like she’s turning into some gypsy mind reader, I swirl around to avoid further chance guesses of my breakup with Marcus.
Ducking away from her last comment altogether, I say, “I should get out there.” My feet move swiftly, hoping I can make it to the VIP lounge without further delay.
“One question, before you run away, Bea?”
With a hand pressing on the door, ready to push and do exactly that, I glance over my shoulder. “What’s that?”
“I thought your ex’s name was Jeff.”
Busted!
My eyes dart from her back to the door, and I seriously consider hauling ass through it, and right out the front door, because I’ve got nothing, not one response to this major flub and I’m stuck with no life-preserve in sight in this sinking ship. A loud puff of hostile air leaves my mouth, revealing my frustration. Turning around, I cross my arms and await the ultra-gossip-girl to work it out and then make my life more miserable–if that’s even possible.
“It’s…okay,” she trills, wobbling on her scrawny legs, barely managing to stay upright. “One man is interchangeable with the other, so I can understand mixing up the name.” She bursts into a fit of laughter. “Fucking bastards.”
“Ensley, are you sure nothing else is wrong?”
She peels open her spider-leg-looking eyelashes, revealing glazed-over eyes floating in their sockets, telling me that she’s high as the stratosphere. This is it. I’m not accepting her dismissal this time around.