by Chanta Rand
Greta took a sip of the wine Alexa had poured earlier for her. “I think Charles would approve of him.”
It was if the woman had read her thoughts. “You think so?”
“Yes.” She started slicing the onions for the chicken. “He would approve of anyone you set your heart on. He knows you have a good head on your shoulders. You wouldn’t just pick any stray dog from off the street.”
Alexa laughed. “Funny you should say that. I did that once when I was young. I found the cutest little puppy. I gave him a name and claimed him as my own. I wanted that dog so bad, but my parents said I couldn’t keep him. Eventually, the real owner came looking for him. She promised me I could come visit the dog and play with him whenever I wanted. And I did. But she moved a year later and, of course, she took the puppy with her.”
“How sad,” Greta sniffed.
Alexa looked at her and saw tears gathering in her eyes. “Oh Greta, don’t cry. I wasn’t upset. I was happy because I knew at least the dog was going to a good home.”
Greta laughed. “I’m not crying because of that. It’s these damn onions!”
* * *
An hour and a half later, Greta was still there, but Tristan had not yet arrived. Alexa had called his cell phone twice, but there was no answer. She’d already left one message.
Greta was getting anxious as well. “Do you think he got his signals crossed?” she asked. “Maybe he thought he was supposed to come to dinner tomorrow.”
“No,” Alexa shook her head. “We specifically discussed it this morning. He said he’d be here at eight.”
Greta looked at her watch. “It’s nine o’clock now. I wonder what could be keeping him.”
That makes two of us! Alexa walked into the kitchen and covered the Chicken Parmesan with foil. Dinner had been done for over twenty minutes. She’d set the table for two, but wisely hadn’t lit the candles. She sighed. She was so optimistic at beginning of the evening. Now, she felt as if a blanket of doom had been draped over her. There had to be some reason for his tardiness. Maybe something bad had happened to him.
Don’t kid yourself. The man is three hundred pounds of muscle. Nobody’s gonna tangle with him. She returned to the living room and stared at the front door. The same door Tristan had shown up at over a month ago, surprising her. She closed her eyes. Please Tristan, don’t do this to me. Don’t stand me up.
“Let’s watch some television,” Greta offered.
Alexa didn’t want to watch TV. At this point, nothing short of a blizzard in July could take her mind off Tristan. “You don’t have to wait with me,” Alexa put on a brave front. “I’m certain he’ll be along any minute now.”
“I don’t mind waiting up with you. I haven’t stayed up past ten o’clock in years.”
She hugged Greta. “I’m not going to be the one who deprives you of your beauty rest. You go. I can wait by myself.” She smiled. “But I may have to eat without him, that chicken parmesan smells so good.”
Greta returned her smile. “And it’s going to taste even better.”
“I have no doubt.”
She patted Alexa’s hand. “I’m only sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet Tristan.”
“There’ll be other times,” Alexa assured her. I hope.
As Alexa walked Greta to her car, she couldn’t help but notice the beautiful evening skyline. Summer nights in Texas were truly magical. The light didn’t fade until close to nine p.m., so it was just beginning to get dark. Tracks of lavender tiptoed across the neon blue horizon. Nature was capable of creating such awe-inspiring beauty. Too bad Tristan wasn’t here to see it with her.
The rest of her night passed like a slow-motion movie. She spent the next couple of hours pacing the floor and trying to fight the ugly thoughts that kept creeping into her head. She dialed Tristan’s phone number again, but there was still no answer. Finally, at midnight, she had to face the fact that he wasn’t coming. She sat down and cradled her head in her hands. She had put on a wonderful performance for Greta, one worthy of an Oscar. Now, she would have to put on another performance. She would have to do one hell of a job of convincing herself that it didn’t matter that Tristan had stood her up. It didn’t matter that he’d used her to get what he wanted. It didn’t matter that he lied to her. None of it mattered now.
She was stupid to believe she ever had a chance with him. She should have trusted her first intuition and stayed as far away from him as humanly possible. But her body had betrayed her. It had responded to Tristan’s erotic touch and his tender kisses with a mind of its own, and shamelessly begged for more. Her passion had been her downfall. Now she was confused and hurt. Where had she gone wrong? Didn’t he think she was good enough for him? She choked back a sob that had found its way to the center of her chest. It was painful, lodging itself in her sternum like heartburn. But if she let it escape, the pain would be even greater. She would have to admit her failures a woman. She would have to realize that she was unworthy of a serious relationship. She would have to cry. And she’d done enough of that. No, she was not going to play the victim any longer.
To Hell with you, Tristan Rexford!
She refused to let him or any other man have control over her emotions. She refused to shed a tear for him. It was time to shut everybody out, just like she’d been doing until Tristan came along. What had he told her? She’d been building walls around her castle? Oh yeah, well, she was going to re-build all the walls. And put a goddamned moat around the perimeter as well! No one, no one was going to play her for a fool, ever again!
* * *
Tristan woke up confused. When he opened his eyes, he didn’t know where he was. Everything was sterile and white. White lights. White walls. White sheets. This must be Heaven. He felt relief wash over his body. He hadn’t always been perfect. In fact, he’d never been perfect. So it felt good to know he did something right to end up here. But where was the harp music? Where were the singing angels?
“I don’t give a damn what you say! I’m taking my son out of here!”
That was definitely not the voice of an angel. He looked up to see a middle-aged man wearing thick glasses and a long white coat enter the room and close the door behind him. “I’m Dr. Burke,” the man said, walking toward him. “I’m glad to see that you’re awake.”
Tristan tried to speak, but found that he was barely able to open his mouth. The skin on the left side of his face was taut, like a zipper that had been pulled too tight. “Where am I?” he managed to ask.
“Shriner’s Hospital,” the doctor answered. “How do you feel?”
“Like a Mack truck ran over me.”
The doctor smiled. “That good, huh? Great, I’ll probably be able to release you today.”
“Really?”
“No,” he chuckled. “That was just a little physician’s bedside humor. Your face still needs time to heal. One hundred and forty-six stitches,” Dr. Burke informed him. “That’s a personal record for me. I could have just done one hundred and forty-five, but I like even numbers.”
Stitches? Why the hell would I need stitches?
He thought back to his visit at JT’s house. There was a knife. Blood on the floor. Gunshots.
“Someone cut me,” Tristan told him.
“Yes. Pretty badly, I’m afraid. You have a five-inch cut from your temporal bone to your mandible. And you have temporary damage to your Orbicularis oculi as well as your Quadratus labii inferioris.”
It sounded like the man was speaking in tongues. “In English, please.”
The doctor gave him a patient smile. “You have a long slash from your temple to your jaw. The cut is deep, almost to the bone. It damaged your Orbicularis oculi, which is the muscle responsible for making you blink. Also, the facial muscle that allows you to pull your lower lip down, the labii inferioris, has suffered severe trauma. These muscles need time to heal. In the meantime,” he advised, “You may experience some partial paralysis on the left side of your face. But it won’t be perma
nent.”
Tristan let the information sink in. It was all so overwhelming. He looked at the I.V. cord running from his arm.
“You’re being fed intravenously for now,” Dr. Burke informed him. “But in a few days you’ll be able to sip from a straw. Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you.”
Tristan touched the left side of his face. It was wrapped in thick bandages. “Let me see.”
“The bandages will come off in a few more days. Right now, there’s not much to see.”
Tristan glared at him. “Let me see my face.” He heard the raw edge in his voice, and he knew the doctor had probably heard it too. He saw the hesitation in the man’s eyes, but he didn’t give a damn. He wanted to see what was underneath all those bandages.
Dr. Burke left the room and returned with a mirror. He gave Tristan an even stare. “You probably won’t like what you’re going to see,” he warned. “Your face is still recovering.” He began gingerly peeling the tape from his forehead. “I’m just going to remove some of the tape so you can have a glimpse at my handiwork.”
Tristan held his breath as the doctor took what seemed like an eternity to remove the tape and pull the bandages down. When he held the mirror up to his face, he saw endless rows of tiny, black stitches zigzagging down his face. That bastard with the knife had sliced him from the top of his face to the bottom. The cut reminded him of a hideous creature in a horror film. Frankenstein! He closed his eyes and tried to control the tears of rage building up. He looked like a goddamned monster. How could one man do this to another man? How could somebody be so black-hearted and evil as to commit an act of violence against someone who’d done nothing to him in return? Too many emotions coursed through him. He was pissed off. He was in shock. He was horrified.
Why me? What did I do to deserve this?
The doctor quickly replaced the bandages. “As I said, your face is still healing. Once the stitches are out, you’ll start feeling like your old self again. Just remember, this is temporary.”
“Yeah, but the scar is permanent.” Tristan opened his eyes and sneered at the doctor.
He gave him a sympathetic look. “Don’t look at it that way. You’re alive, man. You still have your health. So many things could have gone wrong, but you lived to talk about it.”
Tristan nodded. The doctor was right, of course. But it didn’t make him feel any better. His face might heal quickly, but his anger damn sure wouldn’t.
Dr. Burke walked toward the door. “Since you’re awake, you should know that your family members are waiting outside to speak with you. Two detectives are here too.”
Tristan scowled. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone. He felt like destroying something. He felt like destroying … someone.
The doctor continued. “The cops want to talk to you and the other guy you were with about what happened.”
His anger took a back seat. He was so busy feeling sorry for himself, he forgot about Lou. All he remembered were the gunshots. “What about Lou?” he asked. “What happened?”
“Lou is okay. He’s waiting to visit you as well. It’s your father we’ve had to restrain. He’s determined to get in here to see you.”
At last, a ray of sunshine in all this darkness. Thank God, Lou was fine. He couldn’t take any more bad news. “I’ll see my parents first. Then Lou. Then the cops.”
Dallas PD didn’t want to wait. They came in immediately after Dr. Burke left. They walked in like they owned the room. One was chubby and short. He looked like a bulldog. The other one was chubby too, but much taller. He could have been a professional wrestler. The short one approached the bed. When he spoke, Tristan could smell the coffee on his breath. “Mr. Rexford, I’m Detective Kowalski and this is my partner, Detective Griffin. We want to ask you some questions about what happened.”
Tristan nodded. “Okay.”
“Your friend Lou has already supplied us with some of the details. He’s fine, by the way. He was grazed by a bullet. And those guys beat him up pretty badly, but after they left, he managed to call the police.”
Griffin stepped forward. “Can you tell us what happened to you?”
As best as he could remember, Tristan related the events that transpired at JT’s house. His story was short and sweet. He sounded like a bumbling idiot because the bandages prevented him from speaking as well as he wanted to.
“Lou told us you didn’t know any of the men. Can you tell us anything about them? Any identifying marks?”
Tristan shrugged. “They all had on dark colors. Other than that, nothing stood out.”
“Did you get a good look at the perpetrator who knifed you?”
For a moment, he was tempted to say no. He wanted to kill that son-of-a-bitch for what he did to him. Yeah, he got a good, long look at him. He would never forget those intense black eyes and that squashed-in face. If he saw him on the street today, he would…Tristan tempered his rage. He was mad as hell, but what would he look like stalking a thug like that? What kind of life would he have running around trying to retaliate against a criminal? He would be no better than the man who ruined his face. What was he thinking? That type of behavior was for gang members and the Mafia. He would let the cops handle this.
“He was tall with dark eyes, almost black,” Tristan said. “Ugly, with a bashed-in face.”
Griffin opened a manila folder and pulled out an 8x10 photo. “Is this the man?”
There was Pumpkin Face in full color. “That’s him,” Tristan angrily tapped his finger against the man’s picture. “That’s the bastard who cut me.”
He shook his head. “Yeah, we figured he was the one.”
“How’d you know?”
“He was killed while trying to rob a local bank this morning. We found a lot of contraband on his body, including money, drugs, and a watch with your name engraved on the back. We also recovered two cell phones. One turned out to be yours.”
“At least he won’t be slashing anyone else’s face.”
“You’re lucky to be alive,” the detective pointed out. “This guy was an expert with knives. He could have easily slit your throat or gutted you like a fish. His rap sheet makes the U.S. Constitution look like a short story. In addition to being involved in four bank robberies, he’s suspected of committing two murders in two separate states.” He shook his head in amazement. “That man was a born criminal.”
Tristan didn’t care if he was John Dillinger reincarnated. He felt no pity for him. “He stole five hundred dollars from me. I want all my money, my watch, and my cell phone.”
Kowalski spoke up. “We are doing everything we can to get your personal items returned to you. Right now, we need the phone for evidence. We’re still trying to track some of the calls made on it. We want to see if he made any calls that could lead to any additional arrests.” He produced a computer printout of phone numbers listed on a sheet. “Maybe you can help us out. Do you recognize any of these numbers? In particular, there are three incoming calls late last night from one number.”
Tristan scanned the list. One phone number was highlighted. It belonged to Alexa. He was supposed to have dinner with her. Now she would think he’d stood her up on purpose. She would think he’d had his wham, bam, thank you ma’am way with her and then skipped out. “Those numbers belong to people I know,” he told the detectives. “I don’t think this guy used my phone.”
Kowalski tucked the sheet and the photo back into the manila folder. “We’re sorry that you had to go through this, Mr. Rexford. And we’re sorry to have bothered you in your hospital bed, but we had to get a positive ID on this piece of garbage.”
“And by the way,” Griffin added, “We’re both big fans of yours. You have our promise that this will be kept quiet. Nobody will get wind of what happened. For your privacy, we’re keeping your name out of the media. If there’s anything else you remember, please don’t hesitate to call us.”
Tristan wasn’t listening. He was thinking about Alexa. She’d called him repeat
edly, no doubt wondering where the hell he was. He could only imagine the things that were going through her mind. She was probably cursing him a blue streak. That was the worst part of this crime. Not only was he a victim, but Alexa was a victim too. This tragedy kept him from seeing her. It eradicated any ounce of trust she had in him. He touched the bandages on his face. In one instant, a man had destroyed his face. And for what? Because he’d lost money on a Predator game? He would never understand this violence toward him. He was permanently disfigured. Pumpkin Face had made him ugly.
Tristan stared up at the white ceiling, his heart weighing like an anchor in his chest. He was too embarrassed to see Alexa. He knew how she would react. She would pretend it was okay, but secretly, she would look at him with pity. He would be a pathetic reject to her. He closed his eyes. No. There was no way was he going to let her see him like this. He refused to do it. She deserved more than some mutilated excuse for a man. He couldn’t see her and he couldn’t call her. You’re better off without me Alexa.
Chapter Thirteen
“Men are dogs.”
“No, they’re worse than dogs.”
“They’re beasts. Horny beasts with no hearts.”
Alexa listened to her friends as she sipped her Cosmopolitan during lunch at the Brooklyn Jazz Café. Normally, she didn’t drink alcohol during work hours. But lately, her life had been anything but normal. In less than a month, she’d transformed from a respectable doctor into a grieving granddaughter and a scandalous tramp. Well, maybe tramp was a little harsh, but it boiled down to one bitter truth: She’d been Tristan’s booty call. A mere distraction to pass his time while in Dallas.
The nights of passion she’d shamelessly savored with him were now abysmally overshadowed by his disappearing act. It had been a week since he’d stood her up for dinner. In her mind, he was not a beast. A beast had a physical identity. A beast had a face and a presence. Tristan had come and gone so quickly, it was as if he had never existed at all. He was a figment of her imagination. Maybe she’d even dreamed him. That’s a damn lie, and you know it! If a dream could make you feel that good, you should bottle it up and sell it. You’d make a fortune.