Pieces Of One, Part 2 (The Dark Life Collection)

by Ricketts, SVC

  “I got it,” I argue, but it’s total ego propaganda. The shaking from my knee is an indication when I strain to step out of the tub.

  I can tell Bryson is fighting the urge to assist, but he stands at a distance on the ready. With one leg still in the tub, I’m past the point of his patience and he extends a hand to help me balance. When I’m towel-wrapped, he walks me to the bed—more like floats me over as my feet barely touch the carpet.

  He deposits me on the bed and I prematurely shoo him away. Even trying to scoot my butt back to get comfortable hurts, so I work my arms seeking a better position. When that is an utter failure, I give up and hold my towel to my chest, and sit back against the pillows right where I am. “Forget it, this is good.”

  In a sofa chair far away from me, Bryson monitors me with uneasy, stray glances. He looks like he’s aged a decade since I last saw him. I still have to figure out all that shit that happened with Tyson, but more pressing, what happened while I was in transition. There are so many questions I need answers to, but how can I ask without giving myself away?

  “Guess we took the celebration too far,” I begin generically.

  As if electrocuted, Bryson’s body stiffens and he looks up to finally lock eyes with me. His fidgeting hands still and he stares at me with wide-eyes.

  “Uh…yeah. When you mentioned your birthday, I had to do something for the occasion. I just didn’t expect your surprise…umm your request for a very special gift, it was hard to refuse. You are incredibly persistent.”

  Oh, so she insisted to be treated like...like…a fuckin’ hooker. I bet her and Alex bumped uglies in the poop-chute all the time. She had to have Bryson too.

  Livid doesn’t even describe what I am feeling right now. I’m pissed at him and her. I’m mad that he gave in to his testosterone driven nature. I mean, I’d been coming on to him for days and he hadn’t made a move. He could have turned her down like he’d done with me for so long. I practically had to force him to touch me. So why her? Not that I want that kind of experience, but what made him pull the trigger? No pun intended. It was probably her. She did it again, manipulated the friggin’ situation to her benefit. She wanted him so she went for it—her way. Why does her way always have to hurt me?

  No wait. I did this to her. She didn’t want to be here in the first place, but I made her surface.

  The memories of Tyson the night he died were too much for me to deal with. She must have come out to protect me because I couldn’t handle it. I wasn’t strong enough. This obviously wasn’t fun for her, it couldn’t have been. She’s never hurt me like this but if it was one-sided, why didn’t Valeria come out to protect her. Then again, Alex did say she was aggressive. How did he put it? “She took things to the edge.” She pushed and Bryson complied.

  Why does she do that to herself?

  This is too much information to process and is confusing the hell out of me. Regret is written all over his face so I motion him over to sit next to me. This isn’t his fault either. I wince and gasp a breath when the bed dips with his weight. Bryson’s lips pinch tighter and I have to grab his arm before he bolts off the bed. “Stay,” I insist.

  “You should get some rest, Trista.”

  Between the bath and probably that physical exertion, I sink into the bed liking that suggestion, but I have to accept some responsibility for my condition before I give in to fatigue.

  “Bryson, although it was a decision I regret now, it’s not entirely your fault. I don’t typically do that and I’ve never had these kinds of bruises before. Please don’t think this is all on you. I am equally liable here.”

  Yeah, that’s mostly true.

  He glints a quick half-smile. “Next time, we’ll go slowly.”

  Next time? I don’t think so, buddy.

  “You’re high if you think that’s happening again.” I raise an eyebrow in question, but that damn sexy smirk gets between my legs faster than my objection. A twinge of ache bites when I clench my butt-cheeks, yet there is a slickness pulsing a few inches away.

  “Trust me. mio Piccolo Tesoro. There will be a next time,” he says moving a wet lock of hair from my face. “We’ll take our time and enjoy it.” Bryson kisses my cheek lightly, then whispers, “No matter how much you scream.”

  IT TAKES TWO days for me to be able to walk without hobbling around like I’ve just had double hip surgery. Thankfully my original bruises and wounds have mostly healed. It could be the pain meds. I can’t even tell I was beat up…twice.

  After a huge Seviride-style breakfast, Bryson tells me to jump in the shower and get ready. We have a “big day ahead of us!” according to him.

  Henn opens the limo door and Bryson ushers me in as if we’re late for the Queen’s Ball or something.

  “Where are we going now?” I giggle, catching the giddy buzz off of Bryson.

  “Back to my apartment. We need a few things for you.”

  The hotel?

  My merriment dies with the ice dunk announcement, but I raise an eyebrow to cover my surprise. I’m reminded of why I’m here in the first place. One reality sucks more than the other—and the other one too. A heavy sigh unloads.

  Bet the place is wired and Dawson will be close. I hope to God, Alex isn’t around. He’s probably still sleeping, thankfully.

  A wave of nervous nausea rolls through me. I wonder if they’ll do anything to stop this. I glance at Bryson, but he’s checking emails on his laptop. The ring on my finger weighs a ton and shimmers as I anxiously spin it around my finger.

  “If it’s too loose, we can get it sized later,” he says without glancing up from the email he’s responding to.

  I shove my hands under my butt. “No, it’s fine.”

  Bryson pulls my hand from under me and tugs the ring to see for himself. “You sure? I know a guy,” he says with a wink.

  “Yeah, I bet you do.” He shoots me a disconcerting look. I deflect it by adding, “No, it’s perfect. I’m just nervous about being back in this area. You know?”

  Nodding his understanding, Bryson goes back to his emails. “Don’t worry, I had Jason swing by earlier so he could check the area. It’s clear and we’re going through the side garage. No one will know we’re here.”

  Great.

  Even if I get the chance to get away, I can’t leave yet. I don’t have any information for Dawson that would help untangle me from this mess. Hopefully he’ll let something slip about that chick, Milinka, or tell me more about the Croatians. The only thing I know about is the meeting with the Croatian boss that obviously didn’t happen and some sort of shipment of something. It’s completely worthless without details and I can’t get that until I get Bryson talking.

  On the top floor of the Plage De Sable, I’m informed Serafina, Bryson’s assistant, has been given instructions to gather things for our trip.

  “We have to make it look like we’re going on a honeymoon,” he says in the ascending elevator.

  Honeymoon?

  There is not enough time to question his statement when the elevator doors open. To my astonishment, a group of people are waiting for us, as well as Serafina. “Ciao! Beh, non sei solo una bella sposa!” says the woman with open arms, waiting to embrace me.

  Nope, not awkward at all.

  I am not used to being called beautiful, let alone a bride, but I return the silver haired woman’s affection anyway. It sounds less fake when said in Italian—yet it’s still very uncomfortable. The room seems to have watchful eyes, especially the two body guards, Jason and Hennessey. I hear Serafina order Jason to retrieve luggage from the other room and put theirs in the limo. Apparently, they are going to accompany us to Makarska.

  A lady in a rainbow colored sherbet blouse with a matching skirt and a dude with a tight button-up short sleeve shirt and cowboy boots hover and move around me with scrutiny. They inspect and examine as if I’m a pet-project. Their eyes wordlessly judge as they make circles around me. A few, “Uh huh,” and “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” and “Hmmm…” a
re all that is spoken until they start pulling clothes from the racks they brought. Twelve racks, to be exact with everything ranging from beach wear to formal wear hung in color and item coordination. I see three rows of shoes in all colors and none of them with heels lower than four-inches.

  Awesome.

  “Don’t worry hon, we’re gonna make you look faboo boo!” one of them says, flailing a dismissive hand.

  That’s faaan-friggin’-tastic. I’ll look faboo boo at the trial. Or at my wake.

  With a sigh, I widen my eyes too big and mustered a huge smile. “That’s super!”

  Bryson just chuckles behind his laptop, glancing at me every now and again. His grimace denotes he can sense my annoyance with all the pampering. “Don’t worry piccolo tesoro, we’ll get you some jeans and sweatshirts too, maybe some work-out clothes and running shoes.”

  I stick my tongue out at him mockingly.

  Serafina hits the back of his head. “Treat your precious treasure with respect, ladro d'uva. She is your Bello Tesoro now. Speak to her as such. I did not help raise a maiale, or did I?”

  Affronted, he claims, “I am not a pig!”

  “Ha! Grape thief? Oh you must tell me how he got that name, Ms. Serafina. I must know all about my future-husband if I am his beautiful treasure, as you put it.”

  The two exchange looks that do battle for supremacy. Serafina slyly grins a wicked smile and partners it with a wink. “Oh the stories I could tell you would be extortion material to buy you an island, my dear. Unfortunately, I signed a Non-Disclosure Agreement with a clause not to embarrass the majority stockholder of Seviride Industries.”

  One of Bryson’s eyes narrow. “Don’t you have meeting arrangements to confirm?” he challenges.

  Serafina raises a dogmatic shoulder. “No, but I’m sure I could dig up a naked baby picture or two.” Her hands move to her cheeks and depicts a look of shock. “Oh my! How did these get in your luggage, Trista?” she sings with a falsetto.

  Again I find another person in Bryson’s life that I really like. He can’t be a complete jerk when he has people like this in his life. Both Serafina, his most trusted hand at his company, and his close friend Pete, although not the most legit person, are genuine people. If he is as notorious as the FBI thinks he is, these people would want nothing to do with him.

  A sharp, quadruple clap from the lady with the extremely obnoxious blouse gains my attention. “We are on a schedule people. Flight leaves in a few hours and you know how TSA is,” she chirps.

  I cement my feet to the floor with a raised stop-sign hand. “Wait, we’re leaving today?”

  “Trista, I have urgent business matters that I need to tend to personally,” Bryson says more to his laptop than to me. I hate that shit. When I don’t move, he raises his head and an eyebrow.

  My hands sit firmly on my hips. “I can’t—”

  Bryson’s hand goes up to halt my words. “I told you before why we need to leave. No more arguments. Go get fitted so we can finish packing and head out.”

  With that, I am ushered into the bedroom and play dress-up with over two dozen different outfits.

  By the time we’re done, I end up with five suitcases stuffed full of clothes, shoes, under garments and toiletries. My carry-on holds make-up I think pointless to pack, jewelry that screams, “Mug me!” and some of Bryson’s watches that he liked from the stylist’s offerings. The damn timepieces are so big, it isn’t a wonder he has anaconda-sized biceps like he does.

  “Where’s your luggage?” I ask, looking around the room.

  “Already in the limo, remember I had them that night. But now we look like we’re going on our honeymoon,” Bryson boasts with a smug smile.

  “You’re overly pleased with yourself. And it’s not our honeymoon, jerk.”

  “Yet, wife-to-be,” he gleams.

  “Stop smiling like you ate the damn canary,” I chide just as the bedroom phone shrills.

  When Bryson hangs up, he sighs. “Paparazzo outside. They must have followed the Style Team here. We can go out through the garage. Jason...”

  I shoot up, interrupting him with a hand to his chest. “No. If I’m going, I’m going. They may as well get a good look at us. Let whoever know, we are not hiding.”

  Stay visible, the only thread I have to communicate to Dawson and Pulson. If my picture gets in the press, at least they’ll know I’m alive and who I’m with. Maybe they can track our movements or maybe they’re already here and can follow us. It’s a wish and a prayer, but all I’ve got.

  Mistaking false boldness for pride and disciplined prudence, Bryson squeezes my forearms and kisses the top of my head. “Good girl.”

  Jason and Hennessey shift uneasy, exchanging cautionary glances. None of the men hear the warble between my syllables or sense the slight tenseness lacing my words.

  I AM ILL prepared for the slew of photographers that pounce as soon as we step outside the hotel doors. Although the limo is only a few feet away, our steps seem to take us mere inches closer, even with Hennessey parting the frenzy. Camera flashes blind me in every direction as Bryson tries to shelter me from the flurry and mayhem. Questions shout out, but neither Bryson nor I answer until one of the men jeer, “Hey Seviride! Who’s that tasty flavor of the month? Can I get a lick?”

  I’m shoved to the side as anger erupts from Bryson. “Watch it asshole! That’s my wife you’re talking about!”

  His wrath fueled utterance shakes the beehive, sending the paparazzi into total bedlam. A fresh barrage of questions from the vultures ring out as well as more aggressive shoving to get a closer picture of us. With the limo door held open, I fail in my attempt to get in quickly and one of the photographers grab my arm. Bryson surges forward, shoving him back. I turn to the open limo door, but freeze when two bodies come into view. Both Dawson and Alex stand a few feet away behind the melee, gaping.

  My spirit soars seeing them, but the decimation in Alex’s eyes drops my stomach, withering my smile to nothing. They must have heard Bryson calling me his wife. I track Alex’s stare to my left hand and I drop it behind me, but it’s too late.

  Pieces of my joy break off in chunks, falling into the black shadow that consumes me. It steals my air and coils my lungs forcing a tear to bulb and be taken down by gravity. The chaos around us fades to a dull buzz, the noise is nothing compared to the silent fray between Alex and I. His eyes glow, reflecting the storm brewing in his thoughts. Dawson has a firm grip on Alex’s arm, but I can see the intensity convulse throughout his body. If rage were tangible, he is the embodiment of it.

  A hand goes to my back, jolting me from my rumination. “Get in,” Hennessey says, palm to the face of another photographer, pushing him away from the limo.

  Slouching into the supple leather, I wait for Bryson to get in. I stare at Alex through the blacked out glass, my palm flat against it as if to touch him through it.

  Motionless with such wretched dejection etching his features, Alex glares at the window I sit behind, piercing my heart. I struggle to breathe, choking on the overwhelming shame under his stare. Tremors break the stillness of my body. Quakes of my betrayal shake tears loose, as I watch Alex charge away. I lower my head to my hands, hiding from the destruction I have caused. I wish the earth would open up so it could swallow me whole.

  Bryson gets through the media mania and in the limo. He immediately reacts to my dishevelment and tries to console me. “I’m so sorry about that. We should have gone through the garage, but I really didn’t think it would be that bad. We’ll be on a plane soon and off to a gorgeous sandy beach sipping fruit filled drinks with little umbrellas.”

  He drones on about the ten and a half hour commercial flight to Munich, First Class of course. Then his private jet will take us to an airport in Split, it’s the closest one to Makarska.

  “The drive to Makarska is beautiful, even if it is another hour and a half in a car. It’s a long trip but once we get there, you’ll see it’s totally worth it!” His eagerness s
timulates nothing but silence.

  I’m really not listening to anything Bryson is saying, my mind can’t get past those crushed hazel green eyes as they brand into my memory. “Why did you have to say that?” I whisper, my voice scratching up my throat.

  Cocking his head to the side, he furrows his brow. “Say what? Call you, my wife? I told you, it’s for your protection. It’s what the KK bosses need to hear to keep us safe.”

  Again, my stomach rolls. I wrap my arms around my mid-section to help hold it down. “I’m hurting so many people. My family and my friends won’t understand what I’ve done.”

  A forlorn and grieving pain wrap its claws around my heart for what I have done and what I’m about to do. My throat closes around my words.

  I hurt a man that loves me to save a man I don’t know.

  It is the first time I admit to it. Even though when I’m with Alex, I am unsure. A tiny nibbling feeling about being with him, something unjustified, yet there. Although seeing him through the window, there is no denying it, I do have feelings for him. But I have only one true choice to save my future and in turn, possibly save Bryson. I vow when this is all over, I will go back to Alex to explain and beg for his forgiveness. It’ll more than likely be too late, but at least I can give him peace and if necessary, closure. The pressure from a flood of tears swelling beneath my eyelids, strain my closed eyes. The thought of losing Alex for this—because of this—sets them free.

  THE AIRPORT IS not busy and strangely no paparazzi are present, which is good for me. My stylist done hair and make-up did not fare well in the hustle and bustle to the limo. Upon my request, Bryson checks me in first so I can visit the ladies room to freshen up. Concern for my disheveled appearance and mood has not escaped his notice, though he has not mentioned it. The corners of his eyes pinch and grow tighter as he lingers the hold on our intertwined fingers.