Tristan leaned into her touch. Their eyes held firm, locked on each other in a battle for understanding. This bond, this connection was undefined yet all-consuming. In the familiar moonlight, their breathing had become synchronized and the rest of the world fell away. Tristan needed to say something but feared that it would end the fragile moment. He took the chance anyway.
“I’m Tristan.”
“Josie,” she replied.
A long, silent moment stretched between them. It remained comfortable and reminiscent of reunited lovers. Tristan’s brows dipped in confusion as her face morphed into a younger one in his mind, a smiling one. He considered the familiar eyes, measuring them against the dark and guarded ones before him now. Like a forceful blow knocking the breath from his lungs, he connected Josie to the girl who had haunted his memory for the past eight years.
“You look just like a girl I used to know. McKenzi Delaune,” Tristan said. “But that’s impossible.”
Josie, not having heard that name for so long, dropped her hand and looked down at the sidewalk. She didn’t associate with that girl anymore, she hadn’t for years. Fear clawed at her chest as she wondered how much she should say. Something pulled the confession from her.
“I used to be her,” she answered.
“I thought you were dead.”
2. Opposition
Two celestial bodies opposite each other in the sky.
This was Josie’s secret, the only truth that anchored her to a forgotten past. Her safety and her sanity deemed that she keep it locked away. Josie found herself ensnared by his statement: I thought you were dead. She almost laughed at his half-truth. Categorically, she’d felt dead for years. She’d survived the tedious clockwork of day-to-day living, physical pain, and emotional woundings. So many times, especially when she was alone in the quiet darkness of her existence, Josie had begged to abandon this life. She wasn’t sure if those prayers had gone unheard or simply unanswered. It no longer mattered, since she’d lost her faith long ago. These days Josie believed only in things she could see and touch. At this moment, she believed in Tristan.
“I know you,” he whispered.
Recognizing her face, not only from months ago, but years ago, Tristan continued to gape. Her touch was gone now, but his skin prickled with warmth where her hand had been. His brain felt overwhelmed and burdened by the connection. Quickly firing synapses struggled to keep up with his recollection of this woman as a child. So many questions formed lumps in his throat, choking the ability for even one to escape.
“You don’t know shit.”
Unable to handle the heaviness of the moment any longer, Josie turned to flee. She was too sober to deal with confessions right now. She knew it was cowardly; still, she clutched her messenger bag close as her feet shuffled away. Her retreat was silent. Long ago she’d perfected the art of carrying her bag in such a way that the paint cans didn’t rattle. She shifted her eyes down to the sidewalk, divided by lightninglike cracks in its surface. She wished they would swell open and devour her.
“McKenzi! Josie!” Tristan called out. Josie’s name, the word she’d been so desperate to hear from his lips, was now tainted by her cowardice.
* * *
After McKenzi had left him stunned on the sidewalk, Tristan raced inside and locked himself in the restroom. Barraged with conflicting emotions, Tristan gripped the edge of the sink just to stay upright. Sweat formed along his hairline while his pulse thundered in his ears. He felt nauseated and betrayed and relieved all at the same time. Facing his reflection in the mirror, he barely recognized the man staring back. His skin was pallid, drained of heat and blood. His eyes were dilated and unable to focus on one single spot for long. They burned with unshed tears as he bit down on his lips to keep them from trembling. He looked like a sickly version of himself, a stranger. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.
Hey, man, you okay?” a man asked from behind him. “You don’t look so good.”
Tristan met the man’s eyes in the mirror and tried to focus on his face.
“That’s because I’m trying to fight the effects of psychological shock. My blood pressure has dropped, making me feel dizzy. Also”—Tristan stopped and tried to take a deep breath—“my shallow breathing is leaving my body with a lack of oxygen.”
The man cocked his head to the side like a dog trying to understand human speech. His eyes became slits as though that would help him comprehend. Tristan dropped his gaze back down to the sink.
“Uh, okay. Well, I’m just going to…”
By the time Tristan looked up again, the man was gone. As smart as he was, Tristan’s brain was not always successful in navigating social situations.
He was an intellectual conundrum beneath his tough-as-nails veneer, a medical falsehood. His father had called the condition eidetic memory. Remembering had always come easy. There was no effort in regurgitating every detail of a photograph or every word of a novel. Grocery lists, dates and times, even names and faces just seemed to stick with him. It wasn’t a skill that he’d mastered after years of training or retaining information using mnemonic devices. It was something he’d been born with. It was part of his genetic makeup, like eye color or curly hair.
When he was old enough, Tristan had researched the term, trying to understand why his brain worked this way. With his nose buried deep in his father’s medical journals, he learned that his ability was swarming with controversy; some even regarded it as myth.
“A myth?” he’d cried.
Huddled on his father’s lap in the leather office chair, he’d begged to be normal like the other kids.
“Tristan, what you have is not a defect. It is a special ability. You’ve been blessed. Think of it as being bulletproof or having X-ray vision.”
“Like Superman?” he’d asked, wiping the tears from his cheeks.
Dr. Fallbrook smiled down at his son and nodded. In the amber-lit room, lined with shelves of books and family portraits, seven-year-old Tristan beamed as he pictured himself in tights and a billowing cape of recollection.
Eventually, Tristan resumed his post behind the bar, greeted with nothing more than an annoyed glance from his coworker. He used a clean towel to dry the whiskey tumblers, a thoughtless action built into his bartender automation. Tristan poured drinks and opened bottles, but his thoughts were set on McKenzi. From her painted black eyes down to her curves and endless legs, there was no doubt the girl he once knew had become all woman.
“Tristan?” He turned to find Erin staring at him. “I said I need a Blue Moon, a vodka tonic, a million dollars, and Ryan Gosling’s phone number.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Coming right up. I can’t help with Ryan. But why stop at one million? If you had more money, you’d probably have a better chance of getting that phone number yourself.”
“I’d hate to be greedy,” Erin answered, winking at him. “But I like how you think.”
He smiled and set the drinks on her tray. Once she was gone, Tristan’s thoughts returned to Josie.
Tristan combed through every detail, starting with the first time he’d seen her up until the first time he’d seen her again. That night in the dark alley, she’d silently looked on as he raged. She’d watched him bleed and sweat and give himself over to despair. When their eyes had met, he’d felt the familiar force drawing them together but had dismissed it so easily. He understood that pull now and he wondered if she felt it too.
He needed answers. He remembered that she lived in the forty-one hundred block of Iowa Street in an off-white stucco building with green awnings. If he wanted to, he could bang down her door to confront her. But she seemed too skittish for that approach, too scared of her own history.
Tristan sighed and scrubbed at his face with the palms of his hands. He decided not to agonize anymore tonight, as if he could just release himself from her hold. He felt that she would seek him out again, and he would give her anything she wanted.
* * *
Dean Moloney sat
in the back of the parked car, running his index finger along the stitched seam of the seat. The soft, cool leather slid beneath his touch until the edge of the seat fell away. A teenager flew by on his skateboard, a punk with spiked hair. He reminded Moloney of Terry Sanders in grade school. This kid would endlessly tease him. He would chant “Moloney Boloney” and get all the kids to join. That was, until Moloney smashed his face with a brick from the schoolyard. Blood ran into Terry’s blond spiky hair. It was Moloney’s first taste of victory.
The skateboarder’s eyes tried to penetrate the dark tint of the car, and Moloney sneered at him through the glass. He knew he couldn’t be seen, but it was instinctual. Hate lived inside of him. It circulated through his body and infected every piece of his being. His stare followed the boy as he jumped the loading dock ramp before disappearing down Tchoupitoulas Street.
The building outside Moloney’s window looked harmless with its uneven patchwork of new and old brick. Its cracked lines and rusted vents told nothing of its ominous innards. This was one of many buildings used to house goods.
His offshore drilling venture was a great cover for importing and exporting through the Gulf of Mexico. Half of his inventory consisted of illegal weapons and drugs, while the other half represented a legit business. This building had been his first acquisition when he took over the organization. It was special to him. Among the cargo boxes and palettes inside sat the most important men of his enterprise. Having them all in one place was risky but, under these circumstances, necessary.
His man, Frank, sat behind the wheel checking the status of employees in attendance.
“Sir, everyone is inside.”
Moloney nodded and exited the car alongside his driver. Frank walked two steps behind him, always a villain’s shadow. They entered the warehouse and approached the group of men. Moloney took his place at the head of the table and all conversation ceased. He leaned back in his chair and scratched at his neatly trimmed beard. He soaked in the blind admiration of his employees. The feeling of complete control over these men’s lives pleased him. The thrill of power supplied the breath in his lungs and the blood-metal taste in his mouth. Moloney would never give this up.
“The Italians are moving in on my ground.”
He was a man of short statements and simple ideas. He paused here to emphasize the seriousness of this announcement, letting his glacier blue eyes rake over each man.
Since the beginning of his career, Dean Moloney had been considered small-time. Being raised in an Irish, middle-class suburban home had certainly left him wanting. He had always longed for bigger adventures, wealth and power. Greed had rooted itself in his heart, and no matter how much he acquired, he always wanted more. In the last decade, he’d been expanding his business and apparently gained the attention of larger operators.
“Gino Gallo is enemy number one,” Moloney announced.
The men broke into murmured conversations, their words melded together into anxious white noise.
“They can’t come in here and take over!” one man shouted.
“The Italians? Over my dead body!”
“I believe that’s the point,” Barry said calmly. The older gentleman stood from his seat next to Moloney and buttoned his suit jacket. “Hotheaded threats will not solve anything. We’ve got to outsmart them and make sure all loose ends are tied up. Leave nothing they could use against us.”
Moloney nodded, supporting the underboss’s instructions.
“Agreed,” he said. “See that all debts are collected, all inventory accounted for.”
“Keep an eye open for rats. Gallo will try to steal our business, recruit our men. If you find anyone leaking information, he will be dealt with,” Barry said.
“In fact, we’ve already learned that someone has been feeding Gallo information,” Moloney said. “Do any of you have anything to confess?” he asked.
The men looked at each other. Each innocent and accusatory glance between them fueled Moloney’s rage. He would not tolerate treason.
“No?” he asked with a finality that felt like one foot in the grave.
In a flash, Barry raised his pistol and shot Kevin Landry in the forehead. The loud bang bounced off the walls of the building and created a wild drumbeat to match every man’s pulse. Kevin, though instantly dead, remained upright as if still in attendance.
Moloney sneered. He felt himself grow stronger from their fear. His muscles flexed, pulling the fabric around his arms tighter as he adjusted his tented crotch. The power of taking someone’s life was the strongest aphrodisiac he’d ever known. His girl was in for it tonight.
With a flip of his hand, Moloney dismissed them. Only Barry and Frank remained. Moloney knew he was lucky to have the allegiance of such men. Frank kept him safe. He had been brought into the business as a teenager to repay a debt. He had stayed because he loved the rewards of his position. Barry, however, was a lifer. He’d worked for the previous boss, and when Moloney took over, Barry had pledged his loyalty. He was Moloney’s right hand, his trigger finger, his voice of reason.
“Any news on the girl?” Moloney asked. “Do we know if she’s still alive?”
Barry tented his fingers on top of the wood table and squared his large shoulders. Although he wasn’t responsible for the messy situation, he felt obligated to fix it.
“Mort is using his most persuasive techniques to retrieve information.”
Moloney nodded, satisfied for now. Gino Gallo would be able to use any neglected problems against him, so it was imperative that the girl be eliminated. Finally, these aggravations could be put to rest and he could move on with destroying the Italians.
* * *
Josie sat cross-legged on the floor of her apartment among the dust bunnies. Sheets of paper pulled free from their binding lay scattered around her like fallen leaves. She repeated Tristan’s name over and over, as if the sound of it would jar her memory into revealing their past. He knew her. He knew her in her former life, the one that had chewed her up and spit her out. She was conflicted as she recognized both the urge to forget him completely and the one to reacquaint herself with everything he was.
A rhombus of light slanted across her floor from the window, blazing yellow-gold. Dust particles floated in and out of the beam, and when Josie moved, they swirled frantically, like a shaken snow globe. She found herself entranced by them, jealous of their carefree and aimless existence.
Tristan, her mind repeated again. She now had a name to go with the seraph’s face. She smirked, realizing that the things she wanted to do to him were quite devilish. Josie wanted to explore and conquer that man, like no one before him. She wanted to mark his skin and exchange breaths while whispering sexual promises. Before letting the fantasy run freely, she focused her attention back on her sketch.
There was more now, more than a carnal desire for the taste of his flesh. Josie wanted to memorize him, inside and out. She wanted to dissect the memories he possessed and reenact each one to make them concrete. She wanted to give herself over to Tristan and ask him to mold her into something better than she was. But when had she ever gotten what she wanted?
A pounding sounded against her door. She ignored it. Instead, Josie focused on recreating the needle-made art of Tristan’s left shoulder. She glanced at the clear plastic grab bag of pills sitting on her table. They seemed to be calling to her. Eat me. Feel good. Forget everything. She sketched the shapes of Tristan’s tattoo, filling them with gray. What a disservice to the original art, she thought. They should be red and violet and deep-water blue. She hadn’t used color on paper in years. She didn’t even own the tools to do so.
The pummeling sounded again, startling her from her drawing. Josie looked at her rattling door, the secured chain swinging from the force. As much as she loved her isolation, she knew she’d have to answer.
Freeing the chain and twisting two dead bolts, Josie swung the door open to find a smiling Alex, dimples on display. His hulking form dwarfed her as he beamed hi
s most charming smile and waited to be invited in. She moved aside and secured the door behind him.
“You know you don’t have to lock that when I’m here, Jo. I got you.” He winked and flexed his huge arms in her direction.
Josie was not impressed.
Alexander Hernandez was a beast of a man, a giant in reputation and size. He’d been raised in the roughest part of the city, tainted with crime and violence, and he’d never left. This metropolis and its pollutants flowed through his veins, more important to survival than his Hispanic blood. He was a sinner and a mortal, and he knew in the end that meant he’d smolder in the fiery pits of hell. He was okay with that. Acceptance was apparently the key to inner peace.
Alex knew misdeeds and narcotics and only one way of life. He had been in and out of juvenile detention as a teenager, eventually landing in jail for an eight-month stint. There had been no deprogramming and no reform behind those bars. He’d emerged ten times worse than when he’d went in, only his allegiances had changed.
As a young man, he’d held no authority there. However, his loyalty and willingness to do dirty work quickly earned him respect in the ranks. His incarceration was more of a training exercise than a punishment. Lessons that could be taught only by experience were now ingrained. Never trust anyone, never turn your back on the enemy, and never share personal information. One newbie had let his girl’s name slip from his lips in casual conversation in the yard. Six weeks later, she was dead. That’s the thing about jail, your enemies inside were your enemies outside. A security fence and state-mandated freedom changed nothing.
When Josie moved into the dilapidated building, he’d been surprised that she lived alone. He’d tried to hit on her when they passed in the hall, but his efforts always fell short.
“Hey, mamacita. You’re new so I’mma help you out. I’m Alex.”
“Josie.”
“You need anything, come see me.”
“Anything?”
Beautiful Addictions Page 2