Beautiful Addictions

by Season Vining

  In the dark and dingy hall of her building, he’d pounded on Alex’s door until rousing the man from his sleep. The door swung open and a Glock was pointed directly at his head. Tristan didn’t even flinch as he waited for Alex to recognize him. He knew what being on the business end of a piece of steel felt like, and through the years he’d grown indifferent to it. Alex smiled and dropped the gun to his side.

  “Damn, man. What the hell couldn’t wait until the sun comes up?” Alex asked, gesturing for Tristan to come in.

  Tristan declined.

  “I need you to keep an eye on her, more than usual. There’s a hit out on her. A professional. I’m heading back home to see what I can find out.”

  “I’ll kill anyone who comes near her,” Alex growled. “Why not bring her?”

  “I can’t take her with me. It’s too dangerous. I thought about taking her to my place, but they know where I live. She’ll be safer here.”

  Alex leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, exhaling loudly.

  “You know I got her. You fuck with me, you fuckin’ with the best!”

  “Nice, Tony Montana.”

  The two bumped fists in solidarity, a silent vow between them to trust each other unreservedly.

  As Tristan traveled east on the I-10, he found himself frustrated with the amount of time he had to spend alone. He wasn’t sure how closely he was being watched by Moloney’s men, so he stuck with driving back to Louisiana instead of flying. It was easier to stay off their radar this way.

  For the past thirty-eight hours, every waking thought had been of Josie. Trapped with no one to converse with but the open road, he became a prisoner of his memories. There were no distractions here, just the rhythmic passing of mile marker signs and his fellow travelers tucked away in their vehicles. He wondered where they were headed and what they expected to find when they got there. He wondered the same for himself. Sometimes he’d drive for hours without even recognizing where he was or where he’d been.

  As he navigated away from the West Coast, he felt the shift in the air as it became warmer and denser. The South presented the familiar scene of more trees than buildings. Pine and oak and cypress flew by in a streaked green blur past his window. It felt like home.

  Home was where his parents lived, in their ostentatious Victorian-style house on the West Bank. It was where he lived his entire childhood, surrounded by the same common faces and same group of peers. Home was where all the memories of McKenzi began and ended. It was where Fiona entered his life, where he made hasty decisions and had thrown away his future. It was where he sat on the leather couch in their living room and broke his parents’ hearts.

  Tristan had debated whether to call his mother and father to let them know he was coming. Eventually, his cowardice won out and he decided to just surprise them. A sly grin crept across his lips as he thought of the heart attack his father would have at the sight of him. The prestigious Dr. Daniel Fallbrook would surely not embrace his only child looking like a common criminal. Tristan knew, though, that his mother wouldn’t care one bit. She would cling to him and bathe him with her tears, just happy to have him back. Suddenly, he didn’t dread heading back home and he pushed the accelerator down.

  Just before eleven o’clock in the evening, Tristan turned down the long driveway lined by hundred-year-old oak trees draped with Spanish moss. His nerves got the better of him and he wiped his sweating palms on the thighs of his jeans. His pulse quickened, and he struggled to understand why anxiety was plaguing him. Then it occurred to him—he was afraid of rejection.

  He parked behind his father’s car and killed the headlights. For a full two minutes he sat there debating whether to back out and find a hotel in the city. It was then that the old, familiar tree came into focus. Sitting at the edge of their property, it was barely visible with no moonlight filtering through the cloudy night sky. It sent a warm feeling through his chest, and he remembered that he’d come here for Josie above all else.

  “Stop being such a pussy. Rejection is to discard as defective or useless. They wouldn’t do that,” he told himself.

  Tristan shook his head, threw his bag over his shoulder, and decided to leave his pistol beneath the driver’s seat. He climbed the steps to the front door and took a deep breath before ringing the bell. It felt odd, considering he’d never rung the bell at his own house before.

  Time passed slowly, each second exponentially increasing his unease. He rang the bell again and exhaled, needing to get this part over with so he could focus on Josie. A few seconds later, he heard shuffling feet and whispered conversation on the other side of the door. The red door creaked open and both of his parents stood there gawking. Tristan squared his shoulders and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, waiting for the moment of recognition.

  They looked tired and weary. His mother was as beautiful as ever. Even huddled behind her husband in her nightclothes, not a hair was out of place. Tristan’s father looked a bit older, the graying hair at his temples giving him away. Their eyes started at his feet and did a synchronized dance up his frame, lingering on the art on his skin and finally reaching his face. His mother gasped aloud, her trembling hand flying to her open mouth.

  “Tristan?” Daniel’s crackling voice barely got out.

  “Hi,” Tristan answered, shuffling his feet while one hand rubbed at the back of his neck.

  Bitsy pushed her husband aside, no longer frozen from shock. With tears in her eyes, she threw herself at Tristan, burying her face in his chest. Tristan wrapped his mother in a firm embrace.

  “You’re here? You’re really here?” she whispered between sniffles.

  “Yeah, Ma. I’m here.”

  Tristan placed a kiss on top of her head just as she released him and took a step back. Daniel watched the reunion with conflicting emotions. Elation, concern, and relief billowed around his head, making a conscious decision impossible. Instinctively, he held out his hand and hoped it would convey his forgiveness.

  “Son,” Daniel said.

  “Dad,” Tristan answered, taking his father’s hand and shaking it.

  Without letting go, Daniel pulled him in for a hug. Despite their disagreements in the past, this was his child, his flesh and blood, and he loved him unconditionally.

  Bitsy ushered them inside, immediately assuming her motherly responsibilities again. She felt so first-rate in that role, so fulfilled. Tears filled her eyes as she watched Tristan sit at the bar practically inhaling the sandwich she’d made. Her boy had become a man. He looked different, so grown up. He looked like a stranger sitting in her kitchen.

  Daniel joined his wife and watched their son in fascination. Of all the paths he’d imagined for Tristan, he wondered which one the boy had ventured down. He wondered which one had led him to become this man, the one with cropped hair and tattoos.

  “Tristan, it’s really good to see you.” Daniel spoke softly, not knowing how to broach the subject of Tristan’s motives. “What brought you back to us?”

  Tristan stopped midchew and stared at his father. Of course they deserved an explanation of his sudden arrival, but he couldn’t bring himself to share the entire story just yet. He threw the last bite of sandwich in his mouth and swallowed quickly.

  “Can we talk tomorrow? I just drove for three days. I really need to crash.”

  “Of course,” his mother answered, a sad smile pulling at her lips.

  “We will talk in the morning,” his father said, daring Tristan to refuse.

  Without another word, Bitsy led Tristan up to his old room, where he discovered that they hadn’t changed a thing. His eyes scanned the room and he smiled at all the memories he found there. Each shelf was still filled with his book and music collections, not a speck of dust covering them. Too tired to explore, he fell onto his bed, face first.

  “Do you need anything, baby?” his mother asked.

  “No, I’m good. Just tired. So tired,” he mumbled into the mattress.

  “Okay
, well, you know where we are if you need anything. Throw a rock.”

  Bitsy smiled at the sight of his large frame sprawled out across the bed. His feet hung over the edge and his spread arms touched each edge. She wanted to go to him, tuck herself in beside him, and hold him, but she knew he’d have none of that. She resisted the urge to kiss him good night and quietly closed the door behind her.

  That night, as they all slept the deepest of slumbers, the Fallbrook house, made of brick and mortar, magically transformed back into a home.

  * * *

  Feeling like a hostage, Josie paced the perimeter of her apartment for the twentieth time. She’d never had a problem with confinement before. She’d spent so much time in small spaces, so much time alone that she should be used to this. She knew it had everything to do with the fact that both Tristan and Alex had forbidden her to leave the apartment. Solitude was okay only when it was on her terms.

  This was the third morning she’d endured since Tristan had left. While she tried to remember what her life was like before she’d found him, she couldn’t. All she knew was that she wanted him here. She wanted him safe and happy. She just wanted him.

  A bang at the door jarred her from her inner ramblings. She flew across the living room to open it. She had two of the locks undone before she remembered to ask who it was.

  “Alex, mami,” he shouted.

  Josie let him in the apartment, along with the delicious-smelling breakfast calling to her from a Styrofoam container.

  “Ohhh, what’s that?” she asked, holding out her hands.

  He gave her the food, took a seat on her couch, and propped his large boots up on her coffee table.

  “A breakfast burrito from Sombrero. De nada.”

  “Thanks,” she mumbled with a mouth full of food.

  Alex nodded and flipped on her television, grumbling about her lack of channels.

  “Maybe you should come stay at my place. At least I have cable.”

  “No way. The fact that I’m stuck inside till further notice is enough of a punishment.”

  “Fine, whatever. You heard from ya boy?”

  “He sent me a text last night, telling me that he made it to his parents’ house, but that’s it,” she answered, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  “No worries, Jo. He’ll be fine.”

  “I know.”

  But she didn’t really know, she only hoped. Josie had never been one to pray, but the last two nights she’d found herself pleading for his safe return. She tried to reason with herself, knowing that he was intelligent and had been hardened by the streets, but it offered little solace.

  “With me here, you’re safe. No one gonna mess with this cobra.”

  Alex flexed his large arm and curled his fist around, imitating a snake’s movement. Josie rolled her eyes.

  “Know the difference between this and a real cobra?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  “If a real cobra gets ya, you might survive.”

  He laughed at his own joke and lay back against the couch cushions. Josie shook her head and decided to make no comment. She didn’t want to encourage him.

  “Ya think he’ll find somethin’ down there, Jo?” Alex asked.

  “I don’t even care anymore. I just want him back here with me. We could take off. Try to outrun them. Or, if it’s inevitable that they’re going to find me and kill me, I’d rather spend the time I have left with Tristan.”

  “That’s heavy. You miss him, huh?” Alex asked, his eyes studying her closely.

  She looked down at her lap and her suddenly unappealing breakfast before answering.

  “I love him.”

  * * *

  After swearing them to secrecy, Tristan sat his parents down around their dining room table and told them everything he knew. He relived his introduction to a life of crime, his breakup with Fiona, and his life-changing discovery of McKenzi Delaune. They remained silent the entire time, processing the details of the story he told. When he was finished, Tristan sat back in his chair and exhaled, relieved by no longer shouldering this burden alone. Daniel and Bitsy remained quiet, letting the facts and implications sink in.

  “I need to find out how Moloney is connected to Josie, why he wants her dead. I don’t want to involve either of you. I don’t want to put you in danger. Just know that I have to do this. I won’t lose her again.”

  “I can’t believe she’s alive,” Bitsy whispered, reaching across the table to rest her hand on Tristan’s.

  “Most days, I can’t believe it either,” he said solemnly.

  “Organized crime, Tristan? You can’t be serious,” Daniel said. “You could have done anything!”

  “Honey,” Bitsy said, placing her hand on Daniel’s shoulder.

  “I just don’t understand how we lost you,” he said defeatedly.

  Bitsy wiped tears from her eyes before they could slide down and ruin her makeup. She looked at her husband and then her son, not knowing how to mediate this battle.

  “That’s not important right now, Dad. Can we focus on why I’m here?”

  Daniel took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “What’s your plan, Tristan?” Daniel asked.

  “I’m going to go talk to anyone at the station who was working when Earl was there. I also know a few people who work for Moloney in the city. I don’t want to alert him to my presence, so I’ll try them last.”

  “This is dangerous. I don’t like the idea of you getting involved,” Daniel warned.

  “I’m already involved.”

  “I knew Moloney was dicey, but I never dreamed it reached this far.”

  “How did you know about Moloney?” Tristan asked, his curiosity piqued by his father’s statement.

  Daniel sighed and folded his arms across his chest. He hadn’t planned on ever having to tell this story. He slid his eyes toward Bitsy, knowing she’d be displeased that he’d kept it from her.

  “The spring before your sixteenth birthday, Dean Moloney’s son, Dean Jr., was diagnosed with a heart deformity. It was somehow undetected for years. After a consultation with his parents, we all agreed that surgery was the only way to give him a fighting chance. I performed the procedure, assisted by Dr. Marcus. He flat-lined twice on my table, and the second time, we couldn’t get him back.”

  “Atrioventricular septal defect?” Tristan asked. Daniel nodded, proud and nostalgic at the memory of his raven-haired boy sprawled across the floor of his office, reading through medical journals like comic books.

  “Fiona never told me what happened to him,” Tristan murmured.

  “When I explained to the family that we’d lost him, Moloney went ballistic. He told me, ‘You will pay for this. An eye for an eye, my friend.’ His tone was maniacal. I still remember the look in his eyes. I just assumed that it was an empty threat fueled by grief.”

  “Jesus, Dad, you think this would have been useful information when Fiona and I started seeing each other?”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  “No,” Tristan admitted, shaking his head.

  They sat in silence, each absorbing the heavy weighted words laid out before them. Bitsy immediately performed the sign of the cross and squeezed her eyes shut. The Lord’s Prayer whispered across the room and echoed off the walls. Then Bitsy opened her eyes as if remembering a secret of her own.

  “There’s something else,” Bitsy whispered, breaking the rhythm of her prayer and abandoning its purpose. The men’s eyes shot up to her remorseful face. “I’ll be right back.”

  Tristan and his father sat in silence, surrounded by Audubon prints and Bitsy’s finest china displayed in an antique cabinet. Tristan’s eyes stayed trained on his drumming fingers along the tabletop while Daniel openly observed every detail of his son’s appearance.

  Bitsy reappeared carrying a large manila envelope. She took her seat and sighed, letting the guilt and regret absorb into her words.

>   “I should have given you this a long time ago,” she said, sliding the package across the table to Tristan. “It came about six weeks after they moved.”

  Tristan retrieved the envelope and turned it over. A purple bound book dropped heavily onto the polished wood table, the sound of it echoed through the room like a slap to his face.

  “I’m sorry for keeping it from you. I don’t even know why I still have it. I just figured that it was better to make a clean break. I never thought that…”

  Bitsy’s voice became empty jumbled sounds as Tristan’s pulse raced through his ears.

  “This is McKenzi’s diary,” he finally said, running his fingers over the cover. “How could you?”

  “I’m sorry,” was her only answer as she cringed away from his angry words.

  He turned the envelope over to find his address scrawled in McKenzi’s fourteen-year-old handwriting. Tristan jumped up from the table, clutching the diary, and raced to the comfort of his room. He locked the door behind him and sank to the floor. There he sat for hours, reading the words of his childhood best friend, each entry sending him farther into her world before the hurt.

  * * *

  Moloney sat on the antique chaise in his mother-in-law’s family room feeling emasculated by the very fabric. Its pink floral pattern looked humorous as a backdrop to his large frame and scowling face. He sipped his Jameson and tapped his fingers impatiently on the padded arm of the chair. He’d wanted to leave hours ago. Moloney wasn’t used to not getting what he wanted. The thing holding him here, his only weakness, was his beautiful wife, Jane.

  She was a vision, growing more beautiful with age. Her long strawberry blond hair curled around her shoulders, a perfect frame for an angelic face. Moloney grinned as she told a story so animatedly that her hands flung about in a precarious manner. He loved her spunk, her fire. He loved that she loved him unconditionally. Jane made no rules when it came to their life together. She’d promised her devotion and would gladly endure whatever life Moloney provided.

  Not that she suffered. Through racketeering, weapons, drug trafficking, and gambling rings Moloney had provided a cozy life. They had prize-winning horses, a private estate, and a beautiful home. All that was missing was a family.