“We weren’t having sex at fourteen, Josie.”
“Nothing?” she asked.
“Nothing past second base.”
Josie shook her head and wondered if she had been a prude or if he had been the one trying to protect their virtue. Tristan, with all his memories, made her nervous. He looked at her as if trying to crack a code, break her down and understand her. She’d never wanted someone the way she wanted him. Josie couldn’t risk his finding out how damaged she was.
Trying to fool herself into thinking that it was a purely physical desire, she closed her eyes, imagining him crushed in a grip between her thighs. Quickly, her mind was lost to a fantasy of touching and tasting his flesh.
Tristan cleared his throat, startling Josie and reminding her that there was a conversation taking place. Feeling as though she’d been caught with those visions in her head, Josie dropped her eyes down to her plate. She scrambled to divert his attention.
“The FBI changed my name. Shipped me cross-country. They said it was for my own protection,” Josie finished, rolling her eyes at the thought of being protected.
A broad silence stretched between them. Josie busied herself with eating as Tristan sat dumbfounded.
“Then?” Tristan asked.
“Then what?”
“That was eight years ago,” he said.
“I won’t bore you with the tales of living in foster homes, Tristan. Imagine the worst, multiply that by ten. It’s nothing a few decades of drugs and alcohol won’t cure.”
Josie shoved a piece of bacon into her mouth. She chewed thoroughly before swallowing and making eye contact with Tristan. He sat frozen, suspended over his food.
“I had no idea. None of us did.”
“That’s kind of how witness protection works.”
Josie continued to eat while Tristan sat watching. He felt sick to his stomach. It seemed as though a black cloud had settled over their table.
“Josie! Where you been all my life, girl?”
The pair looked up to find a young black boy leaning on their table. His denim jacket covered a dirty T-shirt, and braids stuck out from his hat. He smiled at Josie and gave her a wink.
“Gregory, what’s up, little man?”
“Ah, you know. This and that. How you doin’? Ain’t seen you around in a while. We gettin’ your deliveries all the time, though.”
“I’m good.”
Josie ducked her head and sucked on her straw. She felt exposed having this conversation with Tristan present.
“Yeah, looks like you real busy.”
Gregory turned to Tristan and gave him a once-over, tilting his head and sliding his lips sideways in disapproval.
“Where’s your sister?” Josie asked.
“Stop trying to change the subject, hottie. You know I’m tryin’ to holla at you.”
Josie shook her head and put down her milk shake.
“When I’m into fourteen-year-olds, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I may be fourteen, but I got game. Better than this…” Gregory said, motioning to Tristan.
“Tristan, this is Gregory. Gregory, Tristan,” Josie offered, waving back and forth between the two. Tristan wiped his hands on a napkin and held one out toward the boy.
“Nice to meet you, Greg.”
“Oh, shit,” Josie whispered.
“Greg? Did you say Greg? Did this sexy woman right here say my name was Greg? No. She said Gregory. Three syllables. Big effort for a lazy fool like you, but work it out, white boy.”
Josie giggled, pressing the palm of her hand over her lips.
“Gre-gore-ree,” Gregory pronounced, unhinged by Tristan’s gall. “Where did you find this clown?” he asked Josie.
“My apologies, Gregory,” Tristan spoke up, saving Josie from answering. “I’m sorry.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Nice jacket. Gavin give you that?” Josie asked.
“Yeah, you know. I guess she grew out of it or whatever. It’s a little old and a lot country, but I ain’t gonna complain.”
“It’s actually vintage Levi’s. It’s got the single-stitch at the bottom of the button placard and only has breast pockets, so it’s pre-1971.”
“Are you speakin’ English? It’s just a jacket, man,” Gregory moaned. “Seriously, Jo? You could do better. I mean, why not me?”
“Because curfew law says you’re not allowed outside of the home between ten P.M. and six A.M. on weekdays,” Tristan stated, pleased with himself.
“Guess that don’t matter when you don’t have a home,” Gregory answered.
With that, he rolled his eyes, gave Josie a quick wave, and was gone.
“Wow,” Tristan said smiling. “He was … colorful.”
“Is that a racist joke?”
“What? No! Josie, I would never,” he said, dropping his fork to the table.
“Yeah, I know. It was funny watching you freak out, though.”
Josie winked and ate the last piece of bacon.
“He’s homeless?”
“Gregory uses the phrase ‘residentially challenged.’”
Tristan nodded.
“Are all your friends residentially challenged?”
“He’s not a friend, just a kid I know.”
Tristan noticed that her demeanor changed instantly and he felt the warning in her posture. Subject closed.
“So, you saw me that night in the alley.”
Josie unconsciously smoothed down the hooded sweatshirt and nodded.
“Is that mine?” he asked, recognizing the red stitching on the sleeve.
“Yeah. You left it in the alley.”
Tristan weighed his options and contemplated which questions he could get away with asking. After coming up clueless, he decided to be satisfied with what he’d already learned. That alone would take time to process.
He wasn’t someone who believed in fate or destiny. There was always a scientific, mathematical, or coincidental explanation for anything. The fact that little McKenzi Delaune sat before him munching on bacon was blowing his mind.
Tristan lay in bed after their midnight meeting, trying to piece together the broken girl he’d just learned existed. There used to be this ache, this burning pain in his chest. It held all the love and loss for a girl named McKenzi. Before the punishment of ink etched into his skin, there had been McKenzi. Back when he knew who he was and what he wanted, when life was full of possibilities and everyone expected the best, there had been McKenzi.
She had lost everyone and everything. Tristan knew that she would guard herself from more pain. The girl was beautiful, full of sex appeal and mystery. While he knew he couldn’t pick up where they left off, he longed to seize her. He turned off the light and stared up at a gray shadowed ceiling, wondering how on earth he’d found her.
Twenty-two blocks away, Josie paused to tag a stop sign in purple marker. The squeak and slide of the felt tip against metal comforted her. So did having representations of herself all over the city. Even though she felt like nothing, these markings would prove that she was here. Just to see what it would look like, she wrote Tristan’s name too. Stepping back and admiring the way their stacked names connected, she smiled and headed toward home. That night she fell asleep wrapped in the hoodie that belonged to a boy who once loved her.
In the sixty-nine hundred block of Levant Street, Mort snuck into the San Diego Child Welfare Services office. He quickly hacked into the computer system, not slowed down by the archaic password protection screen. Gathering all the necessary information to do this remotely next time, he began his hunt.
He had grown tired of this chase. If he had been any other idiot, he would have crossed his fingers and said a prayer that this would give him a clue, some sort of direction. That was for superstitious idiots who had more faith in a higher power than in themselves.
Mort had been on this job for so long that when he lay in bed at night it was the only thing on his mind. It ruled his brain every waking minute and even those in his sleep. What he wouldn’t give to be free of this troublesome girl.