“Barry, it’s Mort. I think the girl is here in San Diego, but I don’t have proof yet. She goes by Josie Banks now.”
“I’ll let Moloney know. We’re on a deadline here. Gino Gallo has asked for a meeting next month.”
Mort ended the call and blew out a breath. He had to be missing something. He was close now, he could feel it deep in the marrow of his bones. Like a mother sensing her lost child, he suspected that she was still here in the city. Mort knew, without question, that his life could never return to normal until hers was extinguished.
Josie sat on the floor of the apartment, familiar terrain for her. A tablet lay open in her lap while she sketched Tristan’s handsome features. It was easy to see the similarity to the boy’s face she’d drawn for so long—same piercing eyes, same twisted grin, same look of mischief even when at rest. He sat on the floor as well, leaning against the sofa reading the autobiography of Keith Richards. His long legs were straight and crossed at the ankles with Josie’s thrown over them. It had become habit—if they were in the same room, they were touching. As if intertwined legs or joined hands sparked some kind of current that made them truly exist.
Josie craved his touch and she couldn’t understand why they hadn’t had sex yet, or any form of it. She wanted it; her fingers ached to touch him in places she’d only yet imagined. It was obvious that Tristan felt the same way, so she failed to make sense of his need to take things slow. She longed to feel his sweat-slicked skin against hers and inhale the scent of their bodies combined. Not ready to admit any kind of emotional connection, she desperately needed a physical one. It was the only thing she was comfortable with.
She found it curious that her dependency seemed to be shifting. No longer did she need meaningless sex or drugs to numb her. Josie wanted only to submerge herself in Tristan, to soak up everything he offered. He was her new addiction.
Tristan was in a constant state of arousal in Josie’s company. Never able to completely relax, his muscles remained tense and rigid with yearning. If it had been any other girl, he would have taken her already, hard and fast, several times. But he knew that Josie used sex to avoid attachment. He didn’t want to be just another mark on her therapeutically notched bedpost. To him, Josie was something new yet familiar, something he wanted to cherish. He felt like two ancient souls, separated for a lifetime, had suddenly been reunited.
Unable to contain the sexual tension clawing at her skin, Josie slid her notebook from her lap and straddled Tristan. He gave her his lopsided grin as his long fingers wrapped around her waist. Josie smiled triumphantly, thinking that she’d already won.
“What are you up to?” he asked, dipping his head so that his lips pressed ever so softly to her shoulder.
“I need to feel you, Tristan. Just touch me.”
The sound of Josie’s words echoed around the quiet room. She winced when they hit her ears, noting that she sounded so desperate. Never having to beg for her release before, the statement sounded foreign and troublesome. When Tristan placed another kiss at the base of her throat, she decided she didn’t care. She would beg him with humbling adulation if she had to.
Losing patience with his stalling, Josie grabbed his face in both hands and brought his lips to hers. They crashed together. Tristan’s hands slid to her back and pressed her to his chest. She moaned into his mouth at the feel of his hard body pushing into her soft one.
Tristan’s lips sucked on hers, her tongue was sweet, not laced with one hint of the bitterness she lived with. When Josie rocked her hips against the button fly of his jeans, he felt every ounce of control slip away. A conflict of emotions and physical need warred in his mind.
“I want you.”
Those three little words left him breathless. Such a brazen statement from Josie sent his willpower into a faltering tailspin. He hummed in agreement, sliding his kisses down to her neck. Josie’s arms crossed between them, where she grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head.
Josie ran her nails along Tristan’s scalp, making his eyes close in contentment. The feel of her hot body pressing down on him caused momentary insanity, totally emptying his brain of rational thought. He wanted her more than anything he’d ever wanted before. Not here, not now. There was so much more to say.
“Can I take you out?” Tristan asked, suddenly moving his hands back down to her waist and resuming a neutral position.
“That’s an interesting question to ask while my fucking shirt’s off,” she deadpanned.
Tristan grabbed the garment and pulled it back over her shoulders. Defeated, Josie slipped her arms inside and slid back onto his thighs. She did not look up.
“There. So, can I take you out?” he repeated.
“Out of the apartment?”
“Out on a date,” he clarified.
“A date?” Josie asked, her frightened voice making the words sound foreign.
“You know, an appointment for a particular time, especially with a person to whom one is sexually or romantically attached.”
“Are we attached?” she asked, not really knowing what she wanted the answer to be.
“More than you know,” he answered.
While it would be easy to fall into an intensely wild physical relationship with Josie, Tristan wanted more. He wanted to show her that she deserved more than this shallow life she was treading through. He wanted to lure her out of her protective shell and wrap her in his love. Yes, he knew it was love. Even after all this time, it had always been.
Josie jumped out of his lap. She had never been on a date in her life. She didn’t pretend to know what people even did on dates. She’d always felt the tradition was so antiquated and pointless. It was a meeting of two strangers whose ultimate goal was to have sex. She’d always found it easiest to skip the awkward conversations and formal mealtimes.
“A date? Like in a fancy restaurant with lots of strangers?” she said while pacing back and forth in front of Tristan.
Her arms flailed about as if they kept her balanced on a tightrope of panic. She looked to the kitchen drawer that housed her drugs and back to his waiting face. Josie recognized her need to kill the anxious feelings rising inside of her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She pictured a chain and lock around that drawer, forcing herself to stay present and deal with this.
“Mac.”
He spoke softly as if appeasing a belligerent child.
“No! I’m not her. I don’t do dates. I mean, what do you expect from me, Tristan?” His mouth bobbed open like his jaw was unhinged and broken. “Well?” Josie asked again.
Speechlessness was not something Tristan was used to. Though he tried to form thoughts to comfort her, to find the right words to talk her down from the ledge, he simply could not. So he fell back on things that he knew absolutely.
“‘There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.’”
“Stop reciting shit from your perfect memory, Tristan. Tell me what you want!”
“I want you. All of you. I want to possess you. I want to love you and protect you.”
His heavy words knocked Josie to her knees, their eyes now level again.
“Too much,” she said, her anger dying off and being reborn into something new and delicate.
“Then I’ll settle for a date,” he answered. “Just us. No expectations. No requirements.”
“I don’t know if I can. Besides, what’s in it for me?”
“Riveting conversation and a free meal,” Tristan said.
“You can do better than that,” she hedged, running her fingers down his chest and tugging on his belt buckle.
“Are you proposing sexual favors in exchange for going on a date with me?”