Tristan’s parents were represented on her wall of memories as well. His mother, Bitsy, and father, Daniel, were such beautiful people. It was easy to see how Tristan had turned out so stunning. There was anger and sadness in his voice when he spoke of them, but Josie knew he missed them. From what he’d told her, they were good people who had only wanted the best for their son. As outsiders, they were able to see the poisonous future that lay ahead with Fiona and had tried to warn him against it.
The sun was setting on another day, and as the fiery glow flooded her apartment, she thought of endings and beginnings. Josie recognized the need she had for Tristan, the need to end her aimless wandering through life and begin again with him. Fear ate away at her, making her feel undeserving of such notions.
Josie wanted to call Tristan and ask him to come over, but she didn’t want to scare him off by being too clingy. She suddenly hated being alone. Before he had come along, when Josie got this feeling, she would go out and find someone to bed. It was always easy on her end, a tiny flirt, a lingering gaze, and they’d be putty in her hands. All she wanted was a warm bed and protective arms around her. Orgasms and various drugs had just been a bonus.
This wasn’t an option anymore. She didn’t want just any arms around her, she wanted his strong inked arms. She wanted to devour and consume him. She wanted to exist for Tristan and only Tristan.
Resigning herself to a night of tagging, she threw on Tristan’s hoodie, grabbed her bag, and tied a bandanna around her neck. It wasn’t a fashion statement, it worked for covering her face while writing. She was searching the apartment for her shoes when a knock sounded at the door.
Running across her apartment, her socked feet having trouble gaining traction against the hardwood, she skidded to a stop and threw the door open. The relief at seeing Tristan standing there was more than she could handle. Josie leaned against the doorframe to keep herself upright.
“Don’t ever just open your door like that, Josie. At least fucking ask who it is first,” he grumbled at her.
Her face fell as his harsh words struck her with the force of fists. Tristan barreled into the apartment, slamming the door behind him and locking it up. He threw himself down on her sofa, crushing random sketches beneath his feet with no regard.
“Thirty-eight percent of assaults and sixty fucking percent of rapes happen in the home. Do you want to be another statistic? I can’t stand the thought of you being measured using some goddamned algorithm compared to a set of data on the San Diego crime rate scale.”
Unsure what to do with herself, Josie approached him carefully. She’d dealt with irate people too many times to count and considered herself schooled in the ways of diversion. Not so long ago, in a house that she’d been forced to call home, it had been a way of life. She’d become an expert at dissolving hostile situations with minimal damage.
For some reason, she was clueless about what to do with Tristan. He had never spoken to her so harshly before. Tristan scrubbed at his face, taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly. Josie thought he looked like he needed a cigarette. She cursed the fact that she didn’t have any. So she gave him all that she did have.
Crawling into Tristan’s lap, Josie straddled his legs. She took his worried face between her hands and looked deep into his eyes. She placed herself at his mercy, wanting so badly to decipher his thoughts, to ease his mind.
“What’s wrong? What did I do?” she whispered.
Tristan shook his head, disgusted with himself. His careless actions had made her feel like she’d committed some sort of crime. Her words only fueled his anger, creating a desire to punish himself for his ill manners. Tristan needed to make her understand just how much she meant to him. He needed to make her see that the girl from his past and the girl before him now owned his heart. She always had. His temper had gotten the best of him and he’d misdirected it at the one person who would never deserve it.
“Nothing, Josie. You did nothing. I’m just an ass. I’m having a bad day,” he answered, placing a kiss on her forehead.
Tristan leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes, trying to calm his overactive mind. His heart raced at her nearness, the warmth of her body on top of his. His mind was staggered with thoughts of approaching danger and impossible choices. A treacherous situation had been presented, and for now, he could see no way out.
“Let me make it better.”
Her nimble fingers worked quickly, skillfully unlatching his belt buckle. When it was pulled free, she popped open each button of his fly. Slowly, with purpose, she traced the length of him.
“Josie, you … you don’t have to,” he stuttered before being distracted by her touch.
“I want to.”
For too long he had denied physical satisfaction with Josie, and he would punish himself no more. He felt as though she might need this just as much as he did. For a few minutes, he could forget about the threats on McKenzi and focus on the talents of Josie.
Tristan cleared his throat, causing Josie’s eyes to meet his own. The apartment was eerily silent as they absorbed each other’s breaths and desire. His eyes were dark and hungry and begging for more. More, Josie chanted in her head, more. She wanted to give him more. She wanted to be more.
Tristan fisted the sofa cushion, a breathy grunt escaping his lips as he watched Josie descend onto him. While this was far from his first blow job, it was certainly his most intense. He’d come over in a foul mood, unable to stay away from her any longer. He was confused and frightened for Josie’s safety. He was tired of just existing in a swirling mess and not living. With Josie’s soft lips wrapped around him, he lived.
Josie had never wanted to please someone so badly. She’d never wanted to give so freely. She knew this meant more than just the physical act itself, but she couldn’t admit what it was. Soon, Tristan’s hips rocked, rising up to meet her. His fingers wrapped tighter in her hair.
She felt the ache in her jaw, the burn and shake of her arms holding her over his lap, but she ignored the discomfort. Tristan climaxed almost violently, calling her name on labored breaths. She had given more and taken more. She had a feeling, with Tristan, it could never be enough.
“That was not why I came over here,” Tristan said as he tucked himself back into his pants. “Though I must admit your powers of distraction are amazingly effective.”
Josie remained quiet, refusing to excuse the most exquisite orgasm she’d ever been witness to. Instead, she pulled in closer, squeezing tight around his ribs. Tristan exhaled heavily as ran his fingers through her hair.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you. I just really needed to see you,” he admitted.
Josie sat up so that she could look into his face. She ran the tips of her fingers over his brow, smoothing out the worried lines there. His expression displayed guilt and she wanted nothing more than to erase it.
“You do see me. You always see me. That’s what’s so scary.”
He kissed her lips, at a loss for how to make her understand that she didn’t need to be scared, not of him, anyway. Tristan had debated whether to tell her about the threat from Moloney. He didn’t want to make decisions without involving her, but he didn’t want to be responsible for pushing her too hard. His biggest fear was that she would disappear again. He knew, without a doubt, that he’d never survive it a second time.
Mort had spent three days combing through Balboa Park looking for the girl. He’d even dressed in torn and dirty clothes to try to assimilate himself into the band of vagrants. During the day, most of them hid away in the shadows of the canyon or panhandled downtown. By night, they roamed the park freely in search of food or anything else worth having.