The Arrangement 15 Read online

  "Now?" He smiles for a second and then it fades. "I'm willing to admit that I don't know anything, not anymore. Sometimes life takes a wrong turn and it goes unnoticed 'til a certain point. Now, I wonder, and I can't help it." He leans in and presses his lips to mine. The action catches me off guard, but I don't slap him or pull away. Trystan feels like an old blanket, warm and familiar. The small touch means so much and nothing at all. It's almost as if it were a test, as if he wanted to see if my lips felt like hers—like the woman he's lost.

  Trystan doesn't taste like Sean or hold me the same way. He's gentle, seeking, asking if he should be there, waiting for me rather than forcing himself on me. It's different and I can't help but wonder if Sean's kisses were like this years ago before Amanda shattered his soul.

  It's so unexpected and so gentle. I need comfort. I'm scared to death and haven't had someone to hug, or hold me tight. Sometimes those silent gestures mean the most. They're the glue that holds our fragile lives together.

  My lips linger, tingling from the contact. It's at that moment that Sean speaks. "Wow, you didn't even wait until the bed was cold. Or did he hire you from Black?"

  CHAPTER 4

  Trystan pulls his face back, but holds onto me, breathing in slowly before he stands. I want to fight with Sean, but Trystan is between us. He's too calm, too unintimidated, which makes Sean irate. Trystan runs his fingers through his long hair, pushing it out of his eyes. "If you treated her just a little bit better, just a little bit kinder, she'd still be yours. You're too blind to see what she is if you think she's just a call girl."

  I was ready to scream at Sean, but the way Trystan speaks deflates me, as it does Sean. Sean's still mad, prickled like a cactus, but he doesn't speak. He allows Trystan to walk away, leaving the two of us staring at one another. That kiss was nothing like Sean's. I could feel Trystan's anguish, the need to forget, to be lost in someone else. He's mourning, deeply.

  So is Sean, but his grief comes across differently, and if he's not in control he feels weak. It's a result of losing Amanda, I know it is, but sometimes I crave that soft touch. I glance at Trystan for a second, watching him tuck his hands into his pockets and disappear around the corner. His shoulders are hunched and his head is hung. He looks nothing like the arrogant singer that struts around on stage.

  "You like him." Sean speaks and brings my gaze back to his.

  I'm silent for a moment and then say, "Does it matter? I'm not asking to be mean, but does it honestly matter? You promised your mother that you're through with me."

  "You're not wearing my ring, so there's nothing more to talk about." Sean ends the conversation and I feel the hole in my chest heaving with a weight that I cannot bear.

  So I just nod, and tuck my chin so he can't see my eyes, and let my hair fall forward. I don't tuck it behind my ear this time, I let it dangle and shield me. I steady my voice even though I want to cry. "So, what now?"

  "Now we hide you until we find out where Henry Thomas has been."

  "Sean, I'm tired of hiding." I'm tired of hiding, of fighting, of trying to love someone who doesn't want to be loved. I'm so weary that I feel my seams are coming undone and I can't hold it together any longer. There's blood on my hands—I killed someone. The guilt from that lingers, never truly leaving me even though I had to do it. Rationality doesn't erase guilt or the worry that someone will find his body.

  Sean crouches in front of me, lowering his toned body until he's in my face, and speaks so softly that it scares me. Between his tone and the look in his eye, I know he's desperate. This person, the murderer, is a step ahead of him and he can't stand it. His nose just barely brushes mine. His lips curl as he articulates each sound, so that I know there's no room for debate. "Your roommate had a bullet in her brain. I will not let that happen to you. You don't have a choice in the matter. We're hiding you until this situation is resolved and I know you're not in danger."

  Sean stands and yells, "Scott!" He calls out once, then again. Trystan emerges from the back of the building, standing in the shadows of the dark hallway. "Take her away from here and hide her until I can resolve a few things." The two men stare at each other. There's an understanding between them that I can't fathom. Sean hates Trystan, why is he handing me off to him?

  Before I can speak, Trystan nods. "Done."

  They glare at each other for a long moment, then Sean adds, "And Scott, if I can find her, you're a dead man."

  CHAPTER 5

  When did I lose control over my life? I'm a college drop-out and that's the least of my problems. My dreams shattered one by one, like glass balls falling from a dead Christmas tree. I made one bad decision after another and I can't stand it anymore.

  Trystan's been quiet since the confrontation with Sean. I have no idea what's going through his mind. One moment he's spewing philosophy and the next he's looking at me like I'm a mirage. I don't know if he's attracted to me. That kiss is messing with my mind. Is that what it'd be like? Are normal guys doting and sweet? Trystan hasn't demanded a thing from me. He's nothing like Sean, but one thing is the same. I don't think he sees it, but I do.

  Broken hearts don't mend.

  We're in Trystan's apartment, well, a condo, I guess. It's the hellhole where he grew up. The place is worn and hasn't been lived in for years. A thick layer of dust covers every inch, every surface. A ratty couch and chair are in the small living room, set in front of an old TV that probably doesn't work. It's the fat kind that looks more like a piece of furniture than electronics.

  Trystan pulls open a drawer and tosses me a towel. "I don't come here anymore."

  "I can imagine why." I say the comment without giving it much thought. Mistake.

  He turns and glares at me. "No, you can't." His azure gaze goes back to wiping down the dining table and chairs, before he hurls the cloth at the wall and sits down hard. Sucking in air, he leans forward and plants his elbows on the table, grabbing fists full of hair. "I shouldn't have come back here."

  I stand there like an idiot, not knowing what to do. This place is like poison to him. I can see it soaking into his veins and choking him to death. He's withering before my eyes. I pad toward him and place a hand on his shoulder. "Trystan, I'm sorry. I'm sorry to put you through this. I'm sorry you're here. I'm sorry you crossed my path and I sucked you into this." My jaw hangs open, but the only sound that pours out is silent regret.

  After a moment, my hand slips away and his breathing slows. Still looking down, he tells me, "The last time I was here my old man tried to kill me. Then they found out who I was. It was like a line of dominos. One fell right after the other, good and bad, stirring together until I was so turned around that I didn't know what to do. I had people then, people who helped me. You have no one, except Sean, and in case you didn't notice, the Ferro's are like acid." Trystan sits up and turns. His face is blank, eerily expressionless.

  "But Jon's your best friend. So is Bryan." Shaking my head, I ask, "I don't get it. Then, why are you always with them?"

  He smiles like he's the stupidest man alive. It's the humble grin of a man that realizes his own naiveté. Sighing deeply, he runs a hand through his hair and looks up at me. "The same reason you're with Sean. I thought they were a little battered—hell, who's not—but they're not like that. Are they?"

  When I don't answer, he stands and walks along the tiny kitchen, trailing his finger in the dust. "From the moment I met Jon, I saw what they did to him, the way his family dug in their fangs and sucked him dry. The way they use each other, like they aren't even people, as if they don't matter. Every bite is venomous, every breath taken in that house is poison. They both know it, but there's no way out. I stick around and pick up the pieces, and they do the same for me. Once in a while, I flame out. They can hide things, make it so it never happened, so she never sees." His gaze cuts over to me, before lowering to his dusty finger.

  Wiping it on his jeans, he smiles that fake grin of his and tips his head to the side. "Like I said, they're acid—e
very single one of them. They can clean up a mess so that there are no marks left at all, but they poison everything they touch."

  I defend him before I have time to even think. "Sean's not like that."

  "Oh?" Trystan folds his arms over his chest. "Elaborate. Enlighten me, Call Girl. Tell me how he's kind and compassionate, about how he takes care of you and puts you first. Tell me about the height of the pedestal he's placed you on, and that you worry about falling off…that he thinks too highly of you. That you're just a girl, but this man thinks you're more stunning than a star hung in the heavens." As he speaks, he steps toward me, one slow step at a time. My heart races as he talks and strings those words together so effortlessly, describing a vivid scene from a life that I don't know. My spine straightens and it's as if I'm being slapped, but he doesn't stop, not until we're nose to nose. "Say it, Call Girl. Tell me."

  His breath mingles with mine. I can barely speak without our lips brushing together, but I don't step back. "Just because he's not like that doesn't mean he doesn't care."

  Trystan's eyes narrow to slits and his tongue becomes sharp. "Oh, I know. He cares about controlling you, using you, and what else am I forgetting? Oh yeah, claiming you. You're an object to him, something to be won." He lifts a lock of my hair and then drops it as if I wasn't a prize worth fighting for.

  I puff up, snapping, "You don't know him the way I do. He's not like that. A broken heart manifests differently in different people. Don't pretend to know how he feels or what he thinks."

  Trystan smiles sadly. "That man has no heart. Maybe he did once, but it's gone now."

  "How do you know?" I shove a finger into his chest and scold him. "How can you tell me, so definitively, that Sean's a heartless monster?" This entire conversation is touching a nerve that runs deep. It scares me beyond comprehension, because sometimes I see it in Sean's eyes--that he's fallen too far—and he's out of reach.

  I'd once thought love could save anyone, but I'm not so certain now. The box, what he did to me, the way he seemed to come back to life, as if he were repressing something dark within him that fights for freedom—is that all that's left of Sean Ferro?

  And this man, this rock star, thinks he knows without a doubt. I make a face. He doesn't know Sean better than I do—no one does.

  But, Trystan doesn't react the way I expect. Instead, he gently wraps his fingers around mine and pushes my hand away. The corner of his mouth tips up in a look that's pure and somber. Looking me straight in the eye, he whispers, "Because we're the same man." The way he says it sends a chill down my spine. This smiling, carefree guy is not the same as Sean. How can he say that?

  It's as if Trystan can read my mind. His dark lashes lower, as does his voice, "Give it a few years and you'll see. The difference between us is wire-thin and time is the enemy. His wife died and he blamed himself, he always has, no matter what the papers say. I suffered heartache that was caused by my own hand as well. The aftermath wasn't as gruesome, but the soul can't tell. It just knows she's gone and it's my fault. My heart dies within me, day by day, beat by beat. I hide it with a smile and wiseass comments, but my pain and suffering is mine and nothing will free me from it. I'm in a cage and there is no key. Sean's been imprisoned for too long. Nothing will set him free. No—not even you."

  Trystan's words slice through me like a blade. The air is pulled from my lungs and my response is instant. I slap him across the face and am shocked to feel the sting of his skin against my palm. Sean would have stopped me. Trystan let me strike him. He doesn't grab my wrist or try to force me to do anything.

  Instead, the man smiles one of those delicious grins he's known for. "Keep fighting, Avery. That's the only way to know you're still alive."

  Shock rolls down my back, making my hackles raise higher. "You think I'm caged too? You think I'm going to be like him? Like you? You're nothing like him! He doesn't talk to you. Why should I believe a thing you say?"

  "Because like calls to like and soul calls to soul. Pain that etches us to the bone leaves a mark and I see it on him, just as I see it on you. We're all the same, Call Girl. There's no escape, not for us." Trystan's words are like poems and they roll off his tongue as easily as a drop of rain falls from the sky.

  "How can you live like that? Day in and day out?" I gape at him, with my brows pinched together and my heart beating hard. The man has a hole in his heart the size of his head, but he still spouts poetry that's rich with beauty and an understanding of the world that I severely lack.

  Trystan laughs bitterly and runs his fingers through his hair. "I don't know. It's the remnants of a dying soul, I guess. The embers always burn brightest just before they go out." He sighs, and suddenly realizes he's been holding the ring that hangs around his neck. He drops it like it's hot iron, and swallows hard. "I better find some blankets. We can't turn anything on. The press is always watching for me and if this place suddenly lights up, they'll find me. And if they find me, they'll find you."

  CHAPTER 6

  Trystan hid some bedding and money here a few years back. He explains briefly, but doesn't tell me why. "They've been in plastic, so they have that weird scent, but it's better than sleeping on the couch. Here." He tosses me a bed in a bag, complete with pillows. He opens another one for himself and lays it on the center of the floor before plopping down in the center and kicking off his shoes. His eyes fixate on a rust-colored stain on the wall. I can't imagine the demons that must be pressing in on him from being here.

  Trystan seems to like talking about philosophy, so I try. Admittedly, I suck at it. I don't have the same aptitude for it that he does. There's something about him, and the way he looks at the world, that's rare.

  I lay on top of my blankets after spreading them out next to his. I lie in the dark, on my back, and tuck my hands under the pillow so they're over my head and stretch. The day's events are catching up with me and I can't bare to think about them. My gaze flicks to my shoes, which are next to me on the floor. Trystan's wearing his jeans, and strips off his shirt. The ring remains at the center of his chest, right above his heart. He never takes it off. My eyes slip over him. He's a few years younger than Sean, leaner¸ with hard muscles beneath paler skin. There's not a tattoo on him, which is weird because I would have sworn I'd seen photo-shoots with him covered in them.

  "So, have you always been drawn to philosophy or is that a new thing?"

  Trystan's attention had been elsewhere, lost in the past. His hands are tucked behind his neck and he's lying flat on his back. He blinks before his gaze cuts to the side. "People don't change."

  "Ah, so I'll take that as a yes. And the ring? Is that part of how people don't change?" I know I shouldn't ask about it, but I do. There's no way that hairy cat is going back in the bag.

  Trystan doesn't answer. He stares at the ceiling, silent. I watch his chest rise and fall. Rolling over, I curl onto my side. I don't know how he can lay like that. Every breath I take feels like a knife in my chest, digging in deeper and deeper. I lower my gaze. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

  Trystan's blue gaze wanders over to mine. "Let's try something different. Instead of looking behind us, let's look ahead. We're both stuck in the past. Tell me, what do you want, Call Girl? I assume this isn't the life you would have chosen."

  He hasn't confided anything in me, so my answer is childish. "Why should I tell you anything?"

  "Confession is good for the soul, and since yours and mine are both ailing, it seemed like a good idea. If it's too much for you, I understand. The future unnerves some people, because they have to free themselves from their past to get there."

  "There's a little bit of a dichotomy going on in that brain of yours. You said there was no freedom from past actions." I waggle my eyebrows at him and smile. I understand something, and I've caught a flaw in his perfect thoughts. Score!

  He smiles for a split second. "So, you were listening."

  I roll onto my back and look at the yellowed ceiling. "I'm always listening. I hav
e no idea what I'm doing half the time, but it's not from tuning everyone out."

  "You're too hard on yourself."

  Silence surrounds us for a long time, and then I finally say what I've thought all along. "You hardly ever say my name." He glances over at me but doesn't reply. "I remind you of her, don't I?" I remind you of the woman you lost, the one you're still in love with.

  Trystan inhales deeply and rolls onto his side, facing me. "It's easier to not call you by your name. Saying a profession conjures you alone. Reaching for a name is dangerous, especially when the woman a guy is with reminds him of another." He watches me, gauging my reaction.

  "What do you think will happen if you say her name by accident? Do you think I'll be offended? Or spontaneously combust? Poof." I make a fist and open it as I say the last word, before smiling at him and then shoving his shoulder when he doesn't answer. "It won't bother me."

  "Ah, but it will bother me. So, it's safer this way." His smile is so sad, so tragic.

  "But it keeps you trapped. You're with her, but she's not with you."

  "I could say the same thing about you and Sean. You gave him your heart and he still has it, yet you're here with me." I look away. Too many painful memories blur together and I can't bear to watch them flash behind my eyes. Trystan reaches for me, taking my hand in his, and tangling our fingers together. He repeats, "The future—what do you want? Something real, not a fantasy."

  He means not Sean with a picket fence and a smile on his face. After a moment, I try to picture something, anything. I finally confess, "I don't know. Everything got messed up."

  I don't know what changed in that moment, but suddenly I'm telling him how my parents died, then about college, how I was worried about getting into graduate school, but I never even made it to graduation. Guilt bubbles up about Amber and Naked Guy, even though he hurt me. They both did, but it's my fault they're dead. Their lives are over, and no matter how nasty they were, the guilt is eating me alive.