Tristan found her. Finally.
He didn’t feel less frightened.
What is going
on?
His shaking fingers caressed the lovely face etched
on the sheet of paper. It’s you, he
thought numbly, but not you.
Afraid of what he might uncover, Tristan began to
read. Later, he wished he’d never made that decision.
5 hours later, Guns and Roses Bar
“Martini. Like always.” said a young woman; she had
waist-length hair that’s closer to brown than to black, a pale complexion, and
a slim – yet, quite petite – build. She wore those kind of glasses that made
her face look small in comparison, but not too much. She also wore designer
clothes.
“In a moment, ma’am.”
As the bartender turned around and whisked a bottle
from the bar, the woman sat on one of the high stools lined up along the near
left, further away from the horde of rowdy men who were pretty close to getting
drunk. She had no doubt she could handle all of them, but she didn’t want her
own grandfather’s bar to have to face charges.
The place was small – some could reasonably call it
cramped – but the customers seem to like it better that way. Business was
always booming at Guns and Roses Bar, and tonight was no exception.
Groups of people lounged on uncomfortable chairs and
drank their poisons between puffs of laughter. The lights were dimmed to an
extent, but again, they liked it like that.
She spied a look out of the window and lifted her
gaze up to the stars. She always loved the sky, no matter what time of the day
it is.
Still the same
sky, she thought,
reminiscing.
That’s when he heard the set of tires squealing.
Her brown eyes were immediately drawn to a black
Sedan hastily parking beside her vintage Porsche 356. She scowled, easily
annoyed. If that car made so much as a scratch against her own, the last thing
the guy behind the wheel would see would be her fist.
As she watched, the driver of the Sedan got out. He
was wearing nice clothes – khaki pants, a gray turtleneck, matched with a
really cool tweed coat – but his face was a wreck. She imagined his visage
would be seriously attractive under different circumstances, but right now, his
eyes were bloodshot like he’d been crying for hours, his jaw was set, as if
ready to snap at any person who was stupid enough to cross him. Also, his hands
were tightly clenched and his lips were in a straight, clipped line.
The woman forgot all about punching the hell out of
him.
“Your drink, ma’am Cavanagh.”
Her eyes snapped back to where she was, and found
the martini she asked for right in front of her. “Thank you, Robert.” When he
nodded his response, Miss Cavanagh heard the door open roughly, and then close.
She turned around to confirm his suspicious and instantly found that she was
right; Mr. Wreck had come inside the bar.
Such a mood
changer, she thought. She had no
idea why, but intense sympathy pulled her towards the stranger’s direction.
But she waited. She knew how to be patient.
“Jack Daniel’s,” she heard him tell Robert in a
scratchy baritone, “put it on the rocks.”
“Right away, sir.” Robert murmured quietly.
The stranger then sat three stools away from her.
Even from that distance, he didn’t look any better. Worse, in fact – the low
lighting accented the deep circles beneath his tired eyes. She frowned, then
made her way to where he was, bringing her untouched martini.
“Hey,” she said casually. She settled into the seat
next to him. She had just put her drink on the counter when he said,
“Go away.”
“Excuse me?” her temper got the best of her, and she ranted, “I’m
awfully sorry if you find me irksome, I just happen to be politely concerned
about you, seeing as you look like shit, and that you almost scratched my
Porsche, given to me by my grandfather, who is coincidentally the owner of this
place – considering he loves me very much, he probably wouldn’t mind if I
ordered you out now, and sip your damned Jack Daniel’s as you fumble outside
trying to find another bar like this. And trust me; nothing beats G&R by a
ten-mile radius.”
The stranger eyed her with a mix of fractional
percent of begrudging admiration, a whole lot of genuine dislike, and extreme
exhaustion. He said nothing, he just lowered his eyes and bowed his head – in
remorse, it seems – and then nodded. He looked terribly miserable.
“Oh, God.” she started saying, “I’m sorry – I didn’t
mean those stuff. I have the famed family temper, I really don’t hate you.”
Robert decided to pop in at that moment and she took the opportunity to make up
to the poor man by saying to the bartender, “I’ll be talking to my friend here
for a while. Everything he orders is free of charge, okay? Every single thing.”
“Yes, ma’am.” he turned to the man, “Jack Daniel’s
with ice.”
He muttered a subdued thanks.
The woman bit her lip. “Ryne Cavanagh.” She
introduced herself. She almost didn’t hear the whispered reply,
“Tristan Devon.”
“Why are you whispering?” she asked him after taking
a sip, “You have a cool name – I’d proudly say it if I were you.”
“I’m sick of
names.” Ryne saw him clench his fist, and a muscle in his temple throbbed as he
downed the glass in a single gulp.
Her eyebrows drew together in great concern. She had
no idea what set him off, but it was obviously pretty bad.
She decided to help.
“Names, huh? I totally get you. They can be pretty
deceiving.”
The guy named Tristan scoffed. “What would you know
about that?” he signalled to Robert for another drink.
Ryne smiled. “You’d be surprised.”
“I doubt it.” He replied harshly.
“Look, why don’t you just tell me what’s the matter
with you? I don’t feel like pulling out my Beretta on such a crowded place.”
Tristan scowled at her. “Do you honestly think I’d
believe or care that you would be carrying a gun around?”
“It’s strapped on my thigh. It’s 92 FS Inox, one of
my favorites.” She raised an eyebrow, “D’you want to see it?”
“No.” Tristan drank again.
“Good.” she said, “One less person I have to shoot.”
Ryne could practically hear his temper snap. He
thumped the glass against the counter with a mighty clank. He turned to face her, and her courage never failed her even
as his eyes seemed to be shooting fire right into her face.
“It’s not good to say words like that as if you know
what you’re talking about. You’ll be landing in shitty trouble before you know
it –and you’re only what? 20? 25?”
“You flatter me. 20? Heavens, no. I’m turning 22
next week.”
“Well, happy birthday. Congratulations for lasting
that long in this damned world.”
Ryne almost smiled. She didn’t mind the slurs; he
was talking now. When you get people talking long enough, it’s only a matter of
time until you can finally ask them a question. Then she’d give him advice when
she already knew enough of the situation. Piece of cupcake.
She felt like a saint.
“Thank you, Tristan. And just so you know, I do know
what I’m talking about. It’s good that people know they shouldn’t mess with me
from our first meeting straight up – people in my family are extremely
protective.” she cocked her head to the side and beamed with delight, “Well,
tonight is just made of win. It seems like you aren’t a walking disaster after
all.”
“What?” he demanded; he clearly irritated.
“The song just played when you walked in,” she
looked at him. “You hear it?”
All of fate’s a
chance
It’s either good
or bad
I tossed my coin
to say
In love with me
you’d stay
“Yeah, I do.”
“That’s the theme song of my life.”
Tristan chuckled without mirth, “What, they played
it when you were baptized?”
“No, actually, the song reminds me of the most
wonderful guy I met a few years ago and how we had to go our separate ways.”
She paused. “Now, I dare you to laugh.”
But all in war
is so cold
You either win
or lose
When all is put
away
The losing side
I’ll play
But all in love
is fair
I should never
have left your side
Tristan was silent.
“Well, that was totally dramatic.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be.” She smiled, “I have the feeling
you’re a really good guy. You just got in a ditch, didn’t you?”
“I…” he took a deep breath, and then closed his
eyes. When he opened them, tears were shining on the sclerae, threatening to
spill. “Yes, but – but I don’t know. It’s a lot to explain.”
“I have time, you have unlimited drinks. I say we
can do this thing, what do you think?”
Tristan thought about it. He flicked his eyes to
meet hers and he must’ve seen something that made him trust her, something that
made him feel acknowledged. She had a feeling that it was because he recognized
her as a person who felt the same pain.
He began to tell her everything. She was surprised
at first when he told her he was a trainee at Macquarie – everyone knew it was
a mental facility – and when he told her everything about the hospital. What, did he fall in love with a nurse or
something? And then it dawned on her. Tristan paused, letting her figure it
out.
“You…you had a female patient, didn’t you?”
If possible, he looked even more broken. “Yes. Yes,
I do. Her name is…” A pained look crossed his face, “I’m not really sure now, I
– ” he broke off, choking on his next words. He took another swig of alcohol.
“What do you mean you’re not sure?” she asked him,
confused and concerned. “What happened to her?”
Tristan explained. As more pieces of the puzzle
joined to form a heart-breaking picture, Ryne found herself close to tears. Her
companion was crying freely now, and as the bar slowly emptied, people passed
by them and looked at the pair with unmasked intrigue.
“I just don’t
understand how I – ” he sobbed brokenly, “ – how I’ve been so stupid not to check before I did the
fucking job – I don’t even know if she knows, I don’t know what to say to her in
the morning. I just want to stop thinking for
once.” He messily wiped his tears away.
Ryne’s vision blurred, and she whispered to him, “What
else did you see? On those papers?”
“Signatures. Lots of signatures,” his voice got
shaky, “all from people in the hospital, and there was another one – I think he
paid for the cover-up.”
“Who is it? Because I swear I’d put a bullet in his
head one way or another.”
“I don’t think you’ll be able to,” came the dejected
reply, “It’s Travis Warner. Gedi Institute.”
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