chewing. Nearing a freshly pressed and overstarched white shirt with loud patterned tie, Khaki pants, and hair laid flat on his head in a Caesar style, he must've been going to or returning from an interview. Scratching his arms, he needed to shave the ridiculous patch of hair at his throat. A baby cried from down the alley. Tristan tried not to think about it though alleys always managed to trigger memories. They appeared different during the daytime, different but the same. She'd been on her knees in enough of them. A dick inside her mouth while two others waited their turn. Boys playing at manhood, passing the time it took their friend to finally ejaculate in her mouth by calling her a litany of degrading names. Nausea welled at the dehumanizing memory, more like a typhoon of emotion given a physical thrust. She gave that part of herself to feed their habit. Pussy was currency and it was better than being a career baby momma. The things people did in the service of love and need.
Love was every bit as potent as heroin. Not even love, most of the time but all of the underlying feelings folks called being in love. The desire, the jealousy, the possessiveness, the need — when you broke down love, it was a junkie's craving. All-consuming, filled your very being and devoured your mind to the point you couldn't think straight. And was willing to do just about anything to please or provide. The nearly chemical impulse some people had on her heart, their absence could spiral her into depression if she didn't hear from them. Her mind occupied itself with the anxiousness of wondering where they were, what they were doing, and who they were doing it with, addicted to the motions of romance. Perhaps just the idea. Still, she needed, craved to hear Iz's voice.
Wrapped within a hoodie with a black pearl and a heart, dagger through it, over a long tank top, down to mid-thigh, with too tight, skinny jeans tucked into boots, red accented Iz's hair, lip gloss, and eyelashes. Her long legs were unhappy at rest. Tristan loved her smooth white skin. Dropping the bag of McDonald's, Tristan snuck up behind Iz and wrapped her arms around her and held her close. Iz stopped what she was doing, closed her eyes, and snuggled into the embrace. And they danced.
'You didn't call me on your way home,' Tristan said.
'What, you need me to check in with you?'
'No, just like to hear you is all. Like to keep you company while you walking. Know you OK.'
'It can be a little smothering,' Iz said.
'I just want to protect you.'
'What were you going to do? Put on a cape and fly to wherever I was?' Iz turned to face her, not breaking the embrace.
'You are protecting me. Just you being around makes me feel safe. I just don't always need you so…'
'Close? Am I that bad?' Tristan asked with an uncharacteristic ping of hurt in her voice. Like a child who worked so hard on a clay ashtray for her father, only to have him dismiss it as ugly and useless. And her filling in the unspoken rest 'just like me.'
'It's not bad. I enjoy spending time with you. I just need some space of my own. Room to make my own mistakes.'
'I'm not going to apologize for being there for you.'
'No one told you to. Just loosen up some.' Iz swatted her arm.
'I can do that.'
People like Iz needed people like Tristan. People to stop others from hurting and misusing them, no matter who, even if it were their own father. People to watch out for them when they ran away from home, changed their name, and carved out a new life at a new school. People who did whatever it took to provide money and shelter for them, or save money for community college (Ivy Tech or even IUPUI); even if it meant their own degradation. Until they were able to put their other learned skills to better use. Her blades weighed heavily in her jacket.
'That man came by here looking for you.' Iz broke their embrace. She had her serious business face on.
'Who? Mulysa?'
'Yeah.' Iz refused to let his name drip from her lips. 'I don't like him coming around here.'
'I told him not to. Especially when I'm not here.'
'I don't like the way he looks at me.'
'He looks at everyone that way,' Tristan said.
'Not you.'
'Only cause he wants to keep his eyes.' Memories of the alley scraped her. 'Anyway, he might have work for me.'
'I don't want you working for him. I don't like what it does to you.'
'Now who's being over-protective?'
'I'm not kidding, Tris.'
'Knock, knock.' Mulysa announced from the door. Though not physically all that large, he filled the entranceway, imposing himself in its space.
'Speak the devil's name.' Iz also hated the way Mulysa thought he could come and go as he pleased.
Tristan had her blades in her hand as reflex. The blades twirled between her fingers with an easy grace, an implied threat. Mulysa cold-eyed her, not daring her to make a move, but letting her know with the deadness in his eyes that he didn't care either way.
'What you need, Mul?' Tristan tucked her blades back into her jacket.
'Got a job for you.'
Iz sucked her teeth, grabbed the bag of McDonald's, and left the room.
Mulysa's gaze followed her out of the room, sizing up her assets like a top piece of sirloin. He mentally licked his lips. He wanted Izzy to himself and then in his budding stable. Jealous of Tristan getting to lay with her and run her tongue into that fine pussy. He pictured himself, ramming his tongue into Iz's ass, turning her out for real.
'Mul. Get your eyes off my girl.'
'Your girl.'
'My. Girl. Mine.'
The emphasis of the words, the weight of violence in them, were the opening salvos in the battle of heart. Tristan stood there, waiting for him to move aside. Mulysa had no choice but to finish his business. To back down, to slink away, meant she'd won without a fight. Most battles were won through the power of presence, of intimidation, reducing life out here to a perpetual pissing match. No wonder every street and alley smelled of stale urine.
'Whatever, nukka,' Mulysa said, turning aside. The thing about security heads was that they were always happiest in times of war. Despite Colvin's lack of people skills, he understood that. Friend or foe, war was war and he wouldn't mind a chance to go toe-to-toe with Tristan and her hard-bodied self neither. She was heavily muscled like a man, but he'd jailed before and believed his ten inches of pipe might turn her around on the whole pussy- munching thing.
Tristan led them to a room on the other side of the kitchen area, further away from Iz. The hallway went down two steps and wound around the corner past another door which the city had sealed with plywood. An alcove filled with pellets of feces she hoped belonged to a cat. Streams of empty donut packages, papers, wrappers, moldy magazines. Clothes and soiled towels from previous occupants. Shafts of light burrowed through the sides of the boarded-up window. The room was private enough from ears seen and unseen.
'What the job?' Tristan asked.
'Meet me up at that lot across from the fairgrounds. We can hook up there and I'll break it down. Tomorrow. Eleven.'
'In the morning?'
'Shit, girl, I ain't trying to roll out before noon.'
'I don't know.'
'Pays two large.' Actually three, but if she went for the two, he'd pocket the difference. 'Two and a half.'
'You don't even know the job.'
'I know you,' Tristan said.
'Done. Don't forget your gear. We gonna squad up for real, nukka.'
'Good times.'
Tristan watched Mulysa leave before joining Iz in their living room. Milk crates and old chairs, three backpacks in the corner. Tristan had two, one with her work gear in it. Iz ignored her entrance, chewing languidly on a French fry. She ate the small ones first, saving the long ones, her favorites, for last.
'I got a thing tomorrow night,' Tristan said.
