3. Tristian
Chapter three
Tristian
The thud of gloves against heavy leather finally stopped, leaving only the sound of my ragged breathing echoing in the gym.
I unstrapped my gloves, my knuckles aching in a way that usually brought me peace, but today the adrenaline wasn’t enough.
It wasn’t scrubbing Ingrid from my mind—the sight of her walking away from my car last night, the sway of those hips, the image of her eyes looking up at me.
She hadn’t called. Hadn’t texted. Why not?
It had been bugging me nonstop. So I headed to the gym with Kane. I thought I could punch my rage and confusion out—and it had worked, to a degree. Ingrid’s failure to reach out had been pushed to farther corners of my mind, though she wasn’t completely gone.
Someone else had come up in her place instead, though: my mother. I hadn’t seen her in days. I had been so busy running from my own thoughts that I had neglected the one person who actually needed me.
“Went hard today,” Kane said when our session was finished, toweling off the sweat from his neck as we pushed through the gym’s double doors. “You trying to kill the bag or yourself?”
“Just clearing my head,” I muttered.
The afternoon air was cool. It felt good on my overheated skin.
“Let’s get Denny’s. I’m starving,” Kane suggested.
I opened my mouth to agree, but the words died in my throat.
Leaning against the brick wall near the entrance, looking like he’d been waiting for exactly this moment, lurked Brandon.
He was a fit but lean, sharp-eyed bastard that had the kind of shitty smirk that made you want to rearrange his face.
Said smirk was plastered on his face as he pushed off the wall to block our path.
My jaw tightened. I tried to step around him, but he side-stepped, mirroring me.
“Look who it is,” Brandon chuckled, looking me up and down. “The golden boy and his shadow.”
“Move, Brandon,” Kane warned, stepping up to my shoulder. “Not in the mood for your shit today.”
“I’m just trying to be friendly,” Brandon said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though his eyes remained predatory. He turned his gaze to me. “Nothing wrong with being friendly, is there?”
I didn’t bother looking at him. “He said move.”
I shoved past, smashing my shoulder hard into his.
I was bigger than him, though not by much.
Brandon boxed at this gym too. He mostly gave Kane and me a wide berth—we’d had run-ins before, mostly crossed words, although a punch or two had been thrown in the past, usually by me.
This afternoon, though, he’d gone out of his way to intercept us.
I didn’t really care to know why—but he wasn’t going to let me leave without me knowing.
“Darragh’s been asking after you,” came Brandon’s voice from behind.
I froze.
I could hear the cocky smirk in his tone. “Yeah, thought that’d get your attention.”
Kane put a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s just go, bro.”
“Ah, I wouldn’t,” teased Brandon. “You know Darragh doesn’t like being ignored.”
“Darragh’s not here,” snapped Kane. “Just some dick making a scene like he’s a big man.”
Brandon tutted, shaking his head. “Kane, Kane, Kane. It’s the principle of it. You know that.”
Kane stepped away from me toward Brandon. “You don’t even work for that douche.”
“No… But you know me: I’m friendly! Friends have their friends’ backs. Ergo, if you just walk away now… I’ll have to let Darragh know.”
I hadn’t turned yet. I was frozen solid, listening and staring into the distance but not seeing. I thought I’d seen the last of Darragh. To know that he was sniffing around again, after everything he’d put me through…
“You know what I think of guys like you, Brandon?” said Kane, already fired up.
Brandon’s smug smile in his voice didn’t leave. “I’m sure you’ll be so kind as to tell me.”
“You’re like a little dog, that’s what I think.
You know the ones: all mouth, but no bite.
Their owners walk them past the big dogs’ yards, and those little terriers yap their heads off like they’re the most powerful shits in the world.
But all they are is safe. The moment they’re in actual danger, they shut up, because they’re nothing.
That’s what you are, Brandon: a yappy little shit who deserves nothing better than a kick up the ass. ”
“And you’re going to give it to me, are you?”
Kane shook his head. “Maybe if kicking your ass would be worth it.” He stepped back. “Come on, Tristian. Let the little bitch bark all he wants.”
He fell into step beside me, guiding me on with a hand on my shoulder.
Brandon’s voice came again.
“I’ll just let Darragh know you’ve turned him down then,” he called as we crossed the parking lot. “Tell him you don’t need the cash.”
I hesitated. My hands flexed.
Kane muttered, low, “Just keep walking.”
We did.
For about two steps.
“So did you tell the hospital to switch that vegetable’s machines off yet, or what?”
The world did stop this time. The ambient noise of the street—the cars, the wind—vanished.
I turned, stalked back to Brandon, who stood smirking and smarmy, even as I drew right into his face.
“What did you say?” I asked, my voice eerily calm.
He smirked. “You know who I’m talking about. That rotting vegetable you go visit at the hospital: your mother. Honestly, Tristian, you’d be doing her a favor if you just pulled the pl—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
I didn’t telegraph the punch; I just snapped. The boxing training took over, but the discipline vanished. I lunged, a feral snarl ripping from my throat, and drove my fist into Brandon’s jaw with a sickening crack. Brandon hit the pavement hard, and I was on top of him instantly.
“Tristian! Stop!” Kane shouted, grabbing at the back of my shirt, but I tore away.
All I could see was red. I grabbed Brandon by the collar and slammed his head against the concrete. “You shut your fucking mouth!” I roared, raising my fist to strike again. Blood streamed from Brandon’s nose. His eyes were wide—but not just with terror. There was a sick, perverse glee in them too.
“Oh my God! Somebody call the police!” a woman screamed from the sidewalk.
I slammed my fist into Brandon again and again. My knuckles slammed flesh and bone. Red sprayed.
I didn’t hear her. I didn’t hear Kane yelling either. I only felt the rage boiling over. I cocked my arm back for a finishing blow, but before I could connect, strong arms hooked under my armpits and hauled me backward.
“Get off me!” I thrashed, wild-eyed.
I expected Kane’s voice to sound in my ear. Instead, it was another.
“Easy, Locke! It’s over!”
I blinked, the red haze fading enough to see two uniformed officers wrestling me toward a patrol car.
I recognized the one holding me—Officer Miller.
A third officer descended on Brandon, bloodied and swollen, helping to prop him against the wall of the gym and get his story.
Kane stood on the sidelines, torn between where to go: after me, or to stay with the third officer and set straight whatever bullshit was about to pour out of Brandon’s mouth.
Miller clicked his radio. “I just got Locke’s kid,” he sighed into it, sounding more tired than angry. “Aggravated battery. I’m bringing him in.”
An hour later, the adrenaline had curdled into a cold, hard knot in my stomach.
I sat on the narrow bench of the holding cell, staring at the graffiti-etched floor.
Now and again I looked over my knuckles.
They were swollen and bruised, smeared with blood—mostly Brandon’s, but some of my own too.
When you hit that hard, skin breaks. Flexing them had grown difficult.
I’d need Tylenol, and a lot of it, to get back to normal over the next few days.
The heavy steel door at the end of the corridor buzzed and clanked open. Miller appeared, unlocking the cell.
“Locke. You’re free to go. Bail’s posted.”
I stood. I should have been pleased to be out but I knew exactly who had posted my bail, and I didn’t want to see him.
Had no choice, though. I followed Miller along the row of cells, out of the wing, and to the front desk.
And there he stood: Noah. He was the picture of corporate perfection—a tailored navy suit, silk tie, and his leather briefcase in hand. His eyes were cold. Dirty blonde hair going lighter with the grey each day. He looked like an older version of me, just stripped of all the grit and humanity.
“Tristian…” His eyes swept over my bruised knuckles, my bloodied shirt. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“Noah,” I responded, my voice flat, devoid of warmth.
Noah’s eyes narrowed. “Is that any way to address your father?”
“Don’t consider you my father.” My voice didn’t raise.
The air between us grew thin.
“When are you ever going to grow up?” Noah asked, a note of desperate exhaustion cracking his professional veneer.
I shrugged, shifting my weight. “Don’t think I’m much of a child.”
“You can’t expect me to come clean up after you every time you get in trouble with the law,” Noah hissed, stepping closer. “Do you have any idea what this does to my reputation?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “I didn’t ask for your help. You could just let me rot in jail, and I wouldn’t give two shits.”
“Tristian, I care about you,” Noah insisted, his voice softening. But I could see through his bullshit. “All of this… the fighting, the anger… it’s starting to get out of hand.”
I looked him dead in the eye. “I’ll change when my mother sits up in that hospital bed and walks out on her own.”
Noah narrowed his eyes, caring father facade cracking. “And if she never does?”
“Then nothing changes.”
I turned on my heel and headed for the door, out from under the fluorescent lights threatening a headache and into the late afternoon sun.
“You know I love you, right, son?” he called out.
I stopped. My hand hovered over the push bar of the door. I didn’t turn around.
“No, you don’t.”
His voice shook with indignation. “Don’t call me a liar.”
“You’re a lawyer, Noah. It’s your job to lie.”
I pushed through the doors and walked out into the street. The city air was thick with exhaust, but it was better than the sterile suffocation of the police station.
I started walking, needing to put distance between myself, my father, and the rage that was still simmering under my skin.