14. Tristan
Tristan
The coastal wind whipped across the concrete loading dock, slicing straight through the soaked cotton of Tristan’s oxford shirt.
He dragged a bare, blistered forearm across his forehead.
The raw skin scraped against his brow, leaving a streak of kitchen grease and dirty dishwater behind.
The sour reek of charred sugar and old fry-oil clung to his rolled sleeves.
His torn knuckles stung in the biting draft.
The amber halo of the corner streetlight cast long shadows over the frosted pavement where Marianne had disappeared.
“Get in the town car and I’ll handle this tonight,” he had told her months ago, brushing off her concerns just to protect his schedule.
The memory of his own arrogance burned. He took a breath of the icy air.
The steel door behind him groaned on its hinges.
Tristan pivoted on the concrete, his wet shoes squeaking against the salt.
Hazel stepped onto the threshold, planting her boots on the doorplate.
She leveled a rolling pin straight at his chest. The flour dusting her apron caught in the wind, blowing past his face in a fine white mist. She did not blink.
“The registers are closed, suit,” she warned. “Step off my loading dock before I dial dispatch and have you dragged out of here for trespassing.”
Tristan stared at the battered rolling pin.
Retreating to the warmth of the penthouse was an impossibility.
Booking a heated hotel room ten miles down the highway left his wife exposed in a town full of strangers.
Surviving out here in a ruined shirt was the only logical play left. Hold the line, he told himself.
“Cuts right to the bone,” he muttered to the wind, shivering in the draft. He refused to back down, holding his ground inches from the weapon. Let her threaten him with a squad car. He would take every bit of her anger if it kept him tethered to his wife.
“I scrubbed every grate in that sink,” Tristan said, keeping his voice steady over the gusting wind. “All I want to know is if she made it inside tonight.”
Hazel lowered the pin, her expression twisting into a sneer of disgust. She leaned out of the warm kitchen, unaffected by his defiance. “Elias is with her, and he actually knows how to keep her safe,” she snapped. “She doesn’t need a corporate babysitter hovering over her shoulder.”
She reached behind the doorframe and snatched his clothes from a nearby chair.
With a forceful shove, she hurled his custom suit jacket and wool overcoat straight into the freezing air.
The bundle hit his chest. Tristan wrapped his raw hands around the material, catching the clothes before they could drag in the salt-stained slush.
His corporate titles meant absolutely nothing out here.
He was nothing but a trespassing vagrant to her. Hazel stepped backward into the bright light of the kitchen. The door slammed shut in his face. A deadbolt ground into place on the other side. The sudden barrier cut off the heat of the ovens, leaving him trapped in the winter chill.
Tristan stood alone in the shadows. He clutched the jacket and the coat against his chest, letting the dry fabric block the wind from his soaked shirt.
The bite of the winter wind barely registered over the shame of being locked out in the alley.
Taking the hit was the only way left to prove he meant it.
He turned his back on the sealed bakery and marched through the shadows toward his vehicle.
Tristan threw his ruined jacket and coat onto the passenger seat and steered his luxury SUV down the frosted street.
The massive engine hummed, a low vibration radiating through the steering wheel and into his torn knuckles.
He kept the headlights off, tracking the cracked pavement until Elias’s brick walk-up loomed on the left.
Tristan pulled the vehicle directly against the opposite curb, throwing it into park.
He left the engine idling to keep the cabin heat running.
He tilted his head back against the headrest. Through the frosted windshield, he watched the dark, fourth-floor windows. The coastal wind slammed against the side of the SUV, violently shaking the cab.
“Just turn the light on,” he muttered to the glass.
His blistered hands remained locked on the wheel. Minutes dragged in the freezing dark. Finally, a warm yellow light clicked on behind the glass of her apartment. Tristan exhaled, his shoulders sinking into the heated seat. She had cleared the stairs.
A flashlight struck the driver-side window.
Tristan jolted forward. A blinding white beam pierced the glass, flooding the interior and raking across his face. He squinted against the glare, instinctively tensing for a fight. A local beat cop stood on the salted curb, gripping the flashlight and scowling at the idling vehicle.
Don’t pull rank, Tristan thought. Don’t flash the cards.
Using his corporate weight to threaten a patrolman would only drag the Hawthorne chaos directly to Marianne’s door.
He hit the window switch. The tinted glass slid downward.
The biting coastal draft flooded the heated cabin, freezing the sweat on his neck.
Tristan placed his empty hands on top of the steering wheel, leaving them in plain sight.
“You can’t camp out on this curb with the engine running, pal,” the officer warned, sweeping the beam over Tristan’s ruined oxford shirt. “Put it in drive, or I’m writing you up for a standing violation.”
Tristan stared straight into the glare of the flashlight. A week ago, he would have bought the entire block just to have this man fired. Now, he sat still, submitting to a uniform on a frozen sidewalk.
“No trouble tonight, Officer,” Tristan said. “My wife is renting a unit upstairs, and I’m just waiting to confirm she locked her doors.”
The cop leaned closer, taking in the blood smeared across Tristan’s knuckles. “Then confirm it from the next block over,” he commanded. “Kill the ignition right now, or get this rig out of my sector.”
Tristan did not argue. He did not reach for his wallet or mention his surname. He kept his palms pressed to the leather, accepting the local officer’s authority.
Tristan shifted into drive. The SUV rolled forward, tires crunching over the scattered rock salt. He drove past the immediate glow of the streetlights, steering into the shadows cast by an adjacent brick building down the block.
He shifted into park and hit the ignition button.
The engine died. Its deep vibration ceased, leaving a sudden, ringing void in the cabin. The blower motor cut out, taking the last of the warm air with it.
Tristan sank back into the seat. He stared up through the windshield, tracking the yellow square of light illuminating the fourth-floor walk-up. The coastal gale battered the side of the SUV, rocking the entire vehicle.
“Just stay warm up there,” he whispered.
He ignored the ruined suit jacket and wool overcoat discarded on the passenger seat. He sat in his soaked shirt, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. The residual warmth of the cabin faded within minutes. The bitter chill of the winter night began to seep through the floorboards and the door seals.
Twenty minutes crawled past. The temperature inside the vehicle plummeted.
Frost webbed across the edges of the windshield, creeping toward the center glass. The damp fabric of his shirt turned stiff against his skin. His blistered knuckles throbbed in the freezing air, the scrapes from the bakery sink aching in the chill.
He refused to restart the engine. He deserved to suffer this brutal cold. Firing up the heat now meant abandoning the post.
The wooden door of the walk-up swung outward.
Elias stepped onto the pavement. The landlord wore a canvas jacket and scuffed work boots, exhaling a plume of white mist into the street. He paused on the curb, squaring his broad shoulders against the wind as he looked up and down the dark block.
Elias turned his head. His eyes locked onto the dark, silent outline of the SUV parked by the curb.
He didn’t hesitate. Elias marched across the street, his boots coming down hard against the asphalt. He approached the driver-side door and stopped, looming outside the window.
He rapped on the tinted window.
“Roll it down,” Elias demanded through the glass.
Tristan lowered the window.
A vicious draft rushed into the cabin. The wind carried the scent of rock salt and diesel exhaust, slicing straight through the wet cotton of Tristan’s shirt. The sudden blast of winter air stung his bare arms.
Tristan locked his raw hands onto the rim of the steering wheel. He squeezed the wheel until the torn blisters on his palms burned.
He fought the urge to kick the door open and shove the other man backward. He braced for a physical fight to claim his territory. A week ago, he would have stepped onto the curb and used his limitless capital to ruin this local landlord.
He pressed his back flat against the leather, remaining motionless in the driver’s seat.
This rough stranger had provided the basic safety Tristan hadn’t. Elias was the one keeping her secure. Throwing punches at the only man protecting his wife was nothing but blind, useless pride.
“Figured that oversized tank was still lurking around,” Elias said, leaning his forearms against the open window frame. “You aren’t getting past the lobby tonight, so wipe that idea right out of your head.”
Tristan met the landlord’s glare. He kept his grip on the wheel. He did not reach for his wallet or mention the Hawthorne board.
“I have no intention of leaving this driver’s seat,” Tristan said. “Just confirm she made it up the stairs safely and the radiators are actually running.”
Elias caught sight of Tristan’s raw hands. The fight left the landlord’s stance, replaced by a hard, practical measure of the ruined man sitting in the luxury vehicle.