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.