2
TRISTAN
A ring woke me at seven. Rolling over, I instinctively pressed the button on the alarm clock. Only when it rang a second time did I realize it wasn’t the alarm. Naked, I slid from the sheets in the guest room of my mother’s home, Maison de Vignes, or Vineyard House, in the French Quarter on Ursulines Avenue, to search for my phone. The room was once mine as a child, as evidenced by the ragged teddy bear on the top shelf of the closet.
My mother had been gone six months, a brief series of transient ischemic attacks led to a massive stroke that took her as she slept. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to sell the place even though I knew I should. I never stayed in the twelve thousand square foot home where I, for lack of a better term, grew up, always opting for one of my usual dive hotels. It was how I operated. It was how I worked best. Sketchy was what my mother called it. Discreet was how I justified it.
My tuxedo lay heaped on a chair in the corner, the mussed white shirt and black tie hanging over the arm of the antique wingback. It was all that was left of my evening at the Sanctuary. Two blondes. One tag team blow job and lots of sex. I was still pissed as hell over the X.
With a labored sigh, I fished the unrelenting phone from my pants. “Bleu.”
“Is this Tristan Lebleu?” His French accent was as thick as molasses.
“This is Tristan Bleu.”
“My name is Pierre. Pierre Lebleu. I’m your—”
“Je sais qui tu es,” I replied, cutting him off. “I know who you are. How did you get this number?”
“Oh. Tu parle français? You speak French?”
I thought to tell him I spoke many languages. I thought to tell him to fuck off. “What do you want, Pierre?”
“It’s about Father.”
Just the sound of the word made me cringe. I never used that word. I called my mother Simone for most of my adult life—much to her chagrin—but it felt more like what our relationship truly was. Not a real family, but a childhood existence of long distance phone calls and vacations in exotic places with a woman whom I knew was my mother, but with whom I never felt a connection. I’d joined the FBI just to anger her, then after getting a taste of it, fell in love with the action. I’d easily slipped into what my shrink called sensation seeking behavior. I was an adrenaline junkie and I knew it. Unlike last night, I didn’t do recreational drugs. Dopamine—the pleasure reward in the brain—that was my drug of choice. Once Simone saw what joining the Academy had done for me, I knew she regretted her decision to introduce me to the world of espionage through her cocktail party friends and banquet dinner acquaintances.
But my father? I’d never met my father, although he provided for my life in many ways—all financial. My mother took his money, always saying it was payment for the years he’d missed with me—with us. Simone loathed my father, all the way to the bitter end. I’d only used the money in my trust fund when absolutely necessary, opting for a spartan lifestyle over the lap of luxury my mother preferred.
After my father abandoned us, she never married again. After René Lebleu, we moved to New Orleans. For my entire life, it was just the two of us—Simone and me. Well, us and the people she hired to do the tasks she couldn’t, or wouldn’t. By the time I was thirteen, I’d left for boarding school.
Pierre was my father’s chosen son, as Simone always called him. The son he had with his second wife. I’d never met Pierre, or my father for that matter. The only thing I shared with either of them was a surname which my mother had changed, and a discerning palate for le Champagne.
I wanted to say, he’s your father. Not mine. Instead I said, “What’s wrong with the old man?”
“Tristan, our father is dying.”
“René Lebleu was dead to me long ago. His physical passing means nothing to me.”
“That may be, Tristan, however he’s requested for you to come to Épernay. He wants to make amends, and there’s family business to be discussed.”
I smirked. “Really?”
“Oui.”
“Listen Pierre.” Contempt filled my body as I sat on the edge of the bed, pounding a fist into the mattress. “I don’t give a shit what he wants and you can give him that message. You can also tell him he’s about thirty years too late with his so-called amends. Furthermore, I don’t have a stake in your family business, so there’s nothing to discuss.”
“Tristan, you don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand.”
“We’re brothers, Tristan.”
“Fuck off, Pierre. I’m no one’s brother—especially yours. Don’t call this number again.”
“Wait. Trist—”
I heard him shout out as I ended the call.
I released the tension in my neck and shoulders with a heavy sigh and dropped my chin. Now that Simone was gone I had nothing. Nothing but work. Nothing but her possessions. Nothing but the money. Part of me wanted to go to France so I could tell my father to fuck off to his face. The other part didn’t have the energy. It was more my style to hang with the lowlifes—the dregs. I could get in, mingle and get my job done. I was a ghost and I liked it that way. It’s what the anonymity of deep cover afforded me. It’s also what it took from me—a real life. Real people.
The phone buzzed twice in my hand. I assumed it was a text from Wood. I needed to tell him about the X. I was pissed. The leggy blonde could’ve completely screwed my mission last night and I wasn’t the only one who would find it unacceptable. Wood would be mad as hell too. The drugs broke every consensual rule in place at the Sanctuary. I wanted her found and fired.
UNKNOWN: Mr. Lebleu, this is Henry Tribolet. I am your father’s assistant. It is imperative that you fly to Épernay ASAP. There are family issues to discuss. These have nothing to do with René, but everything to do with Champagne Lebleu.
TRISTAN: I cannot be more clear than this, Mr. Tribolet. No.
UNKNOWN: Mr. Lebleu, you leave me no choice. Come to France or I will be forced to out you. I will show your face across America, thus ruining your undercover career. I cannot be more clear than this. Man up. Show up.
“Shit.” The word hissed from my lips. Extortion. This asshole Tribolet thinks he can blackmail me into seeing my father.
TRISTAN: You’re fucking kidding me, right?
UNKNOWN: I don’t kid.
TRISTAN: You leave me no choice.
UNKNOWN: There’s a jet waiting for you at Lakefront Airport. Take your time, but please know I expect you on the plane before sundown.
TRISTAN: You’re placing plenty of demands on me for someone who desires my cooperation.
I’ll meet with my father, but I have no desire to see Pierre.
UNKNOWN: I’ll take that under advisement, Mr. Lebleu. Safe travels.