Salt Kiss – Episode 04
Tristan had barely escaped the club before his phone became another weapon aimed at him. His father did not ask whether the interview had gone well. “Did you get the job?” The question carried only one acceptable answer, and Tristan had already thrown it away.
“Sir, that man—he’s not—” Tristan stopped, unable to explain Mark Trevena without reliving the command to kneel or the humiliating struggle over the desk. His father would not care about the distinction between employment and submission. He would hear only that Tristan had refused another test.
“That man is the only thing standing between you and getting shipped back to the fucking trenches.” The words struck precisely where his father intended. Washington vanished around Tristan, replaced by heat, grit, smoke, and the memory he could never hold at a safe distance.
He was back on the battlefield with his weapon raised at someone he loved. His closest friend stood before him clutching a grenade, grief and madness hollowing out the face Tristan knew. There had been no enemy to blame in that moment, only a brother-in-arms who had reached the end of what he could endure.
“Put the grenade down,” Tristan had pleaded. He kept the sights aligned while every instinct fought against the order his training demanded. “I’ll put the gun down.” It was a promise he would have kept if given even half a chance.
His friend had not moved. “I have to do this,” he insisted, fingers fixed around the threat that could kill them both and anyone close enough to intervene. Tristan remembered the terror of calculating distance and blast radius while looking into the eyes of a man he would once have trusted with his life.
“Get the fuck out of the way,” his friend warned the others. Then, to Tristan: “Since you’re my best friend, don’t make me do this.” The words turned mercy into an impossible demand. There was no way to save everyone and remain innocent.
“Stop. Please.” Tristan had begged until the final second disappeared. The gunshot still lived inside him, louder than thunder in every quiet room. He had acted to protect the others, but reason could not erase the image of his friend falling.
“Fuck.” The curse escaped him now as the memory released its grip. His father was still talking, each insult dragging Tristan back toward the present. There was no concern in his voice, only disgust that his son might have lost the job.
“Don’t tell me you pussied out of the goddamn interview,” his father said. If Tristan came home, he would be sent back to active duty. The ultimatum left no room for recovery, grief, or refusal. To his father, trauma was merely another defect discipline should cure.
Tristan looked back toward the building he had just fled. Mark Trevena was the kind of man his father had trained him to hate: openly dominant, sexually unapologetic, and powerful enough to make his own rules. Returning meant placing his future in the hands of someone who had already mistaken resistance for invitation.
Yet the alternative was a uniform worn for a different purpose, a transport plane, and another landscape filled with men he might fail to save. His breath shortened at the thought. The war had followed him home, but going back would put him inside its jaws again.
This job was his last chance—not because his father deserved obedience, but because Tristan needed a life that did not end on another battlefield. Protecting one dangerous billionaire suddenly seemed possible compared with protecting everyone from an enemy he could no longer name.
“I got the job,” he lied. The answer steadied once it was spoken. “I’m not coming home.” He made it sound like a report rather than a plea, withholding the fact that Mark had invited him to leave and Tristan had gladly accepted.
“Good,” his father said, satisfied at last. “Don’t fuck it up.” The call ended without farewell. Tristan stared at the dark screen, feeling less like a son than a soldier who had just received orders from a commander he despised.
He could still walk away. He could disappear, find work under another name, and refuse both men. But trauma had narrowed his choices until even freedom felt theoretical. Mark’s offer, however offensive, was real—and Tristan knew he was qualified to keep the man alive.
He squared his shoulders and turned back. If Mark wanted a bodyguard, Tristan would prove he was the best one available. Understanding the rest of the billionaire’s world was not required. He only needed enough control to survive inside it.
“Let’s hope that sadistic bastard takes me back,” Tristan muttered as he approached the entrance. Before he could reach Mark’s office, raised voices and the unmistakable cadence of a threat sounded from within. The interview might have ended, but the job had already begun.