Page 49

“We’re back!” Clint exclaimed. “Paradise Rock, Los Angeles! Here with Tristan M. James and Andrej Novak from Nightstalker. We’ve covered the new album, life on tour—ups and downs included—and the band name. What’s next? Of course! The private life! I know, my dear guests, you keep that under wraps. Andrej, still hitting the waves?”

“Whenever I get the chance,” Andrej replied. “They say the waves are good today. Maybe I’ll head out to the coast later.”

“Where can you be found?”

While Andrej listed a few beaches, Tristan took a sip of water. He could feel Carol’s gaze on his back. Was that good or bad?

“Tristan,” Clint finally said. “What’s next for you? You’ve already released two volumes of poetry. Can we expect a third soon? What else are you working on, aside from music?”

“I …” Tristan cleared his throat and nervously shifted in his seat. “I haven’t planned anything.”

“Rumor has it that Frank Chelsea filed a complaint against you. How do you respond to that?”

The sudden change of topic made Tristan pause. Wasn’t that on the list? He turned his head slightly, as if waiting for Carol to intervene, but she didn’t. “I can’t comment on that.” He glanced over at Andrej.

The laughter had also faded from Andrej’s face, as he seemed to disagree with the direction of the conversation and the tone Clint had taken.

“I had the chance to speak with Frank Chelsea this morning. He told me that you first verbally, then physically attacked him in a bar. Is that true?”

“I’m not in court here,” Tristan replied curtly.

“Chelsea claims you insulted him.”

“Damn, man,” Tristan groaned, running a hand over his face. “I was so drunk … Don’t even remember exactly what the guy looked like.”

“He says he was interested in Native American culture and tried to have a conversation with you about it.”

Tristan didn’t flinch and refrained from accusing Chelsea of lying. While he hadn’t heard from Carol’s lawyer yet, probably because he didn’t have a phone, he would certainly not say anything that could incriminate him in any way. So, he just shrugged. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

Even if he had beaten up Chelsea, he wasn’t even sure if that word was appropriate. He could barely imagine doing that in his state. He had only come to his senses in the detox cell.

“I’m not concerned here about whether you did it or not,” Clint said in a reassuring tone. “I’m more interested in the why.”

Oh, no.

Tristan tilted his head to the side and fell silent. He might seem tough on the outside, but inside, his blood roared through his ears. His sweaty hands rested on his sides as his heart pounded in his throat.

“I did a little digging,” Clint said, flipping through his notepad. “In my search for more information about Tristan M. James, I came across some interesting facts. With your name, most people would probably assume the M stands for Michael. But that’s not the case, is it? Care to share your middle name with us?”

“Mingan,” Tristan murmured hesitantly.

“What kind of name is that?”

“It’s from the Blackfoot and means Gray Wolf.”

“So, Blackfoot blood runs through your veins.”

“Um …” By now, the whole world knew about his indigenous roots, but the way Clint was steering the conversation, he obviously wanted to get at something else.

Again, the reporter glanced at his notes. “Your mother was Blackfoot, right? I mean, your real mother.”

Tristan swallowed. It was widely known that he had been raised by foster parents. The fact that Clint had actually dug so deep to find out about his mother was shameless. And if he had found that out, he surely knew the rest. Something choked Tristan’s throat, and the world around him spun like a carousel.

“I’ve heard that your biological parents were killed when you were still a child. What memories do you have of them?”

In Tristan’s mind, a storm was brewing. Cold sweat dripped from him, and he gasped for air like an asthmatic.

“Tristan?”