At this, Cecelia washes my body as gently as I did hers.
We stand under the spray long after it goes cold. Holding. Comforting. Crying for the foolishness of our actions and worry of repercussions. With murmurs to not disturb the cocoon of silence, we make promises to get tested for possible STD’s since we don’t know what went on, and to never touch anything like that again.
Cold turkey.
Cold, harsh reality slapping across the face.
No rehab, but no backing down.
One addict to another.
Making a promise I know we will always keep.
Turning the shower off, we dry one another slow and gentle, before stepping back into my room. Celia doesn’t keep clothes at my place. It’s too much like living together, she’s told me, which is not something she feels comfortable with. Hopefully that’s just an ‘at the moment’ thing with her. Because I do long for the day when I can wake up to her.
Since she has nothing to put on, I loan her some of my clothes. I know I won’t get them back. While she has nothing of her own at my place, plenty of my clothes have gathered at hers. I like that. Even if I can’t have her completely, my clothes can stake their place.
My boxers are a little big on her and my t-shirt dwarfs her. She looks so fucking hot that if not for the fact that she’s sore, and we have no memory of most of the last month, I’d want her. As it is, I can’t help the erection I sport before slipping boxers on myself. I adjust and pin the head against the waistband so it’s not so obvious. I look at Celia with a shrug. She blushes but doesn’t comment.
Though we only woke a couple hours ago, I am exhausted. I know the crash is going to be painful. We’ll both no doubt be terribly ill. Detoxing is hard. It’s more than likely going to be even harder since we’ll both be battling at the same time with no one to walk us through it. But it has to be done. I’m sure we see it as a penance for falling off of the wagon so spectacularly.
Most people who use cocaine have something to help bring them down off of it. To lessen the dramatic fall it builds inside the body and mind. But we didn’t have anything to aid us. We didn’t want anything. All Cecelia and I wanted was the thrill and to not feel reality. So we used and didn’t brace. We used on the thread of nothing but time and sex. So much sex. From the way my muscles hurt; too much sex. And that’s terrifying.
We climb into my bed and I pull her against my side, holding her tight against me. I just need to feel her. I need to feel her solid and safe. I know we both made the choice to use, but a part of me feels like if I hadn’t brought it up, the desire to wash away the struggle, we wouldn’t be here now.
I have no idea if that’s even remotely true. But the guilt still eats at me.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” I whisper into the darkness of my room.
“I’m sorry, too.”
TWELVE
Almost a week has passed. Thanksgiving is tomorrow.
With no family and no money, neither Cecelia nor I have any plans to celebrate.
It just doesn’t seem worthwhile.
We are thankful though. Thankful we’re not dead. Thankful that so far, our detox hasn’t been too rough. We’ve both been sick, but not as bad as I imagined it would be. I mean I have a strong recollection of rehab, and the way I didn’t even want to move after beginning detox. But this, it’s been so much easier. I wonder if it’s a result of the short-term use, or if we’re just lucky this go around.
Frankie and Brock went home to Springfield to spend the holiday with their family yesterday and won’t be back until Sunday. We were invited, but both declined. It’s easier to go through this without an audience of people who won’t understand. And no one really wants to see junkies show up to their nice dinner. Not that any of them would realize that’s what we are, but still. It would have been in poor taste.
I still remember some of the manners Connie taught me after all.
I think my roommates believe we both caught the flu anyhow.
The day after we returned from oblivion, Celia and I pulled ourselves from my room to go to the free clinic to get tested after sleeping nearly sixteen hours. We are also both thankful our tests came back clean. Of course we were told to come back in six months just to be sure, or if any unusual symptoms make themselves known, but as of right now, it would appear our stupidity hasn’t caused us a disease.
Smith does in fact text me the information about the fights he finds out from Ace. It takes more than a month, the time we lost, and I find out he hadn’t forgotten, it was just that Ace had been laid off too, so it took some time to get in contact with him. I don’t tell Cecelia about this in case nothing comes from it. Or I get my ass kicked real badly. Last thing I want is her to witness my beat down or rejection to join. But I do decide to go and check it out.
They meet up every Friday and Saturday, unless there’s a holiday on those days. The meets are always long after the sun has gone down, and always in a part of the Southside no one cares to come check out because they don’t want any cops snooping around.
So basically, not far from my apartment.
Every Friday night, guys, depending on where they’re coming from, show up to their designated ‘ring’ to fight. Each guy who shows puts his name in for a fight. Names are drawn at random, four fights for the night. Winners out of the four fight each other until only one remains. These rules remain the same unless one guy has a beef they need sorting out. Then a challenge can be made and that challenge takes the place of one draw. Everything else remains the same.
Come Saturday night, winners from each group meet up at a special location and they duke it out for an overall winner.
The cycle repeats itself weekly.
Depending on the group depends on the pot. Some veteran fighters bring in more money than others. Underground celebrities and all that shit. So bigger bets are laid down for their matches. And everyone who shows has the option of placing a bet on winners, with minimum down being one hundred. Thankfully though, fighters do not have to pay a hefty entry fee. Fifty bucks gets you in, regardless of if you fight or not.
This is simply guys getting together, beating the shit at of each other, while people place bets on who wins. Better gets thirty-percent, unless there’s more than one, and then they split the wins. Typically no one bets on the same guy though. Big spenders pick their poison and the odds are set. Fighters take the other seventy. Its Smith’s understanding, most Friday nights are thousand dollar nights. Special occasions fill the pot up further. Saturday’s tend to get up to five gee’s if the right people show. Still, seven-hundred dollars just for winning a thousand dollar night?
This is really a no brainer.
I need the money.
According to Smith, losers of the ‘main round’ still get some cash too. A take away from the ‘entry fees.’ At least a few hundred for putting in the effort. Well, that’s as long as they don’t pussy out after one hit. I figure I can handle a few punches. Since very little else feels as terrible as detoxing.
The next bout is this Friday. I still feel like shit, but the end of the month is coming and I need to find some cash. While I hate hiding this from Cecelia, part of me is doing this for her and I know if she finds out what I’m doing, she’ll try to talk me out of it. After our month long binder, I know she’s not taking any risks. And this is a big fucking risk.
But it’s one I have to take. I just hope Cecelia forgives me for it.
“No, no I understand.” Celia has been pacing for the past fifteen minutes back and forth in the living room. I don’t know who she’s talking to, but it seems a tense conversation. After another few minutes pass, she flips her phone closed and looks at me with regret in her eyes. “I am being given a trial by fire at Bling.”
“What’s Bling?”
“It’s some nightclub. My friend Melody, the one who worked at Teet with me said she thinks I can get this job as a hostess.”
“O-kay. So, what’s the big deal? This is a good thing right
? Unless you’re wearing some skimpy-ass outfit again?”
Celia shrugs and sits beside me on the couch. “It’s a good thing, it is. And I guess the uniforms are tight black pants and a black tank top shirt. So not skimpy.” She’s gnawing on her bottom lip again. I catch it with my thumb and give her a pointed look. “I would start Friday night and am required to work damn near every day for two weeks to see if I can handle it.”
My eyebrows shoot up. First at the idea of her working so much while still trying to move past the drugs. We’ve both had cold sweats every night. And I catch Celia itching at her arms on occasion. Second, that seems excessive as a starting out point. Two weeks straight as a trial? Are they understaffed that badly, or is it something else? And third, because now I don’t have to come up with some reason as to why I need to disappear for a bit come Friday. Though I know I’ll have to figure out some reason as to why I may more than likely have bruises, at least I have a chance to make some money before she finds out.
Thankfully, she does too.
Even if the whole thing sounds strange.
“Do you think you can handle it?”
“I’ve worked this type of work before,” she retorts, obviously being obtuse. “Yes, Chace. I’ll be okay. I know there will be alcohol there, but it’s not something that bothers me. As for the amount of time and the fact that we’re still coming down…yeah. I want to say I can do this. I have to do this.”
She stands before me, her skin carrying a light sheen of sweat as she struggles to overcome our mistake. I wrap my arms around her waist, resting my head against her stomach and exhale heavily. Her fingers run through my hair. It’s not as clean-cut as when I was growing up and was forced to maintain a specific hairstyle.
Since entering rehab, I let it grow out a little. I’m not big on long hair, so if it gets to past my ears, I look for a haircut. But still, there’s some length to it now, and I love the way it feels when Cecelia massages my scalp and finger-combs my hair. I can’t help the groan that escapes.
“I wish things were better for us,” I tell her while staring off into space. “I wish we left Trinity and everything worked out for us. That those promises of a better life, all that bullshit of a ‘better tomorrow’ were true. I would do anything for you, Cecelia, and I hate that I have so many limitations in making that true.”
She tugs my hair until I’m releasing her waist. Pushing back on my shoulders, she makes me sit back on the couch until she can crawl into my lap. “Don’t.” Her eyes, normally a clear butterscotch, have worry clouding them. “Don’t take all of this onto yourself. We’re not like a lot of those people who walked out of Trinity.” She’s holding my face between her hands, staring hard at me, making me pay attention. “Your parents looked at you like you were an interloper. A child they should have been thrilled to have, especially considering the struggle they went through just to have your brother. But they didn’t.
“They turned their backs on you immediately. They left you to fend for yourself, and even though you had Connie, she was not your mother. She was not your blood.” Celia’s voice is low, angry and I gulp at her words. “They should have loved you the same way my parents should have loved me. But they didn’t. Wouldn’t. If not for their bickering, I never would have been born. These people, these people who made choices that led them to pregnancies that they did not end, they thrust us into an unforgiving world and expected us to survive it. Well, guess what?”
“What?” I whisper.
“We did the best we could.” Her fingers are back in my hair, soothing even against the strength of her words. “Trinity Heights is not a cheap establishment. Thousands of dollars is required to maintain a stay there. Most of the people we shared the halls with left to loving families. They left to families who wanted them, not only to get better, but to be a part of their lives. You and I? We didn’t have that. Not from the very beginning of our existence. So we did the best we could. And we’re still here.
“Yes, things are shitty and I wish we didn’t have to worry about where our next meal was coming from on top of whether or not we will have a roof over our heads.” Tears form in her eyes but I know Cecelia, she won’t let them fall. “But we’re still here. We’ll figure it out. I refuse to believe it will be like this forever. I refuse to believe we will always have these limitations. Because there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you either.”
I slam my mouth against Celia’s after her speech. My heart hammering in my chest, my hands gripping harshly to her hips, I slip my tongue into her warm mouth and love her with it.
I’ve never heard her speak this way. Especially given the condition we currently find ourselves in. But she sounded so impassioned. So sure. And I want to believe her so badly. I want our lives to get better. Because while I know there are others out there who have it just as bad, if not worse than us, this is the only life I have. I want it to be a good one. And I really do want to give Cecelia the world.
Can’t do that dirt poor with no prospects.
This fight Friday night has amplified in importance.
My name needs to be called.
I need to win.
There are no other options.
Slipping my palms underneath Celia’s butt, I scoot us forward on the couch and stand carefully. Once we’re fully standing, I adjust my grip and pull her tighter against me. She wraps her legs around my waist as I maneuver us to my bedroom. It takes a moment as I struggle to get the door open, but once I have it, I waste no time hurrying inside, before kicking it closed. With another quick juggle, I flip the lock.
My roommates may be gone for the next few days, but I don’t trust them to not turn up.
I continue to kiss and nip and lick at Celia’s mouth until we’re both breathless. Feeling my legs come into contact with my bed, I gently lower her to the mattress. She’s wearing one of my shirts, an old Metallica band tee, cut so that it hangs loose on her shoulders and bright purple skinny jeans with nearly matching Adidas sneakers. I pull out of her grasp and tackle pulling her shoes off first before I move to the buttons of her pants. Thankfully she helps get them undone so I work on the arduous task of peeling them from her body.
She’s not wearing panties.
At first the reason was the fact that she was unable to do laundry.
Detergent is expensive. Laundromats, one, aren’t the safest places to hang out around here; and two, the machines don’t work for free. So Celia stopped wearing underwear because it’s easier to ‘recycle’ a shirt than it is your drawers.
There’s also the fact that she just stopped wanting to wear them. They get in the way, she says. And there is no way I’m complaining. Quicker to get to her for my fingers, my tongue, and my cock.
She yanks her shirt over her head, a simple black cotton bra all that’s left to cover her.
I salivate at the sight of her. She’s so fucking gorgeous. And curvy.
Cecelia Santos is not a stick thin girl. She’s not obese. She’s got voluptuous breasts that overflow my hands. A belly that though flat, is soft and has a little jiggle to it. Her hips and thighs are thick, strong. And her ass, fuck, it’s nearly as perfect as her tits. I mean I love fucking her tits, watching the way they overwhelm my cock and feel so good. But I can do that with her ass too. Slip my dick between her cheeks and just rub one out like that.
She’s a goddamn wet dream, I’m telling ya.
“You gonna keep staring at me or you gonna get naked with me?” Her tone is teasing and I feel my face heat up. I can’t help but stare at her. Hell, I’ve been staring at her since the moment we met.
Stripping quickly, I climb back onto her, helping her scoot up the bed a little so I’m not hanging over too far. Once we’re situated, I take my cock in hand and run it across her pussy, letting her arousal coat, ready.
I tear my eyes away from the erotic visual below to look at Celia. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, and her eyes are burning. Slowly I push in, wanting to savor every moment I have
with her. I also silently promise to make things better.
To make those promises from rehab finally come true.
THIRTHEEN
I’m nervous.
Celia left my apartment for hers this morning. Her shift started at four this afternoon and doesn’t end until one. She will be too tired to come over, she told me, and since she’s basically working the same schedule for the next two weeks, nonstop, I don’t know how much I’ll be able to see her.
In a way that’s good, since I’ll be able to hide any bruises I get better. But then it also sucks because I love seeing her. I love being with her. And not just fucking, even though that’s pretty fucking amazing.
Still. I’m nervous because I need tonight to go well for me.
Two blocks away from my apartment is my designated ‘meet-up’ spot. I don’t understand how I never knew these ‘fight club’ types were going on. But I can’t dwell on that. When I arrive, there are ten guys. We all introduce ourselves, toss in our names if we are fighting, and get ready.
There are no challenges tonight. And not everyone gave their name, but they did put up a pot of two grand. I want that money so badly I can feel it between my fingers already.
I’m called for the second match against a guy named Toad of all fucking things. He’s a big white guy with a shaved head and a confederate flag covering his back. He likes talking shit. Keeps spouting off that he’s just broke out of the pen, armed robbery, and was a proud member of the Aryan nation while in prison. Apparently that’s supposed to scare me – and anyone who may fight him if I lose.
It doesn’t. Scare me, that is.
I have a feeling he’s all talk. And he’s sized me up and has figured I’m an easy win.
The first fight, the guys are named Reece and Fred. Fred wins that round. It’s over in less than ten minutes and Reece takes off right after. Everyone can see his pride is beat more than he actually is. I hear murmurs he more than likely won’t be back, and that it’s too bad, because he ‘looked’ like he could have put up a good fight with a little more motivation. Apparently not many who lose like that do return though.
The Bitter (Addiction #1) Page 10
