And the Sweet (Addiction Series Book 2)

…And the Sweet

By Delilah Frost

          Copyright

            And the Sweet

                                                 By Delilah Frost

     First Edition. September 21
st
, 2016

Copyright © 2016 Delilah Frost

                     For Luna Raya Books.

                       All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase authorized editions only.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Matthew…

ONE

That old saying:
you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone
rings in my head every second of every moment. With every breath. Every blink. It’s ridiculous. I haven’t lost anything.

I have lost
everything
.
              Sanity and friendships. Understanding and respect. It’s all gone in a plume of smoke.

Days. Weeks. Actual months pass where my worry, my uncertainty and my need to know build to a breaking point. Build until I’m clawing at my flesh, tearing the designs and color that decorates the person I left behind in Houston.

There’s no news. There’s no trace. There’s only silence and longing for a yesteryear I no longer can cling to. I’m trapped behind a wall. Captured in front of a steel barrier.

I can’t go forward. I can’t go back. I know nothing. I have nothing.

I worry I will become nothing.

              I call a phone number long disconnected.

              And every time the number dials, I pray to hear her voice. To hear that scratchy rasp, one that bitches at me for waking her. Or for interrupting her reading time. To hear her chastise me for intruding on her silence when a text could have worked just fine. When even with her irritation at me, she can’t keep the smile out of her voice because she feels just as connected to me as I do to her and we’ve never really liked distance between us.

              It’s always been too much to bear. The rope holding us together too strong to break.

              But that won’t happen. Not anymore.

              The rope is not only broken, it’s in frayed pieces never to be righted again.

              So I long. I yearn. I ache to hear her. I long to hear that voice that could set my skin ablaze with just a breath of a laugh. I yearn to hear that voice that could unravel my very soul with the ghost of my name.

I ache to hear her voice even if it is to blast me. Even if it’s to shun me. I need to hear her even if it’s to say goodbye.

But that’s impossible now.

I know I have no one but myself to blame for this predicament. I mean I told her. I told her to leave me alone. To stay away. To forget me because I had plans, in my anger, in my
foolishness
, to forget her. Because I told her she was nothing to me. No, less than nothing. A waste. I told her I wished we’d never met because she was the reason for my unhappiness, for my failure. That my parents, in all their snobbery and discrimination had been right about her. That the moment Chuck warned me to stay away, she really was the bad seed. I confirmed it all.

I told her the worst blasphemy of all in these lies.

They were
my
words.

And she listened.

Now she’s gone. Lost. Vanished. It is as if she never existed.

My heart clenches at that thought. It beats and retracts against my spine before smoothing out only to beat against my ribs in fear. My lungs seize and I’m left a panic-stricken mess with no one but myself to blame.

And all because some people talked. People who may or may not have told the truth but for which I will never be able to find out in this land of disconnected silence.

It’s funny but I see Cecelia Santos everywhere. Shiny Hazelnut hair pulled back in a smooth ponytail, body encased in her favorite jean skirt or flare jeans. And always one of my old my t-shirts draped over her, exposed tanned shoulder.

She’s sex personified. A damn vixen in a wet dream.

Only, she’s never really there.

It’s never real.

Buying my meager amount of weekly groceries at Mariano’s. Dropping my rent off at the post office. Riding the train to work and back home.

Even during my early morning runs that she always thought was such a crazy thing to enjoy, I see her. And I know in those moments I’m hallucinating because when I do see her, she’s wearing running gear. Tight spandex leggings, black, with a neon purple sports bra on top. I know Cecelia never owned anything like that. It wouldn’t have ever been in her budget to buy.

It’s a strange hallucination for me to have, sober or otherwise.

I see her at the fights sometimes too, though always in my peripheral. It’s these times where I feel like she really is there, that I’m not going crazy or losing my mind completely. But these instances only prove how lost I’ve become.

Standing against one of the buildings. Chatting with some of the older guys. Or just standing alone on the edge of the circle like she would do if it was a big match and she didn’t want to distract me too much. Of course, when I turn to look at her, she isn’t there. She’s become a ghost. There but not. A figment of a confused mind. A wraith from a broken heart.

It’s crazy, but I’d do damn near anything to have her back. I would
accept
damn near anything, even the once completely unacceptable, to just
see
her again.

To know she’s safe. To know she’s okay. Or at least close to it. Because I don’t think…

After exhausting myself trying to figure out where she could have gone, stalking her home, waiting near her job for her to walk by, calling her every moment until the line finally disconnects, I feel hopeless. And with her roommate Ricky giving me nothing now, no longer even bothering to open the door to my knocks, I decide to play dress up with the nicest clothes I can find and infiltrate.

I work construction. I fight every now and then, though I haven’t exactly been scoring any wins lately, so I have to hold money close to the chest. That means I don’t spend it on clothes I have no use for. I mean I haven’t owned a pair of Jordan’s since I left fucking rehab years ago and the ones I did have, I sold for a bit of food and a place for Celia and I to sleep for a few nights.

I don’t have that materialistic lifestyle anymore. Not that I ever did really, since it was money meant to avoid affection.

So what I have, it’s not much. A button-up shirt and my nicest pair of black jeans. I just need it to get me into Coco Pazzo, the place Celia works. At least it was the place she worked last. It’s high class. I’m not. At least, I’m not anymore. And truthfully, maybe I never was, even with my parents and their money. So I never really thought to come inside here. And a part of me figured, if Celia isn’t going home, why would she go to work?

After all, I watched the building until it seemed too suspicious to keep that up. Never once did I see her enter or leave. And I’d spent days watching.

Still, a few weeks after I think I see her for the first time, I stop by to see if she’s here. Working. Or at the very least, someone inside could tell me if they’d heard from her.

It takes some maneuvering on my part, some schmoozing until one of the bouncers recognizes me from a fight, and fortunately a winning one at that, before I’m allowed inside. He’s apparently a fan, having watched me battle a few times, though thankfully it’s been a while and he doesn’t know of my decline or the mess that came before it. I’m told to give his name – Trey – to either
Cece
or
Mel
and I’ll get me a free drink. I thank him without letting him know due to my recovery, I won’t be taking him up on the generosity, and hurry inside the dark, posh restaurant.

My heart races knowing she’s here.
Cece
can be used as a nickname for Cecelia. Ricky calls her that. She hates it, but tolerates it. At least she used to hate it. Maybe that’s changed now? Maybe she doesn’t want people to call her Cecelia or Celia, the nickname I would call her.

Regardless, I know she’s here. I’m both thankful and frustrated by this fact.

Thankful that she’s still alive. But frustrated that she has seemingly disappeared all while being front and center the whole time. Though I suppose part of my frustration stems from not bothering to check out the inside of her job sooner. After all, I never imagined if she still had her job she wouldn’t have had to pass me at least once during my stake-out.

Months of wondering of worrying could have been avoided if only I’d pulled my head out of my ass sooner. Or perhaps if I’d set aside my pride sooner.

I keep to the back as much as I can. Trying to stay out of the way of actual patrons and out of view of the bar though allowing myself a decent view of it. Because Cecelia walked away from me the last time we were in the same place at the same time. Walked away without a glance back. I don’t want that to happen again. And I don’t want to spook her. But I can’t help the shock I feel in seeing her, truly for the first time in weeks.

My breath catches, inhaling the heavy scent of the crowd and more importantly, of the alcohol permeating the air. However, not even the scent of my crutch, of the reason for my ever meeting her, is enough to distract from the sight before me, flickering with every pass of a person in my line of sight.

Her hair is pulled back per usual, but it’s limp, dull. She’s wearing her work uniform; tight black V-neck t-shirt and pants, but her shoulders are slouched. Her eyes are drawn. An empty expression painting her once vibrant features. She’s going through the motions of work, filling orders, socializing as much as is necessary. Only smiling when required. Even when her coworker, who I am going to assume is Melody, or
Mel
, approaches and tries to engage her in conversation, she looks vacant. It’s only when Melody gives her shoulders a squeeze does any emotion cross her face.

I feel a twinge in my chest as a look of sorrow passes quickly over Celia’s features.

I don’t know what is said to her, but it makes her bottom lip tremble. Even from my position, standing just across the room from her though it feels like thousands of miles, I can see the anguish colored so shockingly. Melody pulls her into a hug, causing some of the guys waiting at the counter to cheer. Clearly they believe the act to be one of a sexual nature instead of a friend offering a comforting embrace.

Melody pulls back, and I catch briefly the flash of annoyance on her face before she whispers in Celia’s ear again. With a nod, and a kiss on the cheek from Melody that once again brings forth cheers, Celia walks away from her post at the bar and heads toward the back. I assume there is a break room back there for the bartenders.

I know I won’t be able to get back there. There’s no way I can sweet talk my way this time. It’s one thing to have a fan standing sentinel to let you into a place you really have no right to enter and it’s entirely another to have a woman who probably wants to kick you in the balls, repeatedly, standing guard. I can’t give myself up to Melody. No matter who is at fault in this messed up situation between Celia and myself, I know I am not the victim to Melody.

So I wait.

I wait and I watch the crowd swell as night grows darker. Wait and watch how Melody, even shorthanded, can handle the crowd as though it’s only one or two patrons demanding her attention. I wait and watch the way it takes nearly an hour before Cecelia finally returns.

Her expression is clean of her sorrow. And a plastic smile graces her face as she once again takes her spot at the bar. Melody gives her a head nod, and with full teeth showing, clearly an over exaggeration, Celia smiles her coworkers way. Melody just shakes her head but lifts her hands in a surrendering gesture.

I want so badly to march up to the bar, make my presence known and find out the answer to every question I have. But I know the moment she sees me, Cecelia will flee. So I wait some more. And I watch her movements. Watch her interactions with the customers.

I’d heard so many stories from so many people that she was drinking. But watching her this night, watching the way she fills a glass for herself, bought by the men standing in front of her, I know it’s just another lie. The moment they tip their heads back, taking their own shot, she quickly discards the liquor into the tub in front of her before slamming down her glass as though she’s just joined them on their journey to intoxication.

The most interesting part though, perhaps is the one that kicks at my insides, tearing them apart and then repairing them only to rip them to shreds once more.

At least three times since I’ve begun my watch, I’ve noticed slips of paper passed to Celia. Masculine fingers lingering too long over her soft feminine ones as the words
call me
scream at her with a name and phone number written below. With a provocative smile, she accepts these slips, takes them into her hand and moves to place them in her pocket. The men all leer at her with lust in their eyes and hunger in their intentions. But because of demand, they must depart hastily from the bar, their thoughts centered on a hookup that will never happen. Because the moment the man is gone, I see Cecelia ball up the slips of paper full of fanciful want and toss them into the trash without even a second glance.

She plays the part so well. Making these people believe she’s part of their merriment. Making them believe they hold her interest. Allowing the enthusiastic males to be gifted her lie of intrigue. But I can see that it really is all just an act.

She doesn’t drink.

She converses only as long as is necessary to make the sale and then receive the good tip.

Beyond that, Cecelia does not engage. She doesn’t seek anyone out. She doesn’t lean against the bar, allowing any one person to dominate her time. I might have thought the rush at the bar, the insistent thirsty patrons would be the reason for this, but I know that’s not true. One look at Melody, who leans forward onto the bar, her cleavage on display for the graying man in front of her, tells me my thought is incorrect.