The addict I’ll always fucking be.
Fitting the key in the lock, I let myself in and kick the door closed with the heel of my boot. I slide the deadbolt into place and rid my shoulders of my kutte. Hanging it on the back of the couch, I walk through the house and make my way into the kitchen. There, I roll up my sleeves and begin to clean the few dishes in the sink—anything not to go upstairs and face my wife.
I take out the garbage, make sure all the doors are locked and finally start for the stairs. I think about taking another shower but decide against it, fearing the sound of the running water will wake her. Reaching the bedroom, I find Lacey sleeping and again; I breathe a sigh of relief. With her knees pulled to her chest and her dark locks fanned across the pillow, she looks so peaceful. So beautiful and so fucking out of reach.
How is it a man can have everything at his fingertips and still feel like he’s got nothing?
I mean, look at what I have.
Look at her.
Instead of coming home and reaching for her, I wrapped my fingers around a bottle.
I chose Hell over Heaven.
Poison over pleasure.
Hate over love.
And, the sad thing is, I’ll do it again.
I don’t know if it’s the way of an addict or if it’s just my way, but I sabotage everything good in my life. It’s like I fuck up the second I start to make progress in my recovery because deep inside my soul I know it’s only a matter of time before I self-destruct. I guess when a man is destined to fail; he thinks falling from the third rung of a ladder is better than falling from the top.
Frustrated with myself, I rub a hand over my face. I talk a big game but if I had any balls whatsoever, I’d fucking end the cycle. I wouldn’t lie to myself or to Lacey. I wouldn’t promise to get well or make plans for a future I don’t deserve. I’d take my gun and shove it between my lips and end it the only way I know how. It would be ugly, and it’d be fucking bloody, but it would be the perfect ending to a painful life. A tragic finish to a sorrowful script.
But I’d never do it.
For as much of a self-loathing animal as I am, I’m also selfish as the day is long. I’ll keep repeating the same fucking track. I’ll get clean and continue to tear through the streets of New York, wreaking havoc at Jack’s command. I’ll draw blood and wash it from my hands, plant a smile on my face and fucking promise Lacey the world. I’ll hold my baby in my arms, minutes after birth and bask in that beautiful. I’ll make more promises and I’ll break every fucking one. I’ll take and take because that’s what men like me do. We bleed the well dry.
Dropping my hands from my face, I begin to undress and strip down to my boxer briefs. I move to the bed and carefully pull back the sheets before climbing in. Rolling on my side, I wrap my arm around Lacey and draw her back against my chest. She stirs for a moment before settling into me and I close my eyes.
Billy’s voice rings in my ears and this time, I listen.
This time, I breathe.
I breathe in her scent and hold on for dear life. Tears sting my eyes as I bury my nose in her neck and I give into the guilt.
“I’m sorry, girl,” I whisper against her shoulder. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
It’s an apology she doesn’t hear for a promise she doesn’t know I broke and yet still, she manages to give me her forgiveness by covering my hand with hers. It’s here, in our bed, with my body curled around hers that I am safe.
Here, where leather entwines with lace, that I am free.
I don’t know how long I lay awake holding her, if its minutes or hours, but I don’t allow myself to sleep. It’s a punishment and a privilege. When she stirs again, I pull her tighter against me and kiss her shoulder. Her body melds against mine and she mewls softly.
“You’re home,” she murmurs.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I rasp.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, moving her hand to my thigh. Her touch ignites me, reminding me I’m alive and I press my lips to her neck as a groan sounds from the back of my throat.
“Yeah, baby, everything is good,” I reply hoarsely.
Another lie.
“Go back to sleep,” I add as my hand travels up the hem of her t-shirt.
“Mmm,” she moans. Her hand moves from my thigh and quickly finds mine, guiding it up her body to cover one of her breasts. Taking it in my hand, I give it a squeeze. Her perfectly pert nipple hardens against my palm and all the blood rushes to my dick.
“I waited all night for you,” she whispers. “To feel your hands on me.”
I swallow, pushing down the lump in my throat.
Don’t take.
You don’t deserve what she’s offering.
Give.
Just fucking give.
“I needed you, Blackie,” she continues. “I needed you to make it go away.”
Those words resonate with me. They take me back to the beginning, to when she wasn’t mine. A time when she needed me to help her break away from the madness. Every part of my body goes still as she turns to face me. The second her eyes connect with mine, I see it. I see the pain and it fucking guts me.
“What happened?”
She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she winds her arms around my neck and just stares at me. For a second, I remain powerless to the fear and I hold my breath, waiting for her to call me out on my wicked ways.
“Tell me you love me,” she pleads.
“I love you, baby,” I rasp, moving my hands to her hips. My fingers dig into her flesh as I bend my head and touch my forehead to hers. “I love you so fucking much.”
A small smile plays on her lips as she closes her eyes.
“Tell me again.”
“I love you, Lacey.”
“Tell me you don’t regret marrying me.”
“Never.”
“Tell me, Blackie,” she whispers, opening her eyes. “Tell me we’re not making a mistake, that we deserve to be happy.”
“You deserve to be happy,” I say. Even if I don’t, she does. She deserves everything good in life. All the fucking beautiful this wicked world has to offer.
“My dad was a good father,” she continues, pausing for a beat. “He is a good father,” she corrects, cocking her head to the side. “His lifestyle wasn’t perfect, far from it, but he tried. He did the best he could, and I always felt his love.”
Not sure where any of this is coming from, I lean back and unravel her arms from my neck. Sitting up, I take her hands and pull her into my lap, giving her my full attention. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and search her eyes.
“Talk to me, Lace,” I murmur softly. “What’s going on inside that pretty head of yours?”
I watch as she draws her lip between her teeth and diverts her gaze away from me.
“Did I ever tell you about our dates?” Staring off into space, she smiles. “When my parents got divorced, my father would pick me up every Tuesday and take me to dinner. We didn’t go anywhere fancy, just the Vegas diner, but one time, he picked me up and we skipped dinner altogether. He drove all the way to Hershey, Pennsylvania because he wanted a chocolate bar. It was completely crazy and one of my best memories.”
“Sounds like something Jack would do,” I say, taking her hand and lacing our fingers together. Back in the day, he hijacked an ice cream truck for the kids when they came around the clubhouse. Taking a ride to Hershey for a Kit Kat doesn’t surprise me.