And the Sweet (Addiction Series Book 2) (16 page)

We go back and forth. Trading punches until Fife decides to start talking again.

“You know it’s funny how pussy-whipped you are,” he wheezes, ducking a punch. He throws one but I move before it manages to connect. And his mouth keeps going. “She ain’t even that good.”

Laughter slips out and I catch Fife off-guard. I assume he thinks his words would slow me down or throw me off. Instead, they only fuel me desire to end him. They only show how pathetic he really is.

“If you say so, man,” I continue laughing at him as I take another shot. It connects with his eye and I hear a crack. “But since you’ve never had her, you’re just speculating at this point.” I swing again and connect with a rib. I know I’ve broken one. The sting on my hand tells me I have. With my left, I go for his nose and feels the resounding and satisfying crunch that comes from destroying it. “And from now on, keep your fucking hands to yourself, you worthless piece of shit.” I slam my fist against the side of his skull and watch him fall, shock painting his face.

He isn’t expecting this.

And knowing that makes it that much sweeter.

Stretch shouts out the count, but everyone can see Fife won’t be getting up. He’s dazed. He’s definitely confused. And the best part is, he’s been defeated. He threw down a challenge and lost.

Hard.

I hear fighters from the other districts taunting him. Shouting at him that he’s a pussy. That he should have spent more time working on his technique instead of trying to manipulate me. As he wobbles to his feet, looking for someone to help him, a path clears and no one is willing to touch him. Shouts of “fuck you” and “get over yourself” ring out through the barely lit road. I see him try to flip some of the guys off, while looking at a groupie to cling to. Even they’re not that desperate for attention and he stumbles away broken, defeated.

Shamed.

I turn away from his pitifulness and look to Cecelia. She’s smiling at me, holding my shirt and a gleam in her eyes that says it might be over. The taunts, the lies. This might have solved it all. And God do I hope so. Because tonight I proved that these fuckers talk big, but none of them can fight big.

As Stretch walks over to me, he’s got the biggest fucking smile on his face. “So. Final Count.” He hands me a wad of cash bigger than I’ve ever seen before. “It’s about sixty-seven.”

“Holy shit,” Celia gasps and I nod. Because holy shit is right.

Pocketing the money as best I can into my jeans while avoiding the wrecked skin on my hands, I can see the future for the first time in so long. And for the first time, it doesn’t look as bleak as I once thought it would.

SEVENTEEN

Two months go by. Celia leaves me hanging for a full two months. And then, one day I come home from work to find her waiting at my doorstep. She’s never at my apartment when I get off of work because our hours are so different. And even the times she works the day shift, she’s never waited for me since I never know how long a job will run for that day. But there she is, sitting on the hard wooden floor, her back leaning against my aging doorframe, hair piled onto her head in a messy bun, and a t-shirt and sweats on.

She looks the most laidback I’d ever seen her.

I admit to being surprised to see her, since again, it isn’t usual. But she doesn’t even let me say ‘hello’ to her before she is up and in my arms.

“If you’re still serious about living with me, we can start looking now,” she says as she kisses my lips.

So we do. I never ask why it took her two months to give me an answer. I never ask why all of sudden she has one. In a way I guess I understand. She’d needed reassurance. She’d needed proof, physical and legitimate, that I mean what I say, before she gave me an answer. It doesn’t matter how many pretty words I offer her. It doesn’t matter how beautiful I dress a request up. In the end, all that matters is Cecelia feeling she can trust me, my word. And even more, my actions.

So I keep the promises I made to her, both aloud and to myself.

I go to work. I fight Friday and Saturday nights. I hang out with her. Even when the taunts becoming so loud I can’t help but hit just a little bit harder to shut them up.

Marshall comes to visit us again. This time at our new place.

He and I sit on my second-hand couch, watching the beginning of baseball playoffs on an older 32” screen television that Cecelia and I found for super cheap at a pawn shop. His wife is once more shopping with his mother-in-law while they’re in town. His father-in-law is unfortunately stuck at work so Marshall thought it’d be good to pay us a visit.

“Have you ever thought about having kids?”

I look up at Marshall, a laugh on my lips until I see the seriousness on his face. “What?”

“Have you ever thought about having kids?”

“I don’t really think that’s such good idea,” I tell him, uncomfortable with the question. My twenty-seventh birthday will be coming up in a little while. While most guys my age are looking to finally settle down, find someone to make a life with, have a family with, I never gave it any consideration. I don’t live that kind of life. I’m sure much of my struggle is of my own doing. At least in the past it was. I got in trouble. I caused trouble. I let trouble dominate until one day I allowed myself to see past it, to accept truth and not rumor.

Yeah, I make decent money working my construction job. Now at least. I’ve been promoted to lead. I’m in charge of shit, of other people. So that’s a plus. But it’s taken years to get to this point.

I stopped living like a fucking loser and have a nicer apartment. It’s still in the Southside since I feel more comfortable here than anywhere else. I mean the cops don’t show up to break-up domestic fights and all, but the walls are actually clean. No rats or roaches can be found here.

But I am still not anything to be real proud of.

I don’t have a real high school education from an actual school not connected to a rehab center. I didn’t go to college. I allowed addiction to rule much of my life as an escape. Not to mention I, still to this day, show up Friday and Saturday nights to beat other guys up just to make some quick cash. And while I’m good at it, real good, that’s not the kind of guy you want for a father.

“Why do you say that?”

“Have you met me?” I scoff at him.

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Look around you.” I wave a hand. And then proceed to say everything I’d just been thinking. “Not to mention how messed up my own upbringing was. Why would I bring a child into this world?”

“What about Cecelia? Does she want kids?”

I open my mouth to answer and snap it shut. I don’t know the answer. I don’t know if Cecelia’s ever wanted a little boy or little girl to dote after. I do know, though, in that second, I allow myself to imagine a little girl, one that looks just like Cecelia. It’s a sweet image. Filled with hope and promise. I squash it real quick though. I don’t know how she feels about children and I don’t want to go thinking about them myself, especially with Cecelia if she doesn’t want children.

“Why are you asking anyhow?” I deflect so my brain changes course.

“Allison is pregnant.”

Marshall’s voice hangs in the air as his statement permeates my newly painted lavender walls. They’re a surprise for Cecelia after she gets home from work. When we’d moved in, the walls had been a weird taupe color. She’d hated them on sight, but the apartment was the nicest of all we’d looked at. Better area. Within our meager budget. We dealt with it and appreciated our landlord telling us we could paint if we wanted.

It’s a one-bedroom. It’s not very big. But it’s ours. Together. Cecelia’s and mine.

I know it’s ridiculous to dwell on and I’m sure those douche bags I fight against would demand my man-card, but fuck them. They are completely jealous of who I am, what I have. Knowing Cecelia has finally come to trust me enough to not only live with me but also love me? I may as well be the richest fucker in the world.

“Chace?”

I realize I’ve zoned out. Stunned by Marshall’s confession, I have to shake my head to come back to topic. “Really?” I ask like a dumbass.

“Yeah, we found out before the wedding. She’s about four months along.” His eyes are wary, and I realize in all my time spent inside my own head, Marshall told me this for a reason.

“Are you scared?”

A gust of breath leaves his mouth. “Terrified.” I see him look at the clock on the VCR – yes, we still have one – and then back at me. “I was a fuck-up. I do not want my child to turn out like me. I don’t want him to know what I’ve done in the past.”

“You’re having a boy?”

“What? I don’t know, we haven’t found out yet. Not far enough along.”

“Oh, do you want a boy?”

“In some ways, yes. In others no. I want a little girl. I want her to be like her mother. I know everyone always says they just want a healthy baby, but I don’t know. The little girl excites me. The boy terrifies me. What if he turns out like me?”

I don’t comment about how women can be just as slutty as men. No guy wants to hear that of their daughter, even if it’s not certain it is a daughter just yet. “You’ve gotten better. You are doing so well. You haven’t strayed from Allison. You love her. Respect her. That’s all that matters in the end.”

“I hope so,” he says with uncertainty. There is nothing I can say to fix this or make him see. And to be honest, I’m so fucked up I really am the last person to tell someone everything will be okay.

But he has got me thinking again. A little girl, a miniature version of Cecelia. It’s a sight I too am afraid to think about.

“You’ve really never thought about having kids?” Marshall brings the topic back to me.

I nearly choke on my own spit. “Honestly? No.” He cocks his head at me waiting for me to continue. “I just, I don’t know. Growing up I didn’t want them. Well, I didn’t think about them. Seeing my brother with his kids didn’t make me want that life either.” Looking down at my hands, I shake my head. “To be completely honest, part of it is because of my past. I know what I said to you. But being addicted to sex is different than abusing your body with drugs or alcohol.”

Nodding in understanding, Marshall thankfully drops the subject of kids. Unfortunately, he is feeling extra inquisitive as he asks, “What about marriage?”

“Jesus Christ! Are you serious?” I choke out.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

I stare at him a long time. I can see he expects an answer. “No.”

“No?” he repeats and I shake my head. “No, I haven’t thought about that either.”

“Why is that?” He’s feeling more than inquisitive tonight. Apparently he feels like he needs to be Oprah or some shit.

“Have you met me?” I ask rhetorically. “Look around you. I don’t exactly have what it takes to be a husband.”

“That’s not true. You have a good job, a nice place to live.”

“Marshall, I get that you have a great thing going for you and I’m happy about that. I am,” I tell him honestly. “But I just got Cecelia back. I just got her to trust me again. I can’t even think about marriage at this point.”

“You and Cecelia have been together for years. Even if you had a break, it still counts,” Marshall tries to counter but he’s wrong.

“No, not years. It isn’t years anymore. I fucked up,” I point at my chest, the game forgotten. “It’s not years. It’s barely months. And even before that, well before that there wasn’t a whole lot of trust.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know it probably seems like the reason it took so long for Celia and I to live together is because of the shit that went on. But she didn’t want to live with me even before that.” I look toward the screen, see a beer commercial and need to turn my head away. Fucking sports, booze is all over them. “Of everyone I’ve ever known, Celia is the least trustful person I’ve ever met. And it fits, you know? Her mother, her father, shit, me? She closed off, wouldn’t pursue more. And for a bit, I thought that was because of the shit I was hearing. I mean if we live together, she has to be accountable, right?”

“But it wasn’t that.”

“Of
course
it wasn’t. It’s because she didn’t want to attach herself to anyone just in case they walked away. If we’d lived together before everything happened, she’d…well I don’t want to think about what she would have done. Because I can’t imagine it being safe.”

“Do you think she would have OD’d?” he asks in a whisper, like saying the word out loud might make it so.

“I don’t know. I think the possibility was there.” I scrub my hands over my face, sick from the topic. “I am pretty sure she would have tried hurting herself, however that may have been. Because she didn’t trust. And I work every single day to earn back the little trust she’d had in me before I fucked it all up.”

We’re quiet after that. What is there to say? I know I’m right. I know pushing for such a huge commitment from someone who only just now trusts me enough to live with me is insane. I have a lot of work to do to make up for my mistakes. I can’t imagine thinking I can just jump a hundred steps ahead of the step I’m currently on.

As the seventh inning stretch begins, Marshall looks at me, elbows on his knees, contemplation on his face.

“What?”

“Just…just think about what I said.”

Jesus Christ.

After hanging out with me for a little bit longer, Marshall heads out to meet his wife and mother-in-law for dinner. He tells me he’ll see me later but not before reminding me to think about what he said. Like I can think of anything else now.

Cecelia gets home just before eight. She worked an earlier shift to train some new staff coming in. Like me, Cecelia managed to get a promotion at work. She and Melody are now managers covering morning and night shifts. Though the times suck, Cecelia prefers the night shift. The tips, when she helps out, are better.

“What has you so stirred up?” she asks as she grabs a water from our refrigerator before plopping next to me on the sofa.

“Can I ask you a question?” My voice comes out cracked and I have to swallow to dampen my nerves, lest I freak Cecelia out. Peering at her face, her eyes wide and unsure, I see I’ve failed. She nods her head slowly and I bite the bullet. “Have you ever thought about getting married or having kids?”

She chokes on the drink she takes as I ask. “What?”

Blowing out a big breath, I take her hand and ask again. “Have you ever thought about getting married or having kids?”

“What brought this on?” Her normally raspy voice is unusually high.

“Marshall and Allison are expecting. He was asking me my thought about the endeavor.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I wasn’t sure about it. Given my history, I don’t know if I’d make a good husband. I don’t know if I’m a good enough man to be a father.”

Placing her water on our dinged coffee table, Cecelia takes both of my hands and scoots closer to me. “Do you want these things? Ignoring history, is this something you want?” she asks in a quiet voice.

“I don’t know,” I begin, breaking eye contact. “When he brought it all up, all I could think about was how wrong I am for such a huge undertaking. But since he’s left, sitting here waiting for you to get here, all I can do is think about the what ifs.”

“I was the daughter of a woman who sold her body for drugs. And then died because of it. The daughter of a man who slutted his way through Houston and then tossed that daughter aside when it was too much for him. I understand.”

I nod, but return to the question at hand. “So. Do you? You know…?”

“I don’t know.” She looks away, staring off into space for a moment. “I’ve never given it much thought.” She smiles sadly at me. “Everything in our lives for so long has been so stressful. Dangerous even. Not a situation a baby is safe in. And there was a time when I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I couldn’t imagine being with anyone else with that type of commitment, so I didn’t let myself think about.”