And the Sweet (Addiction Series Book 2) (23 page)

She turns her face toward my shoulder, trying to hide herself from the image of us together, fucking, resting, before going at it again. Only this time, Hagen is the one between her legs and I feel phantom memories of his tongue in places I never imagined another male’s tongue would be.

Not that I imagined any of this, really.

Hagen notices we’re not watching, trying to block out shame we can’t even remember but clearly are guilty of.

“Look at the screen!” he shouts and we both jump. His gun is still trained on us, and he seems more manic than earlier. I think it has something to do with the video. I feel sick thinking about how many times he’s watched this, watched us. No doubt in this very place. “Look at what you two did. Look how easy you both are. Giving it up without a thought. Fucking trash.”

“I’m gonna come so hard in you, Cecelia. I’m gonna make your pussy overflow with me,”
I hear myself say and watch as Hagen doesn’t move. I know he’s tasting not only her, but me as well. Jesus. This is so wrong.

And the thing is, it gets worse. So much worse. I remember our train ride home, remember how Celia was sore and we didn’t understand why. But there, in living color, I watch as we try anal for the first time. I watch as Hagen joins in, slipping himself into her pussy before he comes too fast and I take Celia hard and fast, once more, back inside her pussy.

It’s a nightmare.

It’s deplorable.

We were so fucking stupid.

Days.
Days
we were there, fucking, using, degrading ourselves so badly I wish all I could remember of this time was fragmented images flitting through my dreams. So that I’d never know it was real.

Hagen skips forward scenes where nothing happens. It looks like we do more coke, hang around, sleep, but nothing overly major happens. The only time he stops to play the video is if sex is involved. And
Jesus Christ
, there is a lot of sex.

Hours’ worth plays out on the projector screen, the two of us fucking, crazed with manufactured carnality, and every now and then, Hagen joining in. Though as time goes on, he becomes more an observer to our antics and less of a participant.

The whole thing is disturbing and unnerving. But it’s almost worse knowing we have no memory – or control – of these actions, and yet, this man, this deranged man watched it all happen like it was no big deal.

As the video plays of me taking Celia from behind, our movement’s jerky and concerning, Hagen’s cellphone rings. He ignores it, continuing to watch the video until the ringing starts up again. For the last few hours, he’s been sitting on the arm of the sofa, rubbing himself though his pants with the hand not holding the gun, moaning and “appreciating” our performance, while giving color commentary for what he likes, thinks we can do better, and what he wants to see next when we “perform” again for him.

“Motherfucker!” he shouts, pulling his hand from his crotch to grab his phone. The ringing stops and then starts up once again. Whoever is trying to call, desperate for his attention. Waving the gun around to swipe the screen, causing Celia and I to duck lest the damn thing goes off, Hagen answers. “What? What do you want?”

Though we can’t hear the caller, Hagen’s mannerisms go from enjoying the show, to annoyed in a flash as his eyes move from the flashing skin on the screen to something off in space. His voice is rough, his attention diverted and aggravated but sitting there, I’m wary. The gun is still pointed toward us and given his attitude, I worry he’ll pull the trigger without realizing it.

“Yes, yes I’m here with them,” he says and I glance at Celia, my frown matching hers as we realize whoever is on the other end knows about this whole thing, knows about
us
. “No, you stay there. I will handle them.” He shoots us a quick glance, his face angry and sneering. “You will not ruin this, I don’t care about your grudge.”

Another glance at Cecelia and I can see, just like I am, she’s trying to figure out who has a grudge against us and how they can possibly know Hagen. The only person we know who knows Hagen is Cecelia’s friend, Melody, but the last thing I want to believe is a woman we’ve both trusted over the years would turn on us like this.

Especially since I can’t imagine what kind of grudge she could have against us. Or more to the point, I can’t imagine why she’d ever team up with a guy she claims tormented her. Unless she’d been lying to us the whole time to gain sympathy? I doubt that too much though.

“Listen fucker, stay where you are. I’ll hook you up when I’m through here.” He takes a second to listen and then squeezes his eyes shut. What comes out of his mouth next shocks and angers me. “Stay where you fucking are, Fife! I won’t say it again.”

“Fife?” Celia whispers against my side, trying not to let Hagen see or hear her talking. “Chace, he’s working with Fife?”

I nod enough for her to notice but not tip off our captor. My mind is racing. I can’t figure out how the hell those two would know one another let alone work together against us. How did Fife meet Hagen? How did we manage to come up in conversation? Melody had been around Fife, her seeing him, him seeing her, and neither seemed to recognize the other.

Unless, again, it was a set-up. But once more, I can’t imagine that because if that were the case, why wait for so long to do something? None of it makes sense here.

Just as my mind is trying to figure out the conspiracies, Hagen steals his attention from us. He stands, waving the gun around but no longer pointing it in our direction as he argues with Fife about using and how he won’t be long and to go to get something to tide him over.

I watch him, watch him keep his back to us and know I won’t get another chance to stop this. Looking at Celia, I urge her to loosen my restraints. She does without question, having not tied them very tight to begin with. As soon as mine are loose enough I work at trying to get hers undone. They’re not coming apart though and I know I don’t have forever to do something about that right now.

Looking up at Hagen, seeing he’s still distracted with his back to us, I make a choice. I press a quick kiss to her lips, not letting her have time to question what I’m doing before I’m scrambling off the couch and charging at Hagen from behind.

For her part, Celia remains quiet but for the small gasp I hear as I move. It thankfully doesn’t alert Hagen, who is still too busy with a clearly on edge Fife. I hit Hagen’s back hard, knocking us both down, forcing the gun and his phone from his hands.

“Motherfucker!” he grunts as we both hit the floor. Hard.

In the movies and on television, this moment is always so dramatic. There’s wrestling, a fight, and scrambling for the weapon. The audience roots for the good guy to win, knowing there’s imminent danger but hoping against hope the bad guy won’t get the upper hand. In real life, there’s chaos and uncertainty.

And with your hands still slightly bound, there’s difficulty.

I manage to get Hagen down, and since he’s on his belly I have a better shot of keeping him down, but I don’t want to give him any possibilities, so struggling to stay atop his squirming form, I throw a hit against his shoulder, hoping to stun him so I can get the rope around his neck. It doesn’t stun him though. It doesn’t do anything and that only reiterates my earlier thoughts of him being on something.

With a roar, Hagen lifts off the ground, pushing me back and into the edge of the couch. My head bounces against the arm, shaking my vision for a second and in that second, Hagen manages to regain his footing. I move to stand, but my head is still woozy. And I see he has his gun once more.

“You are so stupid, do you know that?” he asks but I can see answering would be a bad idea. Especially since I have no idea where Celia is at the moment. “All you had to do was watch a video. All you had to do was recreate it with me and we’d all be on our merry way. But no. You had to play hero. And you, put the phone down. Now.”

“Why are you doing this?” Celia asks from somewhere behind me, a thud sounding against the floor, no doubt the phone she’d had dropping. “What do you want from us?”

“I told you, I want to watch. Watch and collect the remaining debt you owe. Out of everyone who came my way, you two were my favourite. No one else
played
like you two did,” he says with that despicable lust on his face once more. “The cost went up because of it.”

“And Fife, how does he play into this?” I ask trying to get my footing again. I’ve shaken my restraints free, but considering how woozy I am, I don’t appear to be much of a threat.

“It’s funny, really. I had this guy interested in buying from me. Said he was having some trouble coming down from fighting and needed something for it. He came by one evening as I was watching our movie,” he flicks his tongue at Celia, imitating cunnilingus, and I hear her groan of disgust. “And wouldn’t you know it, he recognized you two! It was like kismet,” Hagen says excitedly, his moods flip-flopping too fast to keep up with. “I was so disappointed to find you both had left without a goodbye so to find out he knew you? It was like fate had brought us all back together. And then you had to go and make him made, make me almost miss my shot.”

“What does he get from this?”

Hagen laughs. “Oh, it’s simple really. After I’m through with you two, I said he could have her. He really has been after her for a long, long time now. Talks about her to the point of obsession. But I figure, she gave it up so easily for me, why not for him too, right?”

My stomach turns over, but I swallow hard to keep from puking. I remember the ways Fife talked about Celia, the things he knew, the inflection of every word he said. Of course he knew about the tattoo on her back in an intimate way. Of course he’d say she liked it “two at a time.” He’d seen the fucking video!

My rage, my fury at Hagen’s audacity, at Fife’s corruption overwhelms me and I rise from the floor, rushing once more at Hagen. I hear myself screaming, but I don’t see anything until I’m once more slamming into him, intending to subdue him for good this time.

The second I connect with his body, I hear the gun go off and Cecelia scream. I’m sure she’s worried I’ve been hit, but I can’t check.

I have to stop Hagen.

Rising up, straddling his stunned body, I start pummeling him. Hitting everywhere I can hit, meaning to do more than just slow him down this time.

I continue to hit and hit, watching as his face slowly becomes unrecognizable. But I don’t stop. I don’t stop until Celia shouts my name, her voice hysterical.

Fist raised midair, I turn to look at her. She’s trembling, whole body shaking, cheeks streaked with tears.

“Chace,” she cries for me once more. “Chace, please.”

“Celia?” I question and rise up from the floor to move toward her. My hands feel wet, Hagen’s blood covering them. I try to wipe them off before touching her, not wanting his blood to taint her, but my shirt is covered too. Whipping it off, I wipe as best I can before reaching Celia. “Baby?” I see the gun is in her left hand, shaking as she looks up at me, still crying.

“Chace,” she says my name again, this time barely above a whisper. I don’t know when or how she grabbed the gun, since I didn’t see where it had gone on impact, nor did I see her move to get it, but somehow she has managed to grab it.

I take a moment to feel grateful there’s no chance for Hagen to grab it now, surprise us with an ambush.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. It’s okay,” I move to release her hands from the rope when I notice a dark red blotch beginning to spread down her shoulder, running to her finger tips to drip onto the floor. “Jesus Christ,” I panic, realizing she’s been shot. “Oh God no.”

I look around the warehouse, hoping to find something to stop the bleeding. Jittery, my adrenaline spiking, I rush to the bed and grab the dingy sheet draped over it. I tear a piece away, pressing it to Celia’s wound. She whimpers, her body bowing toward me.

“Come on, baby, stay with me. You’re gonna be okay,” I tell her watching her face pale. Her eyes become heavy and she sways in front of me. I don’t know if the bullet is still inside her shoulder, if it’s left. I don’t know if she’s losing too much blood or if it’s just the shock of the gun shot that’s making her this way. All I know is she looks white. Too white. Deathly white. “No, dammit, Celia!”

It’s funny the way your focus locks in on one particular thing and has the ability to tune everything else out. How you can’t see past the object of your concentration no matter what may be going on around you. Even if it’s or death, good versus evil. It’s funny because in that moment, my eyes can’t tear themselves away from Celia’s terrified ones. They can’t move from the gushing wound stealing her life-force from her body.

It’s funny because I know I can’t lose sight of my surroundings, but seeing Celia hurt, everything else fades away.

Fades away until suddenly, Celia’s eyes widen in panic at something behind me and she tries to push me out of her way, weak and fumbling. I watch in astonishment, unbelieving what’s before my eyes, as she shakily lifts the gun and squeezes the trigger four times. I watch her flinch at the sound, stumble from the kickback, and then drop the weapon altogether before falling once more into me.

TWENTY-FOUR

Cecelia throws up whatever she’d eaten for lunch that day. She throws up food from the day before too. Then she once more collapses against me in deep heaving sobs.

I chance a glance back toward where her eyes had been focused, back to where her aim had been directed, to where Hagen should have been behind me, down from the beating I gave him, and see him splayed out on the hard floor. Though I had done a lot of damage pummeling his face, the deep red sweeping across his belly is much worse.

His eyes are open and his chest is no longer moving.

He’s dead.

Shot.

Cecelia killed him.

She killed him protecting me, us. And now she’s destroyed over it. Worse,
she’s
still shot.

We need to move. We need to take action. We definitely can’t be here. “Okay, okay, it’ll be okay.” I lower her to the sofa so she’s no longer trying to maintain energy standing on her feet and try to come up with a plan. With our video playing in the background, moans reverberating through the warehouse, I grab Hagen’s phone and pocket it. I’ll need to make phone calls to get us away from here. I also know we can’t leave evidence of our presence behind.

Looking at all the flickering candles, knowing film burns, I decide the only course of action I can take is to burn the place down.

I glance back at Hagen. Watching his blood spill out onto the concrete, I feel my own stomach desire to be emptied too.

It’s one thing to decide to kill someone, it’s entirely another to go through with it. I’m terrified this whole night will change Celia utterly. I fear it will destroy all the progress she’s made in sobriety, in trying to find a peaceful life. I just hope I can make her understand she did it to save us. That she had no other choice.

“Okay baby, let’s get you out of here,” I return back to her, lifting her gently off the sofa. She’s weak, losing blood quickly so I know I have to move fast. I cradle her in my arms and dash to the door we’d come in. I don’t see anyone outside, noting the car we came in is in fact, gone. I’m glad for that. I don’t have the energy or strength to take anyone on right now.

Settling Celia on her feet but leaning her against the side of the building, I hold her face in my hands. “I will be right back. Yell if something happens.”

“Don’t leave me,” she begs but I shake my head.

“I’ll be right back. I swear it.”

Darting back inside, I move back to the bed, grabbing what’s left of the sheet I’d tore up. I pick a candle up and light the end of the sheet, hating how long it takes to ignite, before tossing it onto the mattress and kicking another at the sofa. Thankfully both pieces of furniture light up and start to smoke. I see Hagen’s blood catch, the dark red liquid boiling against the heat, and know I need to hurry. With one last look at the projector screen, seeing myself cradle Celia on film, I knock the projector over, see it hit the flame and dart back outside.

Cecelia startles as I come upon her and lift her back into my arms. I don’t waste time though trying to calm her panic at my surprise reappearance. I just run as best I can away.

I hope the fire will do its job and no one will know who was here or why.

I start to feel dizzy, the result of being hit twice in the head tonight, and exhausted as my adrenaline starts to slow. We’re a couple blocks away and after checking the street signs I see an alley to slip into just in case the driver returns from wherever he went to wait.

Carefully setting Cecelia on her feet, watching her lean against the side of the building with no control over her fading body, I pull out Hagen’s phone. I can’t call 911. Doing so would tip off the cops that something big has happened nearby. And if the fire has done what I want it to do, it’ll be noticeable on its own. Instead, I dial for a cab.

After explaining where we are, I hang up and try to comfort Celia. “A cab is on its way. We’ll get you to a hospital.”

“No, no hospital,” Celia breathes, coughing and grimacing from the pain. “They’ll ask questions. I can’t answer their questions.” Her head lobs on her neck, her eyes red-rimmed and I hate that I’m about to go against her wishes.

“I can’t lose you. If we don’t get you help, you’ll die. I won’t be able to go on without you, Celia. Please don’t make me go through that again.” My voice catches and her eyes widen before falling back to slits. She’s losing so much blood. I have to save her.

No matter what she says.

The cab pulls up to the corner and I gingerly help Celia into it. I tell the driver to take us to the nearest hospital, ignoring her weak complaints about questions. We’ll deal with the questions if it means saving her.

I don’t know how much the fare is. I don’t know how much I pay the driver, thankful I hadn’t changed out of my pants and removed my wallet. All I do know is I’m frantic as Cecelia and I enter the emergency room of Chicago General. I’m terrified as they take her to a room, work on her without my presence. I can’t fill out paperwork or focus on anything. A worker tries to help me, but I’m shaking so badly she makes me go to a cubicle to wait to be examined myself.

Slight concussion. Small cut near my ear.

Nothing major, and not the reason for my distress.

Hours pass.

Hours without word.

I begin to wonder about Celia’s fear. Questions. Is that what’s taking so long for me to learn anything? Is that why I haven’t seen anyone come talk to me? No doubt the cops will be called. She’s been shot. They’ll want to know what happened. Will they think I did it? I couldn’t give them any real information, so will they assume? And if they assume, will they want to talk to me before I can see Celia?

We
can’t
answer questions. Jesus, if not for my absolute fear of losing her, I never would have brought her here.

“Mr. Weatherhall?”

An older woman wearing scrubs peeks into the cubicle I’m waiting in. I stare at her for a moment, wondering about the name until I recall giving her Stretch’s name instead of my own. “Uh, yeah, yes, that’s me.”

“Your wife is out of surgery and in recovery. You can see her now.” The doctor pulls back the curtain, and instructs me to follow. I don’t correct her that Celia isn’t my wife. That’s what I’d told the nurses at the counter, I’m not changing my story now.

As we walk, the doctor fills me in on what was done.

“Thankfully the bullet went straight through, leaving only a small bit of shrapnel behind.” As I listen, I wonder offhandedly if the shrapnel is a result of the gun hitting the ground before it went off. “We were able to stop the bleeding, and stich up her wound. She’ll be very tired and sore for a while as she requested no medication due to a preexisting condition, but we expect a full recovery.”

I enter Celia’s room and see her sitting up, her shoulder bandaged. She’s aware and in obvious pain. Of course she won’t take any drugs. Something meant to save her life, or at least curb pain within it could very well derail her life. Could very well destroy it.

“Just page the nurse’s station if you need anything.”

I don’t pay attention to the doctor as she leaves, I only focus on Celia. Holding the hand on her good arm, I feel tears break from my eyes. I can’t hold back my own sobs as I see her laying here, broken.

“Oh God, baby. I was so scared.”

She nods at me, squeezing my hand. “I know. Me too. I’ve never had surgery before.” She smiles a watery smile before it drops as she glances around the room. She’s jumpy and uncomfortable. “We need to get out of here, Chace. It’s not safe.” I nod that I know but don’t say anything. We can’t do anything at the moment anyhow.

We sit around her hospital room for a few hours, seeing the sun come up, watching bad infomercials on the television, quietly talking about the pizza we never got to eat the night before. During one of the nurse’s check-ins, we ask if it’s possible for Celia to move around or if she is bedridden for the time being. Because it’s a shoulder injury, the nurse instructs us it’s okay for her to walk, that it might even be good for her. She instructs us the police will want to talk with
Mrs. Weatherhall
, but as long as we’re back when they arrive, everything should be fine. By one in the afternoon, with the ruse we’re taking a walk around the hall, Celia and I slip out of the hospital.

During a trip to the bathroom during the early morning hours, I’d fortuitously found where the floor keeps their extra scrubs and gowns. After making sure no one was looking, I’d grabbed some. A shirt for myself, and tops and bottoms for Celia since they’d taken the clothes she’d been wearing, though her tiny pajamas weren’t much to begin with. Still, they’d been covered in blood and there was no way she could wear them again.

After leading her into one of the public bathrooms and helping her change into the scrubs, we hurry out of the hospital to the cab I’d called before leaving her room.

I know leaving without paying the bill is wrong. I know lying about who we are is wrong. I know a lot about this night has been wrong. I also know we can’t afford to do the right thing now. God only knows who could find out if we did the right thing.

The cab ride home is silent. Celia trembles next to me the entire ride and walk up. I know she’s in pain, though won’t do anything to stop it because she doesn’t trust herself to not lose control. I also know she’s scared. We were taken from our home. It’s no longer safe. We can’t stay here anymore. Its pale walls, secondhand furniture, and bohemian chic design feels foreign to us now.

We stand in our bedroom, looking at our bed, the baby blue comforter covering a mattress that has seen over and over how much we love one another. We stand and stare at our life. Celia cries softly as I hold her, mindful of her shoulder. “We’ll go away. Pretend it’s a vacation.”

She nods against my chest, sniffles and then stands up as straight as she can against the pain her shoulder is sending out through her body. She’s building a wall. Trying to be strong. Grabbing her cell phone, I watch her call Melody. I listen as she tells her friend about our night, about Hagen and what’s been done. I watch her break down as she recalls firing the gun and ending his life. Then I watch as she tells Melody that we have to leave. Watch as she sobs that she’ll miss her but there’s no other choice.

The moment Celia asks Melody to let Stretch know we’re moving on, I have to step away. We may not have been best friends, or really anything more than friendly acquaintances, but he is a good guy. And I’m glad I got to meet him.

With a heavy breath, I place a call to Marshall.

He’s the only person from our pasts who has made any kind of step to connect with us, be a part of our lives. He has ties to Chicago thanks to his wife and her family. I’d hate to think of him trying to contact us before or during a visit and realizing we’ve vanished. He knows the life we’ve led up to this point. It would bother me immensely to have him think something bad had happened to us which lead us to not answering.

So I have to call him.

I call to let him know everything that went down. I tell him we’re leaving Chicago, running away just in case. I tell him we’re leaving our phone numbers behind too. He’s shocked speechless for several minutes, a feat for Marshall, but I don’t have it in me to poke fun. All I do is wait for him to respond.

“Meet me in Islamorada near Key West, at the Ocean House in a week’s time, okay?” is all he says before he hangs up.

I’m left stunned for a moment, but I don’t have time to stay that way. We have too much to do.

After telling Cecelia what Marshall has requested, we pack what we can’t live without. Most everything we have is new to us. The furniture, knickknacks. Things we’d worked hard to acquire for our home. They’re unimportant in the grand scheme of things. But they’re still hard to leave behind.

We take clothes, toiletries and cash. Before we leave, I close out our account, pulling all of our money out of the bank and safety deposit box and placing it all in a duffle. It’s not the safest thing to do, carrying it around like this, but until we have an idea of where we’ll end up, and that no one can find us, leaving it in the bank where someone could track our potential use of it isn’t safe.

With a constant look over our shoulders, Celia and I slip away from Chicago, by bus, in the night. We leave behind a life we’d only just started building. Leave behind new friendships and possibilities. But we both know, we don’t have any other choice. Our lives have never been easy, this is just one more thing to add to the list.