And the Sweet (Addiction Series Book 2) (7 page)

So I’m not fighting tonight.

I can see some of the guys are relieved to hear that. Gives them a shot to win. We’ve got some newbies coming in. Guy named Toby and another one named Franklin. That one’s a jumpy fucker. Wouldn’t surprise me to learn he was on something. He’s fighting Cadillo and is so fidgety, it doesn’t look like Cadillo can get any kind of read on him.

Another thing that wouldn’t surprise me is finding out Franklin ended up in some ditch somewhere. It’s a sad commentary, but he is very jittery.

The fight continues on for forty minutes before Brees gets tired of the spook. He hands the win over to Cadillo by default of irritation. Fucking Franklin doesn’t even seem fazed. Definitely on something.

As we’re all standing around, waiting for the next round to begin, I see Toby move to speak to Brees. I’m close enough to hear the conversation.

“He’s in ICU. He’s got a lot of injuries, bad ones.”

“How’d you hear?”

“My girl. She’s a CNA at the hospital. Saw him brought in and thought he looked familiar from a party.”

“What’s going on?” I butt in to their conversation. Both turn to look at me, and instead of annoyance for my eavesdropping, I see remorse. That’s unusual.

“Just got word Stretch was attacked and is laid up pretty bad.”

“What?” I ask dumbly. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, she just called before I got here,” Toby responds. I don’t know him well. He’s relatively new to the scene, looking for a way to pass the time while his lady works.

“She know what happened?”

He shrugs, looks at Brees real quick before turning back to me. “She just said they found him not far from his apartment and looked like he’d gotten the shit kicked out of him.”

I nod and try to wrack my brain as to who could have done this. I don’t know Stretch very well. Thinking about it, I don’t really know him at all. For as much as he and I are cool here, at the fights, we’re not friends outside of this. And thinking about that makes me realize how few friends I really have anymore. But I can’t dwell on that right now.

“What hospital is he in?” I ask and think about visiting. I know he’s not close to his family, as evident by his introduction to Melody, but I don’t know if anyone will visit him. I’d hate for him to be stuck there alone.

“General. But man, you have to be family to go in,” Toby tells me reading my thoughts.

I feel my stomach drop. I should have known that, especially after visiting Ben. Depending on the severity of his injuries, visitors are restricted. Fuck.

“You still not fighting?” Brees asks me and I look at him for a moment, thinking.

What can I do here? I can’t visit and I don’t know where Stretch lives. There is nothing I can do.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good just watching tonight.”

As Brees and Toby walk away, I again reflect on how little I know about the people around me. I always thought Celia was closed off, but I can’t help thinking, I may be just as bad.

SEVEN

It feels like old times. It feels like everything that went down, the lies, rumors, betrayal, is nothing but a figment of my twisted imagination. Like none of the bad existed. None of the wrong ever happened.

There’s laughter and mockery. There’s easy taunts and jokes.

There’s shit talk and battles for dominance.

It’s all like old times.

I am still the alpha of this crew. At least in terms of ability.

Once more, I’m tops on the podium every Friday and Saturday night. I’m collecting the cash, taking home the girl, and being envied by those who gather to watch.

It’s a luxurious way to live. If it wasn’t all a bunch of bullshit.

But I keep my mouth shut. Because it’s no use otherwise.

It all feels like old times but it also feels like the exact opposite.

I see Cecelia nearly daily.

I see her and I salivate over her. I see her and I need to have her.

But I also anguish.

Because I’m not the only one who feels this way.

She attends my fights regularly. She shows up and supports me to a win and then when the night is over, we go back to my place and fuck. Because that’s what it is. Fucking.

Even in the moments where it’s gentler, sweeter, there’s an undertone of something I can’t put my finger on. Because it’s not
just
in the moments when we’re together, tangling up my sheets as moans coat the walls. But also in the look I see on her face. The flashes I see flit through her caramel eyes when she thinks I’m not paying attention. When she thinks I don’t notice.

If I wasn’t intimately acquainted with her body, knowing every inch of skin, or if I hadn’t seen firsthand how she reacted to coke, I’d wonder if she was using again. But I touch her. I feel her. I explore her body and can taste the sobriety. So I know it’s not that.

She’s not overrun and out of control. She’s very controlled. And the wild side I see, it has a purpose behind it. Though I can’t understand it.

But it
is
something. And that something has made everything change. It’s made everything uneasy. It’s made everything frail in the face of strength.

For a long time after our sensuous reintroduction, she’d show up to the fights in her work uniform. Tight black pants, tight t-shirt, clinging to curves that make me hard and crazy and lustful. She never went home to change. Even once the weather heated up. She trudged through the warmth.

But then things did change in that regard. And her clothes did too in reflection.

Gone was the uniform and in its place her favorite jean skirt, too short for proper company, or short shorts that make me – and every other fucker who sees them – groan aloud. Then there are the jeans that seem to mold to her legs like a second skin and make me want to pull them off her with my teeth. Of course, each outfit is complete with layered undershirts showing off her bright collection of bras and the beautiful breasts they cover.

While Cecelia had always worn risqué clothing before, showing off her art on her back, or wearing skirts that are on the short side, she seems to have taken it all to the extreme. True she isn’t dressing like the groupies, flashing body parts on purpose in a play to snag a guy, but she’s not far from their look.

I don’t understand why. I can’t figure out what’s propelled her to dress like this.

Worse yet, I don’t know what’s caused her to act the way she has started to.

“Mmm, baby, looking good,” Brutal tells her as she moves to lean against the side of a building to watch the final fight. She’s wearing a frilly pink skirt that looks like it belongs on a ballerina and a tattered t-shirt that doesn’t look like mine, but it’s so cut up it’s hard to tell at this point.

I’m hoping it is mine because I’m already on edge.

“You think so?” she asks with a wide smile his way. I can see him begin to water at the mouth as she bats her eyes at him. “I just bought the skirt this week. Thought I’d give it a go just for tonight.”

“Oh yeah. I like it alright.” He moves to take a step toward her, his right hand adjusting his junk while he licks his lips like a jackass. He doesn’t get far when Stretch clears his throat. “What?”

“You gonna fight or not?”

The look on Stretch’s face is lethal. One would think Cecelia was his girl and another guy was trying to slip in on her right in front of him instead of what the situation really is. Which is one fucked up are-we-or-aren’t-we-together type of mess. I don’t question Stretch on his reaction though. There’s no point. He won’t tell me anyhow.

All I do know is one weekend he was fighting, winning the night since I’d taken it off, and he next, he’s laid up in the hospital with a shattered clavicle, two busted ribs, and a ruptured spleen to go with a crushed kneecap. Fucker nearly died and he won’t tell anyone what happened. Not the guys, the police; no one. Wouldn’t even see anyone for months after.

I asked Celia if she knew anything, if perhaps it had something to do with Melody, seeing as one minute the girl was showing up to the fights, cheering Stretch on, and the next…well, the next no one can fucking find her for a whole month. All Celia could tell me was that Melody’s ex had tracked her down at her apartment, tried starting shit and she made herself scarce until he disappeared.

I know Stretch was trying to start something with the fiery red-head, so I can’t help but wonder if her ex did something to him. Celia never saw the guy, and only knows that he apparently is tall, blonde, and looks like a tweaker on a continuous hit, but she did say Stretch showed up at Coco a few times to talk with Melody as they were changing shifts. Things had seemed to be going well between the two of them. Until Mel disappeared and Stretch ended up nearly killed.

But again, no one wants to talk so I have to let it go.

I’ve got my own shit to deal with anyhow.

Now, Stretch is our ringmaster, taking over for Brees who decided he was done dealing with our drama every weekend. He can’t really walk very well anymore as a result of his assault, but he still can’t walk away from the fight. And unlike Spike and Brees before him, Stretch has a very short temper. At least he does now. Since everything went down. He doesn’t let anyone get away with bullshit. He calls guys out for the shit they spew, and makes them back off bothering some of the girls who show. I appreciate that most times. Except the times like now when it seems he’s got some stake in this whole mess.

“Fuck you,” Brutal responds before returning to stand in front of me. He’s got a lecherous smile on his face, like he knows something I don’t. I chance a glance at Celia and see her wink at me, a mischievous smile painting her lips. I don’t understand what just went on. And I don’t have time to ask before Stretch is rambling off his shtick and Brutal and I are engaged in battle.

He likes to talk shit while we fight. He likes to tell me about him and Cecelia and I usually can tune him out. Especially since I know Brutal has a girl at home. I know she likes to have him on a short leash, especially since they got a kid together, and he usually is just talk. Sometimes though, he pushes my fucking last nerve and I can’t help the pulp I beat him to.

“I bet if she bent over, you could tell her religion,” he taunts while trying to swing and missing.

“She doesn’t have a dick, you dick,” I retort and connect with his gut. He exhales heavily so I know my strike was good.

“Doesn’t matter,” he wheezes. I watch him look her way, and with blood dripping down the side of his face, he attempts a wink at her. The kicker is her laugh. It sounds like a giggle. Like a flirty fucking giggle. “I bet I could
taste
her religion.”

“You are a fucking moron.” I slam my fist into his face, hearing his nose crunch against the force. He drops to his knees, coughing and sputtering. He’s gripping his face, the blood from the break causing blood to gush. I hear Stretch start calling out the count, not even waiting to see if the big buffoon has a shot of standing back up.

As the count runs down, Stretch calls me out as the winner and hands out the grand I won tonight. As he limps off toward home, Celia makes her way to my side, a sly smile on her face.

“Too bad, Brutal. Maybe next time,” she tells him, again giggling and it makes me want to vomit.

I let her pull me away, shoving the money into my pocket as we go. As soon as I feel we’re out of hearing range, I pull her against me. It looks like an intimate embrace, but I’m feeling anything but. “What the fuck did that mean? Maybe next time?” I question angrily.

“It was nothing. Don’t be so serious,” is all she gives me in return. Like I’m being ridiculous.

Like it’s old times again.

Like none of the rumours that went around ever existed.

Like they don’t
still
exist.

We reach my apartment in a haze. My thoughts are so full I don’t even realize we’re walking through the door until I’m being pulled toward my bedroom. Without preamble, Cecelia is pushing me down onto my bed, tugging my belt off and my jeans down my thighs. She moves to straddle me and before I take a breath, she’s sinking down onto me, not even bothering to remove her clothes.

I let out a hiss, the feel of her still indescribable, even after all these years, and let my eyes fall closed. I won’t let myself think right now. I won’t allow my mind to wonder. Not while I’m buried deep within her. Not while I have her to myself.

“Mmm, you feel so good,” she mewls against my lips, before she sits back up and begins bouncing in earnest. She seems to be chasing something, though I don’t think it’s solely an orgasm. I want to ask her what her rush is, but before I get the opportunity to, I feel my balls tighten, and my stomach muscles clench as I explode.

“Son of a bitch,” I grunt out, completely taken by surprise. I feel like my back just hit the bed and in an instant, I’m coming. I don’t know what happened, or how it happened, but I feel spent. Sated and spent. “Jesus.”

Through clouded eyes, I watch her slip from my lap, adjust her skirt and make sure her shirt hasn’t moved too much. She must feel me watching her because her eyes snap to mine. Once more, I see the shadow of something pass through them. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared, but I can see it linger in her gaze, as she looks upon me, her head cocked to the side.

“What?”

I open my mouth to speak, to reply and ask her what the fuck is going on, but instead, my lips clamp shut. Silent. My tongue empty of words I know I should speak but seem unable to.

So I shake my head instead. “Nothing.” I sit up and shimmy my jeans back up my legs and over my ass. I feel sticky, our juices sitting in my lap still. “Are you going to the fight tomorrow?” I ask this question every time.

I think part of me hopes she’ll say no. End our torment, end whatever limbo we’ve entered into. Because it’s killing me to know that while things look better, they certainly don’t feel all that fucking great. We’re together. Back together. Yet, we’re truthfully nowhere even close to what we once were.

I constantly feel like I’m sharing.

And sharing Cecelia, at that.

Even still, the other part
needs
her to say yes.

I need her at my fights. I need her supporting me, rooting for me. Being on my side. Because no matter what, she always leaves with me. Even the nights I don’t fight. Cecelia doesn’t stick around. She doesn’t watch to see who wins the night. She doesn’t root for anyone else, or back any other guy. It’s only me.

It fucks with my head.

Vamping it up for the other guys, yet going home with me.

Just like the expression she tries to hide from me, I don’t understand the reason behind it. And slowly, slowly it will drive me insane.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be there,” she says on a sigh before turning around and leaving my bedroom, and then my apartment altogether.

She doesn’t stick around anymore. Not since that first night we were back together. And even then she hightailed it out of here quick. Still, what once was us having sex through most of the night before crashing just before dawn is now nothing more than a glorified booty call. Because while she may only leave with me, she sure as fuck doesn’t stay with me. And the only times we hang out are as I said, when I need her and can’t wait for the weekend to come.

It’s starting to feel like the only one who needs anything from our relationship is me. Unfortunately, I’m so addicted to her, I feel like if this is all I will ever have of her again…well, I’ll just have to take what I can get. And that is one seriously fucked up way to go about things.