The Taste of Redemption

by I. A. Dice

  Copyright © 2020 by I. A. Dice

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by: Net Hook & Line Design

  Edited by: Cynthia Castillo

  Instagram

  Facebook

  www.iadice.co.uk

  You never know how strong you are, until

  being strong is your only choice.

  Bob Marley

  CHAPTER 1

  THOMAS

  Badass

  Pain woke me. A stubborn, sharp, stabbing pain. My mouth tasted like old carpet, and my head weighed about two tons. There was also a beetle which tried to chew its way out of my brain through the back of my left eye, humming an off-key version of Baby by Justin Bieber.

  Diagnosis: hangover.

  Not a standard-issue one, though. My hangover killed Chuck Norris. That’s how fucking badass it was. Lately, most were pretty badass, but this was a brand-new level of evil.

  Opening one eye took effort. My eyelids felt glued together. I glanced around the room, not daring to move my head, or—God forbid—try to sit. I couldn’t remember what happened last night. To make things worse, I had no idea where I was.

  The walls, or the parts I could see with one eye, were painted dark purple—sangria or eggplant, maybe. A white, French-styled wardrobe with mirrored doors stood to the left of the bed next to an open window. I tilted my head to the right. A framed quote in French stood on the bedside table next to an antique-looking lamp.

  Was I in France?

  I couldn’t recall boarding a plane, but then again, I couldn’t recall shit. It was safe to assume I may have boarded a plane, but why the hell would I choose France as the destination? I loathed French food.

  A breath of fresh air moved the white curtain net, breached the room and reached my face. A wave of shivers erupted down my spine. Muscles in my body screamed in agony.

  Maybe I fucking ran here.

  After a few minutes of picking my brain for clues, it was time to start moving. Neither my phone nor my watch laid on the nightstand. Judging by how bright the room was, it must have been around noon. I sucked in a harsh breath and sat, expecting a Band-Aid method to be less painful.

  It wasn’t. Obviously.

  I grabbed the sheets to stay in place when the room spun a few times. Taking as much caution as a first-time father does with a newborn baby, I swung my feet over the side of the bed, trusting them to bear my weight. The room spun again, faster this time.

  Treading lightly, I made my way to the en-suite bathroom, dragging my jelly-like feet across a fluffy, grey carpet. The reflection gawking at me in the mirror would make a spot-on Halloween costume: pale skin, with dark circles surrounding bloodshot eyes. Nice.

  I turned on the faucet, leaning over the sink to splash my face with cold water. Shivers shook my exhausted body. Whatever I drank the night before threatened to come back.

  There were times in my youth when I got shitfaced and didn’t recall some details from the evening, but for the first time I didn’t remember what I did even before I started drinking.

  Maybe because I started two weeks ago.

  Anyway.

  The alcohol intake last night must have been a record.

  A bottle of mouthwash was tucked away in the cabinet under the sink. I fake-brushed my teeth and remembered the army training, morphing into a master of stealth when I cracked the bedroom door open, careful not to make a sound in case the owners—whoever the fuck they were—were still asleep. My mouth curved into a smirk when the door opened to a familiar corridor.

  I wasn’t in France. I was at Scorpio’s.

  Figures.

  My feet carried me through the dark landing with no windows, down the stairs and straight into the bright kitchen. The host sat by the round table in the middle of the room, a cup of steaming coffee in hand. The aroma targeted my nose, working like smelling salts.

  “What did we drink last night?” I asked, my voice throaty as if I spent the night screaming the lyrics at an AC/DC concert. “Jet fuel?”

  “Good morning to you too, dickhead.” Scorpio put the morning paper aside, a frown on his forehead. “Feeling rough, are you? I fucking hope you are.”

  I collapsed in the empty chair opposite from my annoyed friend, resting my elbows on the table.

  “Oh-kay. Whatever I did to piss you off, I’m sorry. Cut me some slack; I can’t remember a thing.”

  “I’ve been cutting you some slack for two weeks now! More slack than your sorry ass deserves. You’re out of control, Thomas. You need to get your shit together!”

  If he would keep it down a notch, it would be great. I massaged my temples. The raised tone of his voice was like needles in my eardrums.

  “Fine. What did I do?”

  Scorpio pointed to the window behind his back. I cringed at the sight of my BMW parked over the stone fence.

  Should I explain that not only was the fence ruined but also Jane’s beloved flower bed? The car was trashed, too, in case you wondered.

  “You came here at two in the morning, again. Shitfaced, again! You couldn’t fucking stand, mate, let alone drive. You sat there, with both hands on the steering wheel, looking into the distance like an idiot. I knocked on the window, but you didn’t even flinch. I dragged you in here, and then,” he gestured behind me, “you drank all that by yourself.”

  An empty bottle of vodka stood on the countertop.

  Bravo, asshat.

  “I’m sorry about the fence and about turning up here in the middle of the night, again. Where are my phone and watch?”

  “It’s almost noon,” Scorpio clipped, but the anger was gone from his voice. “You didn’t have your phone. Your watch is in the living room. You took it off when I hit you.”

  My eyes widened. “You hit me?”

  “I’m surprised your jaw doesn’t hurt,” he scoffed, offended by his own lack of skill. “You were out of bloody control, mate. You tried to smash my console, and no one, I repeat, no one gets to touch my console. I had to nail you.”

  “I took my watch off to fight you… I guess it didn’t work out well for me.”

  “You forgot about the fight before you took the watch off.” His features hardened, and he rested his elbows on the table. “You’ll get yourself killed, Thomas. This has to stop. You’ve been drunk for two weeks straight. Does it even help?”

  A fresh wave of pain, far worse than any physical one, shredded my heart like one of the office document shredders.

  “Nothing helps.” I rested my face in my hands, pulling at my hair, “Nothing takes the edge off. She’s all I think about. I bought more tickets to New York since she left than there are seats on the planes.”

  From the pocket of my jeans, I took out the letter from Nadia and passed it to Scorpio.

  I read it so many times—the words were etched into my brain like an idiotic poem a teacher made you memorise in primary school: interpret the words and write a fucking essay about what the author meant.

  Nadia’s words weren’t a poem. There was no hidden meaning. She meant what she wrote. The thought killed me every time I recalled her words.

&nb
sp; Thomas,

  The road to heaven leads through hell.

  I walked that road and found you at the end. Now I have to turn around and walk through hell again.

  By the time you wake up, I’ll be halfway across the Atlantic—or so I hope. God knows I can’t look at the disappointment in your eyes. I think I’d die a little if you’d ask me to stay, because I can’t stay no matter how much I want to be with you.

  Adrian needs me more.

  He’s broken and fragile, and I owe him more than you can imagine. Now I need to return the favour.

  Don’t think leaving you was an easy decision. Don’t for one second wonder if I care. I do. I care so much it scares me, because it’s only been a few weeks, but you turned my world into a better place.

  For that and a million other things—thank you.

  I hope you see why I’m leaving. I hope you understand that if anything would happen to Adrian because I wasn’t around to help him, I would fall apart beyond repair.

  Please don’t hate me. I don’t think I could handle that. And please find someone who’s worth your time and effort.

  You’re quite a something, Thomas. You deserve so much more than I can offer. I hope you’ll find it soon.

  Nadia.

  “Well, she got one thing right.” Scorpio tossed the letter across the table. “You deserve better.”

  Wrong.

  There was nothing better than Nadia.

  “And to think I didn’t want you anywhere near her because I thought you’d be the one to mess her up,” he scoffed. “That backfired fast.”

  If I had listened to him… if I had killed the obsession before it transformed into love the way a caterpillar transforms into a butterfly, I would still be the same guy: a playboy with no feelings, no meaning and no future; an arrogant asshole who treated women like blow-up dolls; a self-centred idiot who considered his life a waste of time.

  How could I regret loving her? If I would have given up at the start, I wouldn’t know what love was or what happiness felt like. She gave me more than I deserved and more than I hoped to receive.

  She opened my eyes.

  “Nadia is gone, Thomas,” Scorpio said, his tone careful as if he expected me to lose my shit any minute. “I’m sorry, mate, but if you don’t accept it soon, you’ll get hurt.”

  “I know.” I arched back, staring at the ceiling.

  The last two weeks were a blur of alcohol, self-pity and pain.

  “You got dumped before, right? Why didn’t you tell me that it feels like I collided with a train?”

  Scorpio’s features softened. A glint of sympathy crossed his face.

  “It doesn’t, unless you’re in love. As much as I like and respect you, I never thought you’d be capable of love—not even before Adam died.”

  Neither did I, not in my wildest dreams. Love seemed overrated. The idea of being attached to one woman for the rest of my days was scary to say the least. Why would anyone want to limit themselves to one girl when there were hundreds of thousands of them in London alone? The no-strings attached, quick fucks were my bread and butter since I turned sixteen. Maybe even earlier.

  What wasn’t there to like? I didn’t need to act like a pussy-whipped idiot. No late-night dinners, arguments, conversations or handholding. No hugs or kisses. Nothing. Just sex. I didn’t mind it because I had no idea what I was missing out on…

  Until Nadia.

  One look into her sad, brown eyes was enough for a herd of emotions, which I had considered extinct, to flood my structure; emotions, which helped me grow not only as a man, but as a human being.

  I couldn’t hate her for leaving. She once told me Adrian dragged her through hell, but she chose to help him, regardless. Her courage amazed me and scared me at the same time. He was an addict, a drug user, but she sacrificed our relationship and the progress she made to make sure Adrian would get better and stay better.

  “I think my phone is in the car.” I combed my hair back with my fingers. “I’ll organise a tow-truck.”

  “Call someone to fix the fence and the flowerbed,” Scorpio huffed. “Jane will break your nose when she sees it.”

  Despite the vein throbbing on his neck, Scorpio dropped me off at home once the BMW was towed away. I sure didn’t deserve a friend like him. For the past two weeks I fucked up on every corner, yet he still had the decency not to call the cops when I turned up at his house in the middle of the night, hammered.

  CHAPTER 2

  NADIA

  Not my lips

  They say women experience a bad case of post-breakup depression.

  Phase one—cry, eat chocolates, and watch romantic movies in pyjamas. Phase two—drink and curse the guy. Phase three—burn his shit, meet a new guy and start over.

  Or so I heard.

  No matter what they do, they recover faster than men. We are the ones who suffer. I didn’t believe it until it was my turn to lose the girl I loved. Pain that arrived when I realised Nadia left—and it took me three whole days to accept reality—was comparable to the pain that plagued me when Adam died.

  I didn’t eat, sleep or shower. I did, however, drink extraordinary amounts of alcohol, drowning in self-pity. My heart broke whenever my subconscious pushed Nadia to the front of my thoughts… which was non-stop.

  The scariest part? I wasn’t any good without Nadia. Fear wasn’t a foreign feeling, but it had been a while since it wrapped itself around me like a wet, itchy blanket. Fear accompanied me when, surrounded by gunshots fired from every direction, I watched my friend take his last breath. It was there, when Claudia was in labour, screaming in pain, but I hadn’t experienced fear as strong as when I realised that my relationship with Nadia was over. The unease rolled around inside me like dirty water—a permanent resident of my stomach and mind.

  My ass remained glued to the couch since Scorpio dropped me off at home about four days earlier. The supplies of alcohol in my liquor cabinet ran dry faster than ever. A massive headache threatened to unleash its full power if I didn’t push something alcoholic down my throat, and quick.

  Nick and Amelia were due to arrive in two hours from their honeymoon in Bali. They boarded the outgoing flight the same day Nadia left. It was Nick’s goddamn luck I was in no state to think, or else I would rip him apart for letting her go.

  It wasn’t his fault she left, but according to Scorpio, he didn’t try hard enough to change her mind.

  Nick called me on the hour during the first few days of their trip but must have understood I didn’t want to talk to him. Either that, or Scorpio told him to lay off me.

  My mental state left a lot to be desired. Confronting Nick wasn’t the best idea while there was still enough alcohol in my system to get a dozen guys drunk, but it couldn’t wait any longer. We had to talk: he had to explain, and I had to hit him at least once.

  I took the first shower in three days and ordered a taxi. My car was still at the garage getting fixed. Considering the lack of common sense on my part lately, it was for the best.

  Two hours and three painkillers later, fresh as a daisy, I walked into Mr and Mrs Grimwald’s house. Amelia peeked out of the kitchen, a shy, small smile on her tanned face that soon turned into a scowl.

  “You look like hell, sweetie. You should shave and sleep for a week.”

  “Thanks. It’s good to see you, too. How was the trip?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you chit-chat me. I’m not done condoning your sorry-ass state. Beards are in fashion, you know, but the dark circles surrounding your eyes not so much,” she puffed, raising on her toes to kiss my cheek and wrapped her arms around me in a comforting manner. “How are you? Better than you look, I hope.”

  A smirk crossed my lips. It was more than I managed for three weeks, so… progress. I rested my chin on Mel’s head, my muscles the density of rocks, her frizzy hair in my face.

  “Have you spoken to her?” I asked, hating myself that much more. “How is she?”

  Mel moved a
way, and her eyes trained on me. “Not better than you. Worse, if I’m honest.” She rested her back on the wall, pulling her red hair into a bun. “I understand why she left, but she’s hurting…” She shook her head as if unsure what to say. “I don’t know, I’m just worried.” She drew her lip between her teeth, glancing in the direction of the living room. “Do you want me to leave you two alone?”

  “You can stay if you don’t mind watching me break his nose.”

  Mel patted my shoulder, her expression serious. “Take it easy on him; he feels pretty shit as it is. I made sure of it.”

  “So, you’re on my side?”

  “Of course, I am. You were better with Nadia, and she was better with you. I haven’t seen her that happy in years, Thomas.” She grabbed the keys to her car. “I’ll be back in two hours. If you’re not done screaming, I’ll bang your heads together.”

  She blew me a kiss, swung a handbag over her shoulder and left. My composure followed her out. If Nadia was happy with me, why did she choose Adrian?

  Nick sat in the living room, still sporting a beach-look with shorts and a white, funky t-shirt which made his tanned face appear darker. He held a glass of vodka. Another one stood on the table.

  It was a nice gesture, but it earned him a total of zero points.

  I moved a couple of orange pillows away, before I sat on the couch, then reached for the drink. My hands shook more than any other day since Nadia left because it wasn’t just lack of electrolytes in my system this time. There was also anger, stress and a sense of betrayal.

  Any idea I had for this conversation vanished. My mind drew a blank. Instead of screaming nonsense, I let Nick speak first.

  “I don’t know where to start,” he admitted, rubbing his face.

  The wedding ring on his finger was enough to summon memories of Nadia and I dancing at their wedding; enough to twist my stomach.

  “I don’t care where you start,” I said, and then… poof—anger took the stage. “You let her go!”

  “No, I didn’t. I asked her to stay. What else did you expect me to do? Lock her up? The guy tried to kill himself!” He took a deep breath, aware that yelling at me wasn’t doing him any favours. “You think I could’ve stopped her? She wouldn’t have listened.”