by Kate Stewart
Left. Left me.
When the conveyer belt comes to a halt signaling the end of our shift, she takes a step toward me and hesitantly pulls me into a hug. “You’re good people, Cecelia. I’m going to miss you when you head off to school.”
I hug her back tightly. “I’m going to miss you, too.”
She pulls back and grips my shoulders. “You won’t miss my motor mouth.” She laughs and nudges me. “But I’ll sure miss your ear. How long do you have left?”
“Just a few months.”
She winks. “We’ll make it count.”
I nod and manage to muster a genuine smile as she leaves the line to punch out. I trail behind her, my thoughts going back to this morning’s conversation in my kitchen. To everyone close to me, I’m that girl now—the one who got her heart broken and retreated into herself.
Tobias sees me the same way—weak—but the irony is that it’s people like Melinda who struggle daily to make ends meet, and my affection for her and those in our circle that keeps me silent, compliant. If I thought for one second Tobias’s plans included hurting her or the people I’ve come to care about, I would have blown the whistle long ago. But that’s not the case. And despite my hatred for him, I know Tobias’s plans include giving the power back to the people of this town.
And that plan I’m all for.
Does it make me a bad person that I’m willing to let my father suffer because of it? Maybe.
But this is the part I chose to play.
And maybe some of my disregard for his welfare has to do with the grudge that he chose his empire over me.
Maybe losing everything he owns will bring him some much-needed humility and give him a second chance to do something else with his life. Find a more meaningful purpose. I know for sure that humility has changed me in a major way. And these lessons I haven’t taken for granted, even if I’ve been taken for granted in the process.
But if I thought Dominic was cold, his brother is far more callous. An impenetrable wall who thinks love is nothing but a nuisance.
Bad for business.
“You’re an addict.”
Anger flares as I gather my phone from my locker and check my messages to find one from Christy declaring she’s on a date and will call me tomorrow. She checks in with me daily now. And I know some of it has to do with the fact that she pities me. She worries for me.
I can’t even get my worst enemy to take me seriously because I walk around wearing my heartache like a badge on my sleeve, and it’s become the bane of my existence.
I slam my locker door, aggravation snaking around me. The people in my life are walking on eggshells worried about my fragility. It’s then that a sickening thought strikes me.
I’m becoming my mother.
An addict.
An addict.
Am I addicted to the high?
If I’m honest, that’s a lot of what I felt when I was with them. They fed it to me at every turn. But then that’s the crux of love, isn’t it? It is very much a high, a high people thrive on. One that can rip your soul apart once you’ve lost it.
And maybe it’s the chase of the high that has me breaking the rules tonight. It’s been eight months without a word. And if I’m an addict, it’s been way too fucking long without a hit. Physically, I can feel the added tension on the thin thread between the three of us now more than ever as I replay what happened in my kitchen.
Again, Tobias taunted me.
And again, I wanted him.
Guilty and cringing at the thought, I take the road that leads to the townhouse on the cul-de-sac. I haven’t, not once, done the psycho ex-girlfriend drive by, and it’s past time I do.
It’s when my headlights beam on a FOR RENT sign as I approach their house that I feel the thread give a little more.
Anger courses through me as I step out of my running car and walk over to the house, cupping my hands on the window from the porch to peer in. Empty. Not a trace of life. No trace of the memories made here.
All of it’s gone.
On my walk back to my car, I realize the grass is at least a foot tall, which means it’s been vacated for a month or longer. My gut tells me much longer.
Back behind the wheel, I tear down the road, blood thumping at my temple as I try to understand the why of it. Where is Tyler living now? I just saw him so he can’t be far, which means they can’t either. Sean had to know his request for me not to go looking would be too much to ask. And up until now, I’ve honored it because of ‘one day.’
Furious with my findings, I drive through the roads I know by heart intent on getting answers. It’s when I hit the garage parking lot and slam on the brakes that I’m relieved to see the light on in the lobby. A sign of my old life, unchanged. Faint music drifts from behind the garage as Russell walks into view, eyeing me just before I step up to the door and rap on it lightly, knowing he saw me. When it doesn’t open, I knock again, this time much harder.
“Open the door, Russell,” I demand, my heart sputtering with the image of the abandoned house.
Nothing.
“Russell!” I step over and glare at him through the thick lobby window when my knock again goes unanswered. Russell cranes his head to avoid my livid gaze just as Jeremy joins him in the lobby. The second Jeremy sees me, he hangs his head.
“I just want to talk to you,” I plead through the thick glass, knowing they can hear every word. In the next second, the light clicks off and Russell retreats to the garage. Jeremy holds the door to follow, pausing when he hears me speak up.
“Don’t do this,” I beg, pounding on the window. “Please don’t fucking do this to me! Jeremy!” He stops where he stands, and I can see the sincere regret etched in his posture. “Please, Jeremy!” I watch as he cups his jaw in frustration, his eyes never lifting before he walks into the garage. I back away from the window, outraged, and that’s when I come to grips with the truth I’ve been battling all day.
I am an addict.
I’m the pathetic girl who just can’t take a hint, the one who refuses to let go.
If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve seen it in the face of every person who looks at me now—the pity and the concern. Their withdrawal has cost me my pride, my self-respect, and the respect of the people who know me.
It’s cost me far more than any high is worth.
And it’s past time that I remember how to kick…
After draining some of the iced whiskey I helped myself to from one of Roman’s crystal tumblers, I dive in the pool and emerge in the muggy night, the moon half-lit as I take a few laps around loving the feel of the warm water on my skin as I work out some of my aggression.
Frustration runs front and center as I exhaust myself, trying to come up with any reason at all why they would take such great care to disappear. The deceit, the humiliation, I’ve made a fool of myself over two men who haven’t bothered to show up for me in endless months.
And for what? The high?
Now all I feel is the crash, the inevitable burn. I tried for the last few months to convince myself that I was moving on, but in truth, I’ve been waiting.
I will no longer lie to myself, and I can’t keep loving in vain.
Neither of the men I’d pledged my heart to have stepped out of the shadows to claim me.
I was delusional to believe that I had a future with either of them.
How strong could any of their feelings truly be with so much deception between us? What we had was beautiful in my eyes, but over time has been painfully proven to be one-sided.
It’s been a little over eight months since I danced with Sean in the street. Months in which I’ve attempted to live normally. In hindsight, it had felt so real. That’s what kept me hanging on.
But that’s what addicts do, they deny the problem and coat it with excuses. And it’s up to me to save myself.
So, I’m done.
I’m done with my unhealthy fixation on the two men who are undeserving of eight months of
unreciprocated devotion. I no longer want to understand their motives or the cruel reasoning for their absence.
At this point, I just want to snap the thread and free myself of the burn of being in unrequited love.
Exhausted from my workout and lulled by the whiskey, I step out of the pool and under the outdoor shower to rinse the chlorine from my hair. Towel wrapped around me, I head upstairs and am halfway up when I sense that I’m not alone.
Annoyed, I round the corner to see Tobias flipping through the book on my nightstand. He’s dressed in a suit, his tie loose around his collar, his hair perfectly combed back. I bypass him and drop my towel, heading toward my dresser to pull out some shorts and a T-shirt. I stop my hand in my dresser when I feel his gaze on me.
“Are you here on business, or is this about my punishment?”
He snaps the book closed. “You got the answers you expected. They made their decision.”
And it wasn’t me.
Acceptance. That’s one of the five steps of grief, right? And so, I don’t let the sting of his words penetrate my hardening heart. Instead, I search my drawers for clothes.
Seconds pass, and he stands mute, but I can feel his steady gaze.
Intent on nullifying his attempt at intimidation, I turn to face him and untie my bikini top before I let it fall away. The same top he held hostage to humiliate me the day we met.
“Anything else? Another lecture about peas, or pawns?” I stand, nipples drawing tight, water trickling from my skin and suit collecting at my feet on the carpet. He stands at the edge of my bed, seemingly unfazed by my nudity and brazen attitude before I slowly untie the bow at each of my hips, letting the material fall to my feet. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen, but I can see the surprise light up his eyes with the lift of my chin when I face him fully exposed. I refuse to let him bully me any longer.
It’s time to snap the thread.
He ogles my naked flesh, his jaw tensing as he gauges the war I’m waging.
“I know who you are,” he finally speaks, his voice tinged with the warning dancing in his eyes.
“Do you?” I challenge. “I don’t think so.”
He takes a step toward me, and I refuse to flinch. The air thickens as he unapologetically traces the hard lines and curves of my body with hungry eyes. The draw becoming harder to ignore the closer he becomes.
“Cecelia Leann Horner, born June 19th, 1999, five feet nine inches tall, a hundred and forty-three pounds,” he takes a step toward me and then another as the water rolls in rivulets down my back. “Daughter of CEO Roman Horner, and Diane Johnston, never married.”
He’s visually devouring me as I feed on the gravity that threatens the closer he draws near.
“Is this supposed to impress—”
“A timid girl who grew up reading love stories and living vicariously through her best friend while her mother collected boyfriends and DUIs.”
I hold my swallow as he takes one last step to tower above me, citrus and leather filling my nose. He raises a hand and cups my chin, sliding his thumb over my bottom lip before dipping the pad of it in my mouth, running it along my teeth. I turn my head as he leans in on a whisper.
“The picture of neglect, you grew up estranged from your absent father and made it your mission to care for your mother all the while playing it safe. A good girl—that is until curiosity got the best of you and you skipped your junior prom because you were too busy giving away your virginity.”
I turn back to face him, utterly shocked.
“Maybe because you felt he had waited an acceptable amount of time, not because you were seized by the passion you so desperately crave.”
My eyes dart away as he bends to capture my gaze and holds it—holds me—hostage as my body responds to him, pulsating with a mix of anger and rapidly building desire as he caresses my face with a gentle hand while dissecting my life choices in a play by play. “You drifted through your teens playing the role of the responsible adult in your household, and purposefully failed a final placing you third in your graduating class from Torrington High School. Either to avoid the spotlight to spite Daddy and go unnoticed for your perfect attendance and scholastic accolades, or to keep your mother from feeling guilty she couldn’t pay an Ivy League tuition in case Daddy didn’t come through. After all, it was much safer to stay under the radar and use your mother’s mistakes as an excuse not to take any chances.”
“That’s enough,” I snap.
I can’t look away at all now as he analyzes my life, my decisions.
He moves in so I’m pressed to him.
“The silver lining? You used your mother’s psychotic break as a reason to liberate yourself from being the parent while still gifting yourself the ability to play the martyr. Which leads us here. Where you claim to be for your mother’s sake, but the truth is, being here gave you an escape. It gave you your first real taste of freedom.”
Raw, stripped beyond my nudity, he grips my face in his hands.
“And now you’re hiding again because taking chances and really living for the first time in your life didn’t turn out the way you hoped it would. But I see you, Cecelia. I. See. You. You keep trying to give yourself, your heart, your allegiance away to anyone who will have it for reasons you can’t understand, but it’s so painfully clear. Your mother is a selfish narcissist, your father dodged his responsibilities, you feel that my brothers used you and abandoned you, and you’re putting on a brave front all the while you’re fucking dying inside.”
He tilts my chin with his thick finger, as a lone tear runs along my cheek. I grant him the sight of it, the last of my weakness gathering before he gently swipes it away with his thumb. “You’re sad and lonely, locking yourself up in this house day and night and I shouldn’t give a shit, but I know I’m partly to blame. I ransacked your life and—”
The crack of my palm against his cheek is sickly satisfying. He roars, gripping my wrists and pinning me to the dresser.
Eyes locked, I glare up at him a second before he slams his mouth over mine. It’s noteworthy from his kiss that he’s high from my pain, and all I’ve done is reward him with my reaction, my angry tears. He loves my opposition, and the sadness he’s inflicting with these heavy truths—his angle to take me down, just as psychological as it is strategic.
I rip my mouth away, shaking my head, disgusted. “You’re getting off on this, you sick fuck.”
“Sadly, so are you,” he counters, possessing my mouth again in a way I can’t—don’t want to escape. And I kiss him back because my body never listens. After all, he’s right. My heart was begging for love in all the wrong places, lurching in any direction for a home. But it’s not my heart he wants. It’s my spirit he’s intent on destroying.
He lifts his free hand to cradle my face and I grip his wrists, trying to tear myself away to no avail. He’s stripped me bare, robbed me of more pride with his easy appraisal. I hate that he can see it so clearly, see me so clearly.
Or that he did.
Because I’m no longer the woman I was yesterday or even an hour ago.
His words come out in a whisper. “You are a fighter. I’ll give you that.” His lips inches away, he searches my eyes. “But you give too much for not enough. You trust too easily because you’ve been lonely your whole fucking life.”
“Says a lonely king to the lonely little girl.”
Our chests rise and fall collectively as we watch one another for long seconds.
For the first time in my life, I’m in the deep end and I no longer want to find my kick, all I want to do is drown…in my enemy. He’s the way. The only way.
And once I do this, there’s no going back.
It’s as if he senses my decision when he lifts a hand to wrap the hair at my nape around his fist and pulls, exposing my neck. His breath hits a second before his full, warm lips land on my shoulder lapping the droplets of water away. Greedy, he draws them into his mouth as I tamp down the whimper on my tongue.
Sn
ap the thread, Cecelia.
Leisurely, he moves across my collarbone drinking in more, savoring the water along my torso and down my stomach as angry tears threaten and I bite back a sob.
Determined to see this through, I sink my nails into his scalp as his hot mouth blazes a trail across my flesh. He devours, covering every inch in his path before he parts my thighs with his palms and begins licking at my core.
Fisting his hair, I cry out at the force in which he sucks, his thick locks tickling my thighs before his tongue darts out separating me, spearing my clit with precision. And with one sure swipe of his tongue, I go boneless, my back crashing into my dresser as I throw my head back and begin to ride his face.
“Damn you,” I pound his shoulders with open palms as his licks increase speed before he slips a probing finger into me. He eats me, his hunger fueled by my cries as I silently sag against my dresser, the knobs digging into my back. Soul aching, my desire for him consumes me as I begin to tremble uncontrollably. An orgasm threatens, and I deny myself, hating him, hating me, hating that nothing has ever felt so fucking good.
“Tu te retiens.” You’re fighting.
This much I understand.
He flicks his gaze up to mine as he works me with slick fingers. The sight of my wet heat coating his digits sets my blood on fire. “Je gagnerai.” I will win.
Lust overtakes me as he drags me down to the carpet spreading my thighs wide while he hovers above. Silent, he commands my eyes as he lowers his head and begins a second round of assault. With the beckoning of skilled fingers and one more long pull on my clit, I detonate in his mouth. He rims my pulsing core as he draws out every bit of my orgasm with the lap of his tongue.
Chest heaving, he releases me to pull off his jacket before he slowly starts to unbutton his shirt. Eyes piercing, he reaches back to pluck a condom from his wallet before he tosses it next to where my head lay on the carpet. I flick my gaze to where it sits, a clear threat of where this is going if I don’t stop it.