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.
TWENTY-FIVE
It's weird; for as much as the calendar, as time says I'm an adult, says I'm twenty-seven years old, I still feel like that sixteen year old kid who was left behind by his parents. The sixteen year old kid who was never gonna be good enough, worthy enough no matter what he did or how he acted. Or worse, the kid who at conception was looked at as a mistake of the worst kind. And because of that, I'm stunted. I'm stuck as this kid who still makes bad choices because I wasn't taught right from wrong correctly.
I know that's bullshit; I know right from wrong. Obviously. I understand and get it. But look at me: I am twenty-seven years old and I am and will always be, a recovering addict. One wrong drink and I could fall to ruin my entire life.
I am twenty-seven and I fight. I fight in the street, beating up people for money and pride. And honestly? Fuck if I really know any more why. I mean I don't need to now. You know? I won a good chunk of change that I still have saved. I dominate every single time I get picked to fight. I should be done. Fuck, I know I am done.
Especially after everything that’s gone down.
I had a good job, one with benefits, even. What more could I have wanted? I am a grown up. Right? That's what the calendar and time and my fucking age claim. But you know what? I still feel fucking trapped. Look at it this way, for all I've just said, the one thing that sticks out is Cecelia. She is God's honest truth, the only real, decent relationship I've ever had. And it’s something I damn near destroyed with foolishness. What the fuck does that say?
What does that mean?
It says I’m a fuckup. It means I’m a mess.
Or at least, it did.
I know that’s what’s become of my life. I know that I have made really bad choices and I will always be paying for them in some way. But I am trying to fix things. I am trying to correct the wrongs I’ve done and make amends. Fix myself.
I will forever work to make Cecelia believe in not only me, but my love for her. I will forever show her she is my whole life and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for her.
In some ways, I’ve already started. But this will always be a continuing process. I won’t fail it. I can’t fail it.
It’s interesting I’ve never seen so much of the United States before. I wonder what that says about my upbringing. My wealthy parents who couldn’t be bothered to take their youngest child anywhere and left him home alone while they experienced it for themselves.
Not important to think about now though.
After leaving Chicago in a rush, Cecelia and I travel by bus through Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Georgia on our way to Islamorada in Key West, Florida.
We meet up with Marshall and Allison, like Marshall instructed for us to do, just outside of the Ocean House resort. To say seeing his face wasn’t a relief is an understatement.
It was like a godsend. A breath of fresh air and fucking sanity.
He’s always been watchful, protective of me, of Celia and I. He’s bigger than us, even with all that I’ve gained throughout the years in size, and because he’s older, and because he’s always seemed to have clarity on things I never could get clear before, I trust him. I trust him not only with my life, but with Cecelia’s. Getting to know the woman he became a better man for, seeing his love for her and seeing how good she is? That’s just icing. Especially how she took to Celia like they have been best friends for eternity instead of virtual strangers.
“Everyone thinks we’ve gone on a second honeymoon before the baby comes. That’s why they think we left,” Marshall tells me as we stand in line to buy fruity drinks, virgin and not, at some tourist trap cabana off the beach. Since I can’t help my nervousness, I watch as a sentinel, Allison and Cecelia chat on some soft beach chairs several yards away. I see the way Allison’s hand, her skin only slightly darker in shade, grips Celia’s as she talks with the other, waving it wildly. My girl laughs, shaking her head at whatever is being said.
I relax as I smile at her ease and then watch the wind lightly blowing her golden hair about her face as she tries to maintain it without losing Allison’s touch.
I’ve always loved Cecelia’s hair; it’s long and gorgeous and beautiful. It’s always so soft and smells so good. It helps that she likes it when I tug on it during sex too. But seeing how much lighter it is right now, closing in on a light honey thanks to the dye job she gave herself in Tennessee, I feel myself needing to think of unappealing things constantly. Because her hair is gorgeous. And it, like everything else about her, turns me on to a ridiculous level.
I don’t need Marshall to give me shit for sporting a semi while talking to him while thinking about her.
She had me trim a few inches off of it, so it comes to the middle of her back now, and she’s wearing it down instead of in her typical ponytail. But that’s part of the point. The color is different, she’s wearing it different. She, in some ways, looks different. Especially with the big sunglasses she’s sporting that cover more than half her face.
She looks like a movie star right now.
Well, other than the sling she still sports as a result of the gunshot wound she suffered during our standoff with Hagen.
For the same reason, modifying my appearance, my once ear-length dirty-blond hair is cut so short it’s nearly buzzed allowing it to look more brown than blond at this point. And I have allowed my facial hair to grow out, filling in close to a beard. Cecelia really likes the beard, especially between her thighs.
Fuck. I need to focus.
Right.
I look different.
We’ve worked hard to look different.
After basically fleeing Chicago, there wasn’t really time to stop and shave my face. And I wasn’t going to waste time shaving prior to our escape. After a few days on the road, the growth was significant enough that I’m not too recognizable. And being someone who has always kept either a clean shave or a short level of scruff, this is a different look for me.
It was decided as we entered Tennessee that dyeing our hair, or at least changing it would be a good idea. Just in case. So lighter went Cecelia and very short became my new look. Cecelia tells me she misses my hair. Misses being able to grab at it, tug on it, run her fingers through it. Gotta admit, I miss that too.
But for the time being, until enough time passes or we feel comfortable enough to return to our original looks, this is who we are now. While Chace Delane and Cecelia Santos still exist, we pretend to be other people. At least for now.
After all, our hotel room is booked under Sharon and Karl Agathon. It’s funny because Marshall was the one to pick the names, telling us how hot actress G
race Park is and that Battlestar Galactica is his favorite show of all time so we need to go with it.
Apparently after leaving rehab, he caught an episode, liked what he’d seen, started watching it religiously, and that was that. He claims he “shipped” the Athena and Helo story like a ridiculous fangirl, even following along on the shows messageboards online.
I may or may not have laughed for a good twenty minutes after he let that last part slip. And he may or may not have slugged me for it.
I won’t admit it to him, but Celia and I binge-watched that damn show after we got settled in our room, wondering who these people are we’re “named” after. It’s not a bad show – again, not letting him know that. And Grace is in fact hot. Celia has a thing for the guy who played Helo, by the way so it works out well for us. We can lust after ourselves.
Still. It’s strange to pretend to be someone else and still myself at the same time. But we have to be different.
From what I’ve seen though, it’s working. Marshall almost didn’t recognize us until we were standing right in front of him and Allison. He’d been startled to realize we’d changed our appearances, but then understood why we’d done it. He likes to rub my head, tells me it’s soft like a baby’s bottom. He’s always been a weird guy. But I’m so grateful for him.
With Marshall and Allison hanging around us here, no one looks at us odd as we try to maneuver our way around the island, scrambling and twitchy that the boogeyman could be following behind us somewhere. We’re just another couple on vacation with some friends.
“I mean it came up really quick. But I acted as though we’d just forgotten to mention it. I called work the other day, and thankfully they’re still good with it. Ally’s job was much easier to work around since she’s independent and selects the clients she wants.” We collect our drinks and move back toward our girls. They’re still close, holding hands. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask. How is she doing?”
And the Sweet (Addiction Series Book 2) Page 22