Requisite Vices (25 page)

Chapter 30

The week went by smoothly
,
and I had successfully been able to keep my thoughts focused on work. At least, during the day. Once night fell — and I lacked a true distraction brought on by the festivities — I found it hard to keep my mind off of him, and reached eagerly for my bottled poison. I sat at the table and, regardless of my attempts to bury the memories, I couldn’t keep the scenes from replaying over in my head. Was I too harsh to send him away? Did I really want him gone? I desperately want to see him again…maybe I just need to get away from this city.

Despite my desire to completely cut him off, my fingers slipped over his name and sent him a message, but I received no response. I even wandered around the festival, trying to catch a glimpse of him. Maybe…maybe I could try to explain it to him; try to apologize, but I didn’t have the good fortune of running in to him again. He disappeared like smoke in the wind.

The end of the two weeks had finally arrived, and I’m more than happy to get away from the city, and away from him. I wanted to apologize and try to work things out, but he, apparently — from his lack of response— wasn’t interested. This is why I hate getting tangled up in someone. It’s nothing but a festering mix of pain, confusion, frustration and heartache. My previous arrangements were always so clear cut. Simple. No drama, no attachments, no expectations.

I make the drive home, pushing the speedometer well past the speed limit just for the rush it gives me, and its help in blocking out my thoughts. Riley isn’t home by the time I get there, and I’m glad for it. I’m not sure how I’m feeling now, and the last thing I want is to snap at her. 

Climbing the steps to my room, I rest a bottle of vodka on the desk that my fingers reached for before I could even think about it.

Work. Work will distract me, and I know what else Angela wants; the article on the ever-elusive Delacroix. It’d been such a catch for Angela to get him to agree to an interview, and now after I’ve met him and had, whatever this is with him, I want nothing more than to slander his name across the pages and show his colors. But what has he really done to me? Stroked that dark side of me; coaxed out those wild feelings and have me finally become comfortable in my own skin in front of someone for the first time in my life. Is that such a bad thing?

But it made me needy and desperate. It made me addicted to him and to that feeling. I wanted to be comfortable, I wanted to accept myself for once, and he gave me the excuse I was looking for.

Then he ruined it. He asked too many questions; questions I can’t answer. But this feeling…it’s excruciating, and I don’t know how to bury it away. I’ve willed myself to forget him; begged myself. I’ve tried to slip him inside the deepest hole of my mind and yet he seems to peek his way through. I see him in the eyes of the cashier, in the scent of a passing stranger on the streets and in the voice of our neighbor. He’s everywhere and all I want to do is escape the thought of him and these acidic feelings.

I grip the shot glass on my desk, already filled to the brim, and toss my head back. Sliding into the chair, I bring up the article on him as my body is smothered in warmth. It’s littered with these wonderful accomplishments of his, most of which can be found with any quick Google search. His face lights up the heading with a sparkle in his eye that every photographer who’s ever taken his picture, has captured. His eyes bore through me from the picture; shuffling through each hidden box that I’ve buried deep, and prying each one open. He coaxes those memories out of their hiding places and lightly stroking over their head as if to reassure them and welcome them into the light.

“
You don’t have to hide from me.”

His words echo like nectar in my ashen heart, singing through my body. He gave me a reason to pull down the mask I show the world, but would he accept all of me? My broken past and the twisted present have borne some deviant incarnation of childhood traumas that manifests itself into a salivating nightmare clawing its way through my body, seeking some release from the world. That release has always been a bottle mixed with the heady scents of sex, but now I can’t enjoy sex, or even the mere thought of it, with anyone but him. 

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and down another shot. And as my head begins to swim and my ears to buzz, I place my fingers over the keys and begin editing the biggest piece of bullshit I’ve ever written in my life. An article flourished with Alexander Roderick Delacroix’s accomplishments, a list of his most prominent works, and his philanthropic activities for the local New Orleans community as well as his involvement in the current Fest.

I weave it all into a written work that melds him with the heart of New Orleans, and the festival I spent the last week of my life walking through. Another shot or two, and three hours later, I sit back to admire my work. It’s beautiful; unlike anything I’ve ever written before, and it’s the only thing I’ve written that I’m actually a little proud of. I have taken my feelings for him, and the pulse of the music from the fest, and melded it between every word.

I’m finally done, and I hope I never have to see his name again.

Chapter 31

Something about my articl
e
appealed to Angela, because several days after I slammed it onto her desk, I found a box of chocolate raspberry truffles on a new desk at the office, with my name scribbled on a plaque and set on its wooden surface. I suppose this is her way of officially inviting me to be a part of her family, though I’m not quite sure how I didn’t get my ass kicked out the door for taking so long to bring it in.

The week after, my story was featured in the magazine and it was on that day that I decided to spend time at the office with my feet resting on the surface of my new desk, picking at the truffles she left me the week prior. It’s a miracle they survived this long, honestly.

No one has bothered me, but it’s no surprise. I look like shit. I wouldn’t even want to talk to myself, if I had the option, but I welcome the solitude. I want to be alone, but not so pathetic that I wanted to be alone at home.

Am I still pissed off over what happened with Delacroix? Of course I am. I let myself drop my normal defenses for an asshole with a grasp of the English language greater than that of your everyday idiot. He wasn’t special, and I let myself get so caught up that I almost lost everything I built up. I almost lost my grasp on my personal reality, and that’s something I never want to be close to losing again.

As I shift through the half-finished articles I’ve shoved into the various drawers of my desk, my phone buzzes on the polished wood. There’s a text flashing on the screen from Riley informing me that her and Tom had just picked up Ethan from the airport and are on their way to pick me up. I wasn’t expecting him back in the area so soon, but then again, my sense of time has been skewed lately. Honestly, for a while, I almost forgot he existed.

I sigh as I make my way to the ladies room to make myself seem a bit presentable then make it down just in time for Riley and Tom to pull up. The second the car stops, Ethan hops out and rushes to my side, wrapping me up in his arms. He smells of cologne…oh I’ve forgotten the name of it, but it makes my eyes flutter at the scent. Musk and…basil. Like the scent of a perfect summers day.

“I’ve missed you.” He murmurs against my hair, breathing in deep to take in the scent of my shampoo.  His voice seeps into my skin and melts me from the inside out. I didn’t realize just how much I missed the sound of it until this very moment.

“I’ve missed you too.” I smile through a fake mask of happiness. Hugs are good for that; for hiding your emotions, and my voice is convincing enough for him to not question me. He pulls away and the moment his face comes into view, I plaster on the most genuine smile I can muster. He returns it, and runs his finger along my jaw line.

“You’re still just as lovely as ever, Miss Roman.” He sighs. This ongoing joke of his to pay compliments to me when I clearly look like shit is getting really old.

He opens the door for me to slide in, and we take off to a restaurant where Tom and Riley had their first date. It’s their anniversary, and so, they decided to take us all out since Ethan was due to arrive today as well. It was a quaint little place reminiscent of an old log cabin. It looked a bit shabby from the outside, but the food was something often praised on every site covering the food culture of Louisiana. And oh…the barbecued shrimp were something out of an exquisite dream.

Ethan rattles off about his trip and passes around pictures that I absently browse through. The majority of the conversation drowns itself out with the rest of the noise of the restaurant as I fall into a haze, and it flew by. Dinner, then home, then Tom and Ethan bidding us farewell and going home for the night. Riley murmured something, gave me a hug, commented about how great dinner was and I went up to my room and closed the door. The night had sped by. Some inconsequential outing that I felt I had to put up with, even when none of it held any meaning for me. I love Riley. I do, and I can feel a small bit of affection for Ethan, but what is he? He’s a friend, and far too good for someone like me. I could live a thousand life times and never deserve someone like him. Day after day, he’s been there letting me know he was thinking of me, or seeing something on his trip and saying how he wanted to share it with me some day. He was patiently waiting for me to come and open up to him, but I can’t. He deserves a good, honest woman and I am so far from that. I am toxic, broken, and unworthy.

But as the weeks went by, I found his constant presence a needed comfort. He came over with Tom every visit, and would sit and keep me company into all hours of the night while Tom and Riley went off giggling to do whatever it was they did. We’d watch T.V, share a bottle of wine, and talk. Just talk. There were no stolen kisses or hand holding. There were no passionate embraces and rough romping in the bedroom or on the couch. It was nice and pleasant, and though I was hesitant to ever open up, I did find myself comfortable enough to walk around in pajamas with no make-up on a fairly regular basis.

It had been a month since I last heard from Delacroix; first one, then two, then three. I found myself finally easing the hammer of my heart in response to thoughts of him, and found comfort and security in Ethan. He became a constant source of solace in my life. He made himself available for me when I wanted to vent about work, or Angela, or even Riley. He came and held me while we binge watched shows on T.V when I was upset, or pissed and just needed something to occupy myself.

And somehow, that raging beast became subdued, lightly scratching just beneath the surface and begging for more just to be smothered down by me. I held that foul thing beneath a pillow until its’ kicking stopped, and its body lie twitching with Alexander’s voice whispered from its lips.

I fooled myself into thinking I could be normal. I tricked myself into thinking I could be just as sane and regular as Riley and everyone else that went about their daily lives without the tortures I found in myself. I could be like them. I could be
just
like them, and live my perfect life with this wonderful, caring man. I could live, get married, pop out babies, and be absolutely happy in my quaint little house with the delicately manicured lawn and purposefully placed white fence. I could do it, right?

And one day I woke up to the birds singing, my phone buzzing on the nightstand, and the sun filtering through the window pane, casting its welcomed warmth on my skin. It’d been nearly five months, now, since I heard from Alexander Delacroix.

I felt like I owed it to Ethan. He had invested so much time and energy in me, and had nothing to show for it for so long. I owed him a chance, and perhaps, I owed myself a chance with someone like him.

Turning to my side, wiping the sleep from my eyes, I scowl at the little light flashing on my phone. It was early, just barely 8:30, and I was so comfortable sleeping in Ethan’s arms. He kept me warm, safe and secure, and I loved the thought of spending forever in bed, soaking in a life that was too good to be my own, but I still felt so hollow. So alone, like I was living a life meant for someone else.

This is how it was supposed to be. A normal life with a man who was so good, in fact, that he didn’t want to have sex before marriage. That beast would occasionally tug at my brain, screaming ‘What if he sucks in bed!’ and was quickly choked out. I can do this. I can be a perfect little girlfriend, and a perfect little wife who doesn’t need sex for anything other than having babies, right? Yes, of course I can.

Propping myself up on my side, Ethan turns to nuzzle his face against my bare back. The feel of his lips against my skin brings a sad smile to my lips. This is how it’s supposed to be, right?

“Who is it?” he mumbles against my skin, his words a slurred mix of deep, resonant tones that vibrate to my core.

“Probably just work.” My fingers trace over the arm he has draped over my waist as I unlock the phone with my free hand, and I saw it…

The message reaches out from the screen and wraps around my throat, ripping it from my body and throwing the poor, shattered remnants into a blender on puree. It’s Alexander Delacroix.

*
Come to me…*