Page 72 of Taste of Addiction

“Then maybe a smoothie is just what you need,” I say cheerfully. My boss walks past from the office area, and I hunch my shoulders in relief when he exits and doesn’t notice anything peculiar as to why my line is not moving even in the slightest.

“Surprise me.”

I punch in a medium make-your-own-creation, tell him the total, and swipe his credit card. I then move over to the workstation and decide to whip up a pineapple smoothie using fresh fruit, some vanilla yogurt, and juice. I blend, pour, top, and then get creative writing his “name”—which is basically a suggestive question—along the side.

Handing it over to Graham, I watch as his eyes zero in on the Sharpied words. “Hope you enjoy your drink, sir.”

“Can’t wait to hear back from you later on your little science experiment.”

I click my tongue. “Who doesn’t love a little taste test?” I am genuinely curious if the pineapple will have any impact on his flavor when I suck him off.

He stares down at my throat. “I hope you can handle me.”

I suck in my bottom lip, trapping it between my top teeth. “I don't think my hands will be needed much.”

He opens one side of a straw, puts the exposed end into his mouth, bites down, and then pulls the rest of the wrapper off. The simple act is very sexual. I suppose that was his purpose. Or maybe I am just going through withdrawals in that area of my life as well.

“Hope you enjoy,” I say, backing away and then moving on to the next customer.

Graham winks at me as he takes a spot along the side wall. He opens his laptop and starts doing a bit of work—I assume.

“I’m going to take a break,” Paul says from behind me.

“Sure.”

The place is back to being dead, and my shift is going to end soon. I busy myself with wiping off tables, counters, and the workstation. When Paul moves over to the back booth with his phone, I glance over to the cubbies where his book bag is located.

My mouth waters over getting my hands on some pills. He has had them in his bag before, so maybe they are there now. I look over at Graham, and he is busy with his phone up to his ear and his fingers on his keyboard. I imagine missing an entire day at the office has underlying consequences.

I go back and forth in my head over what I really want and what I think I need. My head starts to throb and my teeth start to chatter with the growing craving running through my body. It penetrates every cell.

My feet slide along the floor until I find myself behind the bar, where the personal cubbies rest. With gentle fingers, I move Paul’s bag and hear the rattle of the bottles. I unzip the side and take a peek. There are four orange bottles, all with little white disks. I look up over the bar’s surface and find the men busy with their electronics. I squat back down.

Inhale. I pop a lid off and shake out a few pills into the palm of my hand. Guilt stabs at me. Exhale. I cannot do this. Inhale. If I do, I will be taking a hundred steps backward, instead of moving one step forward. I force the air out of my lungs that I hold. I put the pills back into the bottle and seal them up. I suck in a breath, as my forehead beads with sweat. I pull myself away from the stash and walk into the restroom to take a moment to myself.

My reflection in the mirror is one of weakness. That is how I feel. I feel powerless and borderline hopeless. One second I feel like I can conquer the world. The next? Deflated.

I stand in the same spot for a few minutes. Then I remove my work shirt and exit to find Graham.

“Hey baby,” he says sweetly, getting up and wrapping his arms around my center. “All done?”

“Yup. Let me just grab my bag and we can go.”

He walks me over to the bar, and I sneak behind to get my belongings. I stuff my balled up work shirt into the bag and swing it over my shoulders. I wave bye to Paul who seems to be getting ready to leave as well, now that the fresh workers have arrived. I really can’t wrap my head around him being part of a drug ring. He seems so straight-laced and kind.

“See you next week, Angie,” he calls out, as I walk beside Graham toward the main door.

Graham pushes it open for me, and as soon as we get onto the main sidewalk, a dozen or so men bum rush us. Some have video cameras on their shoulders. Others are flashing lights in our faces from their cameras. Microphones are thrown into our faces.

Dang.

15

My eyes dart up to Graham’s as his anger boils to a temperature I rarely see from him—but when I do, it never is good. His tense stance makes me quiver a few inches behind him.

“Angela! Angela! Tell us about your boyfriend!” one demands.

“Mr. Hoffman, is it true you are cheating on Sophia? Does she know? What does she have to say about it?”

---