Page 13 of Blackout-

Not no more.

And it was only a matter of time before Lacey didn’t either.

Lifting my head, I peer at my house, noting all the lights are out. I breathe a sigh of relief and dismount before making my way towards the front door. With any luck, Lacey is fast asleep and won’t look at me. I’ll crawl into bed, wrap my arms around her and pretend like I didn’t just fuck myself, our marriage and our fucking future. Tomorrow will come, and I’ll look her in the eyes and lie through my teeth like the fucking addict I am.

The addict I’ll always fucking be.

Fitting the key in the lock, I let myself in and kick the door closed with the heel of my boot. I slide the deadbolt into place and rid my shoulders of my kutte. Hanging it on the back of the couch, I walk through the house and make my way into the kitchen. There, I roll up my sleeves and begin to clean the few dishes in the sink—anything not to go upstairs and face my wife.

I take out the garbage, make sure all the doors are locked and finally start for the stairs. I think about taking another shower but decide against it, fearing the sound of the running water will wake her. Reaching the bedroom, I find Lacey sleeping and again; I breathe a sigh of relief. With her knees pulled to her chest and her dark locks fanned across the pillow, she looks so peaceful. So beautiful and so fucking out of reach.

How is it a man can have everything at his fingertips and still feel like he’s got nothing?

I mean, look at what I have.

Look ather.

Instead of coming home and reaching for her, I wrapped my fingers around a bottle.

I chose Hell over Heaven.

Poison over pleasure.

Hate over love.

And, the sad thing is, I’ll do it again.

I don’t know if it’s the way of an addict or if it’s justmyway, but I sabotage everything good in my life. It’s like I fuck up the second I start to make progress in my recovery because deep inside my soul I know it’s only a matter of time before I self-destruct. I guess when a man is destined to fail; he thinks falling from the third rung of a ladder is better than falling from the top.

Frustrated with myself, I rub a hand over my face. I talk a big game but if I had any balls whatsoever, I’d fucking end the cycle. I wouldn’t lie to myself or to Lacey. I wouldn’t promise to get well or make plans for a future I don’t deserve. I’d take my gun and shove it between my lips and end it the only way I know how. It would be ugly, and it’d be fucking bloody, but it would be the perfect ending to a painful life. A tragic finish to a sorrowful script.

But I’d never do it.

For as much of a self-loathing animal as I am, I’m also selfish as the day is long. I’ll keep repeating the same fucking track. I’ll get clean and continue to tear through the streets of New York, wreaking havoc at Jack’s command. I’ll draw blood and wash it from my hands, plant a smile on my face and fucking promise Lacey the world. I’ll hold my baby in my arms, minutes after birth and bask in that beautiful. I’ll make more promises and I’ll break every fucking one. I’ll take and take because that’s what men like me do. We bleed the well dry.

Dropping my hands from my face, I begin to undress and strip down to my boxer briefs. I move to the bed and carefully pull back the sheets before climbing in. Rolling on my side, I wrap my arm around Lacey and draw her back against my chest. She stirs for a moment before settling into me and I close my eyes.

Billy’s voice rings in my ears and this time, I listen.

This time, I breathe.

I breathe in her scent and hold on for dear life. Tears sting my eyes as I bury my nose in her neck and I give into the guilt.

“I’m sorry, girl,” I whisper against her shoulder. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

It’s an apology she doesn’t hear for a promise she doesn’t know I broke and yet still, she manages to give me her forgiveness by covering my hand with hers. It’s here, in our bed, with my body curled around hers that I am safe.

Here, where leather entwines with lace, that I am free.

I don’t know how long I lay awake holding her, if its minutes or hours, but I don’t allow myself to sleep. It’s a punishment and a privilege. When she stirs again, I pull her tighter against me and kiss her shoulder. Her body melds against mine and she mewls softly.

“You’re home,” she murmurs.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I rasp.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, moving her hand to my thigh. Her touch ignites me, reminding me I’m alive and I press my lips to her neck as a groan sounds from the back of my throat.

“Yeah, baby, everything is good,” I reply hoarsely.

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