Violet Addiction (12 page)

“Annabelle’s father owns the firm. I didn’t even have to apply. It’s convenient.”

“Annabelle?” I wondered out loud, not recognizing the name at first. Again Cain’s gaze became sheepish as he looked my way before quickly averting his gaze. Annabelle, the fiancé.

“Have you set a date?” The idea made me feel nauseated.

“Not yet. Belle has been pressuring me to commit to a date. She would have us married tomorrow if she could, but I’m worried we’re moving a little fast. It’s still the honeymoon faze…you know.” I had no idea. I had never been in a relationship. They had honeymoon fazes? I thought that was for married couples.

“It’s only been seven months; you barely know her,” I offered.

“I’ve known Belle for years; she’s a family friend.” I thought I knew Cain better than most, but I didn’t know this Annabelle which only proved I didn’t know Cain as well as I assumed I did. The fact he even had an affectionate nickname for her stung. I had never been anything but Violet, or on occasion, baby.

“How come I’ve never heard of her then?” I was angry there was a part of Cain I didn’t know.

He just shrugged. “It’s not like you spent a lot of time hanging out with my family, Violet.”

I looked away from him, ashamed of the truth in his words. I never felt good enough to be a part of Cain’s family. They accepted me, never looked down on me or treated me with pity, and I repaid them by avoiding them like the plague.

“So, what about you, where are you working now?”

“I sold my apartment in New York, but Harry said when I’m ready he has somewhere for me to stay, he has a few gigs lined up when I’m ready. I’m not sure what I want to do though. I’m not sure that I’m ready for that environment yet, and definitely not on my own.” I glanced at Cain who looked a little too miserable for my liking. I hated seeing Cain’s sorrow; I always had. When Cain was sad, I was sad, as if my emotions were connected directly to his. I somehow managed to find a smile. “And there isn’t a chance in hell I’m going to be a secretary.” That broke the sadness for a moment, his own smile breaking the misery.

“I don’t know, I think you’d look great in a tight skirt, heels…” His voice trailed off as his eyes fell on the exposed skin of my thigh. It was a warm night, and I was wearing shorts that showed off the nice tan I had acquired in Italy. Before his eyes had a chance to really appreciate my new tan, he looked away with a sharp curse. “How’s your dad doing?” he asked, changing the subject.

“He’s completely and utterly shattered, but I think he’ll be okay. He’s been sober quite a while now. The house is clean, and he’s got a good job, friends. Even though he loved Mom like no other, she had him chained to a life he didn’t want anymore. As callous as it sounds, her leaving has released him. He can get on with his life now.”

Cain abruptly stood. “Is that what you think of me and you?” he suddenly demanded. I was shocked into silence for a moment. We had been talking about my mom and dad, not Cain and I. But when I thought back over my words, I realized it was exactly what I had thought of Cain and me. I’m not sure if that’s how I still felt though. “Jesus Christ, Violet, even after all that therapy you no doubt endured, you still think of yourself as a worthless piece of shit.”

I stood up, feeling overwhelmed by his larger presence as he hovered over me. I took a step back onto the porch. I wanted to scream at Cain and tell him to fuck off like a childish teenager with a broken heart. Instead I drew on the Yoda like meditative techniques Dr. Brightman had taught me. A long deep breath in—relax, find that calm place, and breathe out—angry vibes gone. Once composed and in control, I turned my gaze on Cain, who stood fuming at the bottom of the steps, and smiled.

“I learned a lot in therapy, approached many subjects that hurt to think about let alone talk about. I see the value in myself now, but as any therapist will tell you, overcoming many years’ worth of self-degradation is a constant work in progress. Yes, at one time I saw myself as trash, not unlike my mother, but now, well, let’s just say I’m nothing like my mother. I may have her addictive personality, but I am stronger than her. Maybe I needed to let you go to realize that.” Cain seemed at a loss for words. “I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to be here. Dad has already subtly suggested I get back to New York; I think he’s tired of my nagging already. I might not get to say goodbye, so I wish you all the best with the wedding. Annabelle seems…”
Like the perfect suburban wife I used to think you needed
. “Nice. Take care, Cain Everett.” He didn’t respond as I made my way inside, closing the door quietly behind me.

I leaned back against the wall between the door and window, allowing my trembling body to relax. Saying goodbye to Cain was meant to give me the peace I sought after, but it didn’t. It just turned the aching in my heart into a wide open hole. I don’t know how long I stood there, but Cain’s car had long since driven off. I wondered if I shouldn’t ask Harry to book me on a flight back to Italy. I missed Peiro. I hadn’t spoken to him since the day he had dropped me back to the villa after our beach romp. He probably thought I had ran, and in a sense, I had. I had run home to be with my dad when he needed me, but I hadn’t called him to let him know what had happened. At least when I was with Peiro, Cain’s loss seemed just a bit more bearable. Using Peiro to fill a gap wasn’t fair though, and that’s what held me back from calling him. I needed to confront my reality, get my life back on track, and figure out how to deal with the unfinished business my heart seemed reluctant to let go of. And I needed to do it without the leverage of a handsome, foreign distraction.

“Violet, how the fuck do you find anything in here?” grumbled Mya as she tripped over a boot sticking out from under my bed. I glanced up from my desk and smiled. Mya was adorable, a pint sized, twenty-two-year-old rocket with a foul mouth. She was Harry’s niece, so I guess the mouth shouldn’t have surprised me. It just sounded odd coming from the tiny, dark haired sprite whose gentle doe eyes automatically made you assume butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. It melted all right, under a large vocabulary of profanity, and a wit that was second to none. She was smart, like scary smart. As an aspiring surgeon, she was attending college, her eyes set on adding an MD or DO to the end of her name. The best part about living with Mya, she didn’t drink. She didn’t party. She didn’t do anything except study. She helped keep me out of the scene I was so terrified of falling back into again. I had been sober ten months now and things were going okay. Harry had indeed found an apartment for me in New York. It wasn’t fancy; apparently I couldn’t afford fancy. My money had begun to rapidly disappear during my stay in the rehab facility, and Harry had sold my own apartment to help fund my therapy. The spontaneous six week trip to Italy sure didn’t help my cause either. Mya shared the apartment with me. She was a great roommate; she was clean, quiet, and even though a little odd and quirky, she was great to have around. Mya kept me curiously grounded.

“So, Harry can’t make it tonight so I’m gonna be your whip bitch.” I looked up from the email I was half way through sending and raised a brow. I was still nervous about being left alone in places where my vices were within reach, so Harry or Mya would normally accompany me to gigs. I would have to take that next step one day soon though. I needed to know I was strong enough to live my life without a chaperon.

“Whip bitch?” I asked

“Your warden, slave, go-fer, helper.” Mya grinned at me. “Your wing woman. I think it’s about time you dusted off that lazy ass of yours and got laid. After your gig, I’m finding you some man candy to get crazy with, or if you’re reluctant to get back in the saddle or have doubts about your sexuality, we can find you a woman to experiment with.”

A smile tugged at the corner of my lips. This commandment of sexual expertise coming from the only twenty-two-year-old virgin I knew.

“I don’t need a man or a woman to get crazy with. I have help with that, and it lives in the drawer directly to your left.” Mya looked at my bedside table thoughtfully.

“Maybe that’s what I need,” she thought out loud.

“Mya, you are not losing the big V to a big V,” I mumbled as I sent my email.

“Why not? It would cut out all the nonsense, all the bullshit that comes with relationships and sexual encounters. No awkward and inexperienced fumbling around the sheets, no embarrassment on my part. Clean, easy, and efficient, I wouldn’t even have to make him breakfast the next day.” I would have laughed were it not for the serious look on her face; she was actually considering this.

“Mya, your virginity is a precious gift. It’s sacred. You need to take special care of it and gift it to someone who will treasure something so significant, someone warm, not electronic.” I began flicking through my wardrobe for something to wear tonight. The gigs I played these days weren’t quite as exclusive as the ones Cain and I had played. The bars were a little rougher, older. Hell, we had played for an over sixties cigar bar last week that held an audience of five, and that included Harry. I was lead singer in a band of four. We performed jazz, but it was different. The music didn’t seem to contain the same passion and beauty it did when I sang with Cain, and it was all traditional, old school jazz which I loved, but didn’t feel the same passion when singing it anymore. Maybe I was losing my love for the only thing it seemed I was good at doing. The thought of being reduced to a menial job, stocking shelves or answering phones, made me shiver. From magnificence to boredom in the blink of an eye, like Cain. Just the thought of Cain hurt my heart. Even after all this time apart, I still ached for him. I had finally bitten the bullet a few weeks ago and called Peiro. Hearing his voice was like plastering a band-aid on an open wound. It covered the pain temporarily, but it didn’t make it disappear entirely. Peiro hadn’t made any suggestions that we see each other again. I think he was waiting for me to take that step. He needed me to come to him, free of the burden of a broken heart. He needed all of me, not just the fragments I was willing to share with him. Even though Cain had moved on, I still couldn’t bring myself to completely let him go. I had no idea if he was married now; I hadn’t heard from him since the night I left him standing on my porch.

“How did it happen for you?” Came Mya’s voice, breaking through the haze of thoughts which had made me forget where I was for a moment.

“Huh?”

“Your coveted virginity. How did you lose it? Was it to Cain?” Some days I wished I hadn’t told Mya about Cain. On one of my bad days, while battling the need to forget my past under a bottle of whiskey, or better yet, a line of coke, Mya had sat on my bed with me and simply talked. While she had told me her battle of being a geek at school, apparently being gorgeous didn’t help her one little bit, I had confessed the inability to move on from my one true love. I had reached a point where I could say that out loud. Violet, the girl who once thought she could never love, had in fact loved deeply…and she had lost that love.

“No, it wasn’t Cain; we were never intimate.” That surprised Mya and rightly so. How could I have spent so many years in love with someone I had only shared one real kiss with? “I gave my virginity away to some asshole in a dimly lit hallway behind a bar. I’m pretty sure his friends watched, too.” Mya gasped. “It was awful, it hurt, and it made me feel like a whore. He brought me a drink afterwards, so I guess that was my payment. I was stoned, I was stupid, and if I could go back and do it all over, I would, but I can’t.” I glanced at Mya as I pulled a dress from the closet. “So I do the next best thing and encourage women like yourself to treasure the one thing you can only give away once. Do it with a warm body, one who will hold you afterwards, one who will make
you
breakfast in the morning.” I kicked off my slippers and began to unbutton my jeans before pushing them over my hips.

“Fuck, Violet, couldn’t you have waited for me to leave the room at least?” Mya growled as she jumped up and raced through the doorway, slamming it closed behind her. I laughed. She was seriously going to have to get over her aversion to nudity if she wanted to lose her virginity one day.

Ella Fitzgerald’s “They Can’t Take That Away From Me” filled my ears. The buds attached to my iPhone rarely left my ears these days. I was so scared I was losing my passion for music, I listened to it non-stop. Curiously though, the music still soothed me like it always had, whisking me away to a time when women expressed their beauty through exquisite dresses and elegant hairdos, and men were, for the most part, gentleman, and bars were dimly lit, smoky rooms where everyone danced and enjoyed the moment of freedom from everyday worries, rather than drag their woes to the bar with them. I could easily close my eyes and see Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong playing for an intimate crowd, the love of music etched into their blissful features. A tap on my shoulder drew my attention, and I pulled the buds from my ears.

“Five minutes,” said Neil with a stern frown. I nodded as he moved back across to where the other three members of the band stood waiting to perform. Neil was the guitarist and the glue that held us together, the spokesman so-to-speak. He was well suited to the position being an arrogant prick and all. From Neil’s point of view, I was the washed out, ex-junkie whose time had passed. It irked him to no end that I was, in fact, the reason people came to our gigs. People knew me, people came to see me, not him. Ricky gave me a wink. Ricky was the drummer and he was gorgeous, flirtatious, and very happily married. Michael played the trumpet; he was overweight, smoked like a chimney, and he loved his music. His knowledge of the jazz greats was as good as my own, if not better. They were good guys, they were good musicians, but after two months I still hadn’t been able to mesh with them. On stage, we were textbook perfect, but we didn’t have that something special that made a band stand out from the rest.

Mya held her hand out to me, her eyes never leaving the laptop in front of her. I handed her my iPhone and stood, smoothing out my dress.

“Break a leg,” she murmured, clicking away on the keyboard.

I was a little nervous tonight; the room we were playing for was bigger than any we had played before. The guys were also nervous, and I think their anxiety bled into mine, making it sharper than usual. The hotel was an upscale five star establishment, with high polished granite counters, sparkling white polished floors, and contemporary furniture that seemed so exquisite and expensive I was afraid to touch anything. The ballroom had been booked for a charity event, and the guests would be mostly made up of high society snobs and politicians. It wasn’t our usual gig, and I wondered how on earth Harry had secured it for us. Ricky gave me a genuine smile, and Michael reached out to take my hand, most likely in an attempt to soothe his own nerves rather than mine. A shot of whiskey would really help about now. I cursed the inner monologue that I still fought with on a daily basis. The bright lights that lit up the stage thankfully drowned out most the audience, and I fell into an easy rhythm which years of performing allowed me. The music was soothing, yet painful. It felt wrong to perform with anyone but Cain. When our first set was over, I escaped to the side of stage where Mya handed me a bottle of water, yet again not looking up from her laptop.

“You killed it, kid,” she said while her concentration remained solely on the computer screen.

“I'm a star, and the audience loves me... and I love them. And they love me for loving them and I love them for loving me. And we love each other,” I crooned as I plonked myself down beside Mya.

“You really need to stop quoting
Chicago
. It’s creepy and makes you look like all you do all day is watch movies; people will think you don’t have a life.”

I shrugged. “I do watch movies all day, and I don’t have a life.”

“You don’t need to broadcast it.” I glanced at the computer screen. It was full of equations, numbers, letters, things that made my head hurt.

“Miss Trivoli, Senator Grey asked me to bring you this, courtesy of him.” The waiter before me carried a glass of whiskey on a serving tray. My eyes were glued to the amber liquid, the familiar taste that burned away my nerves and fears on the tip of my tongue as if I had already taken a sip. I glanced nervously at Mya who didn’t appear to have even noticed the waiter. She was my buffer, she was the girl who glared at the would-be suitors and groupies who didn’t know how to keep their hands to themselves, she was supposed to be my vice deterrent, and she appeared completely oblivious to the current vice sitting within reaching distance.

“Umm, would you thank Senator Grey for me, but I don’t drink alcohol. I would love water though.” The waiter didn’t blink, he showed no reaction whatsoever as he withdrew the offering before me.

“And I’ll have a cloudy apple juice,” said Mya at my side. The waiter smiled before retreating into the backstage shadows, and I glared at Mya. I gave her the glare that she was supposed to use to fend off any possible corruption. “What?” she asked with a furrowed brow and a sideways glance my way. “Your eyes are making me cold, go away.”

“You were supposed to tell him to go away. What if I had of been tempted to take the drink?”

Mya pushed her laptop away and turned to face me. “All right, soul sister, here’s the deal. You need to stop using Harry and me as buffers and take control of your own damn life, as non-existent as it is.” She crossed her arms over her chest in an attempt to look intimidating. She was too small and angelic to pull it off. “You didn’t take the drink just now. Did you want to?”