Page 14 of Blackout

Chapter Six

BLACKIE

Consumed with guilt, I pull my bike into the driveway behind Lacey’s car, and kill the engine. I drop the kickstand and remove the helmet from my head. Shaking my hair out of my face, I loop the straps of the helmet through the handlebars but other than that I don’t move. I don’t even look at the house. I just keep my eyes trained on my boots and muster up the courage to walk inside and face my wife.

I try to block out the sound of Pipe’s voice, but it continues to ring in my ears, reminding me how badly I fucked things up. Two hours ago, he showed up to relieve me from my duty and immediately knew I had been drinking. It wasn’t the empty bottle of booze sitting on the counter or the stench of scotch on my breath that gave me away; it was the blank look in my eyes that everyone around me was all too familiar with.

However, the days of downing a bottle of whiskey and going to town on an eight ball of coke were over. All it took was two drinks, and I was toast.

The girl crying in the next room disappeared.

The sins of the club, a distant memory.

My impending future with the Satan’s Knights, forgotten.

But it all came rushing back when Pipe’s fist collided with my jaw. The girl, the mess with Yankovich and Jack’s failing mind, I felt it more than I felt the splintering pain in my face. If I didn’t already hate myself, I sure as fuck did the moment Pipe threw me in the shower. With freezing cold water raining over me, I lifted my head and stared at him. There wasn’t a trace of remorse to be found in his eyes as he glared at me, only disappointment. He didn’t say a word, and neither did I.

Anything either of us could’ve said wasn’t something we hadn’t already heard a thousand times before. He didn’t waste his breath by calling me a drunk or a junkie and I didn’t promise to get clean or even apologize. There was no need. Forgiveness wasn’t something I was entitled to, it was something a man earned. So was respect and clearly, Pipe had lost any respect for me. After I changed my clothes and downed a pot of coffee, I saw myself out of the safe house without a word.

He didn’t try to stop me from leaving.

Nor did he tell me to ride safely.

Pipe didn’t give a flying fuck.

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 at her.

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 just my way, 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.

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