Violet Addiction (2 page)

“Alright, handsome, let’s go show these pretentious elitist snobs of Macy’s what jazz is really about,” I said with a smile. Cain took my hand and led me from the hotel room. We always shared a room, though we always had separate bedrooms to afford us some privacy. The only rule in place, we didn’t bring our conquests home. If I needed the indulgence of a man’s company for the evening, I went back to his place and vice versa. Even with our casual need for tender moments with other people, it didn’t stop Cain and me from showing affection for one another. Holding hands, chaste kisses, and harmless flirting were commonplace and a part of who we were; it felt wrong not to touch. As we stepped onto the elevator, Cain pressed the button that would take us to the ground floor. I checked myself in the mirrors that surrounded us, parting my red lips to make sure I didn’t have lipstick on my teeth. My bright violet hair had become an image synonymous with my onstage presence. It was striking in such a way that it turned heads, both male and female. I liked the attention. Once upon a time I had tried to hide from the judging eyes of others, but now, I adored it, thrived off it. Tonight I had left my hair out in a tumble of perfect purple twists and curls, hanging to my waist. My dress was also lavender, skin tight, and backless. I looked every bit the violet temptress I portrayed on the stage. As much as I revered the attention my looks and voice received, when the door to mine and Cain’s room closed with us safely behind it, the persona was left outside. It was then I slipped into the comfort of worn jeans and a t-shirt. My hair would end up in a messy twist at the back of my neck, my face free of makeup. Only then, behind that closed door did I truly feel myself, and I hated it. That girl was trash; she was shy, pitiful, tragic, and lacked confidence. It was those moments I struggled with and quite often numbed with a few lines of coke and a bottle of whiskey. Drugs were my safe place. In the soaring heavens of intoxicated bliss, my feelings and emotions were masked behind the illusion of happiness and invulnerability. It had been two nights since the lady of vice had filled my veins in the form of a quickly snorted line in the semi-privacy of a hotel toilet stall. Our sound technician, Loui, had scored me a gram of powder from one of the hotel’s valets. In an attempt to hide the drug use from Cain, I opted for a public restroom in the hotel rather than in the privacy of our own room. Cain knew I partook in drugs; he was often the one scooping me up at the end of the night and tucking me safely into bed. He didn’t like it though—he hated it—but had long ago given up on lectures and silent attempts to draw some form of guilt out of me. Instead, he watched me warily, making sure I never pushed too far or partied too hard. Out of respect for Cain, I never indulged in front of him and even tried to keep it somewhat of a secret. I was delusional to think Cain wouldn’t notice my discreet moments of use. He always noticed. My chemical induced high was proof enough, and by now Cain knew it well. Still, he held his tongue and always tucked me into bed when I finally crashed back down to earth.

As the elevator drew to a gentle stop, Cain reached for my hand once more. “Okay, baby, let’s go let the angels hear that beautiful voice of yours.”

The crowd before us was painfully conservative; barely a pompous double finger applause broke the muffled silence of the exclusive bar. We had played here before, so we knew what to expect. Cain sat before the piano, his eyes always on me. With a wink, he began playing The Beatles “Yesterday”, though we had molded the ballad to our own soft and slow jazz number. That was our thing, taking contemporary songs and giving them our own personalized jazz flavor. Some songs embraced a more mainstream pop sound, the jazz influences subtle, others were strong jazz numbers with hard piano strokes and a little more sultry seduction in my voice. We had well and truly pissed our manager, Harry, off when we had refused to record our music, but it had quickly become apparent to make it in the music industry we needed to spend time in the studio. With a little help from YouTube and social media, our music slowly bled out into the world, and we garnered a reputation for being a “must see” gig. We traveled far and wide in an effort to deliver our music to our fans, and we spent as little time as possible in a recording studio. It was more often than not a grueling schedule, but it was the path we had chosen and neither of us ever regretted it. We craved live performances. With a stage and audience the atmosphere was ever changing and diverse. The energy from a live performance filled me with a natural high that I hungered for almost as much as the chemical high from cocaine.

I gazed across the quiet, intimate audience before us as I sang, barely able to see beyond the bright lights that trailed across the stage, shining on Cain and me. Forever grateful for the invisibility the lights offered me, I poured my heart and soul into the slow melody. When the song finished, Cain did not stop playing, instead leading straight into Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life”. A small smile kicked up the corners of my mouth as I continued singing, though my gaze was now focused on Cain. I moved around the piano to sit beside him, dipped my hand under one of his arms, and stroked his chest as he continued to play effortlessly. Cain’s eyes dropped to half mast, welcoming the feeling of my hands on him. He dropped an intimate kiss to my exposed shoulder as he continued to play till the final note. As soon as Cain’s hands were free, he took my fingers from his chest and pressed a kiss to the back of them. We shared a moment, a look of longing and love, a mutual moment of need that would never be shared, before I stood and resumed my place on the other side of the piano. It was so easy to love Cain, yet such a painful reminder of how he deserved someone better than me. My mood quickly shifted to somber, but I maintained the cheerful charade on stage. Cain knew though; he could see the self-loathing in my eyes as plain as I could see the worry in his. We had three sets to complete tonight, and between each one, I washed away the pity party with a shot of whiskey. By the time we finished, Cain physically forced me back to our hotel room as if he too could sense the destructive urges prickling under my skin. I disappeared to my bedroom, locked the door tight, and scrambled through my bags for my hidden stash. There was always one somewhere, lying forgotten at the bottom of a bag or wrapped in my expensive hose. Worst case scenario, I would call Loui and he would go in search of something to take the edge off. Loui only ever indulged himself at parties, but he always made sure I had what I needed, whenever I needed it. If Cain realized just how efficient Loui was at providing for my habit, he would have had him sacked a long time ago. After twenty minutes searching, I found the wicked dust in a small container in my cosmetic bag.
Thank you,
I silently whispered, to who I don’t know. I carefully laid out two lines on the bathroom vanity, rolled a twenty dollar bill from my purse, and inhaled the powder one line at a time. I knew the drug had yet to take effect, but I was already beginning to calm. I sat back on the toilet seat beside me and allowed the elixir to give me the detachment I craved. My night had started so carefree and bold, my need for drugs and alcohol practically non-existent. All it took were a few errant thoughts to scatter that calm façade to the wind.

I missed the blissful, invincible feeling that came with my first line of cocaine. There was nothing quite like that high, that incredible feeling that the stars were not only reachable, but mine to own and possess, showering me with their infinite beauty. As time went on though, to reach that high, one line became two, two became four, and now it seemed nothing could help me maintain that euphoric feeling for more than a few minutes. I sat on my bed, surrounded by pages of scrawled pen, straight from a mind swirling with emotions too intense to silence. I just wanted that voice muzzled, that horrid noise from within me that screamed the sordid truth of my weakness and self-hatred. Why couldn’t I just forget, just let the hatred go and move forward like any normal person? I hated the reality of who I was so badly; I just wanted to fall asleep and disappear into a vacuum of emptiness. I couldn’t sleep though, one of the less appealing side effects of blow. I had been lost in my cocaine stupor for almost eight hours now, and all I wanted to do was rest, but the drugs in my body wouldn’t allow it.

“Baby,” whispered a sorrowful voice at my side. I turned my head to see him, my angel, Cain. He knelt at my side and reached for the glass in my hand that had slipped and spilled amber liquid onto the bed. He carefully and methodically cleaned the mess that surrounded me, while I watched him through eyes filled with tears. When finished, he scooped me up into his strong arms and walked me to the bathroom where he stripped me bare and led me under the heated spray of the shower. My legs were trembling and tired, but Cain helped me stay upright. My brain felt foggy and disjointed, unable to hold a single thought for more than a moment. I blew out a long breath of exhaustion and tucked my head into Cain’s neck, finding a measure of comfort at the familiar feeling of him under my lips. I kissed the warm, soft skin there, my tongue darting out to taste him. Cain groaned loudly, his arms a solid and sure presence around me. As I continued to kiss and lick at his skin, I possessed no thought beyond the calm relief his body gave me. When I realized he was still fully clothed with me under the shower, I dropped my hands to lift his shirt.

“Violet, no,” he murmured. There was no real conviction in his words though.

My hands reached for the strong muscles of his chest, feeling the life that radiated from this man before me. My head tilted back, and when Cain glanced down at me, I went to my toes in an effort to get my lips to his. At the last moment, Cain angled his head away, and the kiss landed chastely on his cheek. My hands became more fervent in their exploration of him. I needed
more
, skin on skin, his body on mine, in mine. I needed it like I needed to breathe.

“NO!” Cain demanded, turning me until my body was pressed against the tiled wall behind me. He held my hands in his, trapped above my head, and his knee pressed between my legs in an effort to hold me up.

He was rejecting me, and I had expected it. So, why did it hurt so much? Nobody could love the imperfection that was me, least of all someone as perfect as Cain, but oh how I yearned for it.

“Not like this, Violet,” he said in a gentler tone.

My eyes squeezed shut; the shame of what I had tried to do dragging me into the pits of self-despair once again. All Violet Trivoli was good for were quick fucks in the shadows; no man could ever love me.

“And don’t you dare go back there either,” Cain whispered as if hearing my thoughts. He turned off the water and pulled me from the shower stall, wrapping my body in a towel. Sitting me on the end of the bed, he proceeded to dry my hair, all the time whispering words like, ‘you’re too good for this, Violet’, or ‘you shine too bright for this kind of life, Violet’. I felt like a child, a hopeless, worthless child under the caring hands of an angel. Eventually Cain helped me into panties and a shirt, then pulled me back into the bed, tucking me tightly under the sheets. I closed my eyes as the first tear fell, tears of shame and guilt. The warmth of Cain’s body wrapped from behind me—his arms tight, his chest firm against my back, his legs tangled around mine—we couldn’t have gotten any closer if we tried. Then he began humming. My entire body sagged with relief, the sound of Ella Fitzgerald’s “Dream A Little Dream Of Me” reverberating through Cain’s chest and into my body. Nothing comforted me quite like this song; nothing drew me from the depths of the cocaine blues like Cain’s love. With his hands stroking warmth back into
my body, I was finally lulled into sleep.

I knew I was awake and no longer cushioned within the sweet embrace of sleep when I rubbed my irritated nose, only to pull my hand away and find blood.
Oh shit
, I internally groaned. It wasn’t the first time my nose had bled after a bender. I had snorted my nostrils into oblivion a number of times over the years. I was alone in my bed, grateful that Cain wasn’t here to witness the result of the abuse on my nose. With a tissue shoved against my face to catch the crimson drops, I staggered to the bathroom, my head throbbing painfully, my stomach rolling with unease. One steaming hot shower later, a little cream under my nostrils, and I could pass as a human again. The evidence of my solitary binge from the night before was gone, swept away like it never happened, thanks to Cain. On the bedside table sat a single lavender iris. It was Cain’s calling card, the only type of flower he had ever bought for me. He claimed it reminded him of me, delicate yet bold. I pushed open the door to my room and stepped into the living area. Cain was on the couch, his feet kicked up on the coffee table, a guitar in his lap as a gentle strumming wafted through the room.

The piano wasn’t the only musical instrument Cain had managed to master. Several years ago, frustrated he couldn’t haul a piano everywhere we went, Cain bought two Gibson acoustic guitars. A bet was made, who could learn a song first: me or Cain. I gave up after a week. Cain though, in a month, he was playing Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl”. Since Cain had won, I owed him a week’s worth of foot massages, which I did with more than a little belligerent moaning. I didn’t do massages; I was more than happy to receive them, but I didn’t give them out.

Cain continued to play as I wandered quietly into the room, my hair hanging in wet tendrils over my shoulders. I went to speak but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“That will be for you, sweetheart,” Cain murmured, his hands not halting for a moment as he continued to play. I wasn’t sure of his mood; he seemed calm and relaxed, but there also seemed to be an underlying current of tension which wasn’t unusual following one of my benders. I opened the door to find a hotel employee waiting on the other side, a tray full of food before him. I stepped aside so he could enter the room, and Cain dropped his guitar and handed the employee a tip. My eyes meanwhile were riveted to the steaming covered dishes, bacon and eggs if my nose was correct.

“Have I told you lately how much I love you?” I moaned, lifting the lid off a plate and digging the fork in. I looked up to see Cain standing before me, an amused look on his face. He wasn’t as pissed off as I initially thought. “What?” I asked, stuffing food unceremoniously into my mouth.

“Actually, you haven’t told me in a while. I think I need reminding.” He crossed his arms over his chest; the shirt he was wearing pulled tight, and my eyes instinctively dropped to his toned body before returning to his face. He looked a little too smug for my liking.

“Cain Everett, I love you more than this bacon.” I shoved the bacon between my lips and groaned as the crispy, salty meat flooded my mouth with flavor. “I wish to revise that statement,
almost
more than this bacon.”

“Violet, you can’t do that to me,” Cain growled, rubbing a hand down his face.