Heart In A Cage

13

Isabella

The club that night I'd describe as being decent. It was a haze of drunken dancing, sipping beers, being blinded by flashing lights, and grinding against blurry strangers. But the visits after that―phenomenal.

A whole two weeks of gathering with the same group of people has drained me. We'd continue carousing until one of us passed out, me or Aya snapped a heel, or Blake, being the responsible of us all, asserted that we had enough. Francis was the one to contend and convince him that we needed an extra hour. Paired with a bibulous-Seb's nonsensical ramblings on the same issue, we were always granted another heavenly sixty minutes of basking in the glory of the club.

On those boozy days of mine, Andreas was playing a new role. The role of being my caretaker for a lively fifteen nights. Like yesterday, when I'd returned with only one heel on and had a colorful muddle of party strings in my hair. He hadn't been too happy. It was a blur just like the rest, but I do recall a small bit of the memory.

"Who put these in your hair?" He had been on top of my intoxicated body, pulling every last string out and dumping them onto a pile. I had just wanted to sleep, so I resorted to making sloppy attempts to shove him off me. He hadn't budged, and I was stuck below him, accepting my defeat, slumping my head onto the pillow. "You need to stop going there, Isabella. Look at you."

"I do not." I had tried twisting from underneath him, and my hair was a litter on my face. "I've been inviting you, baby. Why haven't you come? I miss you so, so, so much. You should've seen what happened today. A guy was on the table, and he was...I want to see you dance and giggle and dance and...and...Please come with me."

I'd fallen into a shallow slumber. I felt him brush my hair away from my face, dress me out of my clothes, slip me into a comfortable set of pajamas, wipe off my make-up, tuck me into the covers. Everyday. Though I can't recall what had happened on the ones where I blacked out. I'd wake up the next morning snug and with no memory of how he'd handled me the night before.

I did end up going to work on some days. Particularly ones where Dalia was expected to visit the store. I'd be there with bags under my eyes, a full-black coffee with three teaspoons of sugar in my hand, my clothes fresh from being excessively cleaned—not by me—and Andreas at my back.

Almost a hundred percent of the time. During moments we were away from each other, I'd be serving both grumpy and peaceful customers while he'd be chiding incompetent employees. When he returned, he'd wait for me to finish at the register and then hook his arm around me.

Dalia would be present on those days where my ass pushed up against him and he pulled me to his chest. His tongue would run up my neck, tingle that portion of skin, pass my jaw, then transition into lines of kisses. But his lips never met my own. They'd travel around my cheeks, peck my forehead, drag along my collarbone, and avoid my mouth entirely.

I couldn't blame him. I'd been a jerk, and only now I have decided to terminate my nights of revelry at the club and try reawakening our bond.

"Can you come with me? I need to go get something." In my entire time of being here, I haven't gone close to retrieving my stuff from Jasper's house. Forgetfulness and avoidance are two to blame for that. I've been busied with work and partying enough that the thought of returning to my old home flew past me, and on days I did remember, I hadn't exactly wanted to face my amazing ex after so long. And now I'm missing my sentimental possessions. I want them back.

I sit on the bed next to Andreas, legs crossed, and stare at him with a look I hope is sincere enough to have him accept my plea. His body is stretched across the bed, and a laptop is positioned on his chest. He looks handsome in his sweater.