Addicted for Now (17 page)

Within another few minutes, I can feel her reach her edge. I
move faster and harder, closing my eyes as I try not to release. And after my
hand descends between her legs, her body convulses in waves of pleasure. She shakes
with each intense tremor, and then her breath comes out ragged and heavy.

I pull out, still hard and aching, and toss the condom off.
Her eyes are heavy, but she reaches out to me. Quickly, I roll her onto her
back and grab her leg, bringing it up over my shoulder. The new position
reinvigorates her energy and her eyes hit mine. With one swift motion, I’m
inside her soaked pussy and she’s bucking up her hips.

I start thrusting harder, filling her deeply. My cock aches
for release but I keep pulsing, keep feeding her needs. My free hand takes her
chin and I lean down, our lips connecting. I kiss her while I move in and out,
in and out. I hit something and she breaks away from my mouth, grinning. I
smile back and then press my nose up against her cheek as I push harder, my
lips parting once a noise catches. My hot breath on her neck, my hand on across
her lips, muffling her sounds and heightening her arousal.

Everything I ever wanted is right here in my arms. I wish I
could stay like this forever, but eventually we come together—in a surge of
bliss and longing.

***

We’re on the floor, curled up in two throw blankets
and a couple of pillows. Lily has fallen asleep in my arms, her steady breaths
warming my bare chest.

She’s never asked me why I can fuck better than the sloppy
lay at fourteen. Granted, our first time together was actually
my
first. But I always knew I’d
eventually get her back in my arms. I vowed to be better than all her other
conquests. To keep Lily Calloway meant that I’d have to be able to satiate her
every need.

So I practiced. I dated girls for a week or so, nothing too
serious, but I made sure the sex was always about their desires, their
pleasure, never mine. It helped figure out what would work for Lil—what sets
off women the most. And I guess I just became good at it. So in most ways I
succeeded.

I mean, I can satisfy my twenty-year-old sex addict
girlfriend, for Christ’s sake.

What I can’t seem to do is fall asleep, but at least holding
her takes my mind off finding a drink. Kind of.

Suddenly, I hear the back door open, and the kitchen light
flicks on. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I forgot Rose lives here. How the hell did I forget that?

I glance down at Lily, completely naked like me. Oh…yeah. Her
left breast is exposed, her nipple red and swollen from all the times I sucked
on it. I cover her with the blanket and count the clap of Rose’s heels on the
marble of the kitchen, waiting for that bomb to explode.

Maybe she won’t see us.

“Loren,” she says coldly, in her normal octave.

I lift my head. Rose gives me a death glare that I’m sure
has sent children to tears. Her hands rest haughtily on her hips, and her mouth
is downturned in a perpetual frown. She is about to bitch me out, but I put my
finger to my lips and nod to Lily.

 
She’s asleep,
finally. Hours usually have to pass before she relaxes, but after she came a
second time, she dozed right off. I could have raced around the room and pumped
my fists in the air. Sure, sex—her vice—helped her sleep. It’s not exactly a
triumphant win. But it’s a small victory nonetheless.

Rose’s eyes flicker between us. She points at me and then
jabs her finger at the kitchen. I mouth,
okay
and then carefully maneuver out from under Lily without waking her. She barely
stirs, and I readjust the blanket so she’s covered completely.

“Loren!” Rose hisses at me.

I frown and look up to see her covering her eyes. Oh, right,
I’m naked.

I try not to grin as I grab my boxer-briefs. Nope, can’t
find those. I snatch a throw from the couch and tie it around my waist. I walk
into the kitchen and she immediately assaults me with her leather purse.

“Okay, okay,” I whisper, blocking the hits with my arms. “I
forgot you lived here, my apologies.”

She holsters her fucking weapon and uses her death glare
again. “You can’t have sex in the living room, Loren. You broke a rule.”

“What?” No way. I know that list front to back…but so does
Rose.

“
No public sex
,”
she reminds me.

“The living room is not public.”

“It is now that you live with me. It’s a public space.” She
motions around her. “Like the kitchen, and the garage, and everything that
isn’t shared by only you and Lily. I didn’t think I had to explain that to
you.”

A pain shoots up in my chest and I sink down on the nearest
bar stool. “I didn’t…I…” I frown. Holy fuck. I’m such a goddamn idiot.

And the urge to vomit rises.

“Loren,” Rose says, her voice somehow soft. I meet her eyes
and they look shockingly sympathetic. “It was one mistake. It won’t happen
again.” Her voice is cold, but her optimism helps a little.

“It won’t.”

She lets out a small breath. “How did she do tonight?”

It’s like Lily had a quiz she needed to pass, and I guess
partly that’s what sex is going to be like for her from now on—a test to see if
she chooses to feed the compulsions or not.

“Better than usual,” I say. “She listened to me more, and
she fell asleep after the hour. But I think that may be because I finally took
her from behind.”

Rose talks about sex like we’re in a psychology class,
nothing more than science, health and the human anatomy, which makes it
frighteningly easier to discuss. “Did you two have anal sex often?”

I let out a low laugh. “Every day.”

I hear the garage door grind open or closed, and I
immediately shoot to my feet.

Rose holds up a hand. “It’s just Connor.”

“He’s sleeping here?” I say in disbelief and then my lips
rise. “Are you finally popping that cherry, Miss Rose Calloway?”

She looks about ready to tear out my vocal cords. My smile
only grows.

“He has an early meeting in New York,” she says. Must be for
Cobalt Inc., his family’s ink and magnet company, that is almost as profitable
as Hale Co. baby products, but not quite. “It was last minute, so I told him it
might be easier if he slept here…on the couch.” Oh. Fuck.

I grimace, not able to glimpse at the couch from the
kitchen. But through the archway, I imagine pillows astray on the floor and one
of the cushions perilously hanging over the edge. Basically I left the room a
disaster with Lily swaddled in a blanket. A bystander would assume we fucked on
the couch, even though I was thoughtful enough to move her to the rug.

“There are two guestrooms,” I say. “Why the couch?”

“He didn’t want to cause a fuss after he left,” Rose says.
Her neurotic self would have to rearrange all of the pillows on the bed, wash
the sheets, and probably iron the curtains just to be sure he didn’t touch
those too.

Connor walks through the door, a small duffel bag slung over
his shoulder and his hand preoccupied by texting on his cell.

When he looks up, his eyes meet mine and then drift down to
my nearly naked body, stopping at my blanket, and then right back up.

“Hey beautiful,” I say with a grin.

He barely blinks. “Pants have been invented in this century.”
He walks farther into the kitchen to give Rose a light kiss on the cheek. He
must add the fact that I’m wearing a
living
room
throw blanket because he says, “I thought you weren’t allowed to have
public sex.”

Of course Rose told him about the list. She’ll take any
lengths to make sure Lily stays on track in her recovery.

“No one was here. It seemed private enough to me.”

I can’t read Connor’s calm expression, but he looks to Rose.
She already shakes her head—as though she knows exactly what he’s about to say.
“I told you that you should have clarified for them,” Connor tells her.

“
I told you?
What
are you, one?” Rose snaps, but she’s just pissed she was wrong and he was
right.

“Most one-year-olds can barely speak, let alone utter an
entire idiom like
I told you so.
”

She looks like she wants to slap him. “Why are we dating?”

“Because I asked you out and you said yes,” he tells her
with a burgeoning smile. “And you’re madly in love with me.”

“I never said such a thing.”

He replies in French, and I can’t even process the words.

She smacks his arm, and he whispers deeper in her ear, his
arm spindling around her waist as he draws her to his chest. I don’t think I’ve
ever seen Rose so flushed before.

 
She puts a hand on
his black button-down, making sure there’s space between them. He kisses her on
the head and keeps his arm around her, but he turns to me. “The couch isn’t
vacant then.” His eyes fall to Rose, waiting for her to offer another solution.
Like her bed, but she has solidified to stone.

She’s not one-hundred percent ready to share a bed with a
guy, which isn’t a bad thing. I take pride in pissing Rose off, but causing her
this type of fear—even unintentionally—makes me feel horrible.

Rose says, “The guestroom in the basement is free. I put
clean sheets on the bed the other day.”

Connor nods, accepting the offer, and if he’s disappointed,
I can’t tell at all.
 

I leave Connor and Rose to talk quietly amongst themselves,
and I carefully lift Lily in my arms. I successfully carry her back to bed
without waking her. She sighs, dreaming peacefully as I place her onto the
mattress and tuck the comforter around her.

“Lo,” she says in a sleepy voice and rolls over onto a
pillow, hugging it tightly in her arms. I’ve never been so jealous of a damn
pillow.

But I let myself smile.

A year ago it would have been another man in her arms.

Oh, how far we’ve come.

{ 16 }

LOREN HALE

We made a deal not to put ourselves in stressful
situations. Like the Sunday luncheon with Lily’s parents. Like any
communication with my father.

Today I’m breaking that deal.

Lily is busy with Sebastian, pretending to be tutored. I
told her I was going to work out with Ryke at the Penn gym, but when I drive to
Philadelphia, I make the turn into Villanova. Some of the houses have acres and
acres of trimmed lawns, decorative fountains gushing in the front yard and
glittering Lamborghinis parked in the driveway—a place more suited for Beverly
Hills than the suburbs of Philly. My nerves ricochet every mile down the road.

Before I talked to Connor last night, I had no intention of
seeing my father. But I asked him the probability of finding the blackmailer
before the information leaked. He told me that I had the same chance as the sun
exploding in less than a billion years. I looked it up, and apparently the sun
won’t explode for another four to five billion, so in Connor Cobalt’s words—I’m
fucked.

Then Lily’s phone vibrated on the nightstand. She was in the
shower, so I answered it. An unknown number texted her. The word pounding in my
head.
Slut.
It felt like someone
punched me in the ribs, and just before I went into the bathroom to talk to
her, I had a sudden impulse to check her other texts.

Seventy-five of them.

That’s how many times she’d been texted with insults—some
more colorful than others. I’m not upset that she didn’t tell me about them.
But now she can’t be upset when I talk to my dad. This has already gone too
far. And I’m out of options. My father, he has more power in his right pinky
than I do in my whole body. And if this is what it takes to ensure Lily’s
safety, then so be it.

I pass the gates and park the car into the circular driveway.
It takes a moment for me to muster the courage to ring the doorbell. I can hear
the chime reverberating throughout the house.

After a couple minutes the door swings open, and I expect
the staff to stand on the other side, ushering me in to see my father. Maybe
Jonathan’s assistant. Maybe the groundskeeper, who sometimes finds his way
indoors.

But my father has done the impossible and answered his own
door. His forceful posture fills the frame, nearly goading me to take a step
down the stone stairs and plant my feet on the sidewalk in defeat. Somehow, I
stand my ground.

He wears a tight-lipped expression, eyes darkened by booze
and soul blackened by hate. I focus on the wrinkles by the creases of his eyes,
weathered since the last I saw him. I think, in this moment, I should have a
sudden undeniable resentment towards this man. He spit on me when I asked for
help. He took away my trust fund when I told him I was going to rehab. He lied
to me for twenty-one years.

My emotions tangle together, and yet, bitterness is so far
from what I feel. Pity is closer to the surface. I realize that I could have
become him. Hell, I still can go that direction and be alone in a mansion,
drinking away my problems and wishing away the “could-have-beens” with the
“nows.” As much as I hate to believe it, he is me—without Lily. Without Ryke or
Connor. He’s my future if I drink again.

I don’t say anything, partly because he should lead me
inside without me asking. He can’t pretend he never sent all those messages
about wanting to meet up or have lunch. He wants to see me, even if he denies
it, even if he’s barely moved an inch from the door.

“You’re on my fucking doorstep,” he finally says. “Would you
like to explain why, or are you waiting for an invitation?”

I hold in a strained breath. “I wanted to talk.”

I think maybe he’ll say something sharp like
calling me back would have sufficed
. But
he pushes the door further open and walks into the house, dapper in his
charcoal suit. I follow him, closing the door behind me, and head through the long
hallway towards the outside patio.

The house feels different. I grew up here. Ran through the
hallways and slid on the waxed hardwood, nearly breaking my arm. Yet, being
here sober, clearer, makes all those memories seem dark and hazy.

On the stone patio, I take a seat at the black iron table,
overlooking the small pond that rests on sprawling acres of land. Two ducks
swim in the murky waters, avoiding the lily pads floating beside them. My
father mixes himself a drink at the black granite bar, glasses clinking
together in a familiar tune.

I close my eyes, listening to the reverent sounds: the
chirps of birds, the trickle of the fountain, the jingle of the wind chimes. Sometimes
I think a part of me has been chipped away. I know I’m not completely the same
person sober as I was when I was drinking. But what if the part of me that
changed was a piece of my soul—a good piece? Or maybe I’m just making excuses
to drink again. That’s the problem, isn’t it? Deciding what’s right and what’s
wrong in my head. I just feel so confused all the time.

I open my eyes just as my father saunters over with two
empty glasses and a bottle of dark liquid. He places the crystal glass in front
of me, and I focus on his slow movements.

On impulse, I place my hand right over top of the glass
before he can pour anything into it. My heart beats loudly in my chest.

His eyes darken. “So you can’t even have a fucking drink
with me now?”

My throat feels like lead, but I manage to find my words
just fine. “It’ll make me sick. I’m on meds.” Thank God I took my pill this
morning.

His jaw clenches tight, and he resigns by pouring himself a
glass and sinking down in the chair across from mine. I take my hand off the
crystal and flip it over.

“Are you here for money?” he asks, jumping straight to the
point.

I stare at the table and gather my thoughts. Why am I here?
For two things, neither of which revolve around finances or lack thereof.

He continues off my silence anyway, and I let him. “I know
what I said before you went away—”

“Do you?” I snap.

“Yes,
Loren
. And
maybe if you gave me some time to process everything, things would have turned
out fucking differently.” I’m not sure what kind of different he means. Not
going to rehab? Having a relationship with him? Did he just take away my trust
fund out of impulse? But if that was true, he would have given me money when I
returned to Philly. He would have made a better effort to fix things.

My eyes narrow at the table in deep thought. He
did
try to call me. He was reaching out.
I was the one closing him off—because Ryke told me to. He said I shouldn’t open
that door again, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe my father has been right all
along.

He swishes his drink before downing it in one gulp.

My throat goes dry.

“You’re my son,” he says definitively, “and I’m not going to
let you struggle because you make bad decisions.”

“Rehab wasn’t a bad decision.”

“It was a waste of fucking time,” he refutes. “Drinking
isn’t a problem, and you’ll do it again. Don’t fucking fool yourself.” Before I
open my mouth to retort, he says, “But that’s beside the point.” He pulls out
his checkbook. “I want to help you get on your feet again.”

“I don’t want your cash,” I say, even though I know that’s a
stupid choice. Because, really, what am I going to do? I can’t keep living off
Lily’s inheritance. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to figure what I’m good
at and make a living without crawling back to my father for rent.

“This isn’t the time to start being humble,” he tells me.
“You can’t try to be sober and work a job at the same time.”

“What do you think normal people do? Not everyone has rich
parents to fall back on.”

“You do,” he says. “And why the hell do you think I work so
fucking much?”

“You have nothing better to do.”

He glares. “I do it so that you won’t have to struggle like
this. So stop being a fucking idiot and take the damn money.”

I believe him, even though Ryke would probably tell me that
I shouldn’t—that Jonathan Hale spends hours at his office because he’s
miserable and alone and likes all the riches that he can afford to buy. There’s
a stipulation attached to that check too. I’ll be indebted to him in some way.
It’s why he took away my trust fund in the first place. It’s more than just him
wanting me to enroll in college again. He wants that power over my life—to tell
me what to do, to mold me as the son he always dreamed I would be. But I’m just
a big fucking disappointment.

“That’s not what I’m here for,” I say, a weight bearing on
my chest.

He sighs and shuts his checkbook. He pours another glass.
“What is it then?” He’s more intrigued than he lets on. The curiosity glimmers
in his dark eyes.

I take a breath, staring at the over-turned, empty glass in
front of me. Booze would help, but I have to do this alone. “I want her name.”

“Who?” His voice has an edge, telling me that he knows
exactly
who
I’m referring to.

“My real mother.” The woman he had an affair with. The reason
why he split from Sara Hale, Ryke’s mom.

“She doesn’t want to see you,” he says coldly.

“And I don’t believe you.”

He lets out a low laugh and taps the table with his lighter,
a cigar box not far away. “I knew you’d want answers. Where she lived, what she
looked like, but they’ll only upset you. And I didn’t want to see your face twist.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She didn’t want
you
,
Loren. I’m telling you not to waste your fucking time.”

How can I believe him after all these years lying to me? But
a part of me digests this information as truth.

“There it is.” He brings the glass to his lips. I realize
that my face has contorted in a multitude of emotions. Hurt, the strongest of
them.

“You’re wrong,” I say under my breath, just so I can go back
to being as hard and cold as him. “I want her name. After all these years that
you told me Sara was my mother, I, least of all, deserve to have a semblance of
the fucking truth.”

He rolls his eyes dramatically, and to my surprise, rips off
a check and flips it over. I watch him scribble on the paper and then he slides
it to me. “I’m not the bad guy here,” he says. “I’m just protecting you from
feeling more pain. That’s it.”

I stare at the check.

Emily Moore
.

“Did you love her?” Not,
where
is she?
Or,
why did she give me up?
I
have to ask the stupidest, meaningless question there is—because my father
doesn’t believe in love.

“For all of fifteen minutes, sure,” he says dryly. “Now you
have what you want, can we move on from all this bullshit?” He wants to go back
to the way things were, but I’m not even sure that’s possible.

“I need something else,” I tell him as I pocket the check.
“And it requires discretion.”

He laughs wryly and gets up to refill his glass. “Why am I
not surprised? What the fuck did you do this time?”

I ignore the slight. “It’s not entirely about me. It
involves Lily.”

He sits back down, hand cupping a full glass of scotch. I
try not to focus on it too much. “I golf with Greg and have lunch with him
every other day, so is this the type of discretion that requires me to lie to
her father?”

Oh, yeah
. “It will
ruin the Calloways.”

My father straightens up, his features hardening. He
actually looks a little like Ryke. “What the fuck is going on?”

“You have to promise, and I want it in writing.”

He gives me a look. “Don’t be a little shit.”

I glare. “I’m not being a
little shit
. You say you’ve done
all of this
…” I motion around me. “…the lying about my brother and
my real fucking mother, because you were trying to protect me. Then understand
that I’m trying to protect the girl I love. And I’d do anything to accomplish
it. So if you don’t fucking sign something that says you won’t open your
goddamn mouth, then I’m gone.” I stand up, my chest rising and falling with
sudden anger.

“Sit the fuck down.”

I don’t.

“
Sit,
”
my father sneers. “I’ll go get a piece
of paper. I don’t think I can write a contract on the back of a check.”

I sink to my chair and watch my father leave the patio,
muttering curse words under his breath. But I’ve won. This time.

***

He ends up typing it on his laptop. After an hour
we have a contract written and signed, not allowing him to directly or indirectly
tell the Calloways anything. If he does, he forfeits Hale Co. to Ryke. At first
we had agreed that I would acquire the company, but he looked a little too
pleased about the idea of me inheriting his business. Now stress-lines crease
his lips at the very thought that his kid—who despises him—could obtain his
legacy. At least I know he loves me more, but really, that’s not a very high
achievement.

My father has a newly topped glass of scotch, and we’re
sitting on the patio again. His contract in his office, mine on the table.

“Now, what’s so serious that I can’t even tell my best
friend?” he asks.

“When I got back from rehab, I received a text from an
unknown number,” I tell him. “He said he hated me and he basically threatened
to expose Lily’s secret out of revenge. So I don’t think he’s blackmailing us.
He’s not asking for money, but he did mention it once. He said he could get
paid a lot from the tabloids if he told Lily’s secret.” The words pour forth
before I have time to stop and evaluate each one. I’m scared, and if my father
didn’t see it before, he does now. I feel like a little kid blubbering about a
bully at school.

“Slow the fuck down,” he says sternly. “We’ll take this
piece by piece.”