Addicted for Now (35 page)

“No thanks,” Lo says, his voice firm.

Jonathan returns the bottle and slumps in the plush leather
chair behind his desk. He shuffles the three files out along his desk as he
takes a slow sip from his glass.

“From here on out, the goal for both of you is to reform
your images. You will become upstanding individuals who can proudly wear your
last fucking name.” He flips open a file and scans the page. “We’ll start with
Lily. The easiest solution would be to deny all the claims, but no one would
believe that sixty men were lying.”

I already knew I couldn’t deny the accusations, and I
wouldn’t want to. Most are true. I wait for the word, the one that will seal my
fate—
rehab.

“So your parents and the lawyers have drawn up a list of
things you must do. It’ll help restore your reputation, and in effect, that of
our companies. Simple, easy, seamless, yada fucking yada.”

“What if she doesn’t do them?” Lo asks.

Jonathan shoots him a sharp look. “I was getting there. Hold
your fucking tongue for a second.” His eyes fall to me. “Starting today, you no
longer have access to your trust fund. When you complete all the tasks, your
inheritance will be restored to you in full.”

My money is gone.

I’m broke. Just like Lo.

I wish I could talk to my parents. I would have completed
their list without putting my financial security up as collateral. The guilt
motivates me enough.

Jonathan stares at Lo, and I know he wants him to ask for
his own trust fund back, especially now that we’re both penniless. But Lo
remains resolute and tight-lipped.

His father switches his attention back to me. “I must admit,
your father didn’t like this idea all that much. He preferred you keep your
trust fund, but your mother convinced him otherwise.” I wonder why Jonathan
tells me this; maybe to vouch for his best friend. I’m not sure.

“What’s on the list?” I ask softly. “Do I have to leave?”

Jonathan lets out a short laugh. “Running away doesn’t solve
anything. In fact, it makes you look guilty. No, you’ll stay in the city,
preferably Princeton after the lawyers get done with the university.”

I’m not going to be expelled? Hope surges through me, only
to be smothered by Jonathan’s next words. “You will apologize publicly during a
press conference, and you will start seeing a psychiatrist handpicked by your
parents.” He narrows his eyes at the list. “They also want you to stop visiting
bars and clubs, but really, the three of us in this room can agree that you can
go, just don’t be seen. This is about your image not a fucking path to
morality.”

He taps his pen on the folder. “The most important and last
item on the list…” He reaches into his suit jacket and reveals a small black
box. I don’t look at Lo. My eyes zone in on the case as Jonathan opens the lid,
a shiny diamond ring inside. “Congratulations,” Jonathan says, his voice more
rough than enthusiastic. “You’re now engaged, and the wedding will be held in a
year.”

My joints don’t work properly, even though all my thoughts
scream violently for me to take the ring. It’s a small price to pay for what
I’ve done. But to turn what Lo and I have into bait for the media, cheapening
our love, hurts beyond words.
 

More tears pool.

“Lil,” Lo says, squeezing my hand. “We can find another
way.”

We can’t.

This is what they want, and we’ve been selfish long enough.
I shake my head, grab the box and pluck out the ring that glitters as I slide
it between my fingers. It’s larger and more extravagant than anything I’d ever
want. I take a small breath and slide it onto my finger.

It fits perfectly.

I can’t stop staring at the way it sparkles and dwarfs my
small hand. It’s gaudy and feels cold and wrong.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Lo. He’s fixated on the piece of jewelry
as much as me, and I already know what he’s thinking. This isn’t what he
imagined for us either, a proposal by his father in his office.

Maybe…maybe we’re just not meant to have a happy ending.

Maybe we don’t deserve it.

{ 36 }

LOREN HALE

When I was in rehab, I had plenty of free time to
let my mind wander. Stupidly, I started thinking about how I would propose to
Lily. Not any time soon, but when we were both healthy and happy. I even
envisioned the ring I would buy her—a small pink sapphire. Simple,
non-traditional. I think she would have liked it.

Now I’ll never know.

I glare at my father, hating that he has hijacked my
proposal. It’s not entirely his fault, but if we’re being coerced into
marriage, I’d rather have something on my terms. He could have given me a day’s
notice. Anything.

Instead, I’m going to shelve this memory with all of my
other black, inky tarred ones, ruined by something larger and nastier than me.
Lily quietly appraises the ring with sad eyes. I wish I could fix this, but
rejecting her parent’s pleas will hurt her more. The shame she caused is
tearing her from the inside out, and doing nothing to repair the damage would
rip her soul.

“The wedding,” I say, breaking the tense silence. “You said
it’s in a year.”

My father nods and sips his scotch.

I itch to taste it, but I focus more on Lil, and any ache
for alcohol subsides. For once, I truly feel strong enough to help her. “She
has to complete all the tasks before her trust fund is returned. Does that mean
she’ll have it again when she agrees to the wedding?”

“She gets it when you’re married.”

My stomach caves.
A
year?
She’ll be broke for a whole fucking year even if she does everything
they say. Lily can’t hold down a job while she’s going through recovery. I
remember how I found her hiding underneath her desk in Rose’s office, afraid of
the male models. She’s not ready to handle the stress of a workplace
environment with her addiction at bay. That anxiety is what causes her to go
crazy.

“We’ll get married sooner,” I offer. Why prolong the wait?
She’ll have money. The cameras will stop hounding us. She won’t be gossiped
about in blogs anymore. All will be right again.

“Really?” Lily asks, her eyes big and glassy.

I wipe a fallen tear with my thumb. “Two weeks or one year,
it doesn’t make a difference to me, Lil. I’d marry you tomorrow if it’d make
you happy.”

She nods once and lets me hold her close.

“It actually does make a difference,” my father cuts in,
chilling my bones. “It can’t look like a shotgun wedding designed to coax the
media. It has to look real. One year. No sooner and no later.”

He strangled my only alternative.

My father closes a file and opens another. “Now for you,
Loren,” he says, “the media has modeled you as the pathetic boyfriend, cheated
on and discarded. You will publicly release a statement about how you and Lily
have had an open relationship, something
new
age
. You have been sleeping around with other women, and you knew she was
sleeping with other men. But since your
romantic
engagement, you both have decided to commit to each other fully.”

Lily holds in a breath, probably believing I’ll refuse this
stipulation. She wants this to be easy, for us to agree and move on. I’m
accustomed to lies. If this one helps, I’ll gladly carry it. I nod in
acceptance and my father closes the file.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“You’re not the sex addict,” he reminds me with a dry smile
and the raise of his glass. He takes a long swig, and my mind lapses back to
the money issue.

I have to ask him.

For Lily.

For me.

So we have one less problem to solve. So we can stop taking
handouts from our siblings.

“About my trust fund…”

Lily bristles beside me. “Lo, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Whatever the repercussions, whatever I have to
do to please my father, I’ll work out. A part of me screams
failure
. I’m giving up by crawling back
to this man. But the other part says
this
is the right way.
And I’m listening to that side of my brain. Whether it’s
the dumb fucking side—that’s to be seen.

“What about it?” He swirls the scotch in his glass, creating
a small whirlpool.

He’ll make me ask. Beg. Plead and grovel. I’m not about to
drop to my knees, but I’m close. I’m almost there. “You told me I could have it
back,” I remind him, but I’m not an idiot. I know there are strings attached.
“What do you want me to do?”
Not college.
Not college
.
Not college
. I
cannot go back to school, surrounded by booze, surrounded by fully functioning
twenty-somethings. It drives me to a bottle more than Lily knows. It’s a reason
why I opted not to return.

Every sane, happy person is like a reflection of what I
could have been, like being met with Christmas Future every day. I don’t want
to be haunted by my problems like that.

“What I want you to do,” he says, “is be a fucking man.”

I glare. “Last time I checked, I was one.”

“Having a dick doesn’t make you a man,” he replies. “You’ve
been an irresponsible little boy
all
your life. I give you things and you shit on them. If you want your trust fund,
you have to use the money to make something of yourself. You can’t fuck it
away.”

“I’m not going back to college.”

“Did I say anything about college? You’re not even
listening
to me.” He throws back the
rest of the liquor into his mouth and smacks the glass on the desk.

I flinch.

And he stays silent, not about to divulge the details.
Apparently I’m supposed to know what being a man really entails. In my father’s
head, that could mean anything.

“Okay,” I accept blindly. He just wants me to meet my
potential, not squander away his wealth with apathy. His terms should be in my
power. Hopefully.

His brows jump in swift surprise, but it slowly washes away,
replaced with a true, genuine smile. I think I just made my father happy.

That happens…well, almost never.

“I’ll call the lawyers. Your inheritance will be back by
tomorrow morning,” he says, “and I expect a business proposal by next week.”

“A what?” My stomach tightens.

He rolls his eyes and his mouth downturns. That smile lasted
point-two seconds. “For Christ’s sake, Loren. A
business proposal
. You don’t have to be involved in my company, but
you better create your own. I don’t even fucking care if it succeeds. Just get
off your lazy ass.” He stands and hovers over the liquor cart to refill his
empty glass. “It’s late. You two should spend the night here.”

I don’t want to step into my old bedroom, a haven for bad
memories and shitty mistakes. I shake my head. “We’re staying at Ryke’s
tonight.”

He stiffens at the name. “Then get going. I have work to
do.” As we walk towards the doors, he says, “And when I find the leak, he’s
going to wish he never fucked with our family. I can promise you that.”

{ 37 }

LILY CALLOWAY

We’re all back at the Princeton house, and I
haven’t spoken to Rose in three days. She leaves the house early and returns
late. And every time I call, her automated message clicks. Usually Rose answers
on the second ring.

H&M and Macy’s dropped Calloway Couture from their
stores, citing the “negative attention” as reason to pull the garments from the
hangers and shelves. I apologized over text, and I caught her once in person to
utter the words, but she patted me on the shoulder and said something about a
meeting and hopped into her car.
 

She texted me this morning.
I’m just busy, and I’m sorry I don’t have more time to talk. I don’t
blame you. Keep your head up.
– Rose

I’m not feeling very sprightly today, but the text helps
ease the weight on my chest. My last test is today before finals start next
week, and it marks the first time I’ll set foot on campus since the scandal. I
shouldn’t go. I didn’t study or memorize the answers from old exams. I just
plopped on the couch and watched reruns of
Boy
Meets World.

My limbs sag heavily, an anchor that tethers me to the bed,
to the floor, to the couch. Morning, noon, and night. The urge to disappear, a
superpower that I have always wanted, strikes me more often. Dr. Banning would
tell me that I’m depressed, maybe even prescribe medication for me. But I
haven’t spoken to her since my meeting with the lawyers.

I’m not allowed to see her. I have a new psychiatrist now.
Dr. Oliver Evans. I’ll meet him next week.
 

The shower is my one solitude: a place where self-love
exists, where the steam and my prickling nerves combust and ward off anxiety.
The guilt accompanies the high. And IknowIknowIknow. I’m technically not
allowed, but I’m monitoring how long I spend touching myself. This isn’t the
same thing as porn. I can’t masturbate in public. I’ll never overdo it if I
just restrict myself to self-love shower time.

And anyway, after last night’s attempt to have sex, Lo will
probably steer clear of me for a good thousand years. It started fine. I was
ridiculously excited to finally sleep with him after two weeks of abstinence.
The hour sped, tricking my mind into believing we only fooled around for five
whole minutes, not sixty. I needed more time.

He kept telling me
no.
And I even tried to spider him and ensnare him in my sex web, which (now
that I think about it) couldn’t have been all that sexy. I turned into the compulsive
sex-monster that we both feared. Then, something worse happened.

I burst into tears.

So not only did I whine for sex, but I cried when I didn’t
get it. I’m ashamed to the point of reclusiveness. I never want to show my
face, to anyone. I don’t blame Lo if he never wants to sleep in the same bed
with me ever again.

I glance at the kitchen clock. Lo and Ryke can no longer run
at the Penn track or jog down the block without being bombarded by paparazzi or
nosy students. So they’ve resorted to sprinting around the land at our house in
Princeton. At least it’s gated.

But they shouldn’t come inside for another ten minutes. My
damp hair wets my shirt. I think I can squeeze in one more shower before they
enter the house. I hop off the bar stool and race to the bathroom. I retrieve a
small bag of tampons from a cabinet in the way
way
back. Stuffed in between all of them is a pouch with my
waterproof mini-vibrator. I take it out and shove the bag back.

Shower or bathtub?

I hate that we don’t have a combo bathtub-shower scenario.
This would be a lot easier then. Self-love standing up is not my favorite, and
that’s what I’ve had to do in the shower.

The bathtub calls me. Bubbles. I can have bubbles too. But I
only have…ten minutes. I think I can make it work. Bubbles have to be worth it.

Quickly, I turn the faucet, test the water for the perfect
warmth, and squirt in bubble mix (of course) and toss in one of those pink soap
balls (not really sure what they do). The water swishes into a pale pink hue,
and I breathe in the flowery aroma, the scent pretty close to lilies.

So I call it a success.

I shed my clothes and sink into the water, gasping at the
way the warmness skims my thighs and up to my breasts. I hold the vibrator in
one hand, anticipation and glee filling me first. I close my eyes, lean back,
and let my mind wander while my hand moves.

I focus on a particular memory, one with Lo during our
sophomore year of college. We were roped into attending my parent’s holiday
party back at their Villanova mansion. Since we planned on spending the night,
we both decided to get drunk off the eggnog. My mother shooed us upstairs so we
didn’t disrupt any of the other guests, and we locked ourselves in my room for
the rest of the night.

Standing by the foot of the bed, he kissed my neck and lips
with an intoxicating gaze, inhaling every part of me, a look that devoured my
body in a single second. Even though we were alone, he didn’t stop.

I was aroused. He was drunk. And he gladly lent me his
mouth, and I accepted (at first) because my mind was on a super rush. His lips
pressed against my collarbone, tender and then deep, sucking. His fingers slid
down my waist, lower and lower.
 

“Lo.” I let out a ragged breath and tried to hold onto his
white button-down, trying to keep my body upright. But the world was dancing,
and I wanted nothing more than to be swept up in it—preferably with a thrust
and a
high.

He retracted and held my cheeks, his amber eyes carrying a
strong haze, but not enough for him to be completely gone to booze. He was
still with me. Here. For now.

I was sure I resembled the sloppy drunk between the two of
us.

“Lily.” His lips lifted into a crooked grin. “How do you
feel?”

“Wobbly,” I admitted. “And horny.” The alcohol repressed any
embarrassment because I added, “Really horny, actually.” But I couldn’t find a
one-night stand at my
parent’s
intimate
party. Besides the fact that most were in their fifties, the few young people
knew my family too well. I was not in the market to scatter rumors that I
cheated on Loren Hale. We were still pretending to be a couple, after all.

He kept smiling. “Is that how you get guys hard? Blunt
honesty?”

My eyes immediately fell to his groin. “It doesn’t seem to
be working on you,” I countered. I slipped out of his arms and found his
stowaway of Macallan in my desk drawer. I uncapped it and took a quick swig.
His face darkened, and he yanked the bottle away from me. He put the rim to his
lips and drank a large gulp, his throat bobbing three times.

He set the bottle back on the desk. “You’re always horny.
I’d have an eternal hard-on if that’s all it took.”

My mind started to wander to sinful places, thinking about
what exactly would get Loren Hale off. But this was Lo. My best friend. A
relationship I couldn’t devalue with a quick lay. We’ve crossed lines a few
times before, but I was determined to never jump over the ultimate line—the one
that ends with him inside of me, with the highest, brightest climax.

“I usually don’t say things,” I admitted. “I just
do
things.”

He gave me a bitter smile. “I bet you give a spectacular
blow job.”

I was about to offer one, but I remembered who he was and my
throat went dry again. I held out my hand for the Macallan. “Hit me,” I said.

He laughed as he pressed the bottle to his lips again.
“Cute.” He took another long sip. He was always so territorial over his booze.

I stomped back over to the drawer and fished out an airplane
bottle of vodka.

He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t have anything to chase
that with, big shot.”

I shrugged, screwed off the cap, and tossed the liquor back
in my throat.

“Hey!” he shouted and rushed to my side just as the liquid
burned its way down my esophagus. I coughed roughly.
I’m on fucking fire
, I thought. He snatched the bottle away from me
but eighty percent was already invading my stomach.

My nose crinkled in disgust. “Why do you do that?” I asked.
I’ve seen him drink straight liquor. I rub my hand on my tongue, trying to rid
the taste.
Ugh
.

He just laughed and let me complain for a few minutes, and
then the alcohol slowly began to warp my mind, turning my lustful thoughts on
overdrive. I craved
touch.
For hands
to slide up and down my legs and thighs.

I plopped on the edge of the bed, my eyes drifting over Lo,
falling to his ass as he stared out the window, mesmerized by the twinkling
Christmas lights and the flutter of snow.

I wanted sex.

I wanted to feel as good as he was feeling. Alcohol made him
relaxed, at ease, and I yearned for that type of temperate peace.

“Lo,” I breathed. “Are we still pretending?”

His eyes met mine. “I’ll be sleeping in your room tonight
because we’re supposed to be dating. So…yes.”

“Can I do something?” My eyelids felt heavy from the liquor,
and hopefully my voice was not so slurred.

He didn’t even hesitate. “Sure,” he said. “I can wait in
your father’s study. I don’t think there’s anyone there.”

He moved towards the door, about to give me privacy for
self-love. But that’s not what I wanted. “Wait,” I called out, my heart beating
rapidly. His feet halted in the middle of the floor, and he spun around, facing
me with the tilt of his head.
 

“You can stay,” I told him. “Right there. Just…stay right
there.”

I slid underneath the covers and tried to avoid his gaze as
I fumbled with my dress. I pulled the fabric over my head and threw it to the
floor—along with my panties. I had enough sense to keep my strapless bra on at
least. Not that it was covering much.

Now situated, I looked back at him. An amused expression
danced across his face. “How drunk are you?” he asked.

Truthfully, I hoped I wouldn’t remember doing this in the
morning. That didn’t end up happening though. “Enough,” I said.
Enough to touch myself in front of you
.

He licked his bottom lip and held up the bottle to his
mouth. He waited to see if I’d go through with it. My fingers dipped between my
legs, finding the soft, wet spot that ached for touch. My breath deepened as
soon as my fingers pulsed along my clit, and I basked in the way it lit up my
core.

I stared longingly at his pants, imagining his cock that I
never really saw during our college years. I never wanted his penis to spike my
temptations, so I avoided eye contact with it most days. But that night, I
didn’t care about any of that. Sex was on my mind, and it wanted something
more.

His fingers traveled to the button on his pants, and my
breath hitched as he pushed it slowly through the hole.

I looked at him questioningly. What was he doing?

“If you want to watch me while you get yourself off,” he said,
“you might as well do it the right way, love.” He tugged down his pants to his
ankles and slowly stepped out of them. My mouth hung open, and I stopped moving
my own fingers in shock.

He was hard.

Not completely, but definitely more firm than before. His
tight black boxer-briefs exposed every muscle and curve and of course the bulge
that I fixated on.

“Keep going,” he urged.

My fingers reignited at his words, and I moved them faster,
my hips writhing and pumping in animation. His cock slowly grew. I was
beckoning it to me, like I had become a little snake charmer. I loved that
control…that power.

I stole a glance and caught Lo drinking in my features, the
way my lips parted and my eyes fluttered back. But when we locked gazes, I
dropped my focus, his hand disappearing below the hem of his boxer-briefs.

A moan caught in my throat as I watched him rub himself beneath
the fabric. I couldn’t see his cock, not really, but that felt even sexier.
More sinful and wrong and just about right.

 
His heavy breath
became deep and rough, as ragged and wanting as mine. “Lily,” he groaned. My
climax arrived in that idyllic rush, in a tidal wave that blew me over in
staggered successions. My body shook and my toes curled, my high blistering me
from the inside out. Lo grunted, his breath sharp, and he came right along with
me.

The usual shame was absolved by the booze and the reminder
that we hadn’t broken any rules. I convinced myself that he’s probably heard me
come in the next room thousands of times. Seeing the act couldn’t have been
much different. And I had never done something like this with any other guy
before.

It felt special.

I turned to ask him if we could do it again. Once was never
enough.

He saw the desperation before I uttered a word.

“If you do it in front of me again, I’ll have to fuck you,”
he said.

“Have to or want to?” I asked in confusion.

He smiled easily, but never gave me a clear answer. “I may
not get hard when you tell me you’re horny, but I’m still a guy. And you still
have rules. Ones that I won’t take advantage of when you’re drunk.”

“So when I’m sober?”

His smile turned mischievous. “I’m going to take a shower.”

He gripped the neck of the Macallan. I must have looked
disappointed still because he went to my closet instead of the bathroom. He
pulled out a pink Victoria’s Secret shoebox from the bottom and set it gently
on the bed beside me. He knew it was filled with all my toys. The gesture was
kind.

He tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear and kissed me
on the forehead. “Merry Christmas, Lil,” he said and left for the bathroom.

He never came back. I spent the next four hours in a
self-love coma until I passed out. In the morning, I found him asleep on the
tiled bathroom floor hugging an empty bottle. We never spoke about it again. I
buried the memory with my fantasies, and I’ve always believed he lost the
memory in his booze.