Addicted for Now (9 page)

“I’d have no problem flipping burgers,” I explain, “but I
owe Ryke forty grand for rehab that I’d like to pay in a reasonable amount of
time…plus, you know, rent.” I pause again, half expecting Rose to bail me out
and say,
you don’t have to pay rent, Lo,
you’re practically family.
But I forget who she is for a brief second.
Maybe her little meltdown over a vase tricked me, but she stands resolute,
strong, unwilling to let me take the easy road.

Good.

Still, I glare. Habit. “You’re going to make me ask, aren’t
you?” I say.

She smiles icily. “Last year in the Cayman Islands, you said
that not even the abominable snowman would want to fuck me.”

Lily gasps, “You did not.”

“I did.”

She punches my arm. I mock wince. Yeah, I deserved that.

Connor stays completely impassive. But he holds Rose closer,
as though silently saying I’m wrong. Clearly guys with insanely high IQs want
to fuck her.

I let out a deep breath. Here it goes. “I’ve already been
scouted by modeling agencies before,” I explain. “You’d be an idiot not to use
me in your menswear campaign.”
Way to go,
Loren. Call her an idiot. That’s definitely the way to land a job. Jesus
Christ, no wonder you’ve never had one.

“I remember that,” Rose says stiffly.

“How come you’ve never modeled if you were scouted?” Connor
asks.

“I may have walked into the interview drinking straight from
a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.” I was fucking with the agency, wasting peoples’
time and mine. I didn’t really want to model. I still don’t, but it’ll be quick
money. And this is a chance for me to redo my past mistakes. I can make things
right.

Connor lets out a long whistle. “Impressive.”

“I think so too.”

Rose looks ready to reignite their old argument, but Connor
leans in and whispers into her ear again. French. Can’t understand a fucking
word. She eases considerably.

“I need a translator,” Lily whispers to me.

“Or an interpreter.” Preferably not a
male
interpreter. I can just picture Lily getting aroused and
flushed from some French guy. Even that proposed fantasy makes me cringe. Jealousy
is the one thing I don’t ever want to tear us apart. But it’s there. Festering.

Rose finally pins her eyes back on me. “Modeling is
difficult,” she says, her voice much softer. “It’s not just about having a good
body or a pretty face. Ask Daisy.”

“I know,” I say. “But Rose, this isn’t going to be a career
for me. I just need to make enough money to pay back my debts and get on my own
two feet. That’s it.” I glance at Lily for a second. “And you won’t have to
mess up your schedule for Lil. I’ll be there while the other models are. It’ll
be better.”

Lily holds onto the waistband of my jeans, and she says,
“And what are you going to do after modeling?”

I have no idea. The fog of my future is too thick to clear.
“One step at a time,” I say. She nods, understanding.

Rose mulls over my proposition for a minute. And then she
says, “Fine.”

I break into a full grin.

And she adds, “But just so we have things clear, I’m doing
this out of pity.”

My smile vanishes. “You could have stopped at fine.”

It’s her turn to grin. “I know.”

{ 9 }

LILY CALLOWAY

Two days pass and I still haven’t had sex. And on
top of that, I welched on telling Lo about the old tests. But I plan to. I just
need to…phrase it correctly so he joins my immoral side of things. And Connor
has yet to find any evidence about the so-called blackmailer (or whatever he is—considering
he still hasn’t asked for anything in return).

“What about Patrick Bomer?” I sit with my legs crossed on
the bed, an old navy-blue Dalton Academy yearbook on my lap. Big black circles
outline certain faces and on others I’ve drawn X’s…and mustaches.

I raise my head and catch Lo’s frown through the circular
mirror mounted above our dresser. He spent a solid twenty minutes dressing this
morning and another ten minutes on his hair. It’s his first job at Calloway
Couture. Hell, it’s his first job
ever
,
and he’s freaking out about it.

“Why would Patrick hate me?” he asks, disheveling the
thicker pieces of his hair on purpose.

“You won first place in our art class’s end-of-the-year
projects.” Lo took a five minute video of a plastic bag blowing in the wind,
which was beyond boring and beyond unoriginal, seeing as how
American Beauty
did it first.

He turns to look at me. “What? That’s not my fault. My
project was damn good.”

“The entire class fell asleep,” I remind him. And Patrick
made a bronze sculpture of Apollo, but it was hardly appreciated by Mr. Adams.

“So he should be pissed at the teacher, not me.”

I don’t refute because he’s right. Teachers gave Lo special
treatment, even so much as awarding his crappy video the highest prize because
he’s a Hale. Because his father is a multi-billionaire with connections so
intricate that a spider would be jealous of the web Jonathan Hale weaves.
 

I glance at my computer screen on the bed. “Maybe he’s not
angry anymore,” I add. “He’s at Carnegie Mellon for art now.”

“How do you know that?”

“Facebook.”

Lo groans. “Please tell me you didn’t sign up.” We’ve had an
anti-social media rule since high school. We like privacy too much to waste it
away on cyberspace.

“I didn’t. I signed you up.”

His eyes darken.

“The way I see it,” I say quickly, “is that if someone hates
you, they’ll probably start slandering you on here.” I point to the screen. “It’s
like a fly trap for suspects.”

Surprisingly, he risks his wrinkle-free, steam-pressed
khakis to sit down on the bed beside me. Our canopy net tangles in his leg, and
he curses under his breath, swatting the fabric away. “I swear I’m going to cut
this stupid thing down.”

“I like it.” Even if I got caught in the net like a praying
mantis last night. I roll sometimes when I sleep. It happens.

“We’re not in a jungle trying to ward away bugs.”

“Rose designed the room,” I remind him. She decorated it
while Lo was away at rehab. “She’ll be hurt if I change it because of you.”

“Even better,” he says. I doubt he believes that.
 

“I’m going to forget what you just said,” I mutter and
swivel the computer screen to him.

Lo gapes. “You had to use that photo as my profile picture?”

I break into a wide smile, and I can’t stop staring at the
photo. He’s shirtless except for a pair of Spider-Man pajama pants. He looks
sexy
and
cool.

The website consumes his attention, and he scrolls through
the profiles of old students. “Married, married, pregnant, dead, engaged, pregnant,
married,” he lists. “Did anyone stay in their twenties after high school or did
everyone just pass GO to collect a 401k and diapers?”

“Maybe they’re in love,” I defend.

“We’re in love. You don’t see us getting married or having
babies.”

I frown, not sure why this hurts me a little. Marriage isn’t
really a plan of mine, at least not until I’m older and move past this awkward,
confusing stage of life. But the way Lo said those words—well, they make
marriage seem nonexistent. Like instead of a
maybe
, he’s saying
never.

“You don’t want to get married?” I ask softly. I can barely
meet his gaze. I’m twenty, just stepping out of my teens. I shouldn’t worry
about marriage and babies, especially not when we’re struggling being healthy
ourselves.

He hesitates. “I don’t know. I’m not closing that door. I
just can’t think about it.” He pauses. “Do you…think about it?” He frowns
deeply, worried that we’re not on the same track. We usually are, and it’s kind
of terrifying to see him veer off without me.

“Not a lot,” I say. “Before I was with you, I never thought
I’d be married.” I slept with random guys. I thought monogamy wasn’t a
lifestyle I could ever conform to.
 
Now
that I’m starting to find a good groove, I’m beginning to fantasize about
normality.

“But now you do?” he asks.

I shrug. “I guess but definitely not anytime soon. I want to
get through the terrible twenties first.” I wave my hand. “Let’s not talk about
marriage or having babies. It’s stupid anyway. We have more important things to
deal with.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but his face contorts more,
even graver than before. “You want kids?”

Oh…I can tell just by the way he says it that he doesn’t
want them. A lump rises to my throat, and I feel like this is going to be a
trick question. I look over my shoulder for the right answer but it’s not
concealed there. “Umm…” I mumble. “I don’t know.”

He blinks, watching me as I watch him. The answers seem to
spill out of our silence.

“Maybe,” I blurt out, not able to hold back any longer. “When
I’m older but not too old, I guess. My eggs are on a clock.” I nod and then
grimace. “I mean, you know…” I am two seconds from burrowing underneath the
comforter and never coming out.
Hide,
Lily, hide!
My face flames. I really wish my feelings weren’t so visible.

“Lil,” Lo breathes, his eyes softening considerably. I am
one of those sea vessels wobbling in the ocean before they’re hit by a wave.
“You…and me…” Here it is. “We probably shouldn’t have children.”

I stare blankly at the black and white comforter, gathering
my thoughts. I never allowed myself to dream that far ahead, to construct a
reality where Lo and I start a family together. Maybe because deep in my heart,
I knew it doesn’t exist.

His words paint the blackness of my future into a clearer
picture. And it’s an image I want to return to the store. A life where we don’t
have kids. Where our family consists of me and him. And that’s it.

I understand where he’s coming from. We’re both addicts, and
even if we could raise a kid, alcoholism is still hereditary. Lo wouldn’t wish
his troubles on anyone, especially his own child.

“I know,” I say with a sadder nod. “I just don’t want to
think about it.”

He distracts my sullen mood by pointing at a picture in the
yearbook. “You gave Jacqueline Kinney a mustache. That’s just mean.”

My lips slowly rise, and I glance at his head. His hair
sticks up in different directions. And I’m sure he thinks that’s what
supermodel hair looks like, but Rose will not be pleased.

I scoot over, pushing the laptop away, and I run my fingers
through his locks, combing his thick brown hair on top. He jerks back almost
instantly.

“I spent valuable time on this.” He clutches my wrist.

“I think all that time was spent ogling yourself,” I refute.
“Let me fix it.” But my gaze drifts from his hair, landing on his pink lips
that hover so very close to mine. I imagine how they’ll feel on my soft ones.
And I ache to press up against them.

His lips begin to move, but I don’t hear the words from
them. I’m transfixed, and when they go still, a magnetic hold propels me to his
mouth.

I touch his lips with mine, and he kisses back at first,
soft and sweet. A raspy moan tickles my throat, and I crawl on his waist,
straddling him, ready for something more. I just need him… I knead my fingers
through his hair, and I squeeze my thighs.

He pulls back.

No.
I breathe
heavily like I’m currently running a half-marathon. I’m just starting to race
up that steep incline, and he stopped me midway.

“Lily…”

My hands dip below his shirt, and I trace the ridges in his
abs, gliding each finger along his bare chest. I unconsciously dig my pelvis,
rocking a little, needing him more and more.

A groan escapes
his
lips
this time, and he has to grab my wrists.

I don’t want to stop. It feels like I haven’t touched him in
so long. It feels so unbearable. I remember the exhilaration and burst of
coming. I want that sensation to ripple through me. I want my body to vibrate
until I can’t see straight. I miss that so very much.

But when I meet his hard eyes, I see the answer.
No. No. No.
But I want to hear
yes
just once. I want to sigh in relief
with the word.

“I haven’t had sex in days,” I say like it’s an accomplishment.
“I thought I get rewarded for good behavior.”

His mouth curves into a genuine smile. I’ve won, I think.
This is it. I tighten my legs around his waist again, his hardness driving me
to new levels of eagerness.

“Whoa,” he protests, lifting me up underneath my arms. He
sets me on his knees. No fun. “How about I make a deal with you?”

“I like deals,” I say, my gaze drifting to his cock.

“Eyes on me, Lil.”

I try. I’m trying. I am. “But aren’t deals against the
rules?”

“Not this one.”

Now I’m curious. He rubs my leg, semi-splayed on his lap. I
guess this is better than being chucked off him entirely. The movement grabs my
attention, and I desperately wish his fingers would rise higher, to the spot
that throbs so desperately for his touch.

“You can choose one thing to do right now. I can kiss you
until you’re breathless.” He leans forward and places a small, fleeting kiss on
my lips before his breath tickles my ear. “Or I can put my fingers inside of
you and make you feel full.”
Yes.
“Or…”
There’s another option? Oh jeez. I scoot forward, even against his wishes, and
I grip his T-shirt between my fingers. I can practically feel him pulsing
beneath me. Or maybe that’s just my need growing out of control. “…I can run my
hand over your pants and make you come.”
Double
yes.
“But…”

My shoulders drop at the realization that there’s a
stipulation. I guess that’s why it’s called a deal and not a free-for-all…or a
free-for-Lily. “I don’t like buts…” I trail off because I realize I do like
butts, only the round kind.

“You’re turning red,” Lo notes. “Are you thinking about my
ass?”

I drink in his rich amber eyes. “More like
my
ass and your—”

He covers my mouth with his hand and whispers in my ear
again, “My cock isn’t going anywhere near your ass, Lily Calloway, but I’m glad
to put it somewhere else.” He whispers a couple places, and I realize that I’ve
latched onto his lap like a monkey, clinging so hard that I’m already wet and
ready.

“
But?
” I say,
reminding him that there was a big fat roadblock that he constructed.
 

“You can only pick one option. Or you can forgo all of them
and choose to wait until tonight, and we’ll have sex. It’s up to you.” All I
hear is
we’ll have sex.
But I have to
wait for it. And right now, waiting eight minutes is torture that I don’t want
to endure. How can I wait eight
hours?

“I don’t like this deal.”

“Neither do I, but we have to practice self-control. Both of
us.” Oh.

I mull the options and realize that if I choose something
right now, he won’t be receiving any sort of pleasure. “I choose head. To give
you
head, I mean,” I say one of the most
unladylike phrases I’ve ever used, but the last thing I care about right now is
sophistication. And for a brief moment, I wonder how Connor and Rose are in
bed—do they spout off anatomical parts or speak in beautiful prose? I’d ask
Rose, but she’s private about that stuff. And I’m pretty sure her sex life is
nonexistent since she has intimacy issues. And I hope she would tell me if she
lost her virginity.

“Leave my dick out of this,” Lo says, equally classy.

“Why?” I frown and then my eyes widen. “Are blow jobs on the
blacklist?” We still haven’t attended therapy together, but I imagine I’ll be
begging my therapist for the details of that list next time I see her.

He covers my mouth again. “Stop…talking,” he says sternly.
He shifts a little underneath me, and I’m about to glance down, but he lifts my
chin before I catch a glimpse of his hardness.

Obviously I’m not the only one with raging hormones. I could
smile, but I also feel guilty that he has to suffer because of my addiction.

My eyes flicker to his lips, and there’s a part of me that
wants to give in and choose kissing. But kissing always leads to more with me,
and being denied that will be harder than not having Lo at all.

I grab his wrist and pull his hand from my mouth. He gives
me a warning look to not bring up his body parts. But that’s precisely the
reason why I’m choosing tonight, the only option that offers him any sort of
pleasure too.

“We can wait,” I say softly and slowly. Begrudgingly, I
slide off his lap and the bed. I flip my laptop closed and go to straighten out
my shirt in front of the mirror. The worst part—I won’t be able to release my
pent-up frustration right now. The pulsing between my legs will have to stay.
Because I’ve committed to no self-love. Once I start down that road, there’s no
stopping. I’ll turn back into a compulsive beast, and I don’t want Lo to see me
like that.

“Are you sure?” Lo calls from the bed.

He’s as surprised as me. Normally I’d take one of the
immediate gratifications, even if it was fleeting. I’ll regret my decision in a
couple of hours, but at least I’m making the smarter choice now.