Addicted for Now

{ 1 } LILY CALLOWAY

Of all the days in the month, I have to be stuck in traffic on the one that means the most to me. I try not to badger Nola, my family’s driver, on our ETA to the house I share with Rose. Instead, I anxiously shift on the leather seat and rapidly text my sister.

Is he already there? Please say no, please tell me I haven’t missed his homecoming. I’m supposed to wait on the white wrap-around porch of our secluded house in Princeton, New Jersey: many acres of lush land, a crystal blue pool, black shutters. The only thing it’s missing is the picket fence. I’m supposed to give him a tour of the cozy living room and the granite kitchen, leading him upstairs to the bedrooms where I sleep. He won’t be in one of the two guestrooms. Nope, he’ll be making residence in mine for the first time ever.

And maybe awkwardness will linger at the idea of sharing a bed and a bathroom day and night, at the idea of cohabitating beyond a kitchen. Our relationship will be one-hundred percent real, and there’ll be no nightcaps of bourbon or whiskey. I’ll be able to say don’t do that. And he’ll be able to grip my wrists, keeping me from compulsively climaxing until I pass out.

We’re supposed to help each other.

For the past three months, that’s what we’ve planned. And if I’m not there to greet him—then I’ve already messed up in some way. After three whole months of being physically apart, I thought I’d be able to get this right—the celebration of his return from rehab. On top of desperately wanting to touch him, for him to hold me in his arms, I feel a sudden wave of guilt. Please be late like me, is all I think.

The text pings, and I open the message, a knot tightening my stomach.

He’s unpacking – Rose

My face falls, and a lump rises to my throat. I can just picture his expression as he opened the car door, expecting me to fling my arms around him and start sobbing into his shoulder at his arrival. And I’m not there.

Was he upset? I text back. I bite my nails, my pinky starting to bleed a little. The habit has made my fingers look ghastly these past ninety days.

He seemed okay. How much longer will you be? – Rose

She must hate being alone with him. They’ve never been good friends since I chose to spend time with Lo more than I do with her. But she’s been kind enough to allow him to stay with us.

Maybe ten minutes. After I text her, I scroll through my contacts and land on Lo. I hesitate before I type another quick message. I’m so sorry. I’ll be there soon.

Five slow minutes pass with no response, and I’ve squirmed so much on the seat that Nola asks if she needs to stop somewhere so I can use the bathroom. I decline. I’m so nervous that my bladder probably won’t function properly anyway.

My phone buzzes in my hand, popping my heart from my ribcage. How was the doctor? – Lo

Rose must have clued him in on the reason for my absence. I scheduled my gynecologist appointment four months ago because she’s crazily booked, and I would have canceled if I thought I’d be able to nab an appointment sometime soon. But that’s doubtful. And it didn’t help that my gynecologist is near the University of Pennsylvania in Philly, not even close to Princeton where I now live. Having to drive back has eaten up all of my time.

I had to wait for about an hour. She was running behind, I text.

After a long moment, a new message flashes. Everything’s okay though? – Lo

Oh, that’s what he was asking. I’m so hung up on missing his homecoming that I didn’t think about him being worried. I type back. Yep, looks good. I cringe, wondering if that was a weird reply. I basically just said my vagina looks good—which is kinda strange.

See you soon – Lo

He has always been a brief texter, and right now, I’m cursing him for it. My paranoia grows and the pressure on my chest does not subside. I grip the door handle, about ready to stick my head out of the moving vehicle to puke. Dramatic, I realize, but with our situation—recovering alcoholic and a struggling sex addict—we’re anything but mundane.

Ninety whole days passed and I stayed faithful to Lo. I saw a therapist. But sex still has a way of making me feel better, masking other emotions and filling a deep hollowness. I’m trying to find the healthy kind and not the compulsive “I have to fuck everyday” type of sex. I’m still uncomfortable talking about it, but at least I made progress the same way Lo did in rehab.

My mind whirls right up until Nola pulls into my driveway. All thoughts vacuum out into another dimension, and I dazedly say thanks and drift from the car. Purple hydrangeas frame the three-story house, rocking chairs lined in a row on the porch, and an American flag clings against a metal pole near a weeping willow.

I try to inhale the peacefulness and bury my anxiety, but I end up choking on springtime pollen, coughing into my arm. Why does the prettiest season also have to be the most foul?

I shouldn’t hesitate in the front yard. I should rush right inside and finally touch the man that plagues my fantasies. But I wonder how different he will seem up close in person. I worry about the awkwardness from being apart for so long. Will we fit the same way we used to? Will I feel the same in his arms? Or will everything be irreparably different?

I muster a bit of courage to walk forward. And by the time I climb the porch, the door swings open. I freeze on the highest stair and watch the screen door clatter into the side of the house. Then he emerges, wearing a pair of dark jeans, a black tee, and an arrowhead necklace I gave him for his twenty-first birthday.

I open my mouth to say something, but I can’t stop my eyes from grazing every inch of him. The way his light brown hair is styled, full on top, shorter on the sides. The way his cheekbones sharpen to make him look deadly and gorgeous. The way he reaches up and rubs his lips, as though hoping they’ll touch mine. He rakes my body with the same impatience, and then his head tilts to the side, our eyes finally meeting.

“Hi,” he says, breaking into a breathtaking smile. His chest falls heavily, nearly in sync with my uneven rhythm.

“Hi,” I whisper. A large distance separates us, reminding me of when he first left for rehab. Picking up a foot and closing the gap feels like crawling up a ninety-degree angle. I need him to help me reach the top.

He takes a step near me, snapping the tension. All these sensations burst in my belly. I love him so much. I missed him so much. For three months, I felt the pain of being separated from my best friend while trying to fight my sexual compulsions. I needed him to tell me everything was going to be okay.

I needed him by my side, but I would never take him from rehab for my benefit, not when it would be detrimental to his recovery. And I want Lo to be healthy more than anything. And I want him to be happy.

“I’m back,” he murmurs.

I try to restrain my tears, but they flow unwillingly, sliding from the creases of my eyes. I should be emerging from the doorway to greet him, and he should be the one lingering on the porch stairs. Why are we so backwards all the time?

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, wiping my eyes slowly. “I should have been here an hour ago…”

He shakes his head and his brows pinch together like don’t worry about that.

I stare at the length of him again with a more confident nod. “You look good.” I can’t tell that he’s sober exactly. He hasn’t lost that look in his eye—the one that seems to kiss my soul and trap me altogether. But he’s not beaten or withered or gaunt. In fact, he has more muscle to his name, his biceps supremely cut. And after a Skype session some time ago, I know his whole body matches those arms.

I wait for him to say so do you, but his eyes trail me once more, and I watch the way his chest collapses and his face twists in pain.

I blink. “What is it?” I glance down at my body. I wear jeans and a loose-fitting V-neck, nothing out of the ordinary. I wonder if I spilled coffee on my jeans or something, but I don’t see what he does.

Instead of telling me what worries him, he inches forward, the deep hurt in his eyes frightening me. What did I do wrong? I shuffle back—a reaction I hardly would have predicted for today. I nearly stumble down the stairs, but his arm swoops around my waist, drawing me to his chest, saving me from a plummet into the grass below.

His warmness snares me, and I clutch his arms, afraid to let go. He stares intensely before his gaze drifts to my arms…my hands. He peels one off his bicep, his fingers skimming over mine, stealing the breath right from my lungs. He raises my hand in between us and then lifts my elbow, giving me a good view of my arm.

My chest sinks, realizing the source of his confusion and hurt.

“What the hell, Lil?” he says.

I scratched my arm raw during the last therapy session yesterday, and an ugly red welt will most likely scab tomorrow. Even with gross, bitten fingernails, I managed to irritate my skin.

Lo inspects my nails, his nose flaring to hold back even more emotion.

“I’m fine. I was just…anxious yesterday. Therapy was harder. You were coming home…” I don’t want to talk about this now. I want him to hold me. I want our reunion to be epic—The Notebook worthy. And my stupid anxiety and bad habit has ruined the perfect outcome I imagined. I reclaim my hand and touch his jaw, forcing him to stop focusing on my problems. “I’m okay.”

The words feel a little false. I am not one-hundred percent okay. These past three months were a test I could have easily failed. At times, I thought giving up was better than fighting. But I made it. I’m here.

Lo’s here.

That’s all that matters.

His arms suddenly slide around my back, and he melds my body to his. His lips brush the top of my ear, sending shivers spiraling across my neck. He whispers, “Please don’t lie to me.”

My mouth falls. “I didn’t…” But I can’t finish because tears begin to pool, burning on their way down. I grip his shoulders, holding him tighter, afraid he plans to pull away and leave me broken on the porch. “I’m sorry,” I choke. “Don’t go…”

He edges back, and I cling harder, desperate and afraid. He’s a lifeline I cannot quantify or articulate. I depend on him more than any girl should depend on a boy, but he’s been the backbone of my life. Without him, I will fall.

“Hey.” He gathers my face in his hands. His glassy eyes bring me back to reality. To the fact that he feels my pain just as I feel his. That’s the problem. We hurt so much for each other that it’s hard to say no. It’s hard to take away the vice that will numb the agony of the day. “I’m here,” he says, a silent tear dripping down his cheek. “We’re going to beat this together.”

Yes. “Can you kiss me?” I ask, wondering if that’s allowed. My therapist handed me a white envelope filled with my sexual limitations—what I should and should not do. She advised me not to read it and to give it to Lo instead. Since I’m supposed to strive for intimacy, not celibacy, I need to relinquish my control in bed to him. He’ll set the guidelines and tell me when to stop.

I handed the envelope to Rose yesterday and told her to deliver it to Lo just in case I chickened out. As concerned as Rose has been for my recovery process, I’m sure that was the first thing she did when Lo walked through the door.

I have no idea how many times I can kiss him. How much I can climax or if I’m allowed to have sex anywhere other than a bedroom. I’m so compulsive about intercourse and foreplay that limits have to be set, but following them will be the hardest part of my journey.

His thumb wipes away my tears, and I brush his. I wait for his answer, my eyes glued to his lips that I want to kiss until they sting and swell. His forehead lowers, dipped down towards mine, and I become so aware of how his fingers press into my hips, of the hardness of his body. I need him to close that gap between us. I need him to fill me whole.

Hastily, I meet my lips to his, expecting him to lift me up around his waist, to plunge his tongue in my mouth and slam my back into the siding.

But he doesn’t give in to my desires.

He leans back and breaks the kiss in a matter of seconds. My stomach drops. Lo rarely tells me no when it comes to sex. He’ll play into my cravings until I’m wet and wanting. Things, I realize, are about to really change. “My terms,” he whispers, his voice husky and deep.

My whole body already pulses from his nearness. “Please,” I beg. “I haven’t touched you in so long.” I want to run my hands over him. I want him to thrust into me until I cry. I imagine it over and over, torturing myself with these carnal thoughts. But I also want to be strong and not throw myself at him like he’s only a body I missed. He means so much more to me. Maybe he’s hurt by my persistence to kiss him? Maybe he sees it as a bad sign? “I’m sorry,” I apologize again. “It’s not that I want you for sex…I mean, I do want sex, but I want you because I miss you…and I love you, and I need…” I shake my head. My words sound stupid and desperate.

“Lil,” he says slowly. “Relax, okay?” He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “You don’t think I know this is hard for you? I knew we were going to run into this moment.” His eyes fall to my lips. “I knew you were going to want to kiss me and for me to take you quick and hard. But that’s not going to happen today.”

I nod rapidly, hating those words but trying to soak them in and accept them. Uncontrollable tears begin to flow because I’m afraid I may not be able to restrain my compulsions. I thought being away from Lo would be the difficult part, but learning how to have a healthy, intimate relationship with him suddenly seems impossible. He’s a man that I want to take advantage of every minute of the day. If I’m not doing it, then I fantasize about it. How can I stop?

His breathing shallows, as though my tears are driving knots into his stomach. Mine has already collapsed. I feel utterly destroyed by guilt and shame and desperation.

His fingers dig harder in my sides, as though reminding me that he’s here, touching me. “What’s going to happen,” he breathes, “is that I’m going to carry you through this door. I’m going to draw out every single moment until you’re exhausted. And I’m going to move so slow that three months ago will feel like yesterday. And tomorrow will feel like today, and no one in this fucking universe will be able to say your name without saying mine.”

And then he kisses me, so urgently, so passionately that my lungs suffocate. His tongue gently slips into my mouth, and I savor each and every movement. He kneads the back of my head, gripping my hair, yanking and sending my nerves on overdrive.

His hands fall to my ass, and he effortlessly lifts me up. I wrap my legs around his waist, squeezing tightly into a front-piggyback. He guides me inside, just as he promised. I hook my arms underneath his and press my cheek to his hard chest, listening to the unsteady beat of his heart. We’re so close, but I still ache to be closer. My breath shallows for it.

He kisses the top of my head and carries me into my bedroom on the second floor. Well—our bedroom. My net canopy is pulled back, the comforter black and white with red sheets. Lo rests my back against the mattress, and I reach up to grab a fist-full of his shirt and yank him on top of me. But he steps back and shakes his head.

Slow, I remember. Right.

My legs dangle off the edge, and I prop myself on my elbows as he stands in front of me.

“I’m yours,” he tells me. “I will always be yours, Lily. But now it’s time for you to say it.”

I sit up and my eyes flit over all of him. In all our life, he has never once said to me, you are mine. He has never taken me the way I’ve taken him. He has given himself to me. And I realize, it’s my time to make this right and give myself to him.

“I’m yours,” I whisper.

The muscles in his jaw twitch, almost smiling. “I’ll believe you when I see it.”

I squint. “Then why’d you tell me to say it?”

He leans forward, his lips so close to mine. His palms set on either side of my body, forcing me to fall back a little. I hesitate to kiss him. He’s testing me, I think. “Because I love those words.”

My lips part. Kiss me, I plead. “I’m yours,” I breathe.

His eyes drop to mine, watching me, drawing out the moment. The spot between my legs aches for him. I want the pressure of his body—to rock against me, to fill me, to say my name over and over.

Kiss me. “I’m yours,” I choke, wide-eyed in utter suspense.

And then he sucks on the bottom of my lip, he teasingly bites it and then sinks his pelvis into mine. I buck my hips to meet him and he lets me.

Lo grips the hem of his shirt and tugs it off his head, tossing it aside. Before I run my palms over his taut chest and newly sharpened abs, he laces his fingers with mine. Simultaneously, he puts his knee on the mattress and pulls me higher onto the bed, my head finding the pillow.

He climbs on and keeps my hands trapped in his. Then he stretches my arms high above me, our knuckles knocking into the headboard.

His body hovers over me, no longer melded together. I squirm beneath the space I dearly hate, my heart thudding and raging to be even closer. “Lo…” I can’t take it anymore. My back arches a little as I try to meet his body again, and he tilts his head, disapproving.

So I stay still. I try to let him take control since I need to go slow. His lips lower but linger from touching mine. He keeps that distance as he unbuttons my jeans, relinquishing the hold on my hand. He uses his other to guide my palm to his zipper. Yes. It takes only seconds before I have him unzipped and unbuttoned, tugging his jeans off with familiarity. I wiggle out of mine and he lifts the shirt off my head, in nothing but a black lacy bra and panty set. I did know he was coming home today, after all.

He soaks in the curvature of my body with headiness, and he begins to remove his last article of clothing. “Eyes on me,” he says huskily.

They are permanently fixed to the bulge in his boxer-briefs. “They are,” I mumble. Technically this is a part of him.

“My eyes, love, not my cock,” he says, a smile behind the words.

I raise my gaze as he slips off his boxer-briefs. Watching the way he looks at me nearly sends me into a tailspin. I swallow and can’t help but catch a glimpse. Oh God, I need him now. He’s hard and as wanting as I am, but yet, he has restraint.

I do not.

He could easily take advantage of my eagerness, most guys would. But in order to help me, he has to control my impatience and my compulsion to go again. And again. Because my addiction isn’t entirely a one-way street the way his is. I need his body in order to satisfy these unhealthy desires.

So he must say no at some point. I just don’t want it to be soon.

He leans forward again, and his lips begin their descent from my neck to my belly button, sucking, nibbling—teasing. My hands grip his back while I hold a moan deep in my throat.

He kisses my hipbone and gently slips off my panties, the cold air nipping the most sensitive places. I expect his lips to warm the spot, but he eases off me and unclips my bra, sliding the straps off my shoulders so, so slowly. The light touch taunts my nerves and my sanity. His tongue runs between my breasts and then dips back into my mouth. And that’s when his arms scoop around me and lift me up in a tight embrace, my breasts melding into his muscles, my limbs nearly tangled in his. My legs wrap around his waist, and I ache to lower onto his cock. But he keeps his arms locked around my chest, forcing me above his lap.

“Sit on your legs,” he tells me.

“But…”

He lightly kisses me and tears away while I try to go in for another stronger one. “Sit on your legs, Lil. Or I’ll do it for you.”

That sounds better. He sees the glimmer in my eyes, and he picks up my right leg and bends my knee so my heel is underneath my butt. As he goes for the left, his hand skims up my thigh and to the crease of my ass. Holy…

Okay, I’m sitting on my heels now, trying not to come before he enters me. What if my therapist wrote that I can only climax once? Besides that sounding like torture, I hope to have sex with Lo today. I will not ruin that by going crazy with foreplay.

I’m still sitting straight up, and his body has not drifted from mine. His heart pounds against my chest, and he cups my face in his hand.

“Breathe,” he tells me. “Just remember to breathe.”

And then with measured unhurriedness, he gradually rests my back onto my comforter and slowly begins to slip inside of me. The position allows for such deep entry that I cry out and grab onto his shoulder for support.

His forehead rests near mine, and he raises my chin, kissing me forcefully, just how I like it, before he begins to rock agonizingly slow. Each movement mimics our heavy breaths. My parted lips brush his as he digs deeper. I whimper, my toes already curling, my head already flying off my body.

His hand massages my breast, but his eyes never once leave mine. Hot tears seep from the creases, the intensity and emotion driving me to a peak so high that every time I breathe in, he breathes out, as though keeping me alive for this moment. I melt into his slow movement, the way he disappears inside of me, and the pace that causes my body to light on fire.

“Don’t stop…” I cry. “…Lo…” I tremble, and his arms slip around my back again, holding me tighter.

He speeds up a little, and I feel the top of the hill. I see us climbing together.

And then he thrusts and holds inside of me. I buck and cry and claw at his back. My whole body pulsing, my heart thrumming—I am his.

I collapse back onto the bed, too exhausted to lift an arm or a leg. He takes care of me, bending my knees and stretching my legs out from the last position. He rests his hands on my kneecaps, and leans forward to kiss me again. I taste the salt from our sweat, and I raise my hand to grab the back of his hair, my eagerness suddenly replacing the tiredness from our emotional sex. But he laces his fingers into mine, stopping me.

I frown. “No?” Only once?

He shakes his head and then kisses my temple. “I love you,” he whispers, his breath tickling my ear.

“I love you too,” I tell him. But I do want to wrap my legs tightly around him, giving him no choice but to harden and take me again. He scrutinizes me closely, and he must see my impatience for round two.

His eyes narrow. “Not now.”

I bite my lip. “Are you going to tell me what’s in the envelope?” What did my therapist restrict? The answer is killing me right now.

“Nope,” he says. “You’ll just want it even more if you know it’s forbidden.”

I squint at him. “You’re getting too smart.”

He grins. “When it comes to you, I am.” He kisses the outside of my lips. I love and hate when he does that. “Just so you know,” he whispers, “I’d love nothing more than to fill you again. I’d do it a million times a day if I could.”

“I know,” I murmur.

He brushes my sweaty hair off my face.

And I inhale a deep breath. “I’m just glad you’re home.” I have Lo back. That’s all that should matter right now. Not a round two or a three, but just him present, on the road to being healthy, and in love with me. That’s all I should need.

I can’t wait to reach that place. I just hope it’s attainable.

He relaxes next to me, and I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat while he runs his hand through my hair. This is nice.

I almost drift to sleep, but the chime of a cellphone snaps my eyes open. “Whose is it?”

He reaches over onto my nightstand. “Mine.” He flips the cell in his palm, and I crane my neck over his shoulder and see a text box.

I know your girlfriend’s secret. – Unknown

I shoot up, fear snapping me cold. Did I read that wrong? I snatch the phone out of his hand, and he grabs it back.

“Lil, calm down,” he says, trying to shield the screen from me as he types a reply.

“Who is that?” I’ve been so careful. I’ve never told anyone I had a sex addiction other than Lo, and now Rose, Connor, and Ryke. Did they let my secret slip to someone else?

I bite my fingernail, and Lo clasps my hand while texting with the other. His eyes flicker to me, narrowing in disapproval.

When the ping sounds again, I basically climb on top of Lo so he can’t hide the message. I read quickly.

Who the fuck are you? – Lo

Someone you hate. – Unknown. Okay, that does not narrow anything down. Lo’s enemies from prep school and college are numerous and vast. It happened when he retaliated against all the people who thought they could bully him into submission.

Lo tries to push me off, but I have my arm wrapped around his neck, close to choking him, so he lets me be. We’re still naked, but I’m too frantic to be aroused.

Fuck off – Lo

“That’s your response?” I say, wide-eyed. “You’re egging the person on.”

“If you don’t like it, then you shouldn’t be reading my personal texts or spidering me like a koala bear.”

True.

And lose out on all the money the tabloids will pay me when I tell them Lily Calloway is a sex addict? …Never – Unknown

I blink. Reread the text. And gawk. No.

“Lil,” Lo says, shutting off his phone. “It’s okay. That’s not going to happen. Look at me.” He holds my face in his hands, forcing my eyes to his. “That’s not going to happen. I won’t let it. I’ll hire someone to go find this asshole. I’ll pay him off more than he’ll get from the tabloids.”

He’s forgetting something. “You’re broke,” I say. His father took away his trust fund because he dropped out of college. Lo hasn’t spoken to him since he left for rehab. He’s alone and poor and all my money is tied up with my family. And they don’t know about my addiction either. I’d rather not tell them. Ever.

His features darken, remembering. “I’ll think of something else then.”

The shame that my family will feel if they find out—the hurt and disappointment—I can’t bear to even think about it. A female sex addict? A slut. A male sex addict? A hero. How much will I tarnish my father’s company with the news? Sure, not a lot of people outside of our social circle know my name or who I am, but could this make tabloid headlines? Why wouldn’t it? Lily Calloway: daughter of the founder of Fizzle, a sex addict and a whore.

It’s juicy enough to satiate gossip columnists everywhere.

“Lo,” I say as tears threaten to fall. “I’m scared.”

He hugs me, drawing me close. “Everything is going to be okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

I hold onto his words and repeat them over and over, hoping that will truly be enough.

{ 2 } LOREN HALE

I fist a bottle of cheap vodka by the neck. I can’t think straight. My emotions are black. My heart is about there. My lengthy stride is filled with deplorable hate. I don’t run. I walk quickly up the steep driveway, the alcohol clenched in my hand, a million-dollar home staring right back at me.

The door. All I see is that black door and the bronze knocker.

I slam my fist against it, pounding. No one answers. I don’t even hear footsteps. “Open up!” I yell. I pound again and again. Fuck this.

I take the bottle and swing. The glass smashes. The contents shatter, the liquid dripping down the bronze knocker, trailing the black wood and running beneath my soles.

“Fucking hell,” Ryke curses behind me. “Was that necessary?”

The door blows open.

“Yes.”

I told Ryke to wait in the car and I mentioned how the only way Aaron Wells would creep out of his parents’ home (like the rat that he is) is if I started fucking with his things. Starting with that door. I was prepared to move onto his BMW—a shard of glass to decorate the hood. Now I don’t have to go that far.

But I’m not surprised Ryke parked on the curb and followed me up the hill. He likes to do that—tag along and make sure I’m not about to self-destruct. That’s usually Lily’s job, and I’d choose her over him any day of the week. But not right now.

Not when an old prep school prick stands five feet in front of me.

He has dirty blond hair (practically brown), blue eyes and that smug Dalton Academy smile that I remember so well. He’s the first guy that came to mind when we received the texts. What I did to him back in prep school was fucked up, but our rivalry should have never included Lily. And he shouldn’t be tormenting her now.

Aaron appraises the shattered glass. “I shouldn’t be surprised. The stench smells exactly like you.”

Ryke is about to take a step forward, and I grab his arm to stop him. We’re not punching Wells, as much as I’d like to. This is not that type of fight.

“I’ve met you before,” Aaron says, scanning Ryke from his dark hair to his lean muscles that nearly match mine. “Where was that?” He feigns confusion.

Ryke glares. “I should have smashed your fucking face in.”

When I heard what happened while I was gone, I really wish Ryke had.

Lily’s mother paired her with Aaron at a company party, and he threatened Lily the entire time, basically telling her that he’d screw with her to get to me. (Why? Because he hates me. There’s no other reason for that.) And I just had to hear the news in rehab without doing a goddamn thing. Now that he’s moved to Level 2—somehow learning about her sex addiction and wanting money—I’m here, ready to fuck with him the same way he fucked with her.

“Oh right,” Aaron says without missing a beat, “I was Lily’s date to a Fizzle event, and you showed up like her white knight while this one was in rehab.” He cocks his head at me. And I internally grimace at the reminder that Ryke was there for Lily these past three months. I wasn’t.

But this, right here, is why I know Aaron sent those texts. He’s recently made it clear that he wants to toy with me by going through Lily, stirring up our old rivalry.

Two can play this game.

“Thanks for escorting her,” I tell him. “She said it was painful staring at your ugly face all night, but I think we all know you weren’t there to please her.” My double-edged words even make me cringe. I don’t like to think about any other guy pleasing Lily. Not before we became a real couple. And definitely not after.

My heart beats so fucking fast. I take a step towards him, the glass crunching.

He stiffens, and I wait to see if he has the balls to shove me back.

Nope. I take my chances and squeeze between the door frame and his immobilized body. He stares right at me. Eye for eye. And I invite myself inside.

“Wow, this place hasn’t changed,” I say, walking further in. I stare at the high vaulted ceilings and the marble floors. Ryke follows me, and Aaron closes the door behind us, his lip curled. I point at the cellar door by the kitchen. “Should we crack open a bottle of wine?”

His eyes flash murderously.

“Maybe not then.”

Ryke hangs back, but if Aaron even raises a fist, he’d be right by my side. That kind of support feels good. I’ve never once had that. Growing up, I always took the beating or found an escape. Fights were always me against a million. No one was in my corner. I wouldn’t let Lily be involved, and if she was, it was guys like Aaron that deviously pulled her in, knowing she was my best friend.

They’d fuck with her just to reach me.

And that’s not happening.

Aaron watches me closely.

“Who’s home?” I ask him.

“No one,” he says, his face blank.

I don’t believe him. “Your parents are in Barbados for the weekend.” Thank you Connor Cobalt with your great tech-savvy skills.

Aaron lets out a dry laugh. “Did your father find that out for you?”

Oh yeah, Ryke wasn’t the one to deter Aaron at the Fizzle event. While Lily was trying to dodge Aaron all night, she told me that my father came in and saved her. Leave it to my dad to inject debilitating fear into someone. Lily said Aaron fled the event after that. Never made a peep again. “My father didn’t help me figure out who’s at your house,” I say, “but I should call him up, thank him for molesting you with his words.”

“You’re a sick fucking guy,” Aaron says, “you know that?”

I’m just getting started. “Julie!” I shout. “Julie, come out, come out!”

Ryke wavers behind me. He’s seen me like this. I used to attack him. I still do. Plenty of times. But this is different. I am fueled by hate so deep that I can barely breathe.

Aaron glances hesitantly at the balcony above the double staircase. His house was used for debutant balls just for that entrance.

“JULIE!” I yell.

Aaron steps towards me, his hand leveled out as though he comes in peace. “Hey, I told your father I’d lay off Lily, okay? We made a deal. I stuck to it. I haven’t done shit to her since the event.”

“JULIE!”

The door clatters upstairs.

Aaron talks faster, “I was pissed that night. I applied for a job, and they denied my application. I didn’t even get an interview because of you.”

“You’re going to blame me?” I glare. He should. With my father’s help, I called up his dream college and had the Dean take a second look at Wells. Next thing you know, he’s going to his safety school, not even waitlisted to the place he thought he had in the bag. We rerouted his future.

“I can’t compete with Ivy grads. Now I have to work for my father.”

A pair of feet pads across the second story.

“Don’t do this,” Aaron sneers, but he’s pleading. “I only scared Lily a little. I wasn’t going to force her or anything. I promise you.” He’s never had sex with her, thank God. If I ran into one of her old hookups, I don’t know what my reaction would be.

“That’s what you always do, isn’t it?” I say. “You scare her. Well, grab a membership card Aaron. You’re about to be fucking terrified.”

Right on cue, a girl with the same dirty blonde hair grips the balcony railing, leaning over to stare at me from below. “Loren Hale.”

“Julie, go back to your room,” Aaron tells her, fear spiking his voice.

“What am I, four?” she snaps. She wears dark lipstick and a shit ton of eyeliner. She’s his fraternal twin. And a girl I may have fucked once or twice when I was sixteen, depending on the day. The difference between Lily and me is that I actually dated Julie (for two whole weeks) at a time when I wasn’t in a fake relationship with my best friend.

Lily, however, fucks once and then moves on.

And after a long, long struggle, I have finally become her only exception.

“Hi Julie,” I say. “Can you come here for a second?”

“What’s this about?” She looks between Aaron and me, taking in Aaron’s stiff posture. “Aaron, it’s been years since I was with Lo. Seriously, get over it.” But she’s wrong. Our fight didn’t start because I dated her. She was just a bullet in my gun. One of the things I used to hurt him. Fucking his sister—that’s the easiest trick in the book. Something my father would have done. Something that I hate I did. I can barely even stomach the memory.

I just thank God that Julie is as deplorable as her brother and me. She used me just as much as I used her—wanting to get back at her ex-boyfriend. He didn’t care as much as she wished he did.

“Julie,” I snap. “Come here. Now.” I’m not fucking around. Well, I kind of am. But you should see Aaron’s face. He’s about to shit his pants. He has no idea what I’m going to do. Hell, I have no idea what I plan to do either. I just know that his family is his weak spot the same way Lily is mine.

She descends the stairs, barefoot. Her curious gaze lingers on Ryke. “You’re hot.”

“Julie,” Aaron cringes.

“Can I see your phone?” I ask Aaron. Now that Julie is here, he’ll be more willing to hand it over. She’s a distraction and a warning.

His brows furrow. “What for?”

“Just give it to me.”

Julie sighs heavily like this is boring her. “Just give him the phone, Aaron.”

Aaron slips his phone out of his pocket and hands it to me. I scroll through his previous texts, trying to find my number stored somewhere. But the entire thing is blank.

“Why’d you delete all of your texts?”

“I always do,” Aaron says. “My mother likes to check my phone.”

“You’re twenty-two.” He’s not a teenager needing approval to sleep over a friend’s house. He’s an adult.

“Yeah? That hasn’t changed her from being nosy.”

I still don’t believe him. I can’t.

“What’s your name?” Julie asks Ryke, biting her lip as though that’ll drop him to his knees.

“Ryke,” he says.

“Ryke, how do you know Loren?”

“He’s my brother.”

Her brows shoot up. “Wow, I didn’t know he had a brother.”

“Neither did I,” I say, shoving the phone back in Aaron’s palm. “Did you use a fake phone? A disposable?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Aaron says, his eyes wide. “I didn’t do shit to you or Lily. I told you, your father—”

“I don’t believe you,” I say, not really sure what I believe. He could be lying. Out of everyone I know, he’s the most likely to threaten Lily. If I can end it all right here, right now, that’s what I’ll do.

“You’re out of your fucking mind!” Aaron screams.

Ryke steps forward to my defense. “Says the guy who spent two hours chasing a girl around a ballroom, terrifying her beyond fucking words.”

“Wow,” Julie says, “you’re sexy when you’re mad.”

“Julie!” Aaron shouts. “Leave, now. Get the fuck out of here.”

Julie rolls her eyes and drops off the tips of her feet like Aaron popped her entertainment. She nods to me. “It’s nice to see you again, Loren. I’m sorry my brother can’t get over our relationship.”

“Yeah, he has trouble letting things go.” If I was him, I would still be full of resentment. I don’t blame him at all. I just hate that I drove him to this place—to a point where he could attack Lily while I was at rehab. I was such a stupid fucking kid. I still am sometimes.

I could be going about this the wrong way right now. But it’s the only thing I know how to do. And it works. I use my words. Threaten the guy who’s threatening me.

Julie walks off to the kitchen, in plain view. Mostly so Ryke can see her bend low as she grabs a pan from the cupboard. She looks back to make sure he caught sight of her ass. He didn’t. His eyes haven’t left Aaron. But as I watch her, Aaron is seconds from imploding, dropping on his knees, and giving me what I want. I can’t take credit for that. I think, partly, my father’s previous threats have already sunk in.

“Where’s your disposable phone?” I ask again.

Ryke puts his hand on my arm, and he whispers, “I don’t think he did it.”

I don’t want to believe that. Because then I’ll be clueless.

I’ll have no idea who else it could be.

Aaron holds up his hands in defense. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m not the only guy who hates you, Loren. So whatever is going on, maybe you should think about who else you pissed off all these years. I can’t imagine college was that pleasant for you.”

Yeah…I may be fucked.

I nod to myself. But if he is the guy who sent me those texts, I’m not just going to leave here without insurance that he won’t do something again. I have to have the last word. So I lean in and I say, “If you scare my girlfriend again, you’ll wish all you had to worry about was working for your fucking daddy.” My eyes flicker to Julie once. “And you should start eating your sister’s makeup. Your insides are fucking ugly.”

He could easily say as are yours. But nothing comes from his mouth. He’s solidified in a mixture of hate and fear—emotions that are floating all around his house right now.

I don’t wait for him to reanimate.

I leave.

And on the way to the car, Ryke says, “You didn’t tell me you’d be fucking with his sister.”

“Does it matter?”

He stares straight ahead, his eyes dark.

“She was objectifying you, Ryke,” I tell him. “She was two seconds from pulling down your pants and climbing on your dick.”

“Like Lily?” he snaps back.

“Fuck. You.” I swing open the car door. It’s not the same thing. Lily—she’s my best friend. I’m not a conquest of hers. If that were true, she wouldn’t still be with me. I wouldn’t be able to satisfy her for so long.

“Sorry,” Ryke barely apologizes, his harsh tone never softening. “I just don’t want to see another girl get caught in the fucking crossfires of your feuds.”

“I’m not going to hurt her. He just has to think I am.”

Ryke stares at me for a long moment. “Did our father teach you that?”

“Yeah,” I say. “He also taught me how to get in a car and drive the fuck away.”

Ryke nods. “Glad to know you’re still an asshole, even without the booze.”

“Must be genetic.”

Ryke smiles at this, and we both climb into his Infinity. I don’t feel better after this. Because I don’t even remember some of the people I pissed off.

I drowned most of them in a haze of whiskey and bourbon.

They’re gone from my mind for good.

{ 3 } LILY CALLOWAY

“Is this an interrogation or a meeting?” Ryke asks roughly. He slouches on our navy Queen Anne chair with a deep scowl, sweat stains seeping through a Penn track shirt.

There are only three people who could have possibly spilled my secret. And the guy at the top of my suspect list has yet to crumble. Although, very little ruffles Ryke Meadows.

And here he sits—edged, all hard-lines, his eyes perpetually narrowed and his demeanor cocky and self-assured. He managed to become a part of Lo’s life. He infiltrated our group, and he has never made a move to leave. He either cares about his brother so much that he’s willing to endure almost anything or he’s scheming for something greater—something that could overturn my whole world.

So it’s true that I’ve been hammering Ryke with questions, and I’m about one step away from shining a blinding light in his face to get real serious. But I have a right to freak out. My life is seconds from crumbling.

Lo passes Ryke a bottle of water.

I shoot Lo a wide-eyed look. He shouldn’t be giving him sustenance until we have answers. That could have been our only bargaining chip. “Who says he gets water?” I blurt out.

Their brows crinkle as though I’ve lost some brain cells. Okay, so I’m being irrational. What else is new?

Ryke raises a hand. “I’m sorry, but is anyone else concerned for my safety here?”

Lo ignores his brother and clasps my hand, pulling me to the sofa. My leg touches his, but the closeness doesn’t calm me. Since I read the text, panic has overpowered my chance at being composed and sane.

I don’t want to act like this, but my only other way of coping with high-stress situations involves grinding and climaxing and everything I’m not allowed to do.

Rose’s heels clap down the hallway. “Connor should be here any minute now.” She sits on the pale yellow loveseat adjacent to the couch, crossing her ankles. In a black pleated skirt and a high-collared silk blouse, she looks far classier than anyone else in the room.

“Great, so you can direct this interrogation on someone else,” Ryke says, eyeing me with a tad bit of scorn. But in Ryke Meadows’ case, there’s probably a little pinch of love in there. At least I hope we made some progress while Lo was in rehab. Sure, we had a rocky three months, but Lo was always our common ground.

But if he’s behind some larger plot to ruin Lo’s life—and consequently mine—I’ll never forgive him.

Lo runs a hand on my bouncing leg, trying to settle my nerves. “I’m going to take care of it, Lil,” he says softly.

And my interrogation aside, Ryke gives him a dark, furtive look. I’ve seen it before. It’s the kind you share with someone when you have a secret.

I gasp. “Have you done something without me?”

Lo shakes his head. “No.” He won’t meet my eyes.

I smack his chest. “You’re a lying liar, and we’re supposed to be truthful.”

“Well,” he draws out the word, “if the guy keeps texting us, we may or may not be able to cross Aaron Wells off our suspect list.”

“May or may not?” Rose says. “That sounds like no progress.”

“I did what I did. I’m not going to take it back.” His voice is sharp.

All I hear is Aaron Wells, and I go cold. “What did you do?” Aaron is not someone I ever want to see again.

Rose mutters something under her breath that sounds like vandalize.

“I just talked to him,” Lo says.

I look to Ryke for verification. Clearly he was a part of this plot, which only makes me more nervous.

“Yeah, we just talked,” Ryke says. “All of Aaron’s texts were deleted, which was suspect.”

Lo nods in agreement, and then he leans closer and kisses my cheek. “Okay?” he whispers to me.

I don’t think that’s the right word. I stare at the rug with a faraway gaze.

“What about Ryke?” Rose asks. She holds a small teacup between her tight fingers. She offered me a glass earlier, but I declined. I’m not sure my body can handle ingesting anything else today. I’m already bloated with fear.

“Not this again.”

“You know about Lily’s sex addiction. You could have told someone.”

Ryke glares. “So do you.”

“Be real. She’s my sister. I’m not going to backstab her.”

“And she’s my brother’s girlfriend,” he snaps back. “Why don’t you focus your attention on the guy who could easily spill this information for a fucking price?”

“Don’t you dare.” Rose points a warning finger at him.

“Why? Connor came into the picture around the same time I did. He learned about her sex addiction at the same exact time as us, and he has more to gain than we do. And he has less to lose.”

“He would lose me,” Rose retorts.

I never wanted to believe that Connor could turn on me like that. I still won’t entertain the thought for longer than a second. He’s too nice (in his own way). But Ryke…

Lo scrutinizes his brother for a long moment. “Maybe Rose has a point.”

“What?” Ryke leans forward. “You can’t be serious.”

“You may be my half-brother, but you’re also a liar. I think we established that the moment we met.”

“Oh come on.”

“Let’s go back a few months. You came into my life, told me you’re some student wanting to do a fake project on heirs to billion-dollar companies—”

“Lily made that lie up,” Ryke interjects.

I gape. Way to throw me under! But I already came clean to Lo about that, so there is only a morsel of shame.

Lo rolls his eyes. “Whatever, you knew the whole time that I was your brother, and yet, you never said a word to any of us.”

“You have to be shitting me,” Ryke says. They must have had this argument multiple times while Lo was in rehab. I wasn’t allowed to visit him, but under some strange guidelines, Ryke was. I’m a little confused how their relationship has developed since I’ve been away from Lo—but clearly bitterness has festered.

Lo lets out an unhinged laugh. “I’m the bastard. I tore apart your parent’s marriage when I was born. You should hate me. I would hate me.” He takes a small breath. “And then I would build an elaborate scheme to tear me down. Piece by piece. Starting with Lily. So forgive me if I’m having a hard time trusting you one-hundred-and-ten percent.”

I can’t tell if Ryke is angry or upset by Lo’s declaration, but I know this goes beyond my silly accusation. Deep hurt fills Lo’s words.

“Really? Even after everything I’ve done while you’ve been in rehab?” Ryke asks.

“You mean keeping your cock away from my girlfriend. Yeah, thanks.”

My eyes bug. I would jerk away from Lo if his hand wasn’t pressed so tightly to my hip. Something’s wrong. I can sense it. We handle stress differently. I fuck and he drinks. Now that we can’t do either, we’re both trying to learn how to deal with it in a healthy manner. Trying is the key word here.

“You know that’s not it,” Ryke refutes.

“Sure.”

This one word makes Ryke look more livid than the past twenty, and I think this is it. Ryke is about to throw up his hands and leave. Lo tenses beside me, probably expecting the same thing. We alienate people. It’s what we’re good at.

“If I wanted to hurt you by creating some elaborate plot, I would have already screwed Lily. And I sure as hell wouldn’t bother spending time with you.”

I want to trust Ryke, mainly because he’s the only family Lo has for support, but he’s a good liar like Lo said. He even fooled me.

Lo flashes his usual bitter smile, normally accompanied with the raise of his bourbon. I can’t make sense of where his thoughts lie.

Before I can whisper in his ear to ask, the front door opens, and the silence settles like a weight. Connor’s loafers hit the hardwood, the noise heightening the tension.

He appears from the foyer, his thick wavy brown hair styled perfectly, as though he’s ready for a congressional speech at any moment. He slips his cellphone in his black slacks, his white button-down tucked in the waistband. From afar, he inspects Ryke’s stiff posture on the Queen Anne chair and Lo’s death clutch on the couch’s armrest.

“I missed something,” Connor states. “Was it good?” He looks to Rose.

“Only if you enjoy the intelligible mumblings of Neanderthals.” Her tone is pure ice.

“Good one, Rose,” Lo says flatly.

But Connor rubs his lips to keep from smiling further. And when Connor smiles at my sister, I instantly straighten up and lean forward like two orbiting stars are about to touch and kiss. I want to be present when they do.

Lo pinches my hip as Connor takes a seat next to Rose, sliding his arm along the back of the cushion behind her.

“You’re my girlfriend,” Lo whispers huskily in my ear, teasing me to take his side of things. But in a game of wits, I should choose the smart option and go with my sister. Or Connor. Lo is a losing battle.

“You’re my boyfriend,” I say the obvious. He edges closer, and my heart pounds, his lips right there. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

He eases back.

Damn. I wish I had Professor Xavier’s power, but then again, I wouldn’t want to force Lo to kiss me. I’d want him to want it as much as I do.

Connor gestures a hand between Ryke and Lo. “I’m sensing tension here.”

“Lo was just thanking me for not fucking Lily,” Ryke says.

“Exactly,” Lo replies, his voice equally as dry.

Connor doesn’t even blink. “Must be a brother thing.” He casually turns to Rose, whispers something in her ear and presses a light kiss on her cheek. I cannot believe I’m envious of a kiss right now. But I really am. I want that kiss. Not from Connor! Just to be clear. From Lo. I want the kiss from Lo. My cheeks redden just accidentally thinking the wrong thing. Jeez.

“You okay?” Lo whispers.

I nod, squirm a little, and rest my cheek on the crook of his arm, safe in his embrace. His muscular body dwarfs my overly skinny frame. I’m working on being healthier too. All skin and bones is not a good look.

Rose puts her hands up to Connor’s chest, blocking him from scooting closer. “A brother thing? What’s going on here is not normal between brothers. You don’t see Greg Brady thanking Peter for not having sex with Marsha.”

“No because that would be incest,” Connor says.

She shoots him a look. “It’s not incestuous because Marsha is only the stepsister.”

“True.” His eyes flit to her lips and back to her sharp gaze. “And I’m surprised you used the word ‘normal.’ I thought we agreed last week that it’s arbitrary and too subjective to have any real merit.”

She gives me a look like why am I with him again?

I smile and really want to say: Because you’re two nerd stars, orbiting and meant to kiss. But that won’t make sense to anyone but me.

Rose and Connor have had an odd three months together, constantly breaking up over intellectual disputes like this and reuniting only a week later. Their relationship is something I can’t quantify or really understand. I think maybe you have to have a higher IQ or something. But I love watching them like Lo and I do Japanese cartoons. We can’t comprehend what they’re saying, but it’s still fun to tune in every week.

Rose points a manicured finger at his chest. “You can’t discount an entire word just because you don’t think it has merit, Richard.” Ooh, she used his real first name. “You’re basically saying Foucault’s entire sociological studies were worthless.”

My head hurts trying to listen to them, but I’m strangely enthralled.

“Hey,” Lo cuts in, clapping his hands. They both look at us like we’ve just appeared in the room. “You two can discuss normal people and Faulkner later.”

“Foucault,” Rose corrects him.

“What?”

“It’s Foucault. Not Faulkner.”

“Whatever, they both start with an F,” Lo snaps. “You know what else starts with an F?”

“Fuck you,” Connor beats him to it. He also says it so casually—like he’s trying to answer an Academic Bowl question. I can’t help but break out into a grin.

Lo catches me smiling and gives me a look. I press my lips together to try to contain it, but it’s too hard and I probably seem goofy instead. The corner of his mouth quirks. My heart flutters because for the first time in three months, I can see these reactions.

He draws forward and places a light kiss on my nose. I didn’t even have to chant kiss me for him to do it. I bite my bottom lip, giddiness replaced by dangerous thoughts. Of yanking Lo into the bedroom, easing him onto the mattress, straddling his waist and skimming my fingers over each ridge in his abs. And then his half-smile will extend to his whole face, the grin enough to light up my body.

I could mumble some lame excuse to leave the meeting, but my throat tightens and guilt festers, even though I haven’t taken a step towards my bedroom yet. Planning out the events makes me feel like a failure. Why is that?

“You look good by the way,” Connor tells Lo.

“Thanks.”

I forgot they haven’t seen each other since Lo’s stint in rehab. I squint at Connor and put him on my pedestal of suspects. Maybe Ryke is right. In return for the info about my sex addiction, Connor could bribe his way into Wharton—the prestigious graduate school at Penn where he plans to go for an MBA.

Connor meets my gaze, and his brow arches like he knows I’m unlawfully incriminating him.

He can see straight through me.

My cheeks redden, and I immediately overturn my hasty judgments. There’s no way Connor would sell me out. He finds cheating too easy, and he’s more moral than 99% of our family’s social circle. So that leaves Ryke. And Rose. But Rose would be more likely to burn her entire fashion line—Calloway Couture—than throw me to the cannibalistic media. And she loves her collection like a mother does a baby.

Lo isn’t so quick to let Connor go free. “Did you tell anyone?” he asks.

“No one,” he says calmly.

Lo scratches the back of his neck. “We spent years without anyone knowing Lily’s secret. Then she tells you guys, and a few months later, she’s being threatened about it. I may have dropped out of college, but I can fucking add those pieces together.”

Connor looks him over once. “You were expelled from college, but it’s nice to hear that you’re taking accountability.”

Somehow that insult didn’t seem so bad. It’s all true.

Penn kicked Lo out after he stopped showing up to class, and he could have attended another college, but he decided to go to rehab and work on getting sober instead.

Lo sighs heavily, frustrated. He just wants answers. I think we all do.

“You’re missing a piece,” Connor tells him.

Lo tenses, and a little bit of hope surges through me. If anyone can uncover this mystery, it’ll be Connor Cobalt. And most likely Rose too.

“Lily just started seeing a sex therapist that specializes in addiction.”

“You think someone saw her go into the office?” Lo asks.

“It’s probable. Why don’t you try tracing the number?”

“It’s unknown.”

“So?”

“I’m sorry. Hacking into phone numbers just isn’t in my repertoire. Lily, you?” He looks to me, and I shake my head. “Didn’t think so.”

“Oh, no,” Connor says quickly, “I know you can’t do something that difficult. I just thought maybe you knew someone who could.”

Ryke cuts in, “You’re actually admitting you can’t do something, Cobalt?” He looks about ready to jump off the Queen Anne and call the press. Oh wait, he is the press. Maybe he’ll write an article about it tomorrow in The Philadelphia Chronicle and title it: “Connor Cobalt Doesn’t Know Everything!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Connor says, poker-faced. “I know how to do it. But I won’t. It’s illegal.”

Ryke rolls his eyes and grips his water bottle tighter. I guess that article won’t be happening.

Rose takes a dainty sip from her tea and says, “It’s still illegal if you pay someone to do it for you.”

“And if you’re smart about it, you won’t be caught.”

That thing I said about Connor being moral? Scratch that. He masks his emotions so much that I didn’t see his cunning ways. Still, I don’t think he would risk losing Rose for a seat at Wharton. At least, I hope not.

“Lo and I already discussed tracing the number,” I speak up. “All my contacts know my family. My parents would start asking questions if I hired a private investigator.” And the whole goal is to keep them in the dark as long as possible. I’m thinking forever is a good amount of time.

Lo nods. “We also don’t want to involve any unreliable third parties. I don’t want to be screwed over by them.”

I perk up as I think of an example. “Like a hacker that lives in his parent’s basement.”

“Yeah,” Lo says. “I don’t see that going very well.”

“I have a trustworthy PI that I can hire,” Connor says. “That’s not a problem.”

Rose smiles into her last sip of tea.

“I’ll pay you back,” I tell Connor.

“I prefer favors.”

Okay, that sounds sexual. When I think of favors, I picture blow jobs.

My face immediately heats, and I try looking away but everyone is already staring at me. I’m doomed.

“Lily!” I hear three voices in varying pitches chastise me. Lo puts an arm over my shoulder and I restrain myself from hiding in his bicep. I will not cower.

I point to Connor accusingly. “He said it, not me!”

“I wasn’t talking about sexual favors,” Connor refutes calmly.

I point to my chest now. “Sex addict, here. My brain has an automatic setting. I’m not going to be thinking party favors.”

Bringing up the words sex addict was a bad idea, and I regret it as soon as Ryke says, “Speaking of being a sex addict.” I could punch him. “How’s your recovery going to work now that Lo’s back? Are you two allowed to have sex together?”

“It’s complicated,” I mutter. “And I don’t think I should be discussing it with you.”

“She can have some sex,” Lo clarifies, apparently un-complicating it.

I want to disintegrate just a little.

“What is some sex?” Ryke asks.

Okay, a lot—I want to disintegrate a lot, a lot.

“I can’t talk about it,” Lo says evasively. But really he means: I can’t talk about it in front of Lily. Because I have no idea what “some” entails either. It’s going to drive me bonkers.

I also don’t like that Lo is so quick to share intimate details of our private lives, but I guess he’s trying to be better about opening up. And it must be easier to focus on my addiction than his own.

“What happens if you start enabling her?” Rose asks, setting her teacup on the table.

“I won’t,” Lo says with an added glare.

I wish I could conquer my addiction by myself, but my therapist already explained that abstinence isn’t the answer since sex is a natural part of life, unlike alcohol. A person can go forever without tasting liquor, but almost everyone has sex when they reach a certain age. And sex involves two people.

So I have to learn how to have a healthy sex life with Lo instead of the one where he feeds into my compulsions. And I can work on being more self-reliant without turning to self-love.

I sigh. It’s all so complicated. It all feels so hard.

“This isn’t the same as Lily giving you a glass of whiskey, Loren,” Rose says. “We’ll all be able to tell if you drink, but none of us will have a clue if you’re enabling her.” Because that means he’ll let me fuck him exactly how I want, when I want. I’ll be so high and so full of Loren Hale that I won’t ever want to leave the bedroom and meet real life.

It sounds so much better than it should.

“You didn’t know I was an alcoholic for years,” Lo refutes. “Believe me, you won’t know if I fall off the wagon one time. It’s the same.”

“I’ll be able to tell,” Ryke says.

“And me,” Connor adds. “I had no clue Lily was addicted to sex, but it didn’t take more than a day for me to figure out that you had an alcohol problem.”

Ryke scratches his hard jaw, cut like stone. “You knew he was addicted, and you drank beer with him? In fact, I saw you buying him Fat Tire at a bar.”

“He’s a true friend,” Lo says with a bitter smile. He says things just to agitate people, I swear.

Ryke looks like he wants to stand up and smack the back of his head.

Rose spins on Connor, and he doesn’t cower beneath her penetrating gaze. “You knew and you drank beer with him?”

“I just met him. I wasn’t planning to revolutionize his life.”

“You mean you saw what made him happy, and you gladly enticed him with it to become his friend.”

Lo cuts in, “You’re acting like he shot me up with heroine.”

“He may as well have,” Ryke retorts.

Okay, when did this meeting become a platform to gang up on Connor?

“Just drop it,” Lo snaps.

Connor stays quiet, and Rose doesn’t look like she’s ready to forgive him so easily. I’m sure they’ll have a whole philosophical discussion about it later.

And unfortunately, she remembers the source of our argument.

“Your addiction, Lo, is not the same as Lily’s,” she says. “When you weren’t here, supporting Lily was simple. Now that you’re back, I feel like you’re the only person allowed to be involved in her recovery process. And how healthy is that? You just got out of rehab.”

Should I even be here for this conversation? It feels beyond me, even though they’re talking about me.

His voice softens considerably, losing the usual edge. “I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m her boyfriend. She’s a sex addict. Of course I’m going to be the most involved in getting her healthy. I know what you’re saying. I know what you’re all saying.” He looks to Ryke and Connor. “I can’t tell you to just trust me, not when I have twenty-one years of being a shitty person on my record. But this situation is weird and unconventional and really, really fucked up. And we’re going to have to figure out how to do it.”

I stare at my hands, a little uncomfortable but also a little grateful they’re not talking behind my back.

“All I want,” Rose tells him, “is for you to not close us all out. If you think you’re doing something wrong or you can’t handle it, don’t just ignore it. You have to tell someone, and it doesn’t have to be me. If you feel more comfortable talking to Ryke or Connor or even the therapist, whoever. I just don’t want Lily to suffer because you can’t reach out.”

I understand her fears. We’ve isolated ourselves for so long that closing everyone off would be a natural regression. I just never really thought about it outright.

“I promise.”

She looks a little taken aback by how easily he relented.

“We both want the same thing,” Lo reminds her.

For the first time Lo and Rose seem to agree on something, but it only puts an insane amount of pressure on me. They may think Lo will enable me. But I fear I’ll screw everything up all on my own.

{ 4 } LILY CALLOWAY

Ryke and Connor leave after we establish a plan to track down the texter. Connor will call his private investigator and then the rest of us will start making a list of Lo’s enemies. I just hope I don’t see my face on the cover of People tomorrow.

Lo is already in bed when I shut the bathroom door. The lamp bathes him in a warm light, and he looks content as he scribbles in a journal. The nightstand seems so bare without his glass of whiskey. We’re both going through a monumental change, and we haven’t even discussed our futures or anything serious since he’s been back. The texts kind of sent us into an immediate tailspin.

His gaze rises from his journal, and he studies me as I stand in the middle of the room, unsure about what to do. Back at Penn, after we became an official couple, I slept in his bed almost every night. But we didn’t cuddle. He didn’t whisper sweet-nothings in my ear until I dozed off. We fucked until I passed out, and then he’d finish off his drink and follow suit.

I’ve lasted three months without sex, but I also didn’t have him here, in bed with me. The equivalent for Lo would be snuggling with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Cuddling with my own vice seems dangerous, but I can’t be abstinent forever. I have to figure how to do this the right way.

“What’s wrong?” he asks and closes his journal, the pen sticking from the pages.

“We’re not going to have sex tonight?” I ask for the third time today.

“No, love, not tonight.”

I try to let the words sink in again, but they hurt and my chest tightens in return. It feels like rejection even though it shouldn’t. “Maybe I should sleep on the couch,” I say softly. “Until I get used to you being back.” Until I can stop thinking about you inside of me.

“I can handle you, Lil. I won’t let you break your vows.”

My vows. The four personal rules I set for myself, unlike the blacklist that my therapist set for me.

No porn.

No masturbation.

Less compulsivity during sex.

And never, ever cheat on Loren Hale.

How can four simple tasks feel so out of my control? Especially the third one. I hear what he’s saying, I do. But somewhere between his lips and my ears, everything distorts and my insecurities win out.

“I can be very persuasive,” I mutter.

His lips rise. “I think I’ll survive.”

“You’re a guy,” I remind him—as if this changes everything.

He full-on grins. “That, I’m aware of.”

My anxiety peaks, unable to even relish in his sexy smile. “But if I’m on the couch, I won’t be tempted. And…and when I’m in bed with you, I know I’ll try to have sex with you, even when I know I shouldn’t.”

“Lily—”

“And I don’t want to be weak and begging, but it’s inevitable, right? You’re like my crack.”

“Lil—”

“That’s me: the pathetic, horny girl who jumps her boyfriend and keeps on doing it when he says no.” I gasp. “Oh my God. I’m like a rapist. I’ll try to rape you every night.”

He touches my cheeks and I flinch back instantly.

“Whoa! When did you get over here?” My heart pounds so hard that it beats like a drum in my ears.

He doesn’t move away, his hands cup my face tenderly, his eyes full of raw concern.

“Did you get a superpower in rehab?” I ask in a small voice, already knowing the truth. I freaked out to a new degree, not even noticing him climb off the bed.

“Yeah,” he whispers, so close to me now. “Just not the one you think.” He brushes off an escaped tear with his thumb. “You’re sick.”

I inhale a strained breath. The words from his lips are soul-crushing, even though they’re true. I try and jerk away but his hand slides down the back of my neck. The other one on my shoulder keeps me rooted here.

“I’m sick too,” he says, “and there will be times where we’re weak. Where we beg for the things we can’t have. But you can’t be scared of that, Lil. You can’t live your life sleeping on a couch because of it. You just have to believe that you’ll be strong enough in the end. Even if the middle is all fucked up.”

No distortion of his words this time. I understand him. I close the distance between us and bury my head into his chest.

He holds onto me and kisses the top of my head. “And you’re not a rapist.” I can sense him smiling. “You’re my girlfriend who can’t control her compulsions.”

“I like that better,” I mumble. We stay still for a little while, and I let him rub the back of my head until my pulse eases to a temperate rhythm. Why does something so small, like sleeping in a bed, have to be such a challenge?

I detach from his warm body and climb into bed, slipping beneath the soft sheets.

He watches me as I build a pillow barricade between my side and his. I’m sure I’ll destroy it later. I look up when I finish. “Stop smiling,” I tell him.

“No cuddling?”

“Not tonight.”

“That’s my line.”

I sit halfway up as he stores his journal in the nightstand drawer. “You learned a lot in rehab, huh?” A part of me thinks I missed out on a secret to beating addiction. Lo seems to know more than me or at least his confidence level towers over mine. But I couldn’t go to rehab. Not without outing my secret to my family, and anyway, group therapy doesn’t sound like the right avenue for me.

Now that we’re home, Lo decided not to attend AA meetings. Even Ryke said he shouldn’t go to them. I don’t understand why that is. And Lo doesn’t share much about his recovery, but he did say that he’s still going to see his therapist regularly—one that lives in New York. Some days I have to pinch myself to believe that he went to rehab only an hour from Princeton. I’m glad I didn’t know. I probably would have found a way to see him when I wasn’t supposed to.

“I learned enough there,” he tells me, sliding his legs under the covers. “And I plan to teach you everything I know.”

I smile. That sounds nice. I lie back down as he leans over and yanks the cord to the lamp, blanketing the room in darkness.

There’s something invigorating about the dead of night. How, right before you go to sleep, your mind springs awake. My thoughts flood all at once. Between the threatening texts and my barely passing grades in Princeton, I’m overflowing with anxiety. Not to mention that with Lo back, his problems seem to become mine. He’s broke, jobless, and has quit college. His relationship with his father was already complicated, now I don’t even know if he’ll have one at all.

I have more problems than I can solve in one night. I shut my eyes, willing on sleep. But it stays locked away. Great, I’ve conquered getting into bed but now I can’t even sleep.

I roll onto my side and pull down the top pillow in my pillow-barricade. It’s enough to see Lo’s face. He turns a fraction, and with my eyes adjusted to the dark, I can see him pretty clearly. “Did you learn a trick to fall asleep?” I whisper.

“Don’t think about anything.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Then try picturing a fuzzy television.”

“Do you not remember The Ring? If I try that then a girl is going to crawl out of the imaginary TV and slaughter my subconscious.”

I expect him to laugh but his voice turns serious. “How did you fall asleep when I wasn’t here?”

I go quiet. It varied nightly. Some were spent crying myself to sleep, others I masturbated until I passed out. When I gave up self-love, it took me hours to doze off the proper way, and in the end I resigned to fantasies to distract me into a light slumber.

“Normally,” I end up saying, even if the word reminds me of Connor and Rose’s argument earlier. “It just takes me awhile. I’ll try the fuzzy television trick. Maybe it won’t be so scary.”

We roll away from each other again, and I close my eyes. I can’t picture the TV long enough to stop my thoughts. I remember how easily it is to fall asleep after some self-love. It’s the best natural sleeping pill in the world.

My hand rests on my stomach, and I lower my fingers until I touch the hem of my pajama shorts. The impulse bites me and writhes in my belly. I hear that little voice telling me it’ll be okay. That I can do it this once and Lo won’t even know. I’ll stealthily slip my fingers into my panties and just rub my clit until everything feels better. I’ll climax and then fall asleep.

The steps prepared for me are just so easy to follow. My fingers slide beneath my cotton shorts and onto the top of my underwear. I flick my fingers up and down outside of them, trying to gain the courage to go further…or stop. But I somehow always remain in purgatory, fighting for one side or the other.

This is wrong. I know this is wrong.

“Lo,” I say very softly, thinking maybe he’ll still be asleep. Maybe it’s fate.

“Lil, you say something?” he whispers back.

I don’t move my hand. Hell, I don’t even blink. Words tumble in my head like a Bingo machine and I can’t seem to connect them together to form sentences.

I must hesitate too long because he flips on the lights, and my eyes shut quickly. I freeze, hoping he won’t notice anything under the covers. He can’t see my hand in my shorts after all. As soon as he goes back to sleep, I’ll stop myself from going further. I’ll make this right. I just don’t want him to think that I didn’t conquer anything while he was away. I was strong, dammit. I stopped looking at porn. I stopped with the self-love, and I never once cheated on him. But he’ll only see this. And I can’t fix the immediate assumptions. That I’m no better than I was when he left.

Silence bleeds into my head, and I almost think I’ve succeeded. And then cold air prickles my skin, the blanket leaving my body. Oh shit.

My eyes shoot open. Lo has invaded my territory, knocking over the pillow-barricade and gripping my covers. His eyes target my lower-half, where my hand disappears into my shorts. This is so not good.

{ 5 } LOREN HALE

Here’s the thing about Lily Calloway. She’s obsessed with masturbating. Not the I-love-to-get-off-before-I-sleep or jerk-one-out-in-the-shower kind of self-pleasure. She fucks to come, and if that means fucking herself every minute of the day then she gets it done.

Regrettably, I even facilitated her habit. I thought that every video I bought her was one less dick she would ride. One less risk of disease and guilt. I was so stupid.

I grip her wrist tightly. When she told me that she stopped masturbating for a full month, it was difficult to believe. I’ve watched her hide in a bedroom for hours on end just to please herself. Quitting seems like the biggest accomplishment she’s ever had. Now, I’m not so sure it’s true, even if Rose vouched for her progress.

I slowly shift the hem of her pajama shorts. My shoulders drop in relief. Her palm rests above her panties. Maybe Rose was right. Maybe she did stop masturbating, but obviously it’s harder for Lily when I’m here.

I’m her drug, her means to a high. But I see the life she’ll lead if I’m gone—really gone and never coming back. She’ll return to strangers, to sex with random men. She may even venture into the dangerous side of her addiction—chat rooms and anonymous sex. I can’t let her go down that road.

I retrieve her hand and lace her fingers with mine, not gently. My hand squeezes hers like she’s dangling off a cliff. She might as well be.

“I didn’t do anything,” she defends.

“You were going to, Lil.” I don’t know if this is true, but it’s a fear that rattles my heart as much as hers.

She sucks in a breath. “This is too hard,” she says. “I feel like I can’t escape my addiction. If I’m with you, I want to have sex with you. If I’m alone, I want to fuck me. Nowhere is safe.”

Christ.

My hands slide to her wrists, and I pull her into my arms. Our embrace isn’t soft. I’m not a teddy bear that girls can clutch. I’m sharp and hard, the thing that braces a girl to the bed, the one who grips her strongly and whispers with a husky, edged voice. I’m as rough on the outside as I am black on the inside.

Holding Lily usually solves our problems, but she fights me this time. Ramming her tiny fists into my hard chest, trying to push me away. “Are you not hearing me?” she says, shoving my bicep. “I can’t sleep next to you.”

I keep her in my arms easily, my muscles flexing as I wrap them around her. “Lil, shh,” I say, my lips finding her ear.

“I can’t!” she shouts, tears beginning to pool.

“Lil, you can,” I whisper deeply. “Shh.” I lock her arms together for a minute, her body wedged between my legs. Tonight will be the most difficult, I remind myself. It’s confusing for her. She wants to be with me, but my mere presence tempts her. I don’t ever want her to believe that being alone, being apart, is the solution.

It’s not.

She needs me as much as I need her. We just have to find our footing in this relationship. And that takes time.

She grows restless, so I roll on top of her, pinning her legs down with mine, trapping her small frame. She seems to settle, but her chest rises and falls heavily, fear swimming in her eyes.

“Who do you trust more, me or you?” I ask.

“You.” She doesn’t even hesitate.

“Then this is how we’re going to sleep.”

She frowns. “I’m not sure I can hold your weight.”

I smile. This is why I love her—why I relish in the fact that I’m going to wake up next to her, my arms wrapped around her delicate body. She’s fucking adorable. “No, like this…”

I slide off Lily and easily readjust. I tug her closer, and my arm holds her small waist against me. We’re spooning, her back to my chest. Now, where is that fucking hand? I find her right hand curled up underneath her breast, and I take it in mine. Then I intertwine my fingers with hers, securing them with determined force. No more masturbating, Lil.

I’m about to officially instate our new sleeping position, but her ass presses harder into my cock. She’s scooting back, either on purpose or subconsciously, I have no clue. It’s still kind of cute, but it doesn’t help.

I lean back and grab a small pillow, and then I wedge it between my dick and her ass. “Better?”

“Depends who you’re asking—Horny Lily or Good Lily?”

I love them both. I press my lips to her ear. “I love you.”

“…I don’t have much love for myself at the moment,” she mutters in a small voice. I can see her shrinking internally, her self-worth dropping lower and lower from the guilt.

“Hey, I’d be passed out already if I had to sleep in the same bed with a bottle of booze. You’re doing all right. And this is new for both of us, Lil. It’s going to be lots of trial and error. Now we know that we have to sleep like this. Okay?”

“Are we going to have sex in the morning?”

The question doesn’t annoy me. Still, I’m not used to telling her no. I’m usually the one teasing her until she’s hot and bothered. But I can’t do a goddamn thing. Because that would be enabling.

So I say, “We’ll see.”

She sinks back into me—and that damn pillow—as I watch her drift to sleep. When I know she’s safely in slumber’s hold, I allow myself the same luxury.

{ 6 } LOREN HALE

My heart beats wildly, my muscles burn and my legs pump. I run. Around and around. There is no end.

If I stop soon, I’ll start screaming. The tendons in my calves strain with each foot on the cement track. And I focus on my breathing. In and out. Inhale, exhale. One, two, three…

I’ve always been good at running. Even when I screwed up every fucking thing, I did a decent job at sprinting right away from the cops, from prep school guys wanting to smash my face in, from my father and my problems.

Running has kept me alive.

And if I learned anything from rehab, it’s ways to stay busy. But my warring thoughts only make me want to drink. Even bringing up my father, college, the text messages that threaten Lily—any fucking thing, my chest collapses, and I know just the solution that’ll fix everything. Whiskey, bourbon—an amber glass will melt all the pain away.

Yesterday, I almost walked into a bar.

I lose my steady pace on the track, my breath staggering. One…two…

Each foot feels heavier than before. I want to be light as a freakin’ feather. I want to float right on out of here. But I keep thinking about it.

A smoky bar was directly across the busy intersection as I waited for Ryke to pick me up from therapy. Traffic, honking cabs and bike messengers never stopped me before. Why should they then? The Jack Daniel’s poster in the front window called out to me like a siren singing her deathly serenade on the edge of a dock.

And I nearly drowned in that sea of bourbon.

Stupid, little fuck.

I exhale deeply, which only screws with my pace again. Ryke runs by my side, and his eyes flicker briefly to me. He purposefully slows his quick stride. Right now, he could sprint laps around me. But he chooses to be here. I should be glad that he wants to work out with me, but I hate that he won’t run as far as he can. I hate that I’m holding him back.

I want to scream.

So I push harder, and I race ahead of him.

Not long after, Ryke catches up to my side again, and then he taps my shoulder and veers off the collegiate track towards the bleachers. I follow him, trying to avoid the other athletes in Penn shirts as they sprint down the lanes.

I probably shouldn’t have driven all the way to Penn to run around a fucking circle with Ryke, seeing as how I was expelled and he’s not my favorite person at the moment. I don’t believe that he’s the guy threatening to reveal Lily’s secret to the tabloids. There’s mistrust in our relationship, sure, but he spends too much time driving me to therapy and hanging out with me to have some ulterior motive. He could let me ride alone to New York and give me just enough slack to hang myself with.

He could be uncaring.

But Ryke Meadows is many things—uncaring is definitely not one of them.

I gave him a hard time about the text messages because I’m an asshole, and a huge part of me resents him for things that I can barely process. Each time I try to understand his childhood where he knew about me and had contact with my father, my hands shake for a sip of something strong.

I unscrew my water bottle, and two girls approach us, one brunette, the other blonde. Both wear cross-country shirts. I’m surrounded by athletes right now—Ryke being one of them.

“Hey, Ryke,” the blonde says. “Who’s your friend?” She looks me over from head to toe.

I try to wear disinterest, drinking my water, shuffling through my gym bag, anything.

“My brother,” Ryke says so easily. I can barely admit that he’s half of my brother to Lily. Saying that we’re related is so easy for him. But I have to remind myself that he knew about me for years. He just never voiced the truth until three months ago.

“Oh yeah, I see the resemblance,” she says, her blue eyes flickering between us.

“Yeah, we both have brown hair,” I say. “Shocking, isn’t it? She could even be our sister for all I know.” I gesture to the brunette hanging by the blonde’s side. My tone is not even close to friendly. And I can’t help it. This is how I normally say hi to people. My manners died somewhere around my eleventh birthday.

The blonde lets out a small laugh, trying to blow over my rudeness.

Ryke sets a hand on my shoulder, and he whispers, “Do me a favor and don’t talk.”

If he wants to hook up with one of them, by all means. Have at them. I’m not going to be his wingman on this one. I have a girl waiting for me at home. I check my watch. Yeah, she should be back from class right about now. I’d rather be there than here. I’d rather be holding her in my arms, even if I have to tell her no by the end of it.

She’s the only good thing in my life.

“This is Laura,” the blonde says, bringing her friend towards Ryke. “She’s a freshman. I thought I’d introduce her to the captain of the track team.”

Ryke checks her out with a slow once-over. The girl is almost as thin as Lily, but muscles pad her legs and arms—they’re just lean like most runners. “How have you liked Penn so far?” Ryke asks.

The girl shrugs, shifting her weight off one leg and to another. “Oh…you know.”

Ryke does that to women, I’ve noticed. He either stupefies them with his dominance or they start spitting out lame lines that make no sense.

I’ve yet to really see a girl that can keep up with him.

“That good, huh?” Ryke says, trying to be nice, but this only causes her face to redden.

“It’s been good.” Laura nods.

This is just awkward and slightly painful. I can’t watch the girl be debilitated by embarrassment and nerves anymore. Ryke is slowly peeling off a Band-Aid. I’m going to rip the damn thing for her.

“Hey, Laura,” I say. “You and your friend are on the cross-country team, right?”

Laura nods again.

“I’m Maggie,” the blonde says, perking now that I’ve shown a tad bit of interest.

“Oh great,” I say. “So you and Laura will have no problem running that way.” I point to the other side of the track.

Maggie’s face falls.

I flash a smile. “Bye.”

“Asshole,” she curses. “Come on, Laura.” She grabs her hand and shoots Ryke a look, guilty by association. When they disappear, Ryke turns to me with a glare.

“Sorry,” I tell him dryly. “I couldn’t remember how long you told me to keep my mouth shut. It snapped back open, couldn’t stop it.”

Ryke throws his sweaty towel at my face.

I grab it and fling it back. “Hey, that brunette was two seconds from fainting. I did both of you a favor.”

Ryke shakes his head. “You did yourself a favor. Don’t pretend that insulting them was for me. I know your motives by now.”

“Yeah, and what’s that?”

“Isolate as many people as you can. Drive everyone away.” He zips his gym bag. “Not going to happen with me, not even if you run off every girl I come into contact with.”

I touch my chest. “You would abstain from sex just to be my brother? Wow. That’s generous, Ryke.” My dry humor barely darkens his eyes. I’m looking for a different reaction, one that comes with a fist to the face, but Ryke never goes there, even if he wants to.

“I’m your older brother no matter what,” he refutes. “Get that through your fucking head and maybe I wouldn’t have to repeat it all the damn time.”

“Can you say that again? I couldn’t hear you,” I quip.

He rolls his eyes, and then we both actually share a smile.

I check my watch subconsciously.

“She’s fine,” Ryke assures me.

“Look, you can pretend to know everything about me, but you can’t understand Lily the way I do.” I’ve watched her cry and shake in a bathroom because she craved sex—because she couldn’t have it. And she wouldn’t turn to me for help back then. Now that we’re together, I should have the power to take her pain away. But I don’t. Because she’s trying to control these impulses. And so I’m back where I started, watching her shake, watching her eyes grow big and wide, pleading for something more. And I have to deny her that pleasure. Over and over.

“You forget that I was here while you were in rehab,” Ryke says. “I’ve seen her at a low.”

No, I never forget that. “Great.”

“You’d rather be there with her, I know that. But didn’t Rose tell you—”

“I get it,” I snap. Our relationship needs room to breathe—Rose so very pointedly put it the other day. I’m trying to give Lily more space. I’m making a conscious effort to change our codependent relationship.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking suck.

But I have nowhere else to be but right here. No other invitations from friends (I have none) or family (my father practically disowned me). No job. No school. I am a worthless piece of shit. I grimace and turn that into a half-smile, shaking my head. I chug half of my water to drown these stupid thoughts.

“Have you started taking Antabuse yet?” Ryke asks.

The doctors at rehab prescribed me a drug for my recovery, and I forgot I told Ryke about it. If I drink on the meds, I’ll have stomach pains and severe nausea. It’s supposed to deter alcoholics from falling off the wagon. And even though I decided not to attend AA meetings, I still need to follow the right steps to get healthy.

I didn’t tell Lily why I’m not going to AA. The reason will make her think I’m even more fucked up. I’m a hard person to be around, and when I was in rehab, I pushed two recovering addicts to drink and break their short sobriety.

I always say the wrong things.

And the facility administration forbade me from going to group meetings because I was “adversely affecting my peers.” They also highly advised I not attend AA meetings in fear that I would be the same asshole there.

Ryke agreed with them.

So here I am.

“I haven’t taken it yet,” I tell Ryke. “I think I’m going to start tomorrow.” I’ve heard horror stories about people becoming violently ill just from a sip of beer. I wanted to have a couple days without that suffocating fear before I started.

“You should take it now. Do you have it on you?” Ryke asks. He’s such a fucking pusher.

“No,” I snap. He doesn’t listen to me, already unzipping my bag and rummaging through it. “What is this, TSA? Leave my shit alone, Ryke.” He finds the inside zipper easily and holds up an orange bottle. His eyebrows rise accusingly.

My teeth ache as I bite down. “Wow, you found my pill bottle. Congratulations. Now put it back.”

I wait for him to yell at me for lying. I prepare for the verbal onslaught with narrowed eyes, ready to combat or storm away.

But he never mentions it. Instead, he uncaps the bottle and doles out a pill on his palm. “Take it,” he says roughly. “If you’re waiting for yourself to fuck up, then you might as well fuck up while you’re on it. I’m sure puking all night after a shot of whiskey will do you some good.”

He’s right.

I hate that he’s right.

I take the pill from him and toss it back with some water. It feels official. Like this is it. No alcohol. Forever.

Forever.

God.

I have a sudden impulse to run to the bathroom and stick my finger down my throat. Somehow my Nikes weigh me down on the trimmed grass, and I clench my water bottle as I take another large swig.

Ryke starts to stretch, pulling his arm across his chest. “Have you spoken to Jonathan?”

“No.” I leave it at that, not wanting to be probed about my father. No one really understands my relationship with him. Not Lily. Definitely not Ryke.

And it’s more complicated than just hate and dislike. It’s what drives my mind wild. It’s what makes me seriously want to kick that fucking bleacher and grab a beer.

But I remember Lily, and I immediately tell myself no. No alcohol. Ever. One memory has kept me grounded for a while, deaf to any compelling arguments from the devil on my shoulder. It’s what stopped me from heading into that bar yesterday.

In my foggy memory, I wake up, glazed and half-delirious to the people in my kitchen. Rose, Connor and Ryke camped out in my living room like the Scooby Gang. And the three of them told me the night’s events—as though I wasn’t even there. My body was, but my head was floating in another dimension.

And Ryke was the only one who could stomach the words. “You fucking passed out while a guy attacked Lily.”

And “attack” was an understatement. Something could have happened that night. But it didn’t. Ryke and Connor stopped the guy when that should have been me. My whole life, I had one fucking job. Protect Lily. Make sure her addiction doesn’t get the better of her. Make sure she doesn’t get hurt. She did the same for me. And I failed her. Somewhere down the line, I fucked up.

Never again.

Ryke holds out his arms like what the hell, and I remember what he asked me. Have you spoken to Jonathan?

“I said no,” I tell him again, like the answer isn’t registering in his head.

“No, that’s it?” Ryke wants more. Everyone wants more.

But I feel like I’m giving everything I have.

“I thought it was a yes or no question. What else is there?” Lots. But nothing I can bear to say out loud. My father left me a few messages on my phone the past week.

I want to have lunch, Loren.

We need to talk.

Don’t push me out of your life over something this fucking stupid.

Call me back.

I’ve ignored him so far, but I can’t forever. There’ll be a point where I’ll have to face my father. It won’t be for money, but the allure of a handout will always be there. Because it’s so fucking easy. Drinking, that’s easy. Taking his money, that’s easier.

The hard things are the right things, I’ve learned. But I’m not Connor Cobalt—built with the infallible ability to go the extra mile, to do the extra work. I’m the kinda guy that always stops short.

But I do have a plan for some cash. The only problem—it involves a conversation with Rose Calloway.

“He’s going to try to buy you back,” Ryke tells me. “That’s what he fucking does, and you’re going to have to say no. He’s your fucking trigger, Lo. You shouldn’t be around him while you’re recovering.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, lugging my bag over my shoulder. Most days, I regret asking Ryke to be my sponsor. Even if he’s pretty good at it. Trigger or not, Jonathan Hale is my father. Ryke doesn’t understand him the way I do.

He’s not all bad.

{ 7 } LILY CALLOWAY

My second test score came back last week, and it was a big fat F. I knew transferring from an Ivy League to another Ivy League wasn’t the cure for my poor grades, but I hoped that Princeton would kick my lazy butt into gear. With Rose running around the same campus as me, I should be more motivated. Plus, my hours are no longer wasted away on porn and self-love. But I didn’t predict that my time would be consumed by therapy in New York and trying to rebuild my relationships with my sisters. Getting healthy and making amends is almost as big a time bandit as wallowing in my addiction.

I have so many issues to deal with that school is that last thing on my mind, when it should probably be the first. Lo may be back but time doesn’t stop for us, and I can’t fail my classes in Princeton too. I’m already behind as it is.

Which is why a tutor sits beside me, though he’s not doing much “tutoring.”

For the past thirty minutes, I watched him browse Rich Kids of Instagram, a site that I boycott and find generally revolting. I nudge him to help me twice, and he points to my book. “Do another problem,” he says without peeling his eyes from his phone.

I miss the days where Connor Cobalt gave me a hundred-and-ten percent of his tutoring attention, even going as far as making me flashcards.

Sebastian Ross may just be the worst tutor alive.

He invades my personal space for a second, and I think he may actually be showing me how to do a Statistics problem.

He sticks his phone beneath my nose. “Whose watch do you like better?” He extends his wrist and holds it by the screen, the band gold and the gadgetry so complex that my eyes hurt. The one in the picture is no simpler. A teenager stands outside his gray-bricked mansion, wrists displayed like he’s preparing to box.

“Neither.”

“Amuse me.”

Amuse him? How about amuse me! I’m the one who should be entertained by numbers and words. Connor would know how to make studying fun.

I try not to glare. “I like my watch.”

Sebastian’s one eyebrow arches, so smarmy and elitist that I have to give him props for mastering the technique. He snatches my wrist to inspect the device. He huffs. “You’re wearing a toy.” He flicks the plastic cap, nearly causing the hands of the clock to stop.

“Hey,” I say, retracting my arm and clutching my wrist to my chest. “That’s Wolverine, you know.” The yellow and blue band buckles on my bony wrist, and the X-Men hero is printed inside the watch-face.

He looks mildly interested now. “Is it a collectible?”

“…maybe.”

He restrains the urge to roll his eyes. “Where’d you get it?” he asks. “The kid’s section in Target?”

My cheeks redden even though they shouldn’t. “No,” I retort. “Lo won it from a vending machine. You know, the ones where you put a quarter in and it drops out the little egg thing.” We had a seventy-five percent chance to get either Superman or Batman, so when Wolverine popped out, it seemed like fate. We were easily entertained.

Sebastian grimaces. He has a pretty good stink-face too. “You touched those things?” He returns to his phone, scrolling. “Sometimes I wonder how you’re related to your sister.”

Sometimes I wonder why she’s friends with you.

I would exchange Sebastian for a better model, but not when Rose asked him, her best friend, to tutor me. Before Connor came into the picture, Sebastian escorted Rose to every social function, her go-to arm candy.

He leans back on the couch, wearing khaki slacks, a blazer and glasses with wide frames and thin rims. I have a suspicion that he’s someone who only wears glasses for show, not function. And his honey blond hair is slicked neatly and parted on the side, groomed and styled.

Even if he didn’t take the time to look good, Sebastian is the kind of person that was born to be pretty.

Normally I’d be tempted. But I have Loren Hale.

And Sebastian is gay. So there’s that.

When he snorts out loud, I catch a glimpse of his cell. There’s a picture of a guy sitting in a hot tub on a million-dollar yacht, surrounded by expensive bottles of champagne.

Now I roll my eyes. I really want to grab the phone from his hand and chuck it across the room. “Have you even taken Stat?” I ask.

“Stats.”

“What?”

“It’s called Stasticsssss,” he says, hissing the “s” for further emphasis. “Not Statistic.” His gaze stays fixated on that stupid phone.

“Have you taken Statsssss,” I hiss back.

“Yes, it’s an under level requirement for business majors at Princeton,” he says sharply. “Obviously Penn has different standards.”

Being insulted by my tutor isn’t a new thing for me, but I’m not taking his jabs easily. Maybe because he seems more interested in pictures of rich kids showing off their Ferraris and guzzling liquor.

“You know, Rose claimed that you’re some kind of hot-shot tutor on campus—that you even have a waiting list,” I snap.

“I am. And I do.”

“People actually pay you to ignore them?” I shut my book. I’ve known Sebastian since I was ten, but I spent more time at the Hale residence than my own, so know is really up for debate. He has always been into appearances, especially clothes (which as a fashion designer, Rose values in a friend), and his ostentatiousness is nothing new.

But I didn’t know he was such a raging dick.

He’s actually looking at me this time. “They pay me for other things.”

Like sexual things? I frown. No, that can’t be right.

Can it?

He sees my brows scrunch in confusion.

“I do have a waiting list,” he says, “but not for tutoring.”

That clarifies nothing. A naked Sebastian pops in my head, getting propositioned for sex like a gigolo. I withhold the urge to ask if he’s a hooker. Although it’s there, threatening to be blurted out.

“Then…what?” I mumble. Wow, that took a lot of self-control.

His leg drops from his knee and he leans forward to grab his leather briefcase. What if he sells sex toys? Okay, doubtful, but he would jump up ten points in likability for me.

He pulls something heavy out and sets it on my textbook before zipping his briefcase closed.

These aren’t dildos or vibrators or Ben Wa balls.

It’s paper. Stacks of stapled paper with red markings along the margin.

They’re old exams.

This is one of those moments where someone hands you a joint and you have to make a choice to either pass it on or take a puff.

“Isn’t this cheating?” I ask, not touching the papers on my lap. Fingering one may just corrupt me.

Sebastian slides a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and slaps the carton on his palm. “Don’t scribble the answers on your hand,” he says. “Memorize them. That can’t be too difficult for you, can it?”

He twirls a cigarette between two fingers.

“Rose won’t like it if you smoke in here.”

Sebastian arches that one brow again and gives me a look like I know Rose better than you. He lights the cigarette.

Fine. Rose will do a better job reprimanding him anyway. I flip through the old exams, most of them marked up with A’s. “What if the questions are different?”

“You have Dr. Harris,” Sebastian says. “He always recycles questions from tests. Just be sure to memorize all of them.”

I thumb through the stack. “There must be fifty exams in here.” How can I memorize all of them?

“They date back ten years. So yeah, there’s a lot.”

I hesitate to use them as a study tool, even though it’s not outright cheating. “And you can’t actually tutor me?”

He blows a line of smoke towards the ceiling. “You didn’t just sort-of fail your first two exams, Lily. You bombed. Most students would be crying in a corner, and if they had me as a resource, they’d be riding my—”

“Okay,” I cut him off. And then realize that sounds like I actually want to ride his… “I mean, never mind.” I shake my head, roasting from the forehead down.

He wears a crooked smile as he puts the cig to his lips. “To pass the class, you have to make A’s on the last two tests and the final. I’m not a miracle worker.”

“Connor Cobalt is,” I mutter under my breath.

He must hear because he says, “Connor thinks he pisses rainbows, but he’s not that good. And he’s definitely not better than me.” He leans forward and taps ash in my plastic cup—full with Fizz Life, Fizzle’s new soda, zero calories and no aspartame. I stare at the soiled drink for a long while, trying to process what he just did.

But when I turn, I see him tapping more ash into the porcelain vase on the end table that a friend of Rose’s gifted her from Prague. “Rose is going to skin you alive.”

He smiles that smarmy smile again. “She’s all growl.”

I’m not so sure about that. When we were kids at a beach resort, she saw a freckle-faced boy picking on a girl near a water slide. He called the young girl fat and pointed at her one-piece. Rose intervened and used some choice language that would make eight-year-olds blush. When the pudgy boy didn’t respond how she hoped, she grabbed his swim-trunks and yanked them to his ankles.

After that, I was glad to have my sister on my side. I never wanted to cross her. And even as I think about that story, I realize she would kill me if she knew I was even sort of cheating.

But what’s worse, hearing her wrath after I use the tests or seeing her disappointment by failing out of Princeton? Disappointment can cripple me. So the former is definitely more appealing.

“Look, Lily,” Sebastian says. “College is all about beating the system, and the smartest people are the ones who figure that out. You want to be smart, don’t you?”

For the first time in a while, I have a fighting chance to do well. “Okay.”

“So you keep those and you memorize hard. I have copies of them, of course.” He rises and buttons his navy blazer. He wanders around the living room, bored. “And don’t mention this to Rose. I love her, but she’s moral to a fault. It’s kind of annoying actually.”

I ignore his last slight. I can’t believe I have to lie to Rose, but this seems like the right path. I can’t fail more classes. I’ll be in college until I’m forty.

I set the old exams next to a tall stack of tabloid magazines on the coffee table. I went out this morning and bought every gossip mag in the gas station. I checked for my picture, any article, any brief mention of my addiction. Rose even searched through the newspaper and online posts, but we both came up blank. Either the blackmailer is stalling or he’s waiting for another opportune moment to strike.

We don’t even know what he wants yet. He just keeps threatening.

“So…” I trail off as I watch Sebastian pick up a porcelain ballerina on the fireplace mantel, checking the underside for the designer or the authenticity. “If Rose believes you’re actually tutoring me, what do I tell her when you’re not here on Thursday?”

“I’ll be here, pretending. I can even bring more old exams for your other classes.” He sets the figurine down. “You copy them, though, and I’ll make your life a living hell.” His blasé voice makes the warning worse, somehow.

My phone pings, and I pick it up to check the message. The sound interests Sebastian enough to saunter over and plop by my side again.

Is Rose home? – Connor

Not yet. I text back.

Sebastian catches the conversation over my shoulder. He puts his cigarette to his lips, waiting for the response, but there is none. I’m about to slip my phone in my pocket, but Sebastian says, “Give that here.” And he steals the cell from my hands.

I should protest and put up a fight, but his I’ll make your life a living hell line is ringing in my head. He’s kind of scary.

Sebastian types quickly and sends, Why do you want to know? He’s too curious, nosy and bored.

I left her something at the gate. I wanted to know if she’s seen it yet. – Connor

Sebastian snorts. “This is just sad.”

I frown. “Why? He bought her something.” Presents are sweet, not sad.

“He’s trying to win her back,” Sebastian says. “They had a fight, and he wants to see if his gift has cheered her up.”

“Whatever they’re fighting about, she’ll forgive him over time,” I say with a nod.

Sebastian tosses my phone back. “No she won’t.”

“You can’t know that,” I say, defensive of a couple that I find destined and beautiful. They belong together the way books fit in a library. When I needed help, they both dedicated hours to researching sex addiction. Connor even escorted Rose to therapists, and they pretended to be Lo and me to find a perfect one. Who would do that, other than people who love me and people who love each other?

He stands. “She’s listened to my advice since we were children. She’ll realize that I’m right about Connor, and she’ll toss him aside like she has every short-term fling.”

I glare. “That’s her boyfriend.” Connor isn’t some fling. This is Rose’s first real relationship. Sebastian should want her to be happy.

“And I don’t like him,” he says simply. Sebastian is egocentric, self-centered and self-absorbed. I suppose Connor has taken his place in Rose’s life. Sebastian no longer gets to attend all the lavish parties hosted by the Calloways and peers. She brings Connor instead.

“Their relationship isn’t about what you want,” I say.

Sebastian snubs his cigarette on a magazine. “Rose is my best friend. I’m just saving her from the heartbreak.” He lights another. But his words sound incredibly fake. I don’t believe him one bit.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, crossing my arms. I want to warn Connor about Sebastian’s determination to break them up. Hell, I’m going to tell Rose what a horrible friend she has. And she would believe me. I’m her sister.

“You can’t say a word,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, I can.”

He shakes his head, taps some ash right on the carpet. “No you can’t.” He nods to the stack of papers on my textbook. “Rose will not condone your new studying tactics. And Connor Cobalt would be even more displeased.” He sucks on the cigarette.

Oh…shit.

He’s trapped me so quickly. I slump back, winded as though he spun me through a washing machine.

I can’t tell my sister that her friend is planning on ruining her life. I should do the right thing and come clean, not be an awful human being.

But I need those tests.

And Rose can take care of herself. She’s the strongest girl I know.

But as Sebastian tosses that ballerina figurine in his hand, I wonder how she’s been blinded by someone like him for all these years. It can happen again.

My only hope lies in Connor.

He’ll have to foil Sebastian’s plans. He’ll have to prove to Rose that he’s the best man for her. I can’t warn him, but if I had to put money on a match between these two, I’d always bet on Connor Cobalt.

{ 8 } LOREN HALE

After spending lunch with my brother, I end up in Rose Calloway’s Escalade. She conveniently showed up at the café. They acted all surprised about it—like she just happened to spot us, driving past Rocco’s Deli on her way home.

But I figured out quickly that Ryke called her to cart me to our house while he went back to Philly for college. Like I have to be equipped with a twenty-four-seven babysitter, like I can’t be trusted in a cab or for a brief stroll down the sidewalk alone. I am the equivalent of a ninety-year-old lady needing a person as a crutch to cross the street.

It’s ridiculous. And even if I do want to talk to Rose about my plan to earn some cash—I would never volunteer to be alone with the girl. She hates me. And Lily may not see it like that, but Rose and I have an understanding that we’re never going to be best friends. We withstand each other for Lily, and that has to be enough. Growing up, Lily would choose me—a boy—over Rose, her sister, and that type of jealousy accumulates over the years into something deep and raw. No apology will matter.

And I get it. I would be resentful too. I’ve never wanted Rose to cut me slack, which must be why I poke the coals, stirring the flames and provoking her temper. I deserve every cold look, every biting comment. I deserve that fucking pain.

I get it.

“You look loads of fun today, Rose,” I say as she clenches the steering wheel, spine straight and eyes focused on the street. I should be a good person and ask what’s bothering her, but I can’t form the words. Caring—that’s Ryke’s thing.

“Look in the mirror,” she says icily.

I do. Just to humor her. And what stares back at me is a scowl that could shatter the reflection. Sharpened jaw and dark circles beneath my amber eyes, showing everyone how fucking tired I actually am.

There’s no sleep for the wicked.

“I grow more beautiful with age,” I deadpan. “Must be the alcohol.”

“That’s not even a little amusing.”

“Maybe because you lost your funny bone in your Gucci handbag.”

She glares and then drives up to our gate.

My phone buzzes, and I check the text with a palm over the screen so Rose doesn’t catch a glimpse.

Your girlfriend is a whore. – Unknown

I clench my teeth, my insides broiling. I want to find this bastard more than anything, but I’m running out of options. I can’t knock on the door of every enemy that I remember. There are too many. And I’ve already poked one burning coal that may have been simmering down. Since I threatened him, Aaron Wells could be reinvigorated to come after me even more—or he could be ready to bury his head in a hole. That’s the chance I took by visiting his house and assuming he was the texter. (He still could be for all I know.)

But I’m not sure it’s wise to do the same thing to guys who haven’t spoken to me in years.

Tracking the texts—that’s the best shot I have, but I hate that it’s out of my hands. I wonder how long it’ll be before I become completely unhinged.

I’m about to slip the phone back in my pocket, but another text chimes.

How many guys have fucked your girlfriend? Do you think the news will tell us the number? – Unknown

“Everything okay?” Rose asks as the car slows down by the gate.

“Yeah,” I lie, typing quickly.

What do you want? I text back.

If it’s money, I’ll find a way to pay him off. I can ask my father for a loan. I’ll double the amount that the tabloids are offering him. I just don’t want Lily’s secret to reach her family’s ears. Once her parents learn that she’s a sex addict—I’m not sure Lily will be able to handle that shame. I don’t think she’s ready for it.

Satisfaction – Unknown.

What the fuck does that mean? Of what? I text.

My leg jostles as I wait for the reply. I realize that Rose has put her Escalade in park, waiting by the gate’s keypad. She rolls down the window but watches me closely before she types in the code.

“Don’t,” I snap at her. I really don’t want to hear her ideas or thoughts on the matter. She probably has tons of opinions about how I should be responding to this guy, and I’m positive that she would handle this differently.

“You shouldn’t provoke him.”

“I wouldn’t.” Yeah, I kind of would. That’s what I do, even unintentionally.

Her lips purse. “Please. I know you.”

My phone vibrates on my leg.

I want the satisfaction of hurting you the way you’ve hurt me. – Unknown

The bottom of my stomach drops. This isn’t about money. This is payback for whatever I did. I’m not a saint, and I wouldn’t begin to defend myself. I just never wanted to believe that Lily would be the one destroyed because of me. So I text, Don’t go after her. You can do whatever the hell you want to me. Just leave her out of this. And I hesitate before I press send.

I’m sniveling. I’m giving this guy exactly what he needs. Ammunition to use against me. My father would never show him weakness like this. And what is the guy going to say in reply? Oh, I’m so sorry, Lo. I didn’t know she meant so much to you. No, he’s going to tell me to eat shit and watch my girlfriend burn.

This is not the way to win a fight.

So I delete that text and rewrite: I’ll find you, you motherfucker. Don’t ever doubt that. Send.

I pocket my phone and meet Rose’s moody gaze.

“What?” I say.

“You did exactly what I told you not to do, didn’t you?”

“Yep.”

She mutters under her breath, shaking her head. And as she leans out of the window to type in the key code, her eyes fall to something down below. I’m glad for the distraction. The phone feels less heavy in my jeans. I begin to shelve the texts in the back of my mind. On a normal day, I’d just go grab a bottle of Macallan and call it a night.

“Drop a bracelet?” I ask.

Her lips tighten.

“Worse than a bracelet? Damn, we’re at a DEFCON 1 then. Better prepare for nuclear war.”

She actually looks impressed. “You know what DEFCON means?”

“Yeah. I also know how to spell ‘duh’ and ‘hurry the fuck up.’” I don’t add that X-Men uses a version of the term for an imminent mutant crisis. How I learned the facts shouldn’t matter anyway.

She shoots me the signature Rose Calloway glare—the one that looks like she’s two seconds from eating your soul. I glower back, but internally, I want to run the fuck away. I don’t know how Connor smiles when she looks at him like that. She’s not bluffing. I bet she eats the hearts of every womanizer for the hell of it.

She flings her door open. “Wait here.”

Yeah, where else am I going to go?

She rummages out of sight for a minute, and curiosity gets the better of me. I unbuckle and stretch over the driver’s seat, peering down through the window.

Rose squats on the ground next to purple hydrangeas, ivy spindling up the iron gate beside the robust flowers. White petals flutter by her side, but her back blocks whatever’s in front of her.

“What are you doing?” I ask like she’s gone insane. I think there may be a screw loose in all of the Calloway girls. Well, maybe except Daisy. She seems pretty normal.

“He can’t just send me things and expect to be forgiven,” she says in a huff. “It doesn’t work like that.” She grunts a little, and more petals burst.

And then she stands and turns. She clutches the stems to what was a bouquet of white roses, but they look pathetic in her tight fist. Every petal has been ripped apart and fallen to the grass below.

“You just mauled a plant,” I say flatly. There’s something disturbing about this, and yet, I can’t help but laugh.

She glares harder. “Hold this.” She shoves a glass vase through the window.

“You’re not going to shatter it?” I ask. “All in the name of love? For your broken heart?”

“My heart isn’t broken.”

“I forgot, you’re made of steel. The bionic, unfeeling woman. Connor must love cuddling with your nuts and bolts.” I slip back to my seat.

She slams the car door, not even wasting another glare on me. She has yet to go for the worst look—the “I’m going to castrate you” one. I think she must be saving it for Connor. I am so glad I’m not him.

“What’d he do?” I ask. “Misspell your favorite word? Beat you in a game of Scrabble?”

She doesn’t say anything. She just retypes the code and puts the car in gear as the gate groans open. When the car rolls along the driveway towards the colonial house, it hits me.

“You can’t be serious,” I say. “You’re still angry at him because he gave me some beer months ago, when I wasn’t even planning on being sober?” I don’t want to ruin anyone else’s relationship. It’s why Lily and I closed off to people—so no one else had to get hurt because of our mistakes.

She pulls into the garage and turns off the ignition. “You wouldn’t understand.” She’s about to climb out of the car, but I lean over her and flick the lock, trapping her in the confines of the Escalade.

Connor told me not to defend him. Right after they had that fight in our living room, he took me aside and said to stay out of it. But I can’t let him be attacked for this. He was just being a friend in a time when I wouldn’t let anyone in my life.

“Give the guy a break,” I say. “He bends over backwards for you.”

Rose stares at me for a long moment, biting her gums, it seems. And then she tries to unlock the car again, but I beat her to the button, flicking it faster than she does.

“Loren,” she warns.

“Just say it,” I retort. “Say what you mean.” She doesn’t think I can handle it, but I can.

“You don’t understand,” she snaps. “Connor knew you were addicted, and he handed you beer. And you think that’s okay. You’re sitting there, telling me that it’s okay when it’s not. Do you see how wrong that is?”

“Rose, he didn’t do anything wrong.” I grimace as soon as I hear myself. And I understand immediately why Connor told me not to say a word in his defense. Because I am making a great case why he shouldn’t have given me an ounce of liquor. I’m the alcoholic—the one who believed I could live a life drinking every minute of every fucking day. Vouching for Connor makes him look guilty. And maybe he is to some extent.

“What he did was awful,” she says, “and I don’t care if it was just a means to be your friend.”

I run a shaky hand through my hair, and when I glance back at her, she pales a little. “No, I’m fine,” I say. “Honestly, I’m not going to go race to a liquor store after this conversation, okay?”

She nods, stiff and unmoving.

“Rose,” I say. “I’m not trying to defend the guy, but…” This is hard for me to say. I even clear my throat, the words lodging for a second. “…I don’t know if I would be right here if he didn’t find a way to enter my life and Lily’s. He was the first nonjudgmental person that I could withstand to be around. He never looked at me like I was fucked up, even if he was probably thinking it. I liked having him as a friend. I still do.”

I hand her the vase, and she no longer looks willing to chuck it at the wall.

“He’s human,” I remind her. “He’s not perfect. No one is.”

Her lips twitch. “Wise words from Loren Hale. You must have plagiarized from a fortune cookie.”

I let out a weak laugh, actually smiling at that one. She’s good. I unlock the car. From the back garage door, we enter the house, walking into the granite kitchen.

Lily must have heard the garage because she breezes through the archway with a zipped backpack. She sets it on a chair and waits patiently for me to approach her by the bar stool. She’s doing well, and then I notice the way she fiddles with her fingers, the way she presses her thighs tightly together.

I close the space between us and slide my arms around her shoulders. She rests her cheek to my chest, but her body doesn’t sag in relief. No, it tightens in eagerness. Lily doesn’t do hugs. She fucks until she passes out.

And I so badly want to fix her, but I can only help. The real mending—that has to be her job, her fight, her battle. I can’t win this one for her—just like she can’t defeat my demons.

Shoes tap along the hardwood, and I expect to see Connor Cobalt cresting the archway. Instead, I’m met with Sebastian Ross.

He’s still here after tutoring Lil? I internally groan. His self-confident swagger rubs me wrong. Always has. He wears a smug grin ninety-nine percent of the time, and he makes certain he knows what’s going on in everyone’s life. Sebastian and I have never seen eye to eye. Maybe because I say more mean comments to Rose than nice ones. He thinks I’m an asshole.

I am.

And he has full right to dislike me. I’ll give him that.

I guide Lily over to a small breakfast table and sit on the chair, bringing her on my lap. She opens her mouth, probably about to ask when we’re going to have sex, but she shuts her lips and blushes.

Before rehab, this is when I’d tease her. Run my hand down her thigh and watch her breath catch. It takes every ounce of strength to shake my head. Her eyes widen in slight horror, but I press a kiss to her temple.

I want to distract her from sex, so I ask, “Anything good on TV?”

“I taped Avengers Assemble while you were in rehab,” she says softly. “It’s pretty good, but they make Captain America look kinda weak.”

I smile. “Spoiler alert?”

“No, he wimps out in the first episode.” She seems to relax, which makes me relax.

“How was the meeting?” Sebastian asks Rose, a lit cigarette burning between two fingers.

“The meeting was fine,” she says. “The menswear collection just shipped, so everyone was excited.” When she turns to him, she spots the cigarette between his fingers, her eyes narrowing. With Connor’s vase still clenched in her hand, she plucks the cigarette from Sebastian. “Outside only.” She snuffs it in the sink and makes no other comment about it.

He gets away with more shit than any other guy in Rose’s life.

Lily resituates herself on my lap, straddling me on the chair all of a sudden. Fuck.

It’s the middle of the day. We shouldn’t have sex. It’s not considered the norm. I remind myself of all the reasons why this can’t happen. Not to mention Rose and Sebastian are halfway across the kitchen from us.

“How’s tutoring going?” Rose turns to Lily at this. She’s trying to delay what I think is the inevitable—my cock in Lily, her body and mind appeased, coming with a blissful high.

Lily points to her chest, flushed. “Oh, me?”

Rose gives her a look—one that tells her to relocate her common sense. Lily tucks her hair behind her ear and sits up a little from my chest. Progress, yes. But I can’t move my hands from her thighs. I’m afraid she’ll freak out by the lack of touch.

“I know why people call the class Stats and not Stat now.” She flashes a strained smile, hoping that’s enough for Rose.

“She’s doing fairly well,” Sebastian says nonchalantly. But his gaze descends to the vase between Rose’s fingers. He grabs the clear glass. “Is this crystal?”

“Yes,” Rose says tiredly. She pulls her glossy brown hair into a sleek pony.

Sebastian pauses for a second, and I realize Lily is entrapped with the scene, watching with more interest than she normally would have.

I squeeze her leg and lean forward to whisper in her ear, “What’s going on?”

But Sebastian speaks, cutting off any chance for Lily to reply. “Where are the flowers?”

“Dead.”

Sebastian opens a cupboard and slides out the trash.

“What are you doing?” Rose asks, her pitch spiking.

“He really expects to win you back with flowers. Come on, Rose.” Huh, I’m surprised Rose felt comfortable enough to share intimate details of her fight with Sebastian. I just didn’t think she opened up her frigid gates to anyone.

Rose stares questioningly at the vase in Sebastian’s hand, considering trashing Connor’s present.

Oh fuck that. “It’s crystal,” I remind her.

“Yeah,” Lily adds.

Sebastian looks unperturbed by the voices of dissent and rests an elbow on the counter. He passes the vase to Rose, but she hesitates by the trash bin.

“It’s Lalique,” she says under her breath, her fingers running over the smooth face. The vase is cut like a square, and the bottom has an intricate knot design.

“What does that mean?” Lily asks.

“He has good taste,” Rose says.

Sebastian makes a show of rolling his eyes.

Rose clutches the vase to her chest. “It’s my favorite brand.”

Only Rose would have a favorite kind of crystal at twenty-two. But more than that, Connor knew exactly what she liked. That detail has to count for something. I’m not even that perceptive.

Sebastian taps the counter, watching Rose closely. “You can keep it,” he says, “but what kind of message does that really send? Every fight, he’ll try to buy you back. Personally I’d be fine with that type of relationship. I have a pair of a crocodile leather shoes from Max in my closet, but I know you, Rose. After the fifth piece of jewelry, you’re going to be sick of him.”

Rose looks conflicted.

“Connor is trying to say he’s sorry,” Lily pipes in.

Sebastian looks bothered by Lily’s interjection. He tilts his head, his eyes flickering to her backpack. I’m missing something important. It doesn’t take a genius like Connor to figure that one out.

Lily hesitates, and she recoils into my chest. I wrap my arms around her and assault Sebastian with my glower. That’s what life in the first-class world is—a series of glares, half-smiles and scowls. Each one is lethal, each one like a fucking razor. And I’ve learned all of them from the best. Not Rose Calloway. My father could destroy her with his sharp ‘go-the-fuck-to-hell’ stare.

Hell, he’s almost destroyed me with it.

Rose sets the vase on the counter by the coffee pot, uncertain. “I have a box I need to grab from the car. I’ll be right back.” Partly, I think she’s leaving to hide how flustered she’s become. When she exits out the back door, Sebastian straightens up and grabs the vase off the counter.

Lily’s spine goes erect like a surprised cat. “What are you doing?”

“What Rose can’t. She’ll thank me later.” He chucks the vase in the trash bin.

“No!” Lily springs from my lap. I follow her, only because I don’t like that look in Sebastian’s eye. It’s the kind that I’ve seen from too many rich kids—the one where they think they’re invincible. That no one can touch them.

I’ve probably worn it on occasion.

Sebastian kicks the cupboard closed and extends his arms across the counter behind him, blocking Lily from the bin. She squats to go through his legs to reach it, but Sebastian holds his foot out. “Remember what’s at stake, Little Calloway,” he says casually, a voice so smooth that I want to tear it to shreds. Mine is nothing like that. I’m all edged, all something harsh and severe.

Lily freezes and slowly rises. I place my hands on her shoulders, confused as ever.

“Are you blackmailing her?” I ask.

Lily shakes her head first. “It’s okay,” she says to me. She places her palms on my chest and begins to push me away from the counters and towards the breakfast table again. It’s not okay. What the fuck is going on?!

The door opens. Rose enters with a paisley box labeled Spring/Summer Men’s Collection.

“So you’re really doing menswear?” Lily asks, her hand slipping in mine. She squeezes once, a sign that she’ll explain the Sebastian stuff later. I have to trust her.

Rose nods and pulls out a blue men’s sports coat and passes it to Sebastian.

“I like the pocket,” he says and inspects the silky lining. “I’m glad you went with this print.”

“Me too. The mini-checkers were too much.” She turns to Lily. “Sebastian’s been helping me with the collection.”

Lily told me Rose has been nervous about branching out since Calloway Couture has been strictly for women only.

“I know this is probably a busy time,” Rose says to Lily, taking the coat from Sebastian and folding it precisely, “but I could use your help at the office. Would you mind working more hours?”

Since my stay at rehab, Lily has occupied her time as Rose’s assistant, even if two other girls work at Calloway Couture for social media, online sales and whatever the hell Rose needs them for. Lily told me that she’s Rose’s numero uno bitch—and she said it all with a flourish of pride, which I found pretty adorable.

“Sure,” Lily agrees with a solid nod. But she grips my hand tighter, and then she blurts out, “But what about the male models?” And then her eyes dart to Sebastian and she pales, forgetting his presence.

“Oh yes,” Sebastian says, “they’re gorgeous. Maybe Rose can find you someone better to date than that one over there.” He points at me.

“And maybe she’ll find someone to replace you.” I mockingly pause. “Oh wait, she already has.” Where’s Connor Cobalt when you fucking need him?

The corner of Sebastian’s mouth tics. Good.

Rose sets the sport’s coat back in the box. “Sebastian, I think it’s time for you to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Sure.” He kisses her cheek, and then he waves to Lily. “Study hard.”

“I will,” she says tensely.

With this, he departs, and when the door slams, Rose sets her hands on her hips and faces Lily. “I won’t ever schedule the male models for fittings when you’re in the office, I promise.”

“I’m just scared,” Lily admits. She can’t even look at me.

I try to hold back a cringe. I should have more faith in her—that she won’t cheat on me, but I spent years hearing her fuck other guys through the walls. Being monogamous isn’t natural for her, and I’m honestly shocked she’s made it this long with just me. I wait for the day when I’m not enough, especially now that I can’t feed into her desires. I can’t give her what she can so easily receive from some other douchebag.

“I’m not going to put you in that position,” Rose tells her. “I promise.”

And if my plan works, then Lily shouldn’t be worried at all. But right as I muster the courage to ask Rose, the door opens and we all stiffen.

Sebastian is back.

But the shoes on the hardwood sound different, more confident, faster and determined.

Connor strolls through the archway with a stack of French bread pizzas. He slides them on the counter just as the tension eases. Well, technically only Lily and I relax. Rose’s shoulders lock like she’s preparing to crush someone underneath her heel. “Who did you think I was?” he asks us. He must notice the shift in the room.

“Sebastian,” Lily says.

“We were talking about sex,” I clarify.

He nods, understanding now. “How’d the tutoring go?” he asks, about to approach Rose and kiss her, but she stares at the wall, not at him. Come on, Rose, let the guy in.

Connor only studies her, more determined to win her affections. He leans against the counter and then gives Lily his full attention.

“It was fine. I think Sebastian is going to help a lot.”

Really? I always claimed I’d switch from whiskey to bleach if I had to talk to him for longer than ten minutes. Obviously, there’s something going on between Sebastian and Lily, but I don’t want to bring it up now.

“That’s good,” Connor says. “I’m sorry I can’t tutor you. If I had more time this semester, you know I would.”

“It’s fine, really.” She keeps saying that, and I think we all know it’s not fine.

Connor flips open one of the boxes, and Rose peers over his shoulder, risking the touch of his arm.

“Artichoke and mushrooms?” she asks.

He pulls out the second box and faces her. But he holds onto the pizza. “And feta.”

Lily mouths to me, her favorite.

He’s smooth. And Lily is grinning so hard, watching her sister and Connor reunite. Her whole face glows. Fuck it. I slide my arms around her waist, and I draw her to my chest, her warm body makes my cock throb. She lets out an audible sigh, but Connor and Rose are lost in their own intellectual world.

Rose waits for Connor to pass the box, but he’s not going to let her have the pizza so easily. I sometimes forget that he’s willing to test her as much as she does him.

“You broke the vase, didn’t you?” He must have seen the crumpled white roses by the gate. If he’s hurt by the fact, I can’t tell. Rose and other genius-types must be the only ones able to read him.

“What? No, I…” She glances over her shoulder by the sink—where she had previously set the vase. But it’s no longer there thanks to her “best” friend. Her gaze drifts to the cupboard with the sliding trash bin.

Connor follows her eyes, and he opens the cupboard and lifts out the expensive crystal, a fissure running through the side. Cracked, broken. He sets it by the sink and then passes her the pizza.

“I didn’t do that,” Rose immediately says. Her eyes light with fire. “I’m going to kill him.” I’ve heard her say that about Sebastian too many times to take the threat seriously.

“Sebastian?” Connor wonders.

Rose nods tersely. She puts the pizza down, no longer interested in eating, and she inspects the vase with delicate hands. Her shoulders drop. He comes behind her and whispers in her ear. When his voice grows, I catch the syllables, but I don’t understand the words.

He’s speaking to her in French.

She answers back in the foreign language, fluent. He kisses her head, and then she spins around and kisses his lips, standing on the tips of her toes.

Lily turns to face me at this, and her eyes grow wide and eager. I want to, Lil. God, do I want to. Now’s the best time to talk to Rose. Even if it’ll break her moment with her boyfriend, it’ll save me from rejecting Lily again.

“Rose,” I say.

She drops to her feet, but Conner keeps his hand tangled in her hair, intoxicated by Rose’s commanding movements. She possesses him, but he’s equally as possessive of her, which I still find strange. I thought for sure Rose would devour any man she touched, but they have this symbiotic relationship instead of the parasitic one I share with Lily.

“Yes?” she asks.

My throat swells at the thought of asking her for help. Even as the words rest on my tongue, saying them is so fucking hard. So I turn to Connor. “Have you heard anything from the private investigator?”

“He’s working on tracing the messages. We’ll see if we can find any leads.” After the wave of texts in the car, that’s not exactly the news I wanted to hear. I don’t like waiting around. I only have patience where Lily is concerned. Waiting for her to choose me over a quick lay—that was hard, but I endured it. Waiting for this guy to rip apart our lives—that, I’m not taking so well.

“Lo,” Rose snaps. Her hand flies back to her hip. She could tell I was dodging. “Spill.”

I inhale. “As you know…” I rub the back of my neck, heat flushing my body all of a sudden. I’m not used to that. “…I don’t have a college degree, so getting a job that pays better than minimum wage is going to be a challenge.”

The silence lingers, waiting for me to continue, three sets of eyes boring into me in curiosity and hesitation. They think I’m on the verge of giving up, of throwing my hands in the air and saying I can’t do hard, physical labor. I can’t flip burgers. I can’t fucking be a normal lower-class guy who has to work for his money. I’ve never had to do that, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t try. They think less of me, and I haven’t given them reason to believe otherwise.

“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.

I meet his eyes, and I swear they lighten, like he’s proud of me.

“Positive.”

In retrospect, I should have gone for the fondling over the clothes bit. I would have come and all would be well. Even after a shower, I sit behind my desk at the Calloway Couture offices with tension so crazy that I reflexively rub my lower half against my chair. My face flames when I catch myself, and I look up, wondering if Trish and Katie notice.

But both blondes type away behind their white desks, the workplace more like a loft, no cubicles. Racks of clothes shield the walls. Rose has a glass office that overlooks the rest of us, and right now, I miss her constant peeks across the room, her reprimanding gaze darting from her computer screen to my desk.

Her chair is empty, and I keep eyeing her office, wanting her to remind me why I shouldn’t sneak into the bathroom and do something naughty and just plain wrong.

But it will feel so good.

I’m two seconds from smacking my forehead on the desk. But I focus on my computer and the Excel spreadsheet. I try not to picture a naked Lo, which has already popped in my head three times. I fantasize about him too much, but I am thankful that no other guys infiltrate my thoughts. Missing him for three months has temporarily cured me. It was like my brain could only process one image: Loren Hale. All day, every day.

But by being alone—surrounded by clothes and two busy assistants, their eyes glued to computers—I can’t stop the sinful images from seeping right on in.

They begin with Lo walking towards me, still in the office. He shoves everything off my white desk and lifts me up roughly, none of his movements soft and slow. And in this particular fantasy, I’m wearing a dress.

And all he needs to do is shift my panties a little, and then he yanks my legs so they wrap tight around him, my back cool against the desk. And everything thrums so much. He tears down the top of my dress, his lips finding my breast, sucking, and then he thrusts…

Okay, I need to stop.

I squirm in my seat, the spot between my legs now pulsing, for real. There’s no doubt about it.

Maybe I can just log onto a porn site and once I stare at the pictures, all will be good. I’ll scroll through Tumblr’s naughty photos, and no one will know. I’ll hit that high I crave, and it will be okay again.

It’s an itch, a subconscious pulse. This time, I do slam my forehead down onto the keyboard, pounding my frustration until my computer lets out a screech. Shit.

I roll back a little, exhale deeply. And then a doorbell buzzes. Trish stands, her suede gray booties making the short trek to the door.

Rose is probably here. My anxiety starts to lessen. Her presence will surely keep me in line. I zone in on the Excel spreadsheet that details the collection’s current inventory. We have to ship a few more pieces to H&M because I messed up the order. I accidentally put a maxi-dress in the spring collection, and Rose has been trimming most of her clothes because they’re more flattering on the everyday girl.

My phone pings just as Trish opens the door. I check the text.

Whore – Unknown.

My heart explodes.

He has my number. He’s no longer going through Lo. What if it’s not the same person who texted him? I never thought it was possible that there could be multiple people involved in the text-threats.

I quickly log into the search engine and type my name, wondering if my secret has already been spilled. My fingers tremble as I scroll through a list of Lily Calloways. Most articles about me discuss my involvement with Fizzle. Some even call me a “soda heiress” which is a cooler title than I think I deserve. No trashy headlines pop up. Nothing about sex addiction.

I let out a short breath of relief, even if the word “whore” is still on my cell phone. Replying back may just fuel him to do something drastic—like call the tabloids—so I abandon the pursuit.

“Come on in,” Trish says. “Just stand along the back wall by the window. It’s tinted, so you don’t need to worry. I’m going to bring out the men’s clothes from our backroom. Help yourself to coffee and water on the table.”

What? I thought the male models were coming later today. Like in two hours. I check my clock on my phone. Oh…time really does fly when you’re stuck inside your head.

The guys file in. One by one. Each of them as striking as the next. It’s hard not to stare since that’s what they’re here for. I try to remember Daisy. I wouldn’t want anyone to gawk at my sister like I’m doing to these guys, but yet, I can’t stop.

I count off the models in my head. One, two, three… and when I reach nine, the door closes. Wait. Where’s Lo? And Rose? Rose and Lo. I need both of them here. And Lo should be the tenth model. Rose was going to drive him to the office since she had to run a few errands and would be here during the fitting. But yet, she’s not here.

Trish departs to the backroom, and Katie stands, ushering the guys towards my desk where they’ll linger. I sit by the window with a view of the city, and to the right of me is a table with freshly baked muffins, coffee and bottles of Evian.

I freak out.

I don’t know what else to call it. Just as Katie begins to look in my direction, I act as though I dropped a pen, and I squat to pick it up. Then I scuttle underneath my desk, hiding, and I quickly dial Lo’s number. Thankfully no one can see me, but I am sure they’re all wondering where the loony assistant disappeared to.

Maybe they’ll think I just teleported. I try to convince myself of the ridiculous and the impossible notion. But at least I can’t see them. Their deep voices and low laughter make me more paranoid than aroused. I just don’t want to stare at them for too long and begin to fantasize. Because sometimes I’ll try to turn those fantasies into realities. And I will not cheat on Loren Hale.

Not for anything.

I press my phone to my ear, the ringing incessant. “Pick up, pick up,” I mutter under my breath. I hug my knees to my chest, practically in a scared, little ball.

“Hey, it’s Lo.”

“Lo—”

“Leave a message, and I may get around to calling you back. But really, you should just call me again. And if it’s not important, then don’t bother calling at all.” BEEP.

“I hate that you haven’t changed your stupid answering machine,” I whisper angrily. “It tricks me every single time. And it’s not nice.”

A pair of jeans land near my desk. I jump, my eyes wide. They’re undressed. One of them is without pants. Oh. My. God…

I shut off the phone and redial. Answering machine. I swallow hard and say under my breath, “Um, Lo, where are you? Bye.” I hang up quickly, and I dial my sensible sister. The line rings twice before she answers.

“Are you okay?” Rose asks.

“Why is Lo not answering?” I wonder, biting my nails.

“He left his phone at the house.” Her voice muffles as she pulls the receiver from her lips. “Okay, okay, Lo, I understand. Calm down.” She huffs and then says louder, “Are the models already there?”

“Yep,” I say, catching a glimpse of a pair of bare ankles and legs—which means that he can see me curled up here. But I don’t dare move. “All nine Captain Americas have reported for duty. Where are you?” It’s not like Rose to be late.

“Stuck in traffic,” Rose tells me. “I told Connor I would pick up his dry cleaning, and there was a long line.”

“You could have told Harold to do it,” I say softly. The bare ankles are moving closer! I shut my eyes. Go away. Go away.

“I’d rather not use our mother’s butler, thank you.” Yes, I suppose that comes with some sort of stipulation. Like spending an extra couple of dinners in Villanova, and Rose already commits to Sunday get-togethers.

“Mmm-hmm.” The legs pause, too close now.

“Lily…” Rose trails. “If you’re uncomfortable, you can go wait in my office, okay? You don’t have to be around those models.”

I think it’s too late for that.

The male model squats, and I am met with beautiful brown eyes, tan skin, and full dark hair, swept in a perfect way. He has that Italian charm in his blinding smile. He tilts his head. “What are you doing under there?”

“I work down here,” I blurt out. I am roasting from head to toe.

He laughs a husky laugh.

“Lily.” I flinch at the sound of Lo’s voice, and I look over my shoulder, met with the back of the white desk. Right, I have the phone pressed to my ear.

“I’m Julian,” the model says, extending his hand.

My palm is too sweaty. He’ll think I’m weird if he shakes a slippery hand, so I point to my phone and give him a nervous smile. “Work stuff,” I say.

“What’s going on?” Lo asks through the receiver. “You okay, Lil?” His worried tone drives knots in my stomach. I don’t want him to be concerned that I’ll cheat. I know it’s a valid fear, but I wish he could trust me one-hundred percent. But he can only do that when I begin to trust myself.

Julian says, “When you’re finished, you should come out from under there. Your office has a great view.”

I know he’s just trying to be nice since I’m the anti-social monster hiding beneath her desk. He’s not hitting on me, but I can’t stop looking at his pretty eyelashes.

He stands, and I try to focus my thoughts on the phone call. “Lo?” I question whether he’s hung up.

“Lil,” he says slowly, “you’re freaking me the fuck out.”

“Sorry, I’m fine.”

“Where are you?”

“At my desk.” That’s not a lie, right? Technically I am right here. “I just…thought you were going to be in the room too.” I don’t want to cheat on him. I don’t want to even give my mind the ability to contemplate the thought—to wander and fantasize. That will kill me. Keeping them out of sight is best, even though it’s not healthy to avoid the opposite sex when Lo’s not around.

Once I have a handle on controlling the things that tempt me, it’ll be better. Today’s just not a good day. I am overly aroused.

“You don’t have to talk to them,” he reminds me.

Too late.

“I thought you said you were at your desk.”

“I am.”

“Then how come I don’t see you?”

He’s here? I can’t even crawl out from underneath my desk anymore, not even to greet Lo and Rose. Because everyone by the muffins will laugh and look at me funny for being down here. I just want to stay hidden until they all leave.

“Maybe,” I say, “because your superpower is to turn me invisible.”

He pauses. “That’s a horrible power. Take it back.”

“Okay fine. I may be here. But I’m not here on my chair,” I whisper.

And then I see a pair of ratted Vans. He bends in front of me the same way Julian did, but his face isn’t full of kind amusement. His eyes darken, and his brows harden in concern.

“Go model or try on clothes or, you know, do what you do,” I tell him. “Don’t worry about me. I’m working on something down here.”

“Like what?”

Uhhh… “A report…thing.”

“Okay,” he says, and I relax, glad that he’s letting me off the hook. “Can I have a hug before I go?”

I crawl forward a little, still blocked by the desk sides, and I wrap my arms around him. He smells good. Like mint soap and a hint of citrusy cologne. Just before I let go, Lo’s arms tighten around my waist, and he begins tugging me out of my sanctuary.

“Lo,” I whisper fiercely. I shove his chest, trying to escape and crawl back to my den.

But he brings me into the light, and I bury my face in the crook of his arm, unwilling to meet the mocking gazes of the other models. I don’t want people to look at me like I’m a weird, abnormal girl.

Lo strokes the back of my head, and his lips brush my ear. “Hey, you’re okay. Lil, no one cares.”

“I care,” I mumble.

And then he clasps my face and before I can go spastic, his lips touch mine. He kisses deeply, his tongue slipping into my mouth. My thoughts, my insecurities—they whoosh out of my head and all my built-up tension starts to tighten again.

The distraction works too well. Because when he draws back, a few of the models clap and whistle in jest. Lo shakes his head at me as my elbows blush.

“Don’t listen to them.” He rolls out my chair and guides me until I’m sitting behind my desk once more. And he hangs onto the back, his head dipping low as he meets my ear. “Just think of finishing that kiss tonight.”

I turn my head a fraction to see his sharp features, all ice. “And what if I can’t wait?”

“You can,” he assures me, but his muscles flex, worried by my sudden claim.

“You’re right,” I say. “I can.” I nod, knowing I have to. I have to wait in this chair, with my back to ten male models, and I have to finish double checking my spreadsheet. I nod again, trying to build confidence.

He kisses my temple one last time, leaving me completely aching. And every so often, my arousal turns to embarrassment and shame. I wonder if any of those models can read my sinful thoughts—or if they just think I’m a bizarre girl. I shouldn’t care about the latter, but being reminded that I’m not normal makes me feel…wrong and dirty.

After Rose assigns the models outfits, she stops by my desk. “You look flushed.”

I shrug sheepishly. What else is there to say to that?

“You don’t have to be here, Lily,” she says. “You can go home early.”

“I need to finish this.” I tap my screen. “And I want to ride home with Lo.”

“You’re uncomfortable,” she says.

I am, but I’m desperately trying to do the right thing here. I’m trying to be better. “It’s okay.”

She pats my shoulder. “If you change your mind, let me know. I won’t be upset by it.” She returns to the models, and she flocks Katie and Trish, making sure they’re doing their jobs well.

After ten minutes, I regret drinking two mochas this morning. I have the worst urge to pee, and that means spending time alone in the bathroom. And hello, I’m aroused too, and the allure of self-love is overpowering like a drug.

I cannot squirm any longer in my seat. I don’t want to attract more unnecessary attention to myself. So I stand and walk tentatively to the bathroom past both Trish and Katie’s work stations. I look over my shoulder just once, and I spot all the models pulling on sport’s coats, button-downs, collared shirts and golf shorts, all of the clothes tailored and chic.

Lo meets my gaze. He’s full of questioning. I mouth, bathroom. He nods, but he must see the need creeping over me like a cancer because his worry never disappears. But I can wait to have sex. I’ll be fine, I try to convince myself.

I shut the door behind me, and after I finish on the toilet, I touch my panties, about to raise them around my thighs. But I hesitate for one strong second. Because the place between my legs throbs so badly, and I remember the blissful feeling if I just touch once. I’ll be floating. I want that.

I shut my eyes and spend a great deal of time in a mental battle. I end up pulling on my panties, but my jeans stay around my ankles. I close the toilet lid and sit on the maroon suede covering. The bathroom smells like pine and cranberries, a glass vase of potpourri emitting the aroma.

It makes leaving ten times harder.

And then the door opens. I forgot to lock it! I internally shriek. I struggle with my jeans. “Someone’s in here!” I shout, but the body slips inside anyway.

With his back to me, Lo locks the door and then turns around, catching me frozen—with my jeans midway up my legs, with the toilet seat closed.

“I didn’t…” I start. Does he believe me?

I wouldn’t. I’ve been caught with my pants down.

It looks like I didn’t even try to wait. It looks like I gave up.

{ 10 } LOREN HALE

I rub my lips, not sure what to make of Lily sitting on the toilet lid with her jeans halfway up her ankles. I worry about her heavy breath and the shakiness of her hands. She’s an addict who needs her next fix.

“Lo, I didn’t,” she says again.

And I believe her this time. Tears threaten to spill down her cheeks, and I rush to her before she has a major breakdown. I squat to match her height, and I place my hands on her knees. “Hey, shh.” I cup her face and rub a fallen tear with my thumb. “You’re okay.”

She shakes her head.

“Can you wait?” I ask her. “You have five more hours.”

She shudders.

I can’t watch her crumble like this. My lungs constrict, my whole chest clenching.

“You should go back,” she says. “You’re working.”

I’ve changed out of the Calloway Couture clothes, and I wear my regular black shirt and jeans. “They’re writing down the alterations for the other models. I have time.” I’m supposed to be putting on my second outfit, but Rose is preoccupied with measurements and test shots. She won’t miss me for long.

Lily stares at her hands in her lap, barely meeting my eyes. “I can wait,” she says under her breath, so meek that I don’t believe her for a second.

“Can you?” I ask.

She nods and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. I tuck her hair behind her ear, wanting so badly to pull her into my arms and to make it all better. But that’s not how this new chapter of our lives is supposed to go, is it?

“I didn’t have sex for three whole months,” she says softly. “What’s five hours?”

“This is different.”

“Why?” she asks, her chin quivering. She so badly wants to grab me. I can see it in the way her eyes flit over my body for a brief moment. She catches herself and stares back at the floor.

“Because I wasn’t there,” I tell her. “You didn’t have the opportunity to touch me. It was easier.” I imagine three months without me was like being locked in a house without booze. If there’s nothing to drink, then you’re not going to get drunk. But there are always liquor stores. The same way there are always other guys to fuck. She also had the option to touch herself, but she’s eliminated that completely. She stuck to her vows.

And I know that if I leave her like this, she’ll break one by masturbating. She can’t last five hours, and she won’t ask me to have sex with her. So she’ll be drawn to the next best thing, thinking that self-love is the right solution. She won’t cheat on me. She’ll just cheat on herself.

So while she sniffs and wipes her tears, I rack my mind for that damn blacklist with the therapist’s rules. My head is fuzzy, distracted by Lily’s constant trembling and the way her knees begin to turn inward.

“Lo,” she cries. “I think you should leave.”

My chest falls. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And before she can refute, I kiss her. I part her lips with my tongue, and she clenches my shirt, her soft moans like thank yous. Each one drives me harder, and my movements become as hungry as hers. I lift her in my arms, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist. And I knock her back into the wall. Her voice is lost in the base of my neck, her forehead pressing to my shoulder.

“I need you,” she whispers, panicked. “Please…” The fear in her voice cuts a new scar.

“Shh, love.” I rub my hand through the back of her hair, and I nip her ear with my teeth. She shudders against me. I want her to release, but I feel like there’s no winning with this one. If I let her go, she’ll masturbate. If I fuck her, she’ll hate herself. If I make her come, she’ll still be filled with shame and guilt for not lasting five hours.

There is no right answer, no fucking break. And so each stroke against her flesh is seared with tension and a strong ache, my heart pounding like a jackhammer to cement.

And I kiss her again, my lips swelling beneath her eagerness, her insistency to push deeper, to go farther. She runs her bitten nails across my back, not sharp enough to draw blood, not even long enough to truly scratch, but she digs her fingers into my skin. She grips so fiercely, as though I am two seconds from dropping her. From saying no.

My brain clicks, and the blacklist isn’t hazy anymore. We can’t do this. I retract my lips from her, and I don’t meet her eyes.

I fucked up.

I want to punch the wall. I want to scream. More than anything, I want to go sit at a bar and forget the road I was about to pull Lily down. What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Lo…”

I bring her to her feet, and she wobbles unsteadily. I keep a hand on her waist, but there’s considerable amount of distance between us.

“What did I do…?” Her high-pitched voice lurches my stomach.

“Nothing,” I say, tucking another piece of hair behind her ear.

“Then we can do something…” She grips my shirt again, clenching the fabric between two panicked fists.

I pry her fingers from me. “We can’t have sex here, and I can’t touch you here either.” But she can’t wait until tonight.

She nods rapidly. And as the news settles with her, she pulls her shoulders back like I’ve seen Rose often do. She raises her chin, trying to be strong. Christ, I want to her kiss her for it and to apologize for tempting her even more. I should have taken her to our house where we can have sex. In fact, that’s what we’re going to do now.

“Grab your stuff,” I tell her. “We’re going home, and I’ll make you come there.” My tone isn’t sexy. It’s clinical. I just want her to be able to wait until we reach our bedroom.

I find her jeans on the ground, and I help put her legs in each pant hole.

“Wait,” she says.

I don’t want to give her the chance to convince me to have sex with her in the bathroom. It’s not happening. I already screwed up by arousing her more—I don’t need to break anything on that blacklist.

Public sex—yeah, that’s not fucking allowed.

I zip up her jeans and fish the button through, towering over her with dominance that makes her squirm. I want to kiss her. God, I just want to hold her. But instead of drawing towards Lily, I have to draw back.

“Wait,” she says again, more forceful this time. She grabs my wrist to stop me. “You’re not going home.”

“I’m not leaving you,” I say. I don’t add that I don’t trust her. Her fingers may slip into her panties; she may give herself what I’ve denied.

“You’re working,” she reminds me, tears building again. “I’m not ruining your first job.” She inhales a strong breath and adds, “I’ll stay at my desk, and when you’re done working, we can go.”

I hesitate.

“You should only be one more hour. I can wait that long.”

“Plus the ride home,” I remind her.

She nods quickly. “Yes, yes.”

I like this option. Mostly because Lily came up with the idea, and it’ll lessen whatever guilt she’ll feel for not being able to wait tonight. “Okay.” I kiss her cheek. And she sighs, but as she walks to the door, the tension becomes apparent in the way her thighs press together.

I lead her out of the bathroom, and we enter the loft space where Trish and Katie fling clothes at one another, fixing the garments on the models quickly. I look around for Rose, but she’s nowhere in sight.

Lily keeps her eyes pinned to the desk and nowhere else. “I’ll be okay,” she says, more to herself than me.

“I know you will.”

I watch her make the short journey to her desk. She slides into her chair and studies her computer screen, focused and concentrated. Maybe it’s all a façade. But I know she’s trying damn hard.

I need to find Rose to tell her that I’m leaving right after I finish with the fitting. There aren’t many places she could be. Besides her glass office, there’s only the backroom. I saunter down the short hallway, my shoulders stiff. I stuff my fists in my pockets so they’ll stop shaking. I feel high on fear and concern, my adrenaline spiked badly. I just need a drink.

Her icy voice echoes from an open door. I rest my arm on the frame, my eyes darting around the dimly lit area that’s filled with marked boxes, racks of clothes, and clear plastic tubs. Rose has her back to me, a phone pressed to her ear.

“I don’t want to have this conversation with you right now. We have a photo shoot next week and a runway show in two months—”

“Which is precisely why I called.” I’d recognize Samantha Calloway’s biting voice from the fucking moon. I’m not surprised that she called her daughter. She’s been involved with Rose’s company from its birth.

“Don’t start,” Rose warns her. “This isn’t going to end well, Mother.”

“You’re right. It’s not going to end well for you. I have helped your father market Fizzle for twenty years. What you’re doing is going to ruin Calloway Couture.”

“He’s just a model!” Rose shouts. “He’s not the face of the company.”

I freeze.

“He’s an alcoholic,” Samantha retorts. “And his face will be plastered in magazines and billboards next to your brand. Your company will suffer for it.”

It suddenly feels hot in here. I tug at the collar to my shirt. Why is it so fucking hot?

“And who sees Loren Hale and immediately thinks alcoholic? Your friends? Because I sure as hell don’t know anyone else in this fucking country who would give a shit.” Venom laces Rose’s words.

“Don’t speak to me that way. I’m your mother, and it’s my job to give you advice.”

“I hear it,” Rose says. “Your advice, while I know you mean well, is judgmental and cold. Loren will be a model in the campaign. He’ll be in photos, runway shows and commercials, so if you have a problem with that, then turn off the television, divert your eyes, but don’t scold me.”

Samantha Calloway sighs. “Is there anything that can change your mind, Rose? You’re making a very big mistake.”

“Nothing,” she says.

“Well then, I’ll see you Sunday.” She pauses. “I’m sorry I yelled.”

Rose sighs just as heavily. “Me too.” They both hang up, and when Rose spins around, she jumps back, her hand to her chest in surprise. “Lo, I…”

“Don’t,” I say with a bitter smile that turns into a grimace. “Look, I didn’t know that my role in your company would impact you nega—”

“It doesn’t,” she interjects. “She’s just overdramatic.”

All these feelings scorch my insides, and if I don’t speak my mind now, I’m going to be driven down the street to a place I shouldn’t go. “Your mother is right,” I tell her, the words sinking low. “And I won’t screw with your career just because I need some cash. I’ll find another way.”

“Don’t,” Rose tells me now. She holds a manicured finger directly at my face. “You’re staying.”

“I’m not.” I can’t stay. I can’t fuck up another Calloway’s life with my problems. Lily is so much a part of me that there’s no disentangling from her now, but Rose—I’m not going to trap her inside my vice. I’m not going to lead her down this dark path that I walk on.

I turn to leave, and Rose grabs my arm. “You need this job.”

I jerk out of her grip. “I appreciate your help, I do, but you have to let me go.”

“I can’t,” she says with such determination. “I promised you this job, and you’d still be here if it wasn’t for that phone call.”

I shrug. “Yeah? Shit happens, Rose. One day, I was an only child, and the next, I have a brother and an empty bank account. I’ve learned to deal.” I’m about to cross through the door, but she slides in front of me, blocking my exit.

“I won’t beg you to stay,” she tells me.

“Good,” I snap. “Then we have an understanding.” I go to pass her, but she extends her arm, trapping me. “Rose.”

“You haven’t even tried, Loren. You’re giving up.”

Veins pulse in my neck, and I lean in low. “Rose,” I sneer, “for a girl that cannot stomach a crying baby, who wouldn’t be able to empathize with a child if she tugged on your goddamn sleeve, you really should stop trying to understand the human race.” My words cut deep. Rose has been incredibly open-minded since she learned about Lily’s addiction. She’s been there for her every single minute of the day, and I know she would drop her whole schedule if I asked her to.

But I just need her to let me go—to realize that she’s lost this battle. For a girl who always wins, that’s a tough one to swallow.

Rose purses her lips and then she relents by edging out of the doorway. “If you change your mind—”

“I won’t.” I can’t even tell her thank you. I realize I am back to square one. Jobless and without a real plan.

“I’ll write you a check for your time today.”

I nod. “Just don’t overpay. I’ll be able to tell.” If anyone is going to accidentally hand out more money, it’s going to be Rose and Connor. But I don’t want to accept their charity. Not because I’m too prideful. I just want to prove to myself that I can do this on my own.

Her eyes darken, so I know that’s exactly what she planned on doing. I pat her arched shoulder, and I head back into the main room. Lily’s forehead is almost pressed to the computer. I walk up to her, noticing that her nose touches the screen.

I smile. God, I can’t believe I’m smiling after all that has happened. The fact that this girl can upturn my lips after such a bad day makes me never want to let her go. “Are you planning on eating your spreadsheet?” I ask her. “Or are you trying to disappear into cyberspace?”

Her cheeks rose, and she leans back. “I was making sure my numbers were right.” Her eyes trail my body. “Shouldn’t you be in a collared shirt?”

“Nah,” I say. “It’s not my style.” I reach out and hold her hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

She frowns. “But, you’re not done with work yet.”

“I quit,” I tell her.

Her face twists in so many emotions. “Not…not for me, right? Lo, you can’t.” She points to the muffins. “Go back.”

“Lil,” I say softly, bringing her to her feet, my hands at her waist. “I’ll explain everything in the car. But you have to trust me that none of this is because of you, okay? It’s my choice.”

“Did Rose…?” She looks over my shoulder, ready to dart towards her sister and convince her that I should stay. But she has it backwards.

“Rose wants me here. I don’t want to be.”

Lily processes the words. “Okay…okay, so we’re going?”

I nod.

“You promise you’ll tell me why? And you won’t lie to me?”

“No lying,” I assure her. We have to be honest. It’s the one thing we need to be good at.

She leans over her keyboard, closes out Excel, and shuts down her computer.

As Lily steps forward, she whips her head from side to side, paranoid that someone can see straight through her—that they can tell just how aroused she is. They can’t. But I sure as hell can.

I swoop in behind her, my hands planted on her waist, and my lips brush her ear. “Want a ride?”

She brightens almost immediately. I don’t wait for her to say yes. I crouch a little in front of her, and I lift her up on my back. She holds tight around my neck, and I keep my arms underneath her legs, willing to carry her as far as she needs to go—just like when we were kids.

Some things never change.

I finish telling Lily about the phone call between Rose and their mother about the same time that we reach the parking deck. Lil still clings to my back like a koala bear to a tree, and I wish I didn’t have to set her down. But I drop her onto her feet while I search my pockets for the keys to her car.

“I’m glad you told me,” she says, no judgment in her eyes, just complete understanding. I’m about to kiss her, but I remember that she’s aroused, her eyes glazed for something more than just a peck on the cheek.

She holds onto my belt loop with two fingers, silently tugging me towards her body. I don’t even think she realizes that she’s doing it.

Right as I fish out the keys and unlock the doors, she lets out a sharp breath and scuttles behind my back.

“Hide me,” she whispers, gripping the hem of my shirt and using my body as a shield.

“What?” I frown and scan the dark parking deck.

“Is that Lily Calloway?” a guy says, not even twenty feet from us. He just opened his Jeep door and climbed out, a couple spaces to the right of Lily’s vehicle. He walks towards us, and I spot a Penn soccer sticker on his gas cap.

The guy looks vaguely familiar. He has tan skin, more Spaniard than Italian, and his trim build matches soccer players. But I can’t place him. Not yet. He’s swimming in a fog.

Lily reveals herself now that she’s been sighted. “Hi…”

“Do you remember me?” he asks, his eyes briefly flickering to me and then back to Lil. I know, just by the way that he’s looking at her, that they had sex.

If I was tense before, I’m wired now, my muscles tightening into taut strands. I’m used to being the one who knocks on Lily’s door in the morning and escorts her one-night stand out of our apartment. I’d even grab the poor guy a cup of coffee. But he’s not a face that I remember being charitable to. I don’t think he ever stepped foot in our old apartment.

“Yeah,” Lily says, reaching for my hand. She holds it tightly, and I do her one better. I wrap my arm around her shoulders. She relaxes only a little, and the guy—well, he acts oblivious to my claim over her. Do I really need to wave a giant flag that says BOYFRIEND in his fucking face?

He nods. “I was just thinking about you the other day.” His eyes rake her body. Is he serious? I’m standing right here. I glare so hard that my eyes start to burn.

“Lo,” Lily says, “this is Mason Nix. Remember that frat party we went to our freshman year?” We went to a lot of parties when we were eighteen. I feel like I’ve shelved this memory so far back that it’s going to take an hour to find.

“Right,” I say vaguely, still drilling holes into Mason. He meets my gaze but looks completely unaffected by my warning. What’s this guy’s deal?

“Anyway, it’s funny that I’m running into you, Lily. I was going to call you yesterday—”

“You have her number?” I question.

“Yeah,” he says, his lips rising. “And I have yours. Loren Hale, right? She gave me your number too, said something about how she always loses track of her phone.”

She must have been drunk. Lil doesn’t usually give out her number or mine. She said it “promotes stalking”—which clearly seems to be the case.

My blood ices over, and my hand on Lily’s shoulder suddenly feels like a weight. So he has her number, and mine. He has the ability to text us, but he hardly seems vindictive towards me, definitely not enough to threaten Lily.

He licks his lips and nods to her. “So, I was thinking you’d want to hookup later.” What? “Maybe tomorrow, around eight. Same frat house, same place. If you want to be fucked hard, I’m your guy.”

Lily balks. “I…”

“No,” I sneer. “She’s my girlfriend, you asshole.”

Mason lets out a short laugh. “That’s funny.” He looks back at Lily, waiting for her response.

Am I invisible? Am I not speaking clearly? I don’t fucking get it?! I step in front of Lily, letting go of her hand. “She’s my girlfriend. You’re never going to fuck her.”

“I already did,” he retorts.

My jaw locks, and I clench my fingers into a fist.

“So what do you say, Lily? If I’m not enough for you, I can call up some of my buddies. I know you like that.”

The memory hits me all at once—the one I tried to suppress. And I have the sudden urge to vomit until I pass out. I can’t even talk about it. I can’t mention what happened or else I think I may explode. I may beat him until he can’t stand on two legs. And it’s not his fault for what happened. Not really. It’s mine for not stopping Lily.

For not holding her in my arms and telling her that I truly loved her. That I would be enough, and I’d quit drinking so she’d quit fucking other guys. That’s all I had to do. Choose her before alcohol. And I picked wrong for so many years.

He tries to step towards her, and I put a hand on his chest, pushing him back. Things have changed. “She’s with me. She’s not going to fuck you. If you can’t understand that, then go read a damn book to understand the English language.”

“And she was your girlfriend two years ago. That didn’t stop her before. In fact, you waved her towards me.”

I want to strangle my past drunken neck. Our fake relationship is coming back to haunt me. “That was different. She’s not seeing anyone else but me now. So fuck off.”

Mason lets out another laugh. “There’s no way that girl is only with you.” He knows. He knows she has a problem. And I wonder if he sent those texts. He was thinking about her recently, didn’t he say that?

“Were you really thinking about Lily the other day, or were you just blowing smoke?”

He smiles as though I’ve given him permission to pursue her. Over my dead fucking corpse. “I mentioned her to my friends a couple weeks ago. We were talking about the girls at Penn who give the best head. Everyone agreed she was the best cocksucker on campus.”

And I can’t help it.

I deck him. Right in the face.

It didn’t feel good. My knuckles are on fire, and Mason touches his split lip, shocked.

Lily comes up behind me and starts tugging my arm, trying to lead me to our car.

I follow her, walking backwards so he doesn’t break my sharp gaze.

And then he says, “I knew it.”

I stop. My face falls because the look he wears—it’s full of detest, but it’s the kind of hate that’s been there for a while, accumulated throughout the years. He should be pissed about that punch to the jaw, not something so deep-seated.

“You were the one who slashed our tires because we fucked your girlfriend.” We. I cringe, never ever wanting to hear that again. We. Not I. Not me. Multiple guys.

And I may have popped a tire or two. I was drunk. I was eighteen. And I was pissed and resentful, more at myself than at anyone else. But I took it out on this guy. And I buried the memory.

“Have you been texting me?” I glare.

Mason grits his teeth.

Lily tries to drag me off again, but I stay my course.

“Have you?!” I shout. What I did—that was two years ago. But there are some things that no guy can let go. This is probably one of them.

“Bye, Lily,” Mason says, his eyes only planted on me. “We’ll hookup soon, yeah? And maybe I won’t tell anyone else what a good little slut you are.”

I shake off Lily, and I go crazy. I grab him by the face, pinching his cheeks together with one furious hand, and I shove his back over the hood of Lil’s car.

He struggles to stand up from my hold, but I pin him down, my kneecap pressing into his dick.

“You touch her, you even think about her, and I’ll have you in the ground before you can say thank you, Loren Hale. You go to the media, the press, and I will ruin you, starting with your soccer career. You don’t even know who I am, you motherfucker.”

He spits in my face, and I throw him off the car and onto the cement.

I think he’s about to come back and tackle me, but he staggers to his feet.

I don’t give him the last word. Lily physically pushes me into the passenger seat, knowing that I’m too crazed to drive right now. And she rolls up the window while Mason begins yelling again. We can’t hear him in the car, but he smacks our hood with two fists as we pull out.

And then we drive off, his middle finger in the rearview mirror.

My hands shake, and my heart pumps a mile a minute.

Lily says nothing. She stares faraway at the road, the silence blanketing the car. I need a drink. I need a goddamn drink right now. I run my hand through my hair, and then I glance back at her, checking her state of mind…and body.

Her eyes glass, but her knees are locked together, and her leg bounces. Fuck. I forgot. We’re on our way home to have sex. I lean back, hitting the headrest with an exasperated sigh. Everything is just so far out of my control.

When we’re stuck in traffic, bumper to bumper, Lily finally breaks the quiet. “You slashed their tires?”

I rub my mouth. “I may have…” It was a long time ago. We just entered college. There were more guys for her to fuck. She was gone almost every night, and I worried about whether or not she’d wake up crying. Whether I’d find her bruised and disposed of. It was horrible.

She nods to herself, letting this sink in. “What if he wasn’t the guy texting us?” she asks. “You just made him angrier.”

“Yeah…I see that.” I didn’t think running into her one-night stands would be this hard. I also didn’t think they’d ask to sleep with her while I was present. That sucked.

Lily breathes heavily.

“Hey,” I say, leaning towards her. I slide my hand on her leg. “It’s okay. We’re going to be fine.”

She nods, trying to believe it as much as me. If I don’t find this guy soon, I’ll lose my mind. I think I’m about there.

She turns on the radio, and we listen to music all the way home, our breath slowing together. Sometime later, we finally reach the house and pull into the garage. Lily snaps off her belt and turns to me.

“I don’t need to have sex anymore. I’m okay now.” Her words sound practiced, like she’s been reciting them in her head for the past hour.

“I don’t believe you,” I tell her.

Her face pales. “No, really Lo, I’m fine.”

My eyes fall to her legs, her thighs pressed tightly together. “So if we’re not having sex anymore, what are you going to go do?”

She shrugs, her shoulders tense and locked. She’s so fucking aroused. Just admit it, Lily. “Maybe…take a shower.”

“And masturbate?”

Her eyes widen. “No-no,” she stammers. “No, just shower.”

I lean forward and finger the button on her jeans.

“What…what are you doing?” she asks. Her chest collapses with a heady breath, something that has my need building.

“I’m checking.”

“For what?” she asks in a small voice.

I unzip her, and I watch her eyes plant on my hand as it descends down her pants and underneath her panties. She grabs my wrist as I slip my fingers inside of her. And she contracts around them, wet and eager and so ready.

“You’re not aroused?” I ask again.

Her head tilts back, her eyes closed, her hand gripping my wrist so I don’t move. “No,” she breathes.

“You’re a little liar.”

“I’m not.” She gasps as I push deeper, in and out. “Lo,” she cries. Her back begins to arch, trying to drive my fingers further inside.

We need to move this upstairs. I disentangle from her tight clutch and slip my fingers out. “Go upstairs,” I tell her. “Take off all your clothes, lie still on the bed, and I’ll make you feel better.”

She nods wildly, wanting nothing more than for me to take her mind off of what just happened. She opens the door and then hesitates. “Are you not coming with me?”

“I’ll be there in a second.”

“Lo—”

“I just need a minute.”

She glances at the raw skin on my knuckles, and then she nods again and heads into the house. When the door closes behind her, I grab my phone and dial a number.

The line clicks after the third ring. “Hey. How was the first day on the job?”

I can’t speak. I shouldn’t have called him. I’m about to hang up.

“Lo?” Ryke’s voice turns serious. “Hey, talk to me.”

I let out a breath. “Tell me why I shouldn’t.” I pinch my eyes. I want this to end. This torment. These feelings. I want to help Lily without needing something to drown my own thoughts.

“Because one drink isn’t worth what you’ll feel in the morning.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“You’ll puke,” he reminds me. That’s right, I’m on Antabuse. One sip of alcohol and I’ll be sick.

I pause, wondering if I still could test it out. Maybe I could. I grimace. Maybe I couldn’t.

“Because you love Lily more than that.”

And it hits me. I’m here. In the fucking car. Debating about a stupid glass of alcohol when Lily is waiting for me upstairs, fighting her compulsions, probably seconds from touching herself. And I’m supposed to be there to help her say no. To stop her. I’m the guy looking out for her the way Ryke is there for me.

Rose trusted that I would be able to stay sober and help Lily. And this is the one thing I want to do right.

“I have to go,” I say.

“Wait.” His voice pitches. “Do I need to come over? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, don’t come over.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ryke, unless you want to walk in on me fucking my girlfriend, you need to stay at home.”

There’s a long pause, and then, “See you tomorrow?”

“Yep.” We both hang up.

And I step out of the car.

Ready to help Lily. Ready to be there.

Ready to change.

{ 11 } LILY CALLOWAY

I pace back and forth in the kitchen. I’m a ball of string that needs to be unwound, an anxious mess and a compulsive freak. I didn’t follow Lo’s orders to retreat upstairs to our room and shed my clothes.

I stay right beside the back door, pressing my ear occasionally to the wood, waiting for him, hoping and praying that he’s not doing something bad and dangerous. I bite my nails, listening carefully at the sound of shuffled footsteps.

In the car, he looked like he wanted to sink and drown to the bottom of a dark, cold ocean. And I can’t let him do that. I can’t let him go.

The car door slams.

I peel my ear away and scuttle backwards, not quick enough. The door swings open and Lo catches me right here in the kitchen, disobeying his orders. A horrible, insane part of me wonders if he’ll hate that I care about him, if he’ll reprimand me for it.

I blurt out, “I’m sorry. I was just worried, and you looked upset…” I trail off while he stays stationary near the wall, his cheekbones sharpening. And I imagine what could have happened if he drank, if he did something worse in that garage. If he left me.

For real this time.

The truest deepest part of me suddenly speaks.

“I don’t know how to live without you.” And I shake my head quickly as tears pool. “And I don’t want to know how. I don’t want to find out.”

He is my breath. My soul. My life-force. I have spent forever with him. Being apart is the most unnatural feeling in the world. Three months—I could handle that like a bad itch. Forever without him?

Just kill me now.

He slowly walks to me, and his hand skims my cheek, his eyes never softening, his sharp demeanor never changing. He’s Loren Hale. Ice and whiskey. Powerful and intoxicating.

He’s my very best friend.

His forehead presses to mine, his lips so near. In a low whisper, he says, “You’ll never have to find out, Lil.”

I ache to kiss him, to solidify those words as truth.

His lips nearly brush mine, but he teases, a sliver of space tempting me and causing tension to build between us. His amber eyes flicker to me. “I will never learn how to live without you. I couldn’t fucking bear it.”

I grip his arms, keeping him close. This feels imagined, like a part my fantasies. But I’m touching him, cut muscles, his legs against my legs. I let out a breath. “And what if everyone says we shouldn’t be together—that it’s not right?” Every person has to learn to live alone at some point in their life. Why do we? I always wonder. Because it’s right, my conscience says. But I love him. But you’re co-dependent. But I love him. But it’s not okay.

I want our love to be right.

Why can’t it be right?

“No,” he immediately says, holding my face in two large hands. “If the whole world says living without each other is what we should do, then this will be the last wrong I make.”

Yes.

We connect to each other fully, his lips touching mine in passionate desperation, as though two people are literally trying to pull us apart, as though we’re giving them the middle finger, telling them to fuck off.

Fuck off. I love Loren Hale. I can’t live without him. However silly that may be, it is the undying truth. Even if he was with another girl. Even if we never could touch. I could not live without Lo. He is as much a part of me as the sun is a part of the sky, as the earth is to the universe.

I need him in order to wake up in the morning.

I need him to feel whole.

He clutches my hair, the long kiss stealing my breath. And without warning, he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder. Oh God. His hand grips my ass as he carries me out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

My heart has traveled to my throat.

On the second level, he opens the bedroom door and tosses me roughly on the mattress.

I struggle to catch the air that escapes my lungs, and when I do, I prop my body on my elbows and watch him watch me.

He unzips his jeans, never breaking my gaze. His shirt comes off next, uncovering his defined muscles that beckon me to touch. I undress with the same mastered efficiency, breathing so heavily that my ribs jut out and in with quick succession.

In this moment, I have no desire to touch myself. I want him on me. In me. I can wait for his hands, for his body, for his breath.

So I watch him as he walks to the nightstand, only in black boxer-briefs while I stay completely bare. He opens the drawer.

I sit on my knees, my eyes widening in delighted anticipation.

When he shuts it, my mouth drops a little. “I thought…” you were just getting a condom. “Are those…?” I’m imagining them. This has to be a fantasy. “Where’d you find those?” I would have seen silver handcuffs in our room! I would have jumped for joy and paraded them around like they were a bag of galleons.

He climbs onto the bed, on his knees in front of me, towering over my small frame. His lips lift in a devious smile. “A little black box,” he tells me.

“I need to start opening more boxes,” I say in a breathless whisper. “Are you going to cuff me to you?”

His grin lights up his whole face. “No, love.” And then he lifts me by the waist and sets me closer to our pillows. He clips one cuff around my wrist and then the other to a rung in the headboard.

Ohhh…my…

“Don’t move,” he instructs as he slips off his boxer-briefs. When he lowers his body against mine, I instinctively run my free hand across his shoulder, his bicep, sliding my fingers along his abs towards his cock.

He grabs my hand before I reach the best place. He shakes his head at me once in disapproval, but his lips betray him, rising as he soaks in my eager gaze.

“No touching,” he says, his voice forceful. He climbs off the bed, leaving me cold and alone on the mattress.

“Wait, I won’t—I promise.” Come back.

He disappears into the closet, and I wonder if this is a test that my therapist concocted. Is he supposed to leave me wanting and craving? Am I supposed to overpower this compulsive demon while I am in desperate need?

I’m going to fail.

I already know it.

I bite my lip, weight crashing into me. I stay entirely still, expecting Lo to walk out fully dressed, to wave goodbye and go meet Ryke somewhere. This was all a game to get me to this point, imprisoned on my bed with only one hand for use.

And then he exits.

But he’s naked, like before.

He holds a scarf, and I can barely process what this means. My head floats away as the bed rocks, as he edges near me, lifts my other hand and ties my free wrist to the headboard.

I am not as excited as before, mainly because I just freaked out.

When Lo looks back down at me, his smile fades into dark concern. “Hey, Lil…” His thumb skims my cheek. “You’re okay.” He must recognize the fear in my eyes. “I won’t ever desert you, love. Not for a goddamn moment. You’re mine to take care of, you understand?”

His words instantly fill my heart. I nod quickly. “Yes.”

“I’m going to take care of you now. I’m going to fill you so deep that you’re going to wish you could touch me, but you can’t.” Yes. “You’re going to come each time I slip in.” Yes. “You’re going to ask me to stop to catch your breath.” Yes. “I won’t.”

Please.

His hand descends to the spot between my legs, wet and ready. He spreads my legs open with his knees, and his fingers pulse inside of me. I writhe and buck up to try to meet him. But he contains me on the mattress; he softens my jagged, impatient movements with a hand to my hip.

I try to reach forward and run my fingers through his hair, but the silky scarf stops me, and the hard cuff digs into my other wrist. He dictates the position, the speed, the tempo of our love.

He replaces his fingers with his long, thick cock, so big for me, and I cry out, jerking against the restraint. He keeps my legs spread open and bends my knees. When he leans forward to kiss me, his whole cock slowly dives into me, no space to breathe.

I let out a staggered moan that turns sharp and needy. His lips hover right over my parted ones, and he rubs the sweaty hair out of my face.

In a low, husky voice, he whispers, “Every inch of me is inside of you.”

“Lo,” I cry. I want to touch him. I want to wrap my arms around his shoulders and never let go.

He doesn’t pull out or rock just yet. He stays deep, my need building fiercely. He breathes just as heavily as me, nearly kissing, nearly shifting, but he remains in this single, taunting position that has my nerves singing.

“Tell me the first thing that comes to your head,” he says.

In an aching whisper, I say, “I love you.”

His eyes graze me with sheer want. “How much do you love me?”

“So much.”

“How badly do you want me?”

“So badly,” I say with a short gasp. “Please.”

“How do I feel inside of you?”

I struggle to form words, my toes beginning to curl, my muscles spindling.

“Lily?” he says forcefully.

“…Good.” I manage to sputter.

“How good?”

I shake my head. I can’t describe. “You’re unlike anyone…” He’s my best friend. My best friend is all the way inside of me. If I think back years ago, when I wouldn’t allow myself to even fantasize about this moment, I would have died and come right there.

He slowly slips back and then slowly slips in. I shudder as soon as he fills me again. “How was that?” he asks with a growing smile. He knows exactly how that was.

“I can’t…”

“You can’t what?”

“Breathe.” I can breathe, of course—I’m talking. But it feels like my lungs are about to explode.

“I’m not stopping,” he reminds me. Please don’t ever. He slips out the same way for the second time, and when he eases himself completely inside of me, my cries must breach the walls of our bedroom.

“Lo, Lo, Lo!” I repeat in hurried succession. I constrict around him once and then twice.

He lets out a deep groan, his mouth parting like mine, unable to tease me with a lingering kiss any longer. “Lil,” he says, sitting up off my body to see the way he disappears between my legs. I want to see that too, but Lo shifts even further forward, and I constrict again. Holy…

My back arches, and I tug against the cuff and the scarf, the metal digging into my skin, the sharpness reminding me of Lo, igniting something intense within me.

Even as I come, I prepare for him to pull out and say enough is enough. One peak is all you get, Lily.

But he continues that mocking routine. Slipping out so very slowly. Slipping in so very slowly. Stopping, waiting, watching me.

And I come again.

He’s bursting every nerve in my body. He’s causing my world to spin.

And I can see how much he’s waiting for his release, how his own peak closes in, and how he restrains himself from coming, from ending this. Each time I tighten around his cock, he groans and finds a way to stay sane, to stay back in order to help me. In order to allow me to reach this place many, many times.

He’s filling my every single need.

He’s taking care of me.

Only Lo can satisfy every part of my all-consuming soul.

He is truly my everything.

{ 12 } LOREN HALE

The therapist’s office rests in the heart of New York City, and on the ride here, Lily can’t keep her legs from bouncing. I’ve spent three months spilling my guts to doctors and psychologists; one sex therapist isn’t going to scare me off. I just wish I could take away Lily’s nerves. I told her it won’t be weird—that this lady has probably heard some wild things—but it wasn’t enough to stop her head from whipping towards the door like she was ready to fling herself out.

I take her hand, intertwining her fingers with mine. Her shoulders slacken and she turns to look at me, releasing a giant breath at the same time. I can’t help but smile. She’s cute, even when she doesn’t mean to be.

After paying the cab, a tense elevator ride, and a short walk down the hall, we wait in a small area that looks more like a modern living room: glass bookshelves and light streaming through long windows. The office door swings open, and the therapist motions us inside. A leather couch sits along the coffee-colored wall. And a robust black leather chair lies directly across.

As she takes a seat with a little notebook in hand, I embed her looks in my mind. I’m not sure how I pictured Lily’s sex therapist, but she definitely wasn’t middle-aged with a short black bob. The woman is even tinier than Lily, probably no taller than five feet.

“You must be Loren.” She extends her hand before I sit on the couch. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

I shake hers and then settle beside Lily, my arm curving around her waist. And I watch the therapist, seeing if she notices the touch and if she’s going to criticize me for it. She doesn’t say a word, but her eyes do catch our embrace.

“It’s actually Lo,” I correct her. “Obviously Lily didn’t tell you everything.” My words taste nasty in my mouth, and they sound even worse.

And yet, the therapist smiles good-naturedly.

I don’t know why this irritates me. I wish she’d snap at me like Rose does for being rude and insolent.

I glance out the window. Her vast view of the city probably costs a shit ton—especially with a park directly in sight.

Of course Rose picked out the most expensive therapist in a hundred-mile radius. Not that money means anything to Lily. But I wouldn’t be able to afford having a cracker with… I read her name on the plaque of the oak desk. Dr. Allison Banning.

Lily never mentions her by first name, always referring to her as “Dr. Banning” but if I have to expose my personal feelings to someone, I don’t want to act like she’s a complete stranger.

“So Allison…” I watch her cross her ankles and focus her whole attention on me. No wonder Rose liked her. “Do you get many sex addict, alcoholic couples?”

“You’re my first.”

“Shocking.”

Lily elbows me in the side, and I can’t tell if it’s because of my sarcasm or because I called her Allison. The therapist stays unblinking, already mastering that complacent face and cool exterior. She could give Connor Cobalt a run for his money.

“Why don’t you tell me how it’s been since you moved home?” Allison asks me.

“About sex or in general?”

Lily turns a bright shade of red and slumps in her seat. I’m more comfortable talking about fucking, not because I have a dick or because she’s shy—even though she kind of is—but because I’m not the sex addict. I don’t feel ashamed about sex. She does.

I raise my arm to her shoulders, and she eases into my body a little, relaxing more.

“Either one,” Allison tells me. Her eyes flicker between Lily and me with rapt attention now. She’s definitely going to pick apart every single movement we make. “You decide.”

Lily opens her mouth, but I cut her off on purpose. I don’t want her to dodge the subject. “We had sex a few days ago,” I confess. Explaining my inability to be with Lily without arousing her—well, it feels like walking through quicksand. And so I purposefully keep it short, direct, to the point. She doesn’t need to know the messy details.

Like how she couldn’t wait until the night. How, after an hour, I had to pry myself off her to stop. She was satisfied, but with Lily, it’s a momentary fulfillment. It leaves the second she wishes to feel a climax again. I wanted to fuck her as much as she wanted to be fucked, but I had to watch her face crumble as she realized that was it.

For the first time, I’m looking at the bigger picture—the future—but Christ, no one ever mentioned how I’d have to endure preliminary pain to get there.

“You had sex a few days ago,” Allison repeats. “What exactly happened?”

“I put my penis in her vagina.” Embarrassment and remorse swim with the black tar in my chest. My filter—it’s permanently on the fritz. I think my father must have busted it one night. But not with his fists. He’s too civilized for that.

Lily lets out a laugh, which makes me feel a little better.

“Not anatomically,” Allison clarifies. “Did you only have missionary? How long did it last? What time of day? And how did it end? What were your feelings afterwards?”

So many fucking questions, but I take them one at a time. “Only missionary. It was about seven o’clock.”

Lily immediately reddens at the time of day.

My eyes narrow, knowing full well that I just got caught by Lil’s ability to turn into a cherry.

“It’s best if you don’t lie,” Allison tells me.

“It was around three,” I say with a shrug. “She couldn’t wait until later, but she did hold out until we got home.”

Allison nods. “That’s really good, Lily.”

She brightens a little at the compliment, and I squeeze her shoulder, realizing that my words don’t hold the same power as her therapist. To hear a professional say, “You’re doing good,” must be a relief.

I wouldn’t know, really. Even though I learned a lot, most of the people at rehab wanted me out of there. And my therapist stares at me like I’m a world-class fuck up. And Ryke—well, compliments from him aren’t worth much. He’s trying to make amends for being absent in my life, for leaving me alone with a father that he knew ranked low on the World’s Best Dad chart.

“And what happened afterwards?” Allison asks.

“I pulled away from her,” I say, “but she tried to keep going. I ended up just holding her in my arms until she fell asleep.”

The brief happiness in Lily’s eyes begins to flicker out, replaced by silent humiliation once more.

“You didn’t fall asleep with her?”

I frown. “What does it matter if I did or didn’t?” I don’t understand how this pertains to Lily. I shift on my seat, and Lily turns her attention to me. I don’t like that at all.

“You have a problem too,” Allison says, “and your addiction will affect her. It already has.”

I cut her off. “I get it. I should stay away from her. I should say goodbye and let her have a fighting chance.”

Lily’s eyes widen, and she clenches my shirt between pallid fingers.

Even thinking about letting her go puts a pain so deep in my gut. No one knows me like Lily Calloway. She’s my best friend, and without her—God, what’s the point?

“No,” Allison says flatly. “I was going to say that I’m here for you too, Lo. Your recovery is congruent with Lily’s. In order for her to be healthy, you need to be as well.” She pauses, glancing only once at her notebook. “I don’t think separation is the right action here. Without a monogamous relationship, Lily may fall back into her old routine, and it’s best to strengthen the one that’s already in place, not destroy it.”

I nod, her words slowly sinking in. I wait for the relief, but it barely hits me. I think all my happiness is buried beneath the torment of what’s to come.

“So,” she begins again, “why didn’t you fall asleep with her?”

I lick my lips, more willing to clear my thoughts now that I know she’s on our side. “Sleep has been really difficult for me lately. It takes me longer than Lily.” My leg jostles a little, and Lily is the one to press her hand to my knee, to give me much needed comfort, even though I’d rather be her rock right now. “Every night for years,” I say, “I’d drink until I passed out. Alcohol—that was my sleeping pill.” It was the very thing that stopped my restless thoughts and tucked me into bed. Without it, I’m constantly exhausted.

Allison asks me why that is, and I explain my alcohol dependency. Though I give her brief details, not wanting to focus the whole session on me. So I’m glad when Allison directs her next question to Lil.

“How did it make you feel when he told you to stop?”

A long pause strains the air.

Lily is weighing the truth with a lie. It’s what we do. We construct a pleasant story to mask the pain, to soften the hurt. We’re both so good at it that sometimes we even begin to believe the lies. I am terrified to travel down that road again, but it’s an easy one to take.

She opens her mouth and then closes it, unsure.

“It’s okay,” I prod. Even if the truth is ugly and cold, I want to hear it. I’m ready for us to lay everything out until we’re completely bare and exposed. I don’t know how else to make this work.

Allison rewords the question, softening its existence. “It won’t be the first or last time he’s going to tell you to stop. Now is a good time to talk about your reaction to the situation. So how did it make you feel, Lily?”

She only hesitates a second. “Not good.” Her eyes land on her knees, and her shoulders curve forward. She looks small and sad and very, very heartbroken.

A wave of emotions slams into me, and I have trouble picking each one apart.

“And I just…” she stammers. “…I don’t want to be that girl. The one who begs for something she knows she can’t get. It’s like I’m asking a boy I like on a date and he says no, but I don’t listen, and I just keep asking and asking like the answer will be different. I feel…pathetic.”

I don’t ever want to make her feel like that.

“You’re not pathetic, Lil,” I manage to say, my throat swollen. I pull her into my arms and kiss the top of her head. I want to take her pain away, but the irony is that I’ve caused it.

“I think, Lily,” Allison says, “you’re going to have to start understanding that when Lo tells you to stop, it’s not rejection. It’s a form of love. I know that’s hard to grasp, especially since you both have done things completely opposite.”

Lily lets out a short nod. It won’t be easy for her to just believe Dr. Banning’s advice. I have the same problem. Our brains are wired a little differently than everyone else. But I’m willing to ride out this rollercoaster with her—until we’re both free from misery.

“Now let’s talk about your restrictions and the letter I sent home with you,” Allison says.

“We call it the blacklist,” Lily tells her. “But I didn’t read it. I gave it to my sister to give to Lo, and we agreed that it’s better if I don’t know. Now…I’m kind of starting to regret that.” She turns to me. “Do you think I should read it?”

Allison beats me to it. “Actually, Lily, I think it’s a great idea that you haven’t read it. It shows support on Lo’s end and trust on yours. It also gives you a chance to relax about limitations.”

“How am I supposed to relax when all I can think about is what’s been blacklisted?”

“If you do read it, wouldn’t you still be thinking about what sexual activities have been banned?”

Lily’s face falls. “I guess.”

“Why don’t you try this way for a while then,” Allison suggests. She looks to her clock. “The last thing I want to discuss are fears. This relationship is new for the both of you, and I think it would be helpful if you told each other one of your fears by it.”

Lily’s lips snap closed, so I take the opportunity to go first. For her.

“Well…” I say and quickly realize I haven’t thought this through. My fears? I have plenty. Lily cheating. Me, drinking. Both of us fucking up until we can’t see straight. “I’m scared that…”

Lily turns to face me, and I am lost for a minute in her eyes. I suddenly realize that I’m scared of everything. Of losing the only girl I’ve ever loved. Of having her secret voiced to the whole world and watching her disintegrate from the repercussions. She’s already so small and fragile, something like that will kill her, I think.

But Lily and I made a decision not to tell Allison about the threatening texts. It’s too dangerous when we don’t know who’s sending them. And partly, the situation feels new and raw, and talking about it is like pressing on an infected wound.

“Lo,” Allison urges at my silence.

“I’m scared,” I start again, “that there’s going to be a point where you become angry and bitter and resentful every time I tell you to stop, that you realize someone else can give you what you want.”

Lily’s head whips from side to side, like I’m so wrong. That kind of reaction feels good.

“No one else could ever give me what I want,” she breathes. “I only want you.”

I hold onto the words, even if we both know they’re not completely true. She wants to fuck. She wants the high of a climax the same way I want to drown in a bottle of bourbon. I want the rush, the flush and the ride to purgatory and back. We are not each other’s first wants and needs. I am second to her. And she is second to me.

I want that to change.

I take her hand and kiss her knuckles, but she doesn’t smile because she knows it’s her turn.

“Lily?” Allison asks.

Lil keeps her eyes on me, and I give her an encouraging smile. “I’m scared,” she says, “that you’re going to hate being on some sort of sex schedule and hate being barred from your own pleasure. It’s not fair to you, and you’ll find someone who will make you feel better than I can.”

My mouth opens in surprise. I didn’t ever think she was worried about that. I didn’t even believe it could be an option. I love her beyond the great sex. “Lil—”

She interjects quickly, throwing up her hands. “What if I can’t ever give you a blow job?” she asks, a little hysterical now. “I mean, what if that’s on the blacklist? That’s not right, Lo! You have needs too!”

I’m grinning and trying so hard not to laugh. It’s probably shitty that my smile has spread to new proportions, but I can’t help it. Not when she’s freaking out over this.

“This isn’t funny!” she shouts, but her lips start to rise, mimicking mine. “Stop. I’m being serious.”

“I’m sorry.” I can’t even pretend to sound apologetic, nor can I stop smiling. “It’s just cute.” She blushes, and it only makes me want to gather her in my arms and cage her against the couch. To take her right there. She would love that.

“Okay, well…I’m giving you a blow job after this then,” she demands.

That almost gets me hard. I have to think about something else. Like the fact that Allison is sitting right here. “How about I let you know when I want one,” I rephrase. I’ve read the blacklist, and while it doesn’t exclude blow jobs, it does have certain stipulations. In fact, I think Lily would be genuinely surprised by what it actually says.

Lil narrows her eyes. “You’re just going to keep telling me later until later becomes a year.”

“Within the week,” I say, my eyes lighting up. Only with my girlfriend do I have to basically negotiate her out of giving me head.

Her forehead wrinkles, like it does when she’s thinking hard. After a moment, she looks to me and nods. “Deal.”

Allison pipes in. “That’s good, really good. You two are communicating very well with each other and letting your voices be heard. What I want you both to work on is getting your sex lives to a point where they don’t interfere with relationships, school, jobs, or even daily activities. I know in the past you two had a very active sexual routine.”

Active doesn’t describe what we were doing. When we both were in the lowest of the low, we rarely even left the bedroom. It was an all-consuming affair. Waking up. Drinking. Fucking. Sleeping. Occasionally eating. It was both the best and worst time of my life.

“I think you’re each ready to make a change,” Allison continues. “And that begins now.”

{ 13 } LILY CALLOWAY

After my Stats exam, I get another inflammatory text. This time Unknown has become a little more creative and called me a tramp and a cocksucker. It’s a little ironic that I just begged Lo in therapy to let me give him head. But other than that, these texts are starting to unravel me. Whoever said that sticks and stones will break bones but words never hurt have obviously never been teased or insulted.

We’re meeting Connor today to talk about the private investigator’s discoveries. I planned to bring up the new messages with Lo and Connor, but after the Mason incident in the parking deck, I don’t think revealing my texts will do anything other than enrage Lo. And I don’t want him to Hulk Smash anything or drive him to drink. Hopefully Connor has a better lead on the guy and we can figure out what he wants.

I throw my backpack onto my bed and rush to the bathroom, needing to at least fix my hair before we leave. When I swing the door open, I find Lo by the sink, twisting the cap onto a pill bottle. It must be Antabuse. He told me he was taking meds that will make him sick if he drinks alcohol. I’m more proud of him than he knows.

“You ready?” I ask, trying not to make the pills a big deal. I look into the mirror and nearly die at my hair. I pulled an all-nighter to memorize those old exam questions. Taking a shower dropped on my priority list. My hair is greasy and flat and looks kind of gross.

“Just about.” Lo opens the medicine cabinet and grabs a stick of deodorant. I make a bold decision and turn on the sink faucet. Then I lean over the marble edge, trying my best to stick my head in the basin and underneath the surge of water.

“What the hell are you doing?” Lo asks as he simultaneously rolls the stick under his armpits. He’s shirtless, and I really can’t stare too long.

“Washing my hair,” I tell him. I pull some wet strands through my fingers, and I’m about to squirt some hand soap into my palm.

“That’s not shampoo,” Lo says quickly.

“What are you, the soap police? It’ll work.” I reach for the bottle again.

“Wait,” he says. I lift my head up a bit and move some sopping strands out of my face. He fumbles around in the shower and then closes the glass door on his way out, a bottle of Herbal Essence in his clutch. I hold out my hand while twisting my neck to avoid dripping all over the counter.

“You’re going to create a tsunami in here,” he says, pushing me back to the sink. My stomach hits the edge of the counter, and I bend again, losing sight to my wall of hair. Then I feel his hands on my head, rubbing the shampoo into my scalp. Oh.

This feels nice.

His fingers knead in and out, running up and down, and even pressing against the back of my neck. I never thought that a head massage could feel so damn good.

I stifle a moan, but the pleasured noise escapes as soon as he closes the space between us. His body melds right up against my ass. We haven’t done anything except missionary since he returned from rehab, and I’m starting to become paranoid that anal is on that blacklist. I want it. Right now, I think. I’m probably in the minority of girls who enjoy that position. But I like the tightness. It’s a different kind of climax, and I can’t deny how much I want it to happen.

“Lo.” My voice comes out hoarse and wanting.

He scoots back from me, air replacing his body. The rejection hurts, but I try to remember what we talked about in therapy. I have to get a grip.

“How was your exam?” Lo asks, probably trying to distract me.

“Not bad.” I have yet to come clean about Sebastian supplying me with old exams. I don’t think Lo would care that I’m semi-cheating, but I don’t think he’d approve that Sebastian is embedding me in his scheming ways either. It’s better to avoid that conversation.

“So Sebastian is actually helping?” he asks in disbelief. He returns his body right behind me again, and the pressure on my ass ignites wild thoughts.

“Yeah,” I mumble. I can’t ask him for sex. He’ll say no. I have to try and relax so he doesn’t move away, so I can revel in the fact that this—him behind me—feels too good for words. I have to believe that this is enough…that I don’t need more.

“So you think you passed?”

“Ummm…” Focus. “I think I made an A.”

He stops massaging my head, but he doesn’t move his body off mine. “Did you cheat?”

“What?” I squeak. I’m about to lift my head, but he puts a hand on my back and pushes me down so I don’t drip water all over the floor.

“You did. You cheated.” His shock outweighs all other sentiments.

“I did not!” I defend.

“Hold on.” Lo grabs a cup and fills it with water. “Close your eyes.”

I shut them tight as he starts washing away the shampoo suds, thick tension filling between us. It doesn’t help that his frontal area is now grinding up against my ass.

“So what did he want in exchange for helping you cheat?” Lo asks.

I barely process this question. I’m a terrible multi-tasker, and right now I juggle my nefarious thoughts with rubbing soap from my eyes. There is no room to answer him properly. “Hmm?” I spread my legs apart, not enough that he’ll notice.

At least, I didn’t think he would.

He hooks my ankle with his foot and pins my legs back together like it’s nothing, like this is our new routine. “Sebastian would want something in return,” Lo says, his voice roughening as he pictures a not-so innocent bargain.

“He’s not helping me cheat,” I say again. He pours more water over my head, and I spit out a mouthful of soap.

“Sorry, love.” His sweetness lasts only a second when I open my legs again and he pushes them together. “If he didn’t help you cheat, what did he do?” Lo pauses as he wrings out my hair. “You do realize that having someone else take the exam for you constitutes as cheating.”

“I know,” I snap. He grabs a towel and starts massaging my scalp again. I close my eyes to bask in how it feels. Ugh, I can’t even hate him while he does this.

He takes off the towel, and I finally stand up straight, my hair messy and wet around my face. But at least it’s clean. Lo is still pressed up against me, and his hands even rest along my hips. Our eyes meet through the mirror, and I see the strength in them. “We can’t,” he says. “I’d love to fuck you right now, but we have to leave soon for the meeting.”

I nod. It’s not a healthy time, at least not for me.

I spin around to face him fully, and he backs away from me. Enough that my eyes drop to his pants. “How are you not hard right now?” I ask accusingly.

“I was just washing your hair,” he says like I’m being silly, like that simple task wasn’t sexual at all. I frown. Wasn’t it? Or was the entire thing all in my perverted mind?

He tilts my chin with his finger, and I look back up into his eyes. “I spent three years as your fake boyfriend,” he says. “I’ve had practice resisting you.”

Ohhhhh. I like that answer better. I think he knows it too. Lo leans down and kisses me deeply, filling my lungs with his breath. I grab onto the back of his neck and reciprocate fully. We stay like that for at least a minute, but he retracts before we can go any further.

My eyes are glued to his pink, wet lips. My brain is only computing one thing: Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

“How did you make an A? Or think you made an A?” he asks, popping my happy thoughts.

“Huh?” Can I play dumb? It should be easier for me, considering I’m relatively average on the smart scale. Lo doesn’t buy it. He gives me a look and I crumble under his penetrating stare. “You can’t tell Rose.”

“So you are cheating.” He realizes that Rose wouldn’t care how I aced the exam unless I ventured to the dark side of academia.

“Not technically…”

His brows jump. “So what…you half-cheated? What does that even mean? You cheated on the first page but not the last?”

I hold up my hands. “Whoa, can I explain?”

“Please.”

“Sebastian gave me old exams, and I just memorized all the answers. I didn’t bring the tests to class or copy the answers on my hand. I’m just beating the system. There’s no harm in that.”

Lo takes a moment to process this, and just when I think he’s going to yell at me, he asks, “What did you make on the other exams before you did this?”

“44 and 29.” Two horrible grades that I didn’t think humanly possible. Actually, that’s a lie, I’ve made a 7 on a test before—and I think the Penn professor was just being nice about that too. I reread my exam and it sounded like a planetary alien took the test and wrote in a different language. Honestly, the professor asked me if I was dyslexic. I couldn’t really tell him the truth. I’m so exhausted from all the crazy sex I’m having that I can barely process words let alone sentences. You’re lucky I even showed up to this class, Mister.

Lo is still thinking, so I add, “I’ve been getting C’s in my other classes. Statistics is the hardest for me.”

“You’re right. It’s not really cheating,” he says. I can’t help my smile, my face filling with glee. “But…” I don’t like buts…scratch that, I remember that I do like butts with double T’s. Like my butt. His cock.

Lo waves a hand in front of my face. “Did you hear me?”

“I lost you on but.”

“Jesus, you really want anal sex,” he says with a grin. I open my mouth to ask him for it, and he quickly says, “No, love. Not right now.” Boo.

Lo continues without missing a beat, “So Sebastian gave you old exams. What did you give him?”

“Nothing,” I say with a shrug. “He said he was doing it because I’m Rose’s sister and…” I taper off, knowing this is where Lo will get pissed.

“And…” Lo prods.

“And he told me that he doesn’t like Connor and Rose together, and I think he may try to break up their relationship. Anyway…” I clear my throat. “I can’t warn her about Sebastian, or else—”

“He’ll keep the exams,” Lo finishes and then nods.

Red hot shame fills me, and this doesn’t even have anything to do with sex.

Lo says nothing more. He takes a long time to process everything internally.

My nerves gather at his silence. “I need those exams, Lo. You know I need them. What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Lo mutters. He rubs the back of his neck.

I shift uneasily. “Connor is the first real friend that we’ve ever had, and I’m standing over on Team Sebastian…unwillingly.”

“We’re going to have to think about it.” He stares hard at the floor, plotting. “For right now, let’s just keep this between us.”

“Are you sure?”

Lo meets my gaze, recognizing the flash of guilt in my eyes. He pulls me closer to his chest and runs a hand down the back of my head in comfort. “Your priority is to pass this class. Try not to think about anything else.”

“Connor—”

“He’ll be fine for now. He’s the most confident, self-assured guy in the world. He can handle Sebastian without either of us.”

I think he’s right, but we both also know it’s not the moral path—the one that good friends take. Being sober isn’t our only challenge. Becoming human, functioning people in this big vast world means making friendships and sustaining the very few that we already have.

There is no college course to “be a better friend” or “be a less shitty human being.” Or else I would be signed up for both.

We’re selfish, in every sense of the word.

I just don’t want to fracture our friendships because of it.

{ 14 } LILY CALLOWAY

The hardest part about being in a committed relationship with Lo isn’t losing the sex with strangers. It’s losing that moment where I become someone else. Where the shy, insecure Lily turns into a confident vixen. Where I’m completely and utterly in control and as my conquest looks at me with a heavy-lidded gaze, he knows it too. I was someone else during those moments. Someone better maybe.

The longer I’m monogamous, the more I forget what being that confident, brazen Lily feels like. It’s like parting with a best friend for so long that their face becomes a blurry haze. I don’t miss her enough to cheat on Lo. I just wonder if I’ll ever see her again.

But I know who I never wanted to meet.

Sadie.

Connor’s evil, orange tabby cat glares at me from across his apartment living room. All those grumpy kitties on Tumblr are not just photoshopped. Sadie is proof that felines can contort their face with such hot-tempered malice.

Lo and I sit on Connor’s dark green leather sofa, his apartment decorated like a bachelor pad. Instead of red Solo cups lined on the bar, he has an array of expensive liquors locked away in a glass cabinet. Lo glanced at them once or twice, and Connor ushered us to a seat where our back is turned to the alcohol. That pissed Lo off a little. He doesn’t want to be babied.

Afternoon light streams through windows that fill the entire back wall and the adjacent one. From floor to ceiling, Connor has a perfect view of Philly’s old brick architecture. Like most expensive bachelor pads, Connor has art décor that makes very little sense to me.

There’s just a porcelain ball stationed where a chair should be. I can’t tell if it’s an empty flower pot or a vase. There’s no hole for lilies—okay that came out wrong. But really, it seems silly to have a ball thing just taking up space. I guess that’s why they call it nonfunctional art.

The floors are concrete, but in the living area, he has a nice cream rug that Sadie apparently loves. Because she has yet to step off it. She struts in front of the couch, back and forth, her white tail wagging mischievously.

I have my eye on you, I say with a narrowed gaze.

Despite feeling violated by Sadie, I am relatively hopeful today. I want everything resolved with this blackmailer, evil-texter, or whatever the hell he is. I want to move on and focus on getting healthy.

The bell rings, and Connor opens the door. “You’re late,” he says flatly, in a Connor Cobalt, I dislike you tone that very rarely presents itself.

Ryke’s jaw hardens. “I’m the captain of the track team,” he says. “I can’t leave practice first.”

“No, I wouldn’t expect you to do anything first,” Connor retorts.

Lo and I exchange hesitation. Something tells me that Connor is not Ryke Meadows’ number one fan. And normally, I’d be suspicious that maybe Connor knows Ryke is behind all of this—that Lo’s brother is the one we should be wary of. But their little heated looks began around the time Ryke dissed Connor in public. It wasn’t one sole event. It was many things. Like Ryke calling Connor an ass kisser in front of his track buddies. Ryke can say those things in private, in front of us, and Connor just shrugs, but hurting his reputation in public crossed a line.

Ryke looks about ready to push through the doorway.

But Connor leads him in before Lo’s brother becomes physical. Connor sits on a buttoned leatherette chair across from us, but Ryke plops right next to Lo on the couch. And I’m reminded that my sister isn’t here to be on my team. Her schedule is too hectic to make the drive to Philly, so unfortunately, I’ll have to carry on without her.

I didn’t realize how much I relied on her support until I felt that uncomfortable dread when she told me she couldn’t come.

Sadie circles the coffee table, but her harsh gaze never deters from me. “Connor,” I say, “I think your cat hates me.”

Connor picks her up in his arms. “She doesn’t hate you.”

Oh good. That’s one less enemy.

“She just hates women.”

Or maybe not.

Ryke lets out an incensed snort. “I thought Rose was making that fucking shit up.”

“When you string together curse words, I go deaf a little in my right ear,” Connor tells him. “What was that?”

Lo is trying really hard not to laugh, and I bite my lip to suppress a smile. It’s too easy to pick on Ryke, especially since the guy takes very little to heart.

Ryke flips him off, mutters more swear words under his breath, and slouches in his chair. “Let’s get on with this.”

Connor strokes Sadie, and even though she purrs, she still wears a mask of evilness—directed right at me.

“I have bad news,” Connor says, confirming that he is indeed the cat-stroking-villain in this scenario. “My PI tracked down the phone number. It was a disposable, so we have no way of knowing the identity of the person on the other line.”

Lo groans into his hands, hunching forward with his elbows on his legs.

I go the opposite route, leaning back into the couch like a tidal wave just struck my chest. What do we do now? “So should I prepare to be in the tabloids soon?” My voice comes out way too soft. Even the thought sends my heart into a dive pattern. I can’t think about it without tears brimming. The shame that I’ll bring to my family…

Lo straightens up and laces his fingers with mine. “There has to be something else we can do.”

“Sure,” Connor says. “But I need both of you to open up about things you haven’t been willing to share. I need your top suspects that you believe could be threatening you. I can give those to my investigator, and he’ll check them out.”

“That can’t be too hard,” Ryke says.

Lo glares at the rug. Yeah, it took me hours just to go through our yearbook and circle faces—only to decide that over half of the student body hated Lo. And that was just prep school. We haven’t even factored college into the equation.

“Seriously?” Ryke’s brows rise. “How many fucking people did you piss off, Lo?”

“I wasn’t well liked,” he retorts. “We all can’t be the captain of sports teams.”

Ryke rolls his eyes.

“You can’t be that surprised,” I chime in. “You met us when Lo was being cornered by four guys wanting to beat his ass.”

“People get upset over the stupidest things,” Lo says, defending himself.

Connor tilts his head. “Didn’t you steal a bottle of alcohol that cost forty grand?”

“I didn’t steal,” Lo says. “I drank from the bottle and set it back. And it was my birthday.”

“How does your birthday strengthen your argument?” Connor asks. “Unless they knew it was your birthday. Did they?” He knows they didn’t.

Lo glares. “Shut the fuck up.” His words come out lightly and they actually make Connor smile.

“What about those guys at the Halloween party?” I ask Ryke. “Do you think they could still be mad at Lo?”

“Yeah, what’s the name of the guy who was really pissed?” Lo asks.

“Matt,” Ryke says. We all stay silent, recalling the moment where Matt ordered his cousins to chase Connor’s limousine down the street as we sped away. He’s also on the track team with Ryke. “I don’t know if he’s still angry or not.”

“How could you not know?” Lo snaps. “You’re the captain. You see them almost every day. Fuck, you just ran little loops with them.”

Connor tries really hard not to grin, but if he wanted to hide his smile fully, I’m pretty sure he could. He’s definitely gloating in Ryke’s misery. I kind of like it.

“You run little loops with me,” Ryke retorts, dodging the accusation.

“Only at your request. If it was up to me, I’d be running down the street, alone.” But there are bars along the sidewalk, and Ryke worries that he’ll be tempted to run inside.

Lo’s narrowed gaze pierces Ryke, and both speak through their hard features. Lo is egging Ryke to say the worst things to him—to bring up his addiction. But Ryke is not willing to go there.

“Look,” Ryke says, “the guys on the team aren’t going to tell me if they despise my half-brother who just spent three months in rehab.”

Oh. He has a point.

“Should I put him on the list?” Connor asks, scrolling through his electronic tablet. Sadie tries to sit on it, not liking his attention divided, but he moves the tablet to the armrest and she curls back onto his lap.

Lo pries his gaze from Ryke. “Yeah, sure.” I think he wants someone to blame him again for that mistake—to yell and make him feel that pain, as though he deserves the assault. His father would do just that. But Lo needs to realize that’s not the right way to deal with things. He shouldn’t be punished every day for something that happened months ago. No one died. No one got hurt.

“Let’s start with the people who have the biggest grudge against both of you and go from there,” Connor advises.

Lo is staring at the floor again, his mind wandering in a thousand different places. I’m the one who poured over the yearbook, so I know better than him at this point.

“Aaron Wells,” I start out. Both Ryke and Lo stiffen. They did something to Aaron, clearly, but I try not to think about it. “And maybe Mason Nix…” After the parking lot fiasco, I think there’s a lot more resentment there than we realized.

“I have to give my PI motives to put with the names. So you’re going to have to give me some details.”

Lo sighs heavily. And then he turns to me, his hand rising on my thigh. It’s a little distracting, and I can tell the movement is a subconscious reflex. He doesn’t realize how fixated I am on the way his fingers press into my jeans, only a moment’s breath from the spot between my legs.

“You want to tell the stories?” Lo asks me. “I can if you’re not up to it.” But by his sharp jaw, I can tell he wants to share about as much as I do.

“How about equal opportunity,” I say. “I call Wells.”

Lo has lost a little color in his cheeks. He nods again, and now I regret my choice.

“Never mind, I can talk about Mason—”

“No you take Wells.”

I pause. “Okay,” I say in a small voice. I feel bad. Like I could ooze into the couch and not come back out.

“Aaron Wells,” Connor says, his eyes lighting up in recognition of the name. “He attended the Fizzle event in January?”

“Yep,” I say. Without Lo to accompany me, my mother called Aaron Wells to be my escort (not the prostitute kind). She didn’t know that he hated Lo or that he was hell-bent on making my time at the party miserable.

Lo turns to stone by my side, no longer huggable. He’s upset that he wasn’t there for me, but I would never want him to leave rehab on my account.

I begin the story as best I can.

Aaron Wells. Tall, brown-haired (almost blond), blue-eyed god of the Dalton Academy lacrosse team. He bled blue and shit gold. Even in ninth grade, he was held in high-esteem, a natural athlete that would grace our school with its first Lacrosse State Championship. Guys wanted to be him and girls wanted to fuck him. But Lo was the one guy who didn’t care about being swathed in Aaron’s circle of popularity.

In ninth grade, Lo and I denied our problems to ourselves and each other. Even after we had sex together for the first time, we just pretended it never happened. We were fourteen—naïve and lost and trying to make ourselves feel better.

I remember the day after really well. I stuffed my books into my locker, and Lo’s nearness caused my chest to tighten. That part was normal. He would wait for me with a strong arm against the dark blue locker, loosening the collar of his tie on his white button-down. He hated that prep school uniform, even if he looked sexy in it. He would linger by my side, wanting to walk me to class. He reeked of bourbon, and he wore sunglasses indoors to help with his tender eyes. Back then, before college, he felt more of the effects from a night of binging.

“Did you do that poetry assignment for Lit?” Lo asked.

“What?” My eyes widened. I must have forgotten. Not uncommon. Though, the teachers usually took pity on me. After being graced with Rose’s supreme brain, they thought I was the stupid Calloway girl.

“It’s fine, I have you covered,” Lo said. I narrowed my eyes at him, skeptical. No way. “Roses are red. Violets are blue…” Just great. I’m going to fail. “…and if a jock asks, don’t let him fuck you.” He finished off the poem as his eyes wandered ahead. A group of lacrosse players passed us, Aaron leading the pack.

“Advice in a poem?” I said with a smile. “You’re outdoing yourself, Loren Hale.” My amusement was short lived though. Aaron detached from his pack and approached us. Lo stiffened and I tried to ignore the guy as he towered over me.

“You must be Loren,” Aaron said. “We haven’t met, but I’ve heard about you.”

“It’s Lo,” he clarified.

Aaron barely blinked and continued talking as if Lo hadn’t uttered a word. “I’m hosting a pre-season bash at my place.”

“That’s cute,” Lo said with a wry smile, “not many people throw parties to celebrate spring.”

“The lacrosse season,” Aaron deadpanned, eyes cold.

“The meteorologists are inventing new seasons now? That’s impressive.”

I should have seen that coming, considering Lo wasn’t in the best mood. Not after we had sex and ignored the event. Not after he guzzled straight whiskey from his flask on the ride here.

Aaron had kept his composure. “You can bring your girlfriend if you’d like.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Lo said.

At the admittance, I turned around from my locker, books in my arms. Aaron sized me up, not crudely, and when his eyes landed on mine, he looked at me with such intense pity. Like he felt bad that I had to endure Lo.

Aaron didn’t understand us. No one did.

“You’re definitely invited,” Aaron said directly to me. “And I can introduce you to some nice guys.”

“Yeah, she’s not looking for a nice guy,” Lo said. He was right. If I wanted someone who would take me on a date, treat me right, and call the next morning—I’d date someone from Dalton. But I wanted the lay. The type of guy who could sleep with me and forget about it as soon as we left the room. I wanted easy. Nice guys were complicated.

I spoke up before Aaron could. “It’s okay. I don’t go to parties. I mean, Dalton parties.” Rule number one: Do not have sex with boys from Dalton. Otherwise everyone would have figured out that I slept around.

Aaron frowned. “That’s kind of weird.”

“Thanks?” I said before turning to Lo, ready to leave.

“You both realize this is going to be the party of the year,” Aaron said in confusion, his pride finally starting to ruffle. Yes, Aaron, we had been serious about not wanting to go. Though, I was positive it would be one hell of a party. Giant punch bowls. Neon lights. Good drugs. Maybe even a famous DJ. But I would choose to miss it all just to avoid being gossiped about the next morning.

Lo met my gaze, and I could see him cracking. Probably under the assumption that there would be good liquor too. I gave him a look. Dalton parties were my bane. The entire student population flocks to them, and so I would have to spend my time in the corner, trying to avoid leering gazes and making sure Lo didn’t pass out.

He gave me those big pleading eyes, and I realized he was going to the party with or without me. So I just nodded.

Lo turned to Aaron and flashed a fake smile. “We’ll see you Friday.”

Aaron layered on his own mock happiness. “Perfect.”

Only it hadn’t been perfect. It was one of the worst parties in the history of parties. So bad, in fact, that the event blacklisted us from any social function related to Dalton. And I didn’t even attend Aaron’s stupid blowout.

I wasn’t the one who opened all of Wells’ expensive booze. I didn’t grab a lacrosse stick and stumble around, somehow ending up in the wine cellar. I didn’t take out all my frustration on two-hundred-year-old bottles that fractured and broke. I didn’t drown the cellar and my pain in a pool of red.

But Lo sure as hell did.

And I should have been there. Sometimes I wonder if that would have changed the outcome. I could have stopped Lo, and then maybe Aaron and his friends wouldn’t have hated him so much.

The wine-cellar debacle started their rivalry.

Then it mushroomed from there. First with silly stuff, like slapping Lo’s textbooks from his hands. But then three of them cornered Lo, about to grab onto his arms and legs and stuff him in a locker. Lo ran before they could touch him. He was good at that. Running away.

Lo has admitted to me, and only me, that it was his fault the entire feud started in the first place, but he just didn’t know how to end it once it began. Like dominos that kept tumbling down and down and down. He wasn’t big enough to step away, to back off. He had taken too much shit at home to let someone else run over him.

Over the next four years in school, they passively hated each other and sometimes the passivity turned to fists, but Lo was quick to dodge all attacks. It wasn’t until our senior year that everything changed. I think, in part, Aaron had become tired of how teachers fawned over Lo and how he seemed to have special treatment that extended beyond athletes.

I was seventeen and in a fake relationship with Lo. For the first time, Aaron realized that there was a way to reach Lo without him running away.

He could mess with me.

Aaron started following me to class, and then a week later, he blocked me against a wall, ever so casually, with his lacrosse player friends in tow. To everyone else, they probably looked like they stood there for a quick chat, but whenever I met Aaron’s eyes, I saw only hate.

The fourth time he cornered me, I was in the library, trying desperately to find a book on Renaissance Art. Secluded in the back, between two book cases, I picked out a red spine and was ready to hightail it to lunch. When I looked up, my exit had been obstructed by a six-foot guy with athletic muscles and hardened brows.

Hatred is an animal you feed, and I imagined that after four years, Aaron’s became plump and bloated. The seemingly nice guy who invited me to a party my freshman year of prep school had turned cold and mean. At least towards me.

His eyes were dark, and he stepped forward. My heart thudded against my chest as I stumbled back. He continued his stride and my back hit the wall.

“I have to get to lunch,” I said in a small voice. I didn’t know what he was going to do. He’d already laid a fist into Lo. (He got a week’s suspension and Lo got a Friday detention), so I thought maybe he was preparing to hit me…or at least scare me.

Mission accomplished. I was terrified.

He came closer, not saying a word. I think that was the worst part, the unspeaking, unfeeling of it all.

He raised his arms, putting his hands on a Student Election poster beside my head, imprisoning me. His warm breath burned my neck, and it was then, at that moment, that I had the impulse. I wanted out. Away. Gone. I dipped down, small and quick enough to slip below his arm. I ran out of the library and then right out of school.

I didn’t want to tell Lo what had happened, but Aaron’s advances only became worse. One day when I was driving home, he tailed me with his lacrosse buddies. I drove straight to Lo’s and they sped off. I kept my mouth shut, but I spent most of the school day stuck to Lo’s side. No one harassed me when he was around.

I usually tried to skip when he skipped. But one abnormal day, I actually slept at my own house, and he didn’t tell me he was going to be late.

I tried to focus on the task at hand. Get your books. Go to class. Done. I tugged my World History book from the locker and the hardback spine tilted the mirror on the inside door.

And then I felt two hands on my waist.

I jumped: feet and heart. Then I spun around and Lo’s eyes were wide.

“Hey girlfriend,” he emphasized, seeing as how we were in our pretend relationship.

I wanted to smile, but I could barely catch my breath.

His face fell in a wave of concern, and he put his hands on my cheeks. “Heyheyhey,” he said quickly. “Take a breath, Lil.”

Tears pricked my eyes. I didn’t realize Aaron had unraveled me until that point. Game. Set. Match, I thought. He won.

But I had forgotten who my “fake” boyfriend was.

“Lil, what’s wrong?” His voice was heavy and serious.

I buried my head into his shirt and he held me there for a very long moment. We skipped class so I could tell him the truth, and it poured out of me like a flood.

“I’m going to fix this,” Lo said.

I believed it too. He called Aaron and threatened his college career if he didn’t stop harassing me. With the Hale name, Lo had plenty of contacts and one phone call from him or his father, and Aaron’s collegiate career would be over.

Aaron called his bluff. And then Lo called the college.

So Aaron Wells was reduced to his safety school, losing out the lacrosse stardom.

He stopped following me after that…

Well, until the Fizzle party pretty recently (where he tried to scare me again). And not soon after, we received those texts. Maybe only a couple months separating the two events.

Connor’s normal placid expression has been slightly overtaken by a wrinkled forehead and the hand that covers his mouth. I never thought I could shock Connor Cobalt—or that he’d let me see his surprise.

“In defense,” Lo says, “Aaron Wells and I have hated each other since ninth grade. That’s like an era of hate. None of the others are like that.”

“We can only hope,” Connor says.

“And our dad helped you tear up this kid’s future?” Ryke asks.

“What can I say,” Lo says with a bitter smile, “it’s how we bonded.”

{ 15 } LOREN HALE

I couldn’t talk about Mason. Neither could Lily. I think that one was too fresh for us. I mentioned what happened in brief to Ryke over the phone one day—about the parking deck and a little bit about the past—so I told him to just fill in Connor and that was that.

My head weighs a fucking ton and I could use a glass of whiskey. Hell, I’d settle for a beer at this point.

But we drive right on back to Princeton afterwards. A couple times, I pull over at a gas station, telling Lily I have to pee. I avoid grabbing any six-packs in the foggy glass fridges, but the second time I park the car, Lily catches on and follows me into the convenience store. She finds me staring questionably at a case of Samuel Adams. Lily talks me down for a good ten minutes, telling me that beer tastes disgusting, that breaking my sobriety is not worth the small, insignificant buzz. She’s right, but I just want to forget everything for one extended moment.

I want all of the memories to shut down so that I can sleep. But everything I did—every mistake, every fucked up word that spilled from my lips—replays on repeat. And I can’t take it back. But I do have the power to drown it all out.

We drive again. Towards home. And I forget about the booze. I try to focus on things that I can do that won’t involve alcohol. “Maybe I should call Aaron,” I say to Lily. My hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Apologize or something.” What if he didn’t do anything? What if I made it worse by going to his house and threatening him? My father’s way to do things—it could be wrong. It’s all I know. And it’s what put me in this place to begin with.

I have so many regrets. I don’t believe anyone who says they don’t. How can you live life making mistakes and never wish you could take one back?

I destroyed the guy’s wine cellar. If a person did that to me, I wouldn’t be just a little ticked off. I would despise them. And I don’t have much of an excuse. I was just…I was hurting, and I felt like I was screaming and no one could hear me. I was in the wrong, I get it, but my actions never gave him permission to terrorize Lily. For that, I just can’t forgive him.

Lily runs her fingers over my hand that holds the gear shift. “I’m not sure that will help. He may not accept it.”

If Aaron is the guy threatening us, we may be fucked.

We roll up to our gate, and I punch the security number into the keypad. We drive through, parking in the empty garage. Rose is late, not surprising with how much she juggles. When we walk into the house, I flick on the lights, half-expecting Lily to turn around and ask me if we can fuck.

She usually does.

Tonight’s different. Maybe because I openly confessed to thinking about a drink. Maybe she doesn’t want to put me in a position where I have to tell her no.

Lily plops down on the couch like its normal for her to be more interested in the television than the bedroom. “I think they’re playing Thor on HBO,” she says, leaning over to grab the remote. My eyes drop to her knees, squeezed tight together. Yeah, she’s struggling.

After pouring through all those memories, we both deserve a release. I mentally file through the therapist’s blacklist. I’ve reread it enough times that every word is engrained in my head.

No masturbation.

No porn.

No public sex.

Stop when your partner stops. Helpful tips: Start with timing your sessions and have a set hour dedicated to sex. For the first few months stick to positions that won’t elicit increased arousal after a climax. (This is subjective and you will have to experiment to discover what triggers you to keep going.)

Only engage in sex when both you and your partner want to. Helpful tip: Let your partner choose the time.

Healthy amounts – sex cannot interfere with daily routines. Helpful tip: Keep to morning and night schedules.

I know Lily thinks there are stipulations like banning anal and blow jobs. I’ve had lengthy conversations on the phone with Allison, discussing how far I should take Lily. We still have to be intimate, and banning sexual positions won’t help that. So Allison and I agreed that the goal is to get Lily to a point where she doesn’t expect sex.

Not asking me for sex is a good first step, and I want to reward her for it. But I also fear that she’ll catch on to this. Over time she may pretend to be uninterested so she’ll get a lay out of me. The point is to make her stop thinking and wanting sex—not devising strategies to get it.

Considering my mind circulates around hunting for a bottle of something alcoholic, I understand it’s not a simple task.

“Ah, yes!” Lily says excitedly. “We didn’t miss the part with Sif.” Her eyes flicker to me briefly before they return to the TV. “You think we should go to Comic-Con this year? We can dress up as Thor and Sif.”

I sit down next to her on the couch, giving her a cushion worth of distance. I catch the instant frown in her eyes but it disappears when she focuses on the movie.

“I don’t think I’d look good as a blond,” I tell her.

She appraises my hair and then her eyes drop, lingering as she takes in my other features. She’s stared at me so hard for the past couple weeks that I’m fairly certain in a year she could recall every freckle by memory. Her throat bobs as she swallows. “I…yeah, umm…blond…no,” she stammers before turning back to the movie.

“How about we go as Loki and Sif?” I suggest.

She hesitates a moment before shaking her head. Her eyes meet mine again, and this time they stay right there. “How about Hellion and X-23?”

She never wants to dress up in the X-23 costume. It’s skimpy black leather that exposes her entire midriff, and I practically have to beg her to cosplay my favorite mutant couple. She’s offering this to me, and for some reason I have the sudden urge to take her right here.

So I do.

I bridge the distance between us and my lips find hers.

Her surprise stiffens her shoulders and freezes her arms, and I edge her mouth open, slipping my tongue inside. She wakes up, her hands swooping around my neck. I smile against her soft lips. My girlfriend is like a raunchy Sleeping Beauty, reanimating from a deep-throated kiss.

I run my tongue along the base of her neck, and she begins to writhe underneath me. She’s unlike any girl I’ve ever been with. Little things set her off as if her body is made of a thousand nerves. She responds to every touch and lick like they’re each the peak she wishes to reach.

Her hands fly towards my pants, and I have to grab them before she does anything. A moan escapes her lips, and her spine curves, her body arching towards me. I lift her up beneath her arms, and her legs instantly wrap around my waist. I press a strong kiss to her lips, inhaling the vanilla scent of her hair.

Even midway in the air, she starts to grind against me. She has to feel that I’m hard, but I need her to keep her hands off me. I have self-control, but it flits away whenever she starts rubbing against my cock.

I set her down on the rug, the couch to our left. My lips slowly brush the top of her ear, my teeth barely skimming the tenderness of her skin. She lets out a sharp gasp.

“Easy, love,” I breathe. She settles again and I start, ever so slowly, undressing her. The light touch of the fabric sends her off as the shirt grazes up her belly and over her head. As I go for her jeans, she tries to sit up and touch me, but I put my hand on her shoulder, forcing her back to the floor again and give her a disapproving look.

She breathes heavily, and I wait to unbutton her until she nods, accepting that she must stay still.

When she does, I fish the button through the hole and slowly unzip. As I slide her jeans below her hips, down her thighs, I drink in her body and the way she responds to me. The little cries, the twitches of her legs and the curl of her toes. Every motion is filled with beauty that she won’t ever understand. It makes me aware of how alive she is.

After tossing her jeans to the side, I kiss the tops of her breasts, and she shudders against me. I run my teeth playfully over her bra straps, and her chest rises and falls in quick succession, eager and wanting.

“Lo,” she moans.

I stifle a groan in my throat, and I unclip her bra, freeing her of the clothing. And then I gently slip her panties down and off her ankles. While doing so, I lightly brush my fingers across the wet spot between her legs, so brief and powerful that the sensation immediately jolts her body. I have to remind her to stay still again.

“Lo, please,” she says, her voice raw and raspy.

I kiss those reddened lips, and then stand to my feet, leaving her bare and naked on the living room floor. Her eyes widen in horror, thinking I’m no longer going to fuck her.

“I’ll be right back, love,” I say quickly, wanting that look to disappear from her face. “I have to get a condom…and lube.” I grin at this, and I wait a second to watch her expression flip.

Her whole face lights up with delight. “But…I thought…” she starts.

I’m already backing away towards the bedroom. My dick feels like it might explode any minute, and I can’t prolong waiting much longer to get my own fucking release. Fear crosses me for a brief second, realizing I’m leaving her naked, horny, and alone.

Halfway up the stairs, she’s still watching me but her hands have edged closer and closer to the inside of her thighs. “Don’t fuck yourself,” I say roughly. “Or else I won’t fuck you.” It’s a threat I don’t like giving, considering my own arousal has almost peaked. I want to shove my cock inside her right now.

She nods eagerly, and I accept it, trying desperately to put faith in her. I just need her to be strong, but I know masturbation is one of her compulsions.

After reaching the second floor, I enter the darkened bedroom and quickly fumble around the desk drawer, grabbing a pack of condoms and lube. I haven’t used up either in two weeks, which should be a record for us.

When I return to the living room, I find Lily still lying on the rug but she covers her face with her hands. She’s concentrating too hard to hear me come in, and I take the time to kick off my pants and pull off my shirt. I lie down beside her and rub the top of her head easily. Her hands slide down, exposing her face and her eyes and the look that says, fuck me now.

“Lo, I almost touched myself.”

I kiss her forehead and take one of her hands in mine. “But you didn’t.”

She shakes her head. “But I want to…so badly,” she admits. “I can’t remember what I feel like. Isn’t that weird? That’s weird, right? I mean it’s my body, but I’m not allowed to touch really, and I…I…”

Jesus Christ. I take her in my arms, and she buries her head into my chest, near tears. This is not going as planned, and I feel like it’s partly my fault. I shouldn’t have left her alone and given her the opportunity to crawl inside her head. Maybe I can fix this.

“It’s okay, Lil,” I whisper. “If you want to touch yourself, just ask me.”

With her hand in mine, I guide it down her stomach, past her belly button and in between her legs. She gasps as I rub her fingers over her clit and then down farther, letting her feel how wet she has become.

“Better?” I ask, pulling her hand and glistening fingers back up to her chest.

She nods, her shoulders relaxing, and I kiss the base of her neck.

I turn her on her side and lie right against her back. I can almost see her start to smile.

I rip the condom package.

“Can I put it on you?” she asks hopefully, hearing the paper tear.

“If you can do it quickly,” I tell her, wanting to be inside of her more than she probably even knows. She flips over to face me, and I hand her the condom. Her eyes drop to my cock and I watch her entire expression practically glow. Her happiness is easy to bring, which I suppose is the problem, but I relish in sending her body into shockwaves and seeing her face lit up like the city.

Not listening to me, she gently and slowly rolls the condom on my dick. I let out a heavy breath and then groan. Dear God. “Faster, Lil,” I demand.

Her eyes flicker up, surprisingly, since it takes her great effort to look anywhere but my dick at times. She gives me a doe-eyed look and I can’t help but smile, yet I don’t give in. “Faster,” I repeat, stretching out the syllables.

She finishes rolling the condom up my shaft and then reaches for the lube. I grab her wrist and motion for her to turn around. I know she wants to be in control. I know she misses it. But she has to make me believe she can be on top and not get carried away. Right now, she’s not even close to being able to handle that type of position without going crazy.

Before she flips over, she bends down and places a soft kiss on the head of my cock. Then she rolls onto her side, sticking out her ass for me.

I rub some lube on, and she squirms a little, but I hold her steady. My cock throbs and I know I can’t hold out on going nice and slow. So when I have her ready, I thrust inside of her as fast and deep as I can without hurting her.

She lets out a long pleasurable moan and begins to writhe again. But I hold her tight, one arm around her neck and the other around her waist, grabbing her breast as I start pumping inside of her. Every thrust sends waves of ecstasy crashing through my cock and it feels too good to even stop for a second. I quicken my pace, her moans and half-screams perpetuating my speed.

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.”

I repeat everything again, being vague about Lily’s involvement and even going into more detail about the unknown number and how Connor’s PI traced it to a disposable phone.

My father listens rather well, and by the time I finish I can see him reeling over the piece of the puzzle that I’ve purposefully avoided.

“Unless Lily is the ring leader of a drug cartel, I highly doubt it’s anything to land Fizzle in a financial crisis. Really, tabloids have better things to do than gossip about heirs and heiresses. Look at you going to rehab, you didn’t even make it in The Enquirer.”

My addiction and hers are not proportionate. Not by a longshot. I’m another notch on the rich-kid sob story who gets addicted to alcohol or drugs. Lily, a girl, is addicted to sex. Even if it does happen, people don’t talk about it, but they will this time.

“Let’s say people find her newsworthy, and not in a good way. What then? Do you think you could find this guy?”

“I could try,” he says, eyes alight with interest. “What is it?”

And I just let it out. “She’s a sex addict.”

I watch him frown and then quickly the disbelief turns into humor. He laughs so hard that his fist subconsciously pounds the table, a pepper shaker overturning and clinking on the iron. I guess it’s hard to believe that the girl he knows, shy and a little awkward, would have that kind of addiction.

“You got me. I’ll give you that,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a grin.

My expression never falters. I can’t laugh with him or joke about Lily’s problem. Not when I know how dangerous it has been. Before we were together, I caught her surfing Craigslist for a hookup. There are levels to sex addiction that scare the shit out of me.

My father watches my unwavering features, and his smile fades. “You’re serious?”

“She’s addicted to sex. She has been since…I don’t know, since she lost it.” I cringe, never wanting to talk to my father about this.

He rubs his mouth, connecting everything together. “Oh…” His eyes grow. “Oh…fuck.” He glances at my contract like he’s one second from snatching the paper and setting it on fire.

I pocket the contract, and his eyes lift to mine. “We have a deal,” I remind him.

“Sex addiction—are you even sure?” he asks. “That’s a serious accusation, something that would need proof.”

“She’s seeing a sex therapist,” I tell him, “and not that it’s any of your business, but she used to hire male prostitutes, so yeah—she had a fucking problem.”

“Had? Past tense?”

“We’re working on it.”

He lets out a low laugh that chills my bones. “You’ve been letting your girlfriend fuck other men?” He shakes his head, and I can practically hear his thoughts: that can’t be my pussy of a son. He stands to pour himself another drink. I usually don’t notice how often he refills, but this has to be the third or fourth time—an amount that would have most people sloshed. But he’s a functioning alcoholic. Twenty-four-seven drunk. No one can really tell. It’s there in his hard eyes, ready to lash out spitefully at any moment. He’s just riding that wave, the edge to his life sandpapered down.

And I know if I had a sip, I’d be the same exact way. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. I’m not aggressive, but sometimes I’m belligerent. I can make sure that won’t happen. I’ll be calm.

I have the sudden urge to flip my glass and ask for alcohol. I’ll get sick, I remind myself. It’s literally the only argument I can think of right now.

I try to focus on my father’s eyes and not the glass in his hand. “I didn’t let her fuck anyone when we were together. We only started dating seven months ago.” I explain quickly about our fake relationship, cursing myself that everything has become so complicated that I have to reveal this too.

My father hasn’t taken a seat yet. “You acted like you were together just so I wouldn’t send you to a military academy?”

“Yeah,” I say. “You were ready to ship me off, weren’t you?” I had fucked up and vandalized some guy’s house for messing with Lily. He mailed her a dead rabbit after his girlfriend discovered that he fucked another girl, and he blamed it on Lily, even though he was the cheating bastard.

I retaliated by dousing his door in pig’s blood. It was one of my more creative efforts. And I was black-out drunk. I honestly remember very little of the whole ordeal. But I can recall everything afterwards—how my father grabbed me by the neck and yelled in my face. What did you get out of this, Loren? Did it make you feel better? Do you like being such a sick fuck?

My father was prepared to kick me out after I dragged his name through the mud. I was the degenerate, the resident bad boy who would go to another school district just to mess with someone. I was suspended. I was a stupid kid who wanted to make Lily feel better—who wanted to change every horrible fucking thing. But I just didn’t know how.

My father wanted to be proud of me, but I gave him nothing to be proud of.

“Maybe I would have shipped you off,” he says, swishing his ice in his whiskey. “I was mad as hell back then. Your relationship with her was the only redeeming thing. So maybe.”

I nod. Yeah it’s why he let me stay. Maybe he would have missed me too. But he’ll never admit that.

“So if you two weren’t really together, what the hell were those noises coming from your room?”

I frown and then recognition hits me. I bury my face in my hands, mortified. “You heard her?”

“You weren’t the only one living here,” he snaps, “and you two were loud.” No. She was loud. “It’s not as if I was trying to listen. Believe me.”

This is so fucked up. I rub the bridge of my nose, wanting so badly to wake up. Wake the fuck up.

He finally settles in his chair. “Don’t tell me you let her fuck someone else in your bed.”

I drop my hand and scowl. “Let’s get something straight—you’re not allowed to talk about her fucking anyone. Not me, not someone else, not anyone. Got it?”

He rolls his eyes. “You just told me she’s a sex addict—”

“I don’t give a shit,” I say coldly. “She’s still my girlfriend. She’s still Lily. And I’m not anywhere near comfortable talking about this with you.”

“Maybe she’s just a slut,” my father says, clearly ignoring me. “Ever think of that?

I could punch him. I think I could. But I don’t. I use my words, just like he taught me. “I’m going to say this once, and then you will never ever fucking call her that again. Nor will we have this discussion.” I’m standing up now. “She has a problem. She cries herself to sleep because she can’t stop thinking about it. I hold her in my goddamn arms, trying to get her to quit. Sex is her drug.” I point to my chest, my arms trembling. “I get it. I fucking get it, and you should too if you think for a goddamn minute how much you rely on that.” I motion to his drink and he stiffens. “And if anyone is the slut, it’s you.” He paraded enough women in and out of the house that I could have easily obtained some complex. My chest rises and falls heavily as I finish speaking.

His voice softens considerably. “That still doesn’t explain what I heard in your bedroom. If you two weren’t together—”

I grimace. He’s still on that? “I used to let her masturbate in my bed.”

His eyes widen and he opens his mouth to speak. I cut him off. “No way,” I snap. “You don’t get to ask any questions about that. Our relationship—even fucked up—is between us. It has nothing to do with this situation.” That’s a lie, but I’m not discussing that shit with my father, no matter if our own relationship is complicated too.

He keeps his lips tight now and then sips from his glass.

“If the tabloids found out—” I start, but it’s his turn to interrupt me.

“Lily would be in the tabloids, being called names that you don’t like.”

“What about Fizzle?”

“It would suffer, and because you’re linked with her, so would Hale Co.” He rises from his chair. “Let’s find the bastard.”