Addicted After All (Addicted #3)(117)

I keep waiting for my self-preservation to kick in. To say: f*ck you all. To tap into the selfish, dark parts of my soul.

But I give a shit. I think about that young guy I held the night of the paintball shooting. I think about my son and Lily. Her sisters. And I can’t find an answer that solves everything—the happy ending that I’ve been fighting for.

It’s there. I know it’s there. Just one last shadowed road. One more bout of pain. I can take it.

“Lo?” Lily peeks through a crack in the glass door. “Can I come in?”

I give her a stiff nod, and she slips into the shower, still half-clothed. The water rains on her small frame, suctioning the black tee to her body. I watch her snatch a washcloth and bar of soap. I’m caught in a tornado of memories. Of Lily trying to drag me into the shower while I was hungover.

My lips begin to rise. Back then, I could wash myself fine, but I liked how Lily tried to help me. Her being that close meant more to me than she ever knew. She was my best friend—is my best friend.

After she lathers the washcloth, she gently begins scrubbing my abs. And then her eyes flit up to mine for the first time. She pauses. “What’s so funny?” My smile is full-blown. From cheek to cheek.

“I’ve always loved you, you know,” I breathe.

I can’t stop staring at her. She’s been through every piece of my life with me. And it’s overwhelming and incomprehensible. The universe that I want to be in is the one where Lily walks through that shower door. Every time.

She opens her mouth to speak, but emotions pummel her first. She wipes her eyes, which is silly and adorable since beads of water roll down her cheeks from the showerhead. “I have something in my eye,” she mumbles.

“Sure,” I whisper. Then I draw her closer, kiss right outside her lips, and just hold her for a second. It’s like embracing the happiest parts of yourself. I can’t quite explain what it feels like—but I’m certain it’s somewhere near heaven.





{ 45 }

LILY CALLOWAY



After the shower, Lo changes into clean clothes, and I take the opportunity to scoop his bourbon-soaked jeans and toss them into a trash bag. I want to eliminate any temptations, and I worry the pungent smell of alcohol will trigger his cravings.

I clip the baby monitor to the band of my leggings and check that it’s working properly (a constant habit) as I head downstairs. Daisy and Rose are huddled around the kitchen stove, whispering.

I step on the metal foot of the trashcan. “What are you two gossiping about?” I take an extra-long minute to shove my bag in the overflowing trash, smashing boxes of empty cereal.

Rose straightens up, her hands perched on her hips. “Retaliation number two.”

Daisy twists her hemp bracelet, a Ziff bottle under her arm. “They can’t get away with what they did.”

An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach like a hollow pit. “Retaliation number one ended badly,” I remind them. “I’m not sure if we should do it again.” And I love a good stealth mission.

“I agree with Lily.” The commanding voice originates from the hallway, Connor’s loafers clapping on the hardwood as he emerges in the kitchen.

Connor Cobalt just agreed with me.

This is a monumental occasion. I almost start cheering, but Rose’s yellow-green eyes have penetrated Connor’s incoming six-foot-four body.

“You don’t have a vote here,” Rose dismisses him easily. “Girls only.”

He steps nearer. “Are you asking for special privileges because of your gender?” It’s a question that causes Rose to cringe. Her husband faces her, only a few feet apart.

“So what do you want us to do?” Rose combats. “Nothing? Wait for them to attack again? Next thing you know, they’re going to throw dildos in Lily’s face!”

“That’s already happened before,” I mumble.

“Not from your own neighbors.” She makes a good point. No sex toy projectiles have landed my way while around the house. “This is supposed to be a safe place for everyone. It’s why we’re living together. I’m not torturing myself with Ryke’s constant mess and Loren’s presence for nothing.”

Daisy spins the cap on her Ziff bottle. She claims the flavor is better the longer you suffer through the iron-like taste, but deep down, I know she’s drinking it to be a supportive girlfriend. The Ziff rock climbing event is soon, and Ryke will officially become the face of the sports drink.

“Can we call the cops? Or file a report?” Daisy wonders.

“Not without evidence,” Connor explains. “And as soon as one of us makes a claim, it’ll be on the front page of every tabloid.” This is a big reason why I hesitate to run to the police. I ping-pong between protecting Moffy at home—from the teenagers—and then protecting him from the rabid media, which’ll explode with the new headline. They always swarm after a good story.

The neighborhood teenagers seem harmless compared to the psychological damage that the media can cause. I don’t want my son to be five-years-old, afraid to go outside and be berated with cameras…like I was when we first entered the public eye.

The doorbell rings, and I jump. “OhmyGod,” I slur “What if it’s them?” Maybe they’ve come to apologize? Yeah, okay, fat chance.