Addicted After All (Addicted #3)(133)

With a rock in my throat, I rise from the bed, my thoughts already set in place. I can’t tell Lily about this. I don’t want to have to. I exhale deeply and face Connor. “I need a favor.” My shoulders tighten. I rarely ask him for favors, and I know that Connor Cobalt attaches a million strings to a single one. He does something for you; you do something for him.

That’s how it works.

“For you, darling, anything,” he smiles genially, but I trace grief in his blue eyes. Or maybe that’s just my own.

Ryke interjects, “You haven’t even heard the f*cking favor yet. Keep it in your pants, Cobalt.”

“Just so you know, your jealousy keeps me warm at night,” Connor says and then winks.

Ryke flips him off.

I can’t even join our usual banter. I’m just trying to climb out of this quicksand. The moment Connor retrains his attention onto me, I prepare for a rejection. But he waits for me to speak at least.

“I need you to make up with my dad,” I say.

Connor doesn’t blink. He doesn’t say much of anything either.

I continue, hoping to convince him without pleading like a little kid to a parent. “He can bury this,” I explain, passing the folded paper to him. “But you have the sources.”

Connor pockets the paper. “I don’t think it will be that easy, Lo.”

“Can you try?” My eyes burn. This is my only option. My best friend and my father. That’s my last card. I have to play it. Even if these are just rumors, even if they’re dismissed in a couple weeks—this is a rumor that I never want Moffy to hear.

Not even once. I want him to grow up without a fragment of a doubt that I’m his father. There is a future for him that’s painted without hardship and without judgment.

I know that future is not his. No matter what I do, there will be cameras pointed at his face. People will ask questions. Over and over and over. Until his ears ring. There will be a day when he learns that his mom is a sex addict. And there will be a time where he’s ridiculed for it.

But there is another future that is full of promise and certainty, even with the knowledge of our pasts. It’s this future that I’m clawing to obtain. It’s the one where he knows that he was conceived from love.

That no one and nothing can devoid him of that notion. Because nothing and no one brings doubt into his head.

I can’t change other people’s beliefs. But I can stop them from spreading their lies.

I just need help.

I’m not too prideful or too ashamed to ask for it.

After a long moment, Connor steps away from the wall. When his blue eyes flit to mine, he says, “I’ll drive.”





{ 54 }

LOREN HALE



The ride to my dad’s is short and void of bodyguards. We didn’t take the time to call them, not when his house is gated. My thoughts race. Different paths. Different options. It’s possible my dad could refuse to help, just on the basis that he’d have to work with Connor.

I reject that theory. My father can be vindictive, but when it comes to his family—when it comes to me—he’d do almost anything. I clutch this thought tight as Connor slows the Escalade and rolls down his window.

“103190,” I tell him the security code, and he types it into the pad. Soon after, the iron gate groans open.

He parks. The mansion just outside the car door.

Ryke hesitates in the passenger seat, and then he turns to me in the back. “This may not work. And it’ll be okay if it doesn’t. Moffy won’t have a bad life. We’ll all f*cking protect him from the media.”

He’s trying to prepare me for the worst. But I’d rather look to a better future than agonize over the darkest one. I’m not going to sit here and torment myself.

I don’t say anything. I just climb out of the car, the cool air filling my lungs. I lead Connor and Ryke to the front door, a lion metal knocker on the black wood. Fumbling with the key, I finally stick it in the lock and enter my father’s mansion.

I wipe my clammy hand on my jeans and head down the hall. It’s three-o’clock on a Sunday. My dad could be anywhere, but I’m sure he’s here.

I peek into every room. Wanting, desperately, to end the search as quickly as I can.

When I near the den in the back of the house, I hear his voice and no one else’s. Like he’s speaking on the phone.

“I know she spent the night at my house, Greg. I wasn’t f*cking blind back then.” My blood runs cold. He’s talking about Lily. I know he is.

I stop midway to the cracked door, the hallway dim, and as I listen, I skim the photos framed on the wall. Me, as a baby. Me, as a toddler. Me and Lily, as kids. Me and Lily, as preteens.

“You knew my parenting methods were more relaxed than Samantha’s. I wasn’t going to hover. If either of you had a problem with it, you should’ve kept her at your home.” He pauses. “Oh, come on, Greg, stop blaming yourself. You’re a good goddamn father.” And then I hear the sound of ice cubes clinking against glass. “We all make mistakes.”

That sound.

Ice against glass. It breaches my ears like hammered nails. Memories wash over me in a hazy blackness. Shadows filling parts of me. I can practically feel the crystal glass in my hand. And I can visualize the one in his. Not just lime and water.