Addicted After All (Addicted #3)(134)

It has to be.

I have to believe it is. He’s sober. My dad is sober.

Ryke sets his hand on my shoulder. I can’t move. Something cements my feet to this place. Maybe fear.

“We all knew they would end up together. Christ, it was Lily and Loren. How the f*ck were we supposed to know she’d become a sex addict? The best goddamn fortuneteller wouldn’t have predicted that.”

The edge in his voice is sharp, too sharp.

He’s sober.

My teeth ache, and I realize that I can’t hide behind this wall forever. My feet move before my mind does. I take a step forward, and Ryke’s hand falls from my shoulder. When I slip into my father’s den, I am washed deeper in memories.

The leather couch, the dark wooden cabinets, organized desk, computer hutch, flat-screen television—it’s the home of a night I’ll never forget.

I was fourteen, and I’d just fought with my father in that same hallway. When I returned to the den, Lily was waiting timidly on the couch, our sci-fi show paused on the TV. We’d always been more than just friends.

We were best friends.

She had all of me by then. I had most of her.

And I let Lily drown my pain with a kiss. And then something more. I lost my virginity here. Right here. In the torment of my f*cked up childhood.

For years, I avoided this den. Like it contained every calloused feeling from that night. I can walk through it now and not be pulled under. I believe this.

I have to believe it.

The minute I enter the den, I focus on my father who gazes out the large window. Rain slides down the pane. His right hand cups a glass…

I freeze halfway to him. “Dad?”

He spins slowly, and it’s not a mistake—what I see. Amber liquid floats in the crystal goblet. Scotch. The bottle is on his desk, next to a box of cigars and a stack of clipped papers. I force myself to raise my gaze onto his.

His eyes are narrowed, sharp and black. Far gone. The difference is easy to spot now that I’ve seen him sober.

“Greg,” he says into his cellphone. “I’ll have to call you back.” He clicks his phone off and tosses it violently onto his desk. It falls and thuds on the carpet.

He swishes his drink, not even pretending that it’s something else.

“Let me guess,” I say sharply, “it’s just water?”

“Macallan 1939,” he replies. And then he takes a long sip, practically slapping me in the face. I rock back, but our cold eyes never separate. He tries giving me that look—the one where he says you’re just a little f*cking kid. Grow up.

I am grown up.

I’m more of an adult than him.

“What the f*ck is wrong with you?!” Ryke shouts, his face blood-red as he steps nearer. I shove him back before he storms ahead.

Connor even helps by grabbing Ryke’s bicep and forcing him beside us. Before he yells and reignites old arguments, I just want simple answers.

“How long?” I ask our dad, a tremor in my voice. “How long have you been drinking behind our backs?”

He prolongs the answer with another swig of scotch. His smug smile irritates me the most. The way his lips curve. Like it’s funny that he’s drinking. And I’m not.

That’s it for me. I just snap.

I run across the den before I can process my movements. And I struggle to pry the goblet from his iron-grip. Somewhere in my head, I’m thinking: if I can get it away from him, it ends this. But it doesn’t end like this. I know better than that.

“Loren!” he sneers and pushes my shoulder. With two palms, I shove him back even harder. He stumbles into the window and clutches a waist-tall vase for support.

I’ve never been physical with him, not like this. But I am screaming inside. Disappointment and hurt crush beneath everything. I take a couple steps towards him and try to remove the glass again, but he raises it above his head.

“Stop acting like a little shit!” he shouts. “Talk to me like a grown f*cking man.”

My throat is on fire. “Like you, Dad? Talk like you?! Are you a grown f*cking man?” I point at his chest. “Is that what you are?” I swallow a brick. “How long? How f*cking long have you been lying to me?!” My face twists with too much pain.

I get it.

I get relapsing. I am a master at it. I also understand pretending and lying. It eats at vital pieces of you, but it rips the people you love apart.

I am at the mercy of it.

I am on the other end. Shreds of a former self.

“Get a f*cking grip and we’ll talk,” my dad sneers.

“Fuck you!” That’s Ryke. Seething behind me. “You’re a sad, pathetic excuse for a father. And I believed you when you said you’d f*cking try.” He steals the bottle of scotch. “What is this?” The pain in his voice silences my father.

He goes eerily quiet.

“WHAT IS THIS?!” Ryke shouts again.

My dad flinches and shuts his eyes.

With raw lungs, each breath comes roughly for me. My head spins, but I ask my dad one more time. “How long?”

His eyelids open. And his hollow gaze meets mine. “Since Daisy’s birthday on the yacht.”

Nausea builds. That was months ago. A lifetime ago.

Ryke laughs angrily, which morphs into a scream. He pitches the bottle at the wall, and it shatters, alcohol sliding down the paint. He destroys the nearest bookcase, knocking over paperbacks and tearing apart a shelf. His rage has always been in his fists.