Addicted After All (Addicted #3)(2)

I get it.

I used to do this shit all the time. I was thrown in jail for vandalism more often than for underage drinking.

“What?” the guy feigns confusion, provoking Ryke. “Are you butthurt that you didn’t get extra time with the slut—”

“You want to play this goddamn game with me,” I interject, my voice so sharp that it physically pains me. “I can make you cry so hard, you bleed out of your eye sockets, so let’s rewind—you f*cked with us first, and all we’re asking is for you to stop. We’re not your prep school friends.” I’m trying not to be condescending. I could have easily said “we’re not your little prep school friends, kid.” But if someone said that to me at sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen, I’d spit in their face and tell them to eat shit.

He breathes heavily with a curled lip, hatred spreading across his features, like he can’t stand to be here for more than a second longer. I stare right at him, not giving him an easy out. And he finally says, “We’re just joking around.”

Ryke steps forward and raises the paintball gun at the guy’s face. “This is not a f*cking joke!”

The guy huffs and says to me, “Is your brother a moron? It’s only a paintball gun.”

Ryke throws the gun across the road, and the casing shatters.

“Hey!” the guy shouts.

“My girlfriend has PTSD, you f*cking idiot,” Ryke growls. “You point something that resembles a gun at a window, and there are people who’ll feel like it’s one.”

My ribs tighten. Daisy has been through more than Lily and I ever imagined, and it’s these facts—the ones that I desperately needed—that make it easier to see his happiness with her. I never thought I’d pray to every f*cking god to ensure that their relationship lasts. It’s not even a selfish want.

I study the guy’s face, and any remorse is drowned by anger, his voice shaking with it. “Which girlfriend is that?” he sneers at Ryke. “The one you raped when she was fifteen or your brother’s fiancée?”

“Are you f*cking kidding me?!” Ryke yells, his nose flaring. It f*cking sucks. People will always know details about our lives before we even know their names. But I can’t blame him for it. It’s just the way it is.

I watch this teen glower at the ground like let me go, let me f*cking go.

Not yet.

I grip his jaw and force his face to mine. “Great,” I say, “you can believe those goddamn lies, you can spread them, whatever—but we see you around our house, scaring our girls, we’ll do worse than call the cops.” I release him with this threat, letting his own imagination frighten him. “I’ve met shittier f*cks than you, so don’t think you’re something special.”

His chest collapses as he breathes heavily, shooting me a glare that can no way match mine. And then he spins his back on us and sprints down the road, stumbling for a second before he regains his speed.

He shouts back, “Go suck cock, you pussies!” And he waves his middle fingers at us.

Ryke lets out a frustrated groan. “I f*cking hate these guys.”

“They’re just bored.” The neighborhood heard that “famous people” moved in down the block, and so these teenagers have been attracted to our house ever since. “We can’t call the cops,” I snap at him. “I hope you realize that.” For one, that guy in the hoodie could’ve been me at seventeen. And every time I was thrown in jail, it did nothing but piss me off even more. For another, it only gives them reason to retaliate against us. To return with more eggs, more paintballs, and maybe something worse down the road.

I’m smart enough now to recognize the pointlessness of this kind of feud and revenge.

Connor Cobalt taught me that.

My lips slowly rise.

Ryke groans again, puncturing my thoughts. “I wish there was an easy f*cking solution to this.”

“Yeah,” I nod. “Me too.” We start walking back down the dark street to our house. I try to loosen my tense shoulders by rotating them. “Maybe the girls shouldn’t come to the meeting tomorrow.” Remembering my father’s phone call this evening binds my muscles again. I rub the back of my neck, this familiar agitation festering. After tonight, I’d like to f*cking cancel on our dad. “I just don’t want him to drop more shit on top of us, not while we’re dealing with this.”

“I don’t want Daisy there anyway.” He extends his arms, and I can see splatters of blue paint on his shoulder and chest with reddish welts. “Why the f*ck is he dragging the girls into his issues to begin with? It should be just you and me.” He gestures from his lean body to mine.

“We don’t know what it’s about,” I remind Ryke. “All he said was that he wanted to talk to the four of us.” I lick my lips, my breath smoking the air. I try not to shiver in the cold, especially at the thought of how he left out Connor and Rose. Whatever our dad is up to—it only involves Ryke, Daisy, Lily and me. I’m hoping it’s not about the rumors in Celebrity Crush—that Lily might be pregnant with Ryke’s kid, not mine. I hate even entertaining those lies.

I try to let out another long breath, but I feel my face contort in an irritated scowl.

“With Jonathan, that could mean f*cking anything,” Ryke retorts.