Addicted for Now (Addicted #2)(57)

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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*ck 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 f*ck 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…f*ck.” 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 f*cking 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 f*ck other men?” He shakes his head, and I can practically hear his thoughts: that can’t be my * 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.