Addicted(9)

I stare at her incredulously. “It’s barely nine in the morning.”

“You’ve just had your heart ripped out of your chest. A little alcohol is called for, no matter what time it is.”

When I make no move to take the drink, she carries it over to me. All but forces it into my hand. “Come on,” she says. “It’ll make you feel better. Steadier.”

I’m pretty sure she’s wrong. After finding out that the man I love is brother to the man who raped and tormented me in high school, the same man whose parents paid mine off to make my accusations go away, I don’t think anything can make me steadier. But she doesn’t know any of that and I’m not up to telling it to her. Not right now.

Besides, the tequila can’t make things any worse, right? And the pain is still so acute that anything that will dull it for a little while is more than welcome.

Suddenly, drinking seems like salvation. I reach for the shot glass, and under Tori’s approving eyes, down it in one quick gulp.

“Good girl,” she says, holding out the second drink.

I down that one, too, and can’t help noticing the slow burn starting deep inside of me. For the first time since I opened the door to Brandon this morning, I feel something other than cold. It won’t last—of course it won’t—but for now I’ll take it. And if it helps me forget how messed up everything is for a little while, well then, I’ll take that, too.




“You want another?” Tori asks, as she pours two more shots and downs them in quick succession.

“Sure. Why not?” It’s not like I have anywhere else to be today, anything else to do. Ethan talked me into calling in sick to work this morning so we could—

My stomach drops all over again as I realize just how difficult this whole situation has suddenly become. I never want to see Ethan again, never want to look into his blue eyes and see Brandon’s staring back at me. But I have an internship at Frost Industries, one that I busted my ass for the last three years to get. One that I was counting on to help get me into a top law school when I graduate next year.

And now, now I can’t imagine going back there. Can’t imagine facing Ethan ever again. Not with the destruction and devastation that stretch between us. Collateral damage that I never could have anticipated.

But what’s the alternative? Going home to my family with my tail tucked between my legs? Letting my father spend some of his blood money—or more specifically, my blood, his money—to get me into law school? Just the thought makes me sick all over again.

“Is my drink ready?” I ask, desperate for something else to focus on besides how badly I’ve screwed up. It’s ridiculous, really. I’m a planner and always have been. I make a point of thinking out everything, of imagining every possible outcome and contingency plan before I do anything. With Brandon five years ago, I didn’t think, didn’t plan, and we all saw where that got me. Raped, brutalized, bullied. How ironic is it that the first time in five years that I throw caution to the wind, and I end up with Brandon’s brother. Right back where I started. The rape counselor I saw my first year at UCSD would be so unimpressed.

Oh, Ethan would never hurt me physically. I know that for certain—he’s never been anything but exceptionally gentle with me. But this, what I’m feeling now, is so much worse than any blow he could have given me. The fact that he knew, last night … That he made love to me knowing all along about what had happened between Brandon and me …

The tequila threatens to come back up.

And though there’s a part of me that knows it isn’t fair to hold this against him—he did try to break up with me when I showed up last night—there’s another part that doesn’t give a damn. Because he didn’t break up with me. And he didn’t tell me the truth. Instead he f*cked me until I couldn’t stand up, f*cked me nearly into oblivion. He told me that he loved me, let me tell him that I loved him. And all along he knew. He f*cking knew.

My thoughts must be written all over my face, because Tori rushes over and shoves a glass back into my hand. “Drink up,” she orders, slamming back her own shot. I follow suit, then watch as she pours two more shots from the Patron bottle she’s brought over from the bar.

“Sit,” she tells me, gesturing to the nearest sofa.

I do, because my knees are feeling a little unsteady. Three shots of tequila in five minutes—on an empty stomach, no less—is not something I’m used to.