Addicted After All(139)

Ryke gives me a glare. “Why don’t you write a f*cking book?” he says. “You could call it: Perks of Dating a Female Sex Addict.”

“Or you could write one,” I shoot back, rising to my feet. “Perks of Having the Hots for a Sixteen-Year-Old Supermodel and Having to Wait until She Turns Eighteen, Only to be Cock-Blocked by Your Bastard Half-Brother.” I flash a bitter smile.

“That title needs some work,” Connor says, clipping on his Rolex watch. “And that’s if we all agree Ryke can write a full-length novel.”

“Dude, I was a f*cking journalism major.”

“And look how far that got you.”

“Let’s just go,” I cut in. “I’m starving and our bodyguards are probably bitching us out in their Escalades.” They have to follow us anywhere in public, including the local Mexican restaurant downtown.

Ryke turns the doorknob, and I step out onto the brick porch with my brother.

The minute my foot hits the welcome mat, liquid suddenly cascades in violent sheets, dousing Ryke and me. It’s slow motion. And I shut my eyes as the warm liquid tries to sear them. The smell is overpowering, sharp and too familiar.

“What the f*ck!” Ryke yells, horrified.

It’s not water.

We’re drenched in something worse. After the gushing stops, a bucket tumbles a second later. I marbleize in realization. Fully processing what just happened.

We were just showered in alcohol.

By inhaling, I can tell that it’s bourbon.

I slowly open my eyes. I’m shaking, too stunned to do anything. I’m swept up in years and years of bad deeds and terrible nights. I look to Ryke, and his hair is wet, his gray shirt plastered to his chest. He’s breathing unevenly, filled with fury. “This is so f*cked up.”

And then he meets my eyes. His features burst with too many emotions. Panic for me. Rage at the teenagers.

The smell is killing me. On instinct, I lick my lips. It’s bourbon, for sure.

“Lo, don’t f*cking taste it,” Ryke says quickly, grabbing my arm like he can stop me. He can’t.

“We’re soaked in booze,” I state like he can’t see it. “It’s too f*cking late.” It doesn’t mean I broke my sobriety. Not again. I have to believe this. No matter how much my brain wants to say I f*cking lost a battle today. I didn’t. I didn’t.

My face twists with my stomach. God. Dammit. I squat for a second, collecting my breath.

“Hey,” Ryke forces, bending down to me. He clasps my shoulder. “You’re okay.”

“No matter how much you say it, it doesn’t make it any f*cking truer,” I retort in an agitated voice. I’m pissed. At the situation. Not at him. I grimace. “Just…” I’m trying not to lose it.

“Take off your clothes,” Connor says from the doorway, with an inexpressive voice.

It almost makes me laugh, but my features only morph into hurt. “How forward of you, love.”

“He’s right,” Ryke actually agrees with Connor. My brother lifts me up, so I’m standing straighter. And then he starts removing my sopping shirt since my joints are locked tight. When I unfreeze a bit, I pull my crew-neck over my head. Ryke tugs off his own shirt and tosses the wet fabric on the brick with mine.

I instinctively run a hand through my hair. I pause at the smell. At how much it’s seeping into my skin. Christ.

Ryke is saying something. My mind is on a hundred paths, speeding. I stare off at the road, expecting to find an audience. No one is there. Not these stupid, bored teenagers that’ve turned malicious. This is low. The girls TPed one of their houses. And in return they decided to shove me a thousand steps back in my recovery.

Ryke is right. It’s f*cked up.

It’s really, really f*cked up.

“Lo!” Ryke shouts, lightly slapping the side of my face to get me to concentrate.

I inhale a deep, strained breath that burns my muscles. “Don’t worry about me,” I say. “I’m not going to pass out and die.”

“You’re shaking,” Ryke says.

“I’m pissed,” I sneer, putting some distance between us. “Just like you are.”

He nods, but the concern never leaves him.

I turn to Connor, who wears a similar expression as my brother now. “I’m not the Wicked Witch, okay?” I snap at him. “I’m not about to melt onto the floor.” My body binds the longer I stand here. Anger doesn’t accurately describe the feeling coursing through my veins.