Addicted After All(3)

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.

“Yeah, and take it from someone who’s been to these ‘impromptu meetings’—you have to be prepared for anything.” I remember the one where he basically forced my proposal with Lily, right in his office.

I refuse to believe this is worse than that. So maybe that’s why I’m not as freaked by it as Ryke. My brother revived his relationship with our dad—and this is what comes with it. I step into the lion’s den every single time I enter Jonathan Hale’s mansion, and I just f*cking pray that I leave without a deep wound. I pray that I’m strong enough to withstand everything he throws at me. And for the first time, I believe that someone out there, some godforsaken thing or spirit or madman, is listening to a f*ck up like me.

I slow my pace as soon as headlights point in our direction. I raise my hand to shield the fluorescence. Ryke grabs my bicep and guides me towards the curb so we’re not hit in the dark. I’m not surprised when the Escalade brakes beside us. The tinted window rolls down, revealing the driver.

Connor Cobalt, twenty-six, has one hand on the wheel, dressed in a white button-down. His wavy brown hair is perfectly styled like he just returned from a business meeting.

He didn’t, by the way. I know for a fact that he was in a third floor study with Rose, reading or thumbing through a dictionary—whatever they do in their spare time.

He can’t hide his blinding grin, the humor palpable in his gaze as he scrutinizes our lack of wardrobe in the cold winter. Then his deep blue eyes meet my amber ones.

“Soliciting again?” he banters with an arched brow. “How much for a blow job, darling?”

“As much as you’re worth,” I reply, opening the passenger door.

“How about you, Ryke?” Connor asks as my brother climbs into the backseat.

“I’m not for f*cking sale,” Ryke says roughly, slamming his door shut.

I give Connor a look. “It’s been a long night. What were you—reading?”

“Coming, actually,” Connor says, putting the car into gear and driving back towards our house.

“Fucking fantastic,” Ryke groans. “While we were freezing our asses off, chasing these idiots, you were getting off.”

Connor doesn’t even try to restrain his grin. “I’m the all-around winner here. It shouldn’t be surprising to anyone by now.” Neither is his arrogance. I actually smile and point the blowers at my body, the heat expelling.

Connor’s eyes flit to the orange and blue splatters on my ribs and shoulder. Like Ryke, red welts lie beneath the paint. His grin fades. “I don’t see how chasing them while they still had paintball guns was effective.”

“It’s called intimidation,” I tell him.

“You mean stupidity.”