Addicted After All(71)

I open my eyes, and my brother is covering his mouth like he wants to scream and punch someone again.

My eyes are on fire, holding back. Why are you f*cking crying? Stop crying. I’m not crying. “Keep going,” I prod.

“I can’t,” Ryke says, shaking his head. He runs a hand through his hair.

“You have to,” I tell him.

Ryke cringes at me, like he sees into me.

“Just say the rest,” I almost yell.

“No.” He shakes his head again and steps away from the wall. “I’m f*cking done torturing you. You’re in f*cking pain right now, and you want me to put you in more pain.”

Is that what this is? Masochism. “I can take it,” I remind him.

“I can’t!” He points at his chest, his eyes bloodshot like mine. He breathes heavily, staring down at me, and he says, “Bring her here, we want to see how many cocks can fit inside her…” He trips up, and his voice cracks again. “I can’t.”

I’m crying.

I only realize it when the sound of a sob breaches my lips. Wet tears slide down, and I bring my knees up, resting my forearms on them. I hang my head. Stop crying.

“Keep going,” I say in a choked whisper.

I’m surprised that Connor hears me. He takes over and speaks clinically, “how many cocks can fit inside her giant cunt. You better have a leash on your bitch; we plan on riding her tonight.”

The pain rips through my chest.

Ryke is beside me on the ground while Connor keeps talking. I sit idle between rage and grief, my emotions at war. I want to shut it all out, but then I want to feel the coldest, harshest parts of it. Maybe then it won’t hurt me anymore.

After five minutes, my hands balled into fists, my shoulders shaking and my cheeks slick with tears, I whisper, “Stop.”

I reached my limit. I understand why Ryke snapped a fuse back in the street. It’s just too much.

I want to protect Lily from this type of ridicule, but I can’t. And I think that’s the hardest thing to grapple with—that people would come face-to-face with us and say this shit outright.

And there is nothing we can do but sit here and bear it.

Get thicker skin. Don’t be so sensitive, Loren. I am in love with Lily. To be unfeeling from someone hurting her—no rage, no grief—I’d have to be a f*cking robot.

No armor can block out this pain. No booze this time. And I remember—almost one whole year ago, I heard defaming words about me and my father. I slid to the floor. I reached into a cupboard for a bottle of Glenfiddich. I broke my sobriety for the first time. And I never got off the ground that night. Not on my own.

Being in the media, I’ve learned to live with this hurt, stand up, and move on.

It’s what I’ll do now. It’s what I’ll do tomorrow and the next day. For however long this fight goes on.

Just stand up.

And I rise slowly to my feet. Heavy and shackled with weight.

I still move.





{ 21 }

LOREN HALE



“So let me get this f*cking straight,” my father says in an edged voice, “the four of you attacked three guys who’ve been harassing you all day. In the middle of the goddamn street?”

We couldn’t avoid our parents for long. As soon as we left the bathroom, Greg and Jonathan called us into the yacht’s living room. I stand between Ryke and Connor while Sam is on the end, the only one of us not beat to shit.

“Technically, they punched Ryke first,” I offer.

“But it doesn’t take away from the fact that you all responded the way you did,” Greg says, facing us with my dad. All the girls, including Lily’s mom, are situated on the couches behind us. Watching. Like we’re testifying in an informal hearing or something. Like we’re little kids about to be grounded.

“I’m not a boy,” Ryke says, somehow not cursing.

“Did hitting someone make you feel like a big man?” our dad taunts. I focus on the crystal glass in Jonathan’s hand: clear liquid with ice cubes.

Not vodka, I want to believe. I wish I trusted him, but a lot surrounding my father has pissed me off this trip, most notably the “date” he brought. I’m surprised she’s not even in the living room right now. She’s been glued to his hip since we left port.

“Fuck off,” Ryke says, not in the mood for an interrogation. I don’t think any of us are.