Addicted to You (Addicted #1)(11)

Lo lets out a short laugh at this, and the guy puts an arm on the bar, leaning forward into my personal space to see my friend. “You two know each other?”

“You could say that,” Lo says, finishing off another beer. He motions to the lady bartender again.

“You’re not her ex or anything, are you?” the guy wonders, easing back just a little. Oh yes, please go away.

Lo wraps a hand around his new Berry Beer. “She’s all yours man. Have at her.”

I am slowly dying inside.

The guy nods to me. “I’m Dillon.” I don’t care. Please go away. He extends his hand with a giddy grin, maybe expecting a round two. Thing is, I don’t do round twos. Once I sleep with a guy, it ends there. Nothing more, ever again. It’s a personal rule that I’ve sustained thus far. I won’t break it, especially not for him.

I shake his hand, not knowing exactly how to shoo him off without being rude. Some girls have an easy time with saying no. Me on the other hand…

“What are you drinking?” He tries to flag down the male bartender who’s busy with serving a group of girls. One wears a tiara and an I’m 21! sash.

“Nothing,” I say just as a lady bartender in cut-off shorts and a cropped blue top stops in front of us.

“What can I get you?” she asks over the music.

Before I can add, I don’t drink to the statement, Dillon says, “A rum and Fizz and a Blue Lagoon.”

“We only have blueberry rum,” she reminds him.

He nods. “That’s fine.”

She starts fixing up our orders, and I squeak out, “I actually don’t drink.”

His face drops. “You don’t drink?” The disbelief makes me question my normality. I guess a sober body in a club is hard to come by. “So…” He scratches his stubbly cheek. “You’re sober right now?”

I think I just died a second time. He thinks I’m a weirdo for having sober sex in a nightclub. My neck is turning violent red, and I want to stick my head in a hole. Or an ice bucket. “I drink,” I mumble under my breath. “Just not tonight. I’m driving.”

The bartender sets the blue cocktail on a napkin, and Dillon pushes it towards me. “Go ahead. You can always get a cab.” Ulterior motives glimmer in his eyes. He’s imagining what I’ll do drunk, considering I wasn’t too prudish sober. But that was before. And this is now—when my hunger to get laid has diminished considerably. At least with him.

“She doesn’t want it,” Lo snaps, clenching his fifth beer so tightly I think it might shatter.

“I thought you told me I could ‘have at her,’” Dillon says, using air quotes for effect.

“That was before you started fucking with my ride home. I need her sober, so go find another girl to buy blue volcanoes.”

“Blue lagoon,” I correct him.

“Whatever,” Lo says into his swig of beer.

Dillon’s eyes darken. “She has a mouth. Let her speak for herself.”

Wow, this took a turn.

Lo turns his body towards Dillon for the first time. “I bet you know all about that mouth, right?”

“Ohmygod,” I mutter unintelligibly.

“Hey, don’t fucking talk about her like that,” Dillon tries to defend my honor.

What is going on?!

Lo raises his brows. “So now you’re suddenly chivalrous, coming to her defense? You banged her in the bathroom. Don’t act like you’re the good guy in this situation.”

“Stop, Lo.” I shoot him a warning look that may be lost beneath my flushed cheeks. If he starts a fight, I’ll be barred from the club.

“Yeah, Lo…stop,” Dillon says in challenge. My face is so hot I think my skin might have second degree burns. Lo stares at Dillon for a long moment, unblinking.

“I’m not drunk enough for this shit,” Lo announces. He rises from the stool and closes out his bar tab quickly. While I wait, Dillon clasps my wrist and I try to peel away.

“Can I have your number?” he asks.

Lo tucks his wallet in his back pocket. “She doesn’t know how to say no. So I’m going to do it for her.” Thank you. But instead of actually saying anything, Lo flips him off.

I don’t look at Dillon. Lo. Or any other person in The Blue Room. I speed out of the club, wanting nothing more than to evaporate from the moment and flutter into the air.

After sliding into my sporty BMW, Lo silently joins me. The car ride home stays that way except for the sound of Lo unscrewing his flask and chugging it like he’s been trapped in the Sahara desert for a week. We avoid talking or mentioning the bad night until we enter the apartment.

I throw my keys in the basket by the door, and Lo bolts for the locked liquor cabinets. My hand shakes, and I tuck a flyaway hair behind my ear. I need a release.

The familiar sounds of clinking bottles fill the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?” Lo asks, concentrating on his concoction.

“No. I’m going to call someone to come over. If they’re still here in the morning, can you do the usual?”

He hesitates, and the bottle of bourbon freezes above his glass. “I may be passed out. I’ve been drinking shitty beer all night.” Oh. He’s about to get wasted.

“We have the luncheon in the morning,” I say, my voice strained. Few things instigate a true fight between us, but I sense one brewing.