Addicted to You (Addicted #1)(2)

I stay planted three-quarters down. Sunshine trickles through a tiny space between the doorframe and Squared-jaw’s tangerine-orange Polo. He clenches his teeth, about ready to slam the door back in the other guy’s face, but the intruder puts his hand on it and says, “I left something here last night.”

“I don’t remember you being here.”

“I was.” He pauses. “Briefly.”

“We have a lost and found,” Squared-jaw says curtly. “What is it?” He edges away from the doorframe and nods to someone on the couch. They watch the scene like a reality rerun on MTV. “Jason, go grab the box.”

When I glance back, I notice the guy outside. Eyes right on me.

“No need,” he says.

I sweep his features. Light brown hair, short on either side, full on top. Decently toned body hidden beneath a pair of faded Dockers and a black crew-neck tee. Cheekbones that cut like ice and eyes like liquid scotch. Loren Hale is an alcoholic beverage and he doesn’t even know it.

All six foot two of him fills the doorway.

As he stares at me, he wears a mixture of amusement and irritation, the muscles in his jaw twitching with both. The frat guys follow his gaze and zero in on the target.

Me.

I may as well have reanimated from thin air.

“Found her,” Lo says with a tight, bitter smile.

Heat rises to my face, and I use my hands as human blinders, trying to cover my humiliation as I practically sprint to the door.

Squared-jaw laughs like he won their masculine showdown. “Your girlfriend is a skank, man.”

I hear no more. The brisk September air fills my lungs, and Lo bangs the door closed with more force than he probably intended. I cower in my hands, pressing them to my hot cheeks as the event replays in my head. Oh. My. God.

Lo swoops in behind me, his arms flying around my waist. He sets his chin on my shoulder, hunching over a little to counter my short height with his tall. “He better have been worth it,” Lo whispers, his hot breath tickling my neck.

“Worth what?” My heart lodges in my throat; his closeness confuses and tempts me. I never know where Lo’s true intentions lie.

He guides me forward as we walk, his back still pressed against me. I can barely lift up a foot, let alone think straight. “Your first walk of shame in a frat house. How’d that feel?”

“Shameful.”

He plants a light kiss on my head and disentangles from me, walking forward. “Pick it up, Calloway. I left my drink in the car.”

My eyes begin to widen as I process what this means, gradually forgetting the horrors that just occurred. “You didn’t drive, did you?”

He flashes me a look like really, Lily? “Seeing as how my usual DD was unavailable”—he raises his eyebrows accusingly—“I called Nola.”

He called my personal driver, and I don’t begin to ask why he decided to forgo his own chauffeur that would gladly cart him around Philadelphia. Anderson has loose lips. In ninth grade when Chloe Holbrook threw a rager, Lo and I may have been discussing illegal narcotics that were passed from hand to hand at her mother’s mansion. Backseat conversations should be considered private among all car-participants. Anderson must not have realized this unspoken rule because the next day, our rooms were raided for illegal paraphernalia. Luckily, the maid forgot to search in the fake fireplace where I used to keep my X-rated box of toys.

We came away clean from the incident and learned a very important lesson. Never trust Anderson.

I prefer to not use my family’s car service and thus embed myself further in their grips, but sometimes Nola is a necessity. Like now. When I’m slightly hungover and unable to drive the perpetually drunk Loren Hale.

He has knighted me as his personal sober driver and refuses to shell out money to any cab services after we were almost mugged in one. We never told our parents what happened. Never explained to them how close we were to something horrible. Mostly because we spent that afternoon at a bar with two fake IDs. Lo guzzled more whiskey than a grown man. And I had sex in a pubic bathroom for the very first time. Our indecencies became our rituals, and our families didn’t need to know about them.

My black Escalade is parked on the curb of frat row. Multi-million dollar houses line up, each outdoing the next in column sizes. Red Solo cups litter the nearest yard, an overturned keg splaying sadly in the grass. Lo walks ahead of me.

“I didn’t think you were going to show,” I say and skirt past a puddle of barf in the road.

“I said I would.”

I snort. “That’s not always accurate.”

He halts by the car door, the windows too tinted to see Nola waiting in the driver’s seat. “Yeah, but this is Kappa Phi Delta. You screw one and they may all want a piece of your ass. I seriously had nightmares about it.”

I grimace. “About me getting raped?”

“That’s why they’re called nightmares, Lily. They’re not supposed to be pleasant.”

“Well this is probably my last expedition into a frat house for another decade or at least until I forget about this morning.”

The driver’s window rolls down. Nola’s deep black curls caress her heart-shaped face. “I have to pick up Miss Calloway from the airport in an hour.”

“We’ll be ready in a minute,” I tell her. The window slides up, blocking her from view.