Addicted to You (Addicted #1)(68)

I stare off and imagine hands pressing to the countertops on either side of me, caging me in. The faceless, nameless guy touches his warm lips to my neck, sucking. Fingers slip underneath my tee, and then they head to the hem of my sweats, edging closer, tingling—

“Lily, sound like a plan?” Lo asks, worry creasing his forehead.

I blink. “Huh?” I rub the back of my neck, trying to cool off but my thoughts set me ablaze.

Lo clenches a blue Gatorade. What happened to his bloody mary? Did Connor really convince him to switch? He sets it down and comes to me, noticing my shaky hands. “You okay?” He reaches out to touch my face, but I turn my head and separate. His whole body tenses at the rejection.

“Fine,” I say. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Are you coming to the gym with us?” He sounds worried.

“I wasn’t planning on it.” Each step away from Lo makes my body throb. My willpower starts dying out. I need him. I want him. I am seconds from crumbling and taking him for myself.

Swiftly, he catches my sides in two hands. He leans down to my ear. “Please come.” His husky voice sends me to bad places. I hold in a noise. “I’ll make it up to you there.” He whispers exactly what he wants to do to me at the gym. I can’t say no to this. I can barely say no to anything. He’s buying his forgiveness through my weakness. It’s like me screwing up and sending him a gift basket full of expensive whiskey.

I nod and mumble something about a shower first. My feet carry me to my bathroom, and I wash my hair and the sweat.

Lo knocks on the door. “Do you need me?”

Yes. But I think I can hold out until the gym. I hope I can. “No.”

I sense him lingering by the door. He won’t apologize for last night, even though he must know he fucked up. I wait for him to ask if I slept with some other guy, but he never does. And then I hear his footsteps pad away. After showering, I change into a pair of nylon pants and a baggy shirt.

When we arrive at the gym, Connor chooses to spend his time at the lower body machines next to a series of flat-screen televisions. He pushes weight down with his feet, using his thigh muscles for strength.

Across the open room, I sink on the floor beside the Pec Deck machine. Lo grips two handles attached to weights and brings them to his chest and back out.

I am through trying to avoid Lo’s touch. In the car, I spent the entire time hugging the door to make a point, and the divots in the road practically vibrated the seats, killing me. “Can we do it now?” I ask, rolling my high socks that awkwardly rise above my ankles.

“Isn’t the anticipation a part of the fun?”

“Sometimes.” I pull my knees to my chest and catch Connor pausing his workout to argue with another guy over the television remote. “We should ditch him.” It’s the easiest solution to our problems. He’s the interloper, the guy forcing us to confront our problems, to truly stare and see them for what they are. I don’t want to think about any of it. I also blame Ryke for planting guilt-ridden seeds in my head.

“He’s okay,” Lo says, bringing the handles to his chest again. He lets out a long breath and releases. “He’s probably the biggest prick I’ve ever met, but he’s not perfect, even if he thinks he is.”

“And he’s asexual.”

“That too.”

I pick up a couple of dumbbells, avoiding the stink-eye from two girls on stair masters. I guess accompanying your boyfriend to the gym and watching him work out is considered lame. I crunch them in my arms, which happen to be the weakest of my four limbs. Minutes pass and I let them drop in my hands.

I take another seat. “Are we ever going to talk about last night?”

He grimaces as he brings the weight to his chest one more time. Then he takes his fingers off the handles and wipes his forehead with a towel. I see the wheels spinning in his head. “What is there to say?”

“You drank that guy’s liquor.”

Lo rolls his eyes dramatically and rises from the bench to add more weight. “I’ve done that before. What makes now so different, Lil?”

“You’re not in high school anymore,” I say. “And…and you’re with me.”

The weight clinks together and he sits back down. “Do you want me to stop drinking?” he asks seriously. I do. Why would I want him to continue his descent towards something horrible? He can die from this. He can pass out and never wake up. Before I muster the courage to say the words, he adds, “Do you want to stop having sex?”

No. Why does that have to be a stipulation? I guess because it’s not fair that I pour my thoughts and energy and time into sex while he has to withdraw from alcohol.

“Look,” he says, realizing I can’t answer. “I drank a lot. You masturbated all night. I mean, I assume you didn’t cheat on me.” He waits for me to refute and I shake my head, telling him I didn’t. He nods and looks a little relieved. “It was a bad night. We’ve had plenty of those. Okay?” He returns to the handles.

I stare dazedly at the ground. “Sometimes I think we’re a better fake couple.”

He stiffens. “Why do you believe that? Is the sex bad?”

“No…I just think it’s easier.” We should go back to the way things were. We didn’t fight as much. We allowed our schedules to be different and to cross occasionally. For the most part, we separated our addictions, and now they intertwine too much to juggle.