Addicted to You (Addicted #1)(83)

Connor neurotically checks his watch again, and I press the lobby button on the elevator. “From your dad?”

“Yep,” Ryke says. “I don’t live with him. It’s always just been me and my mom.”

My chest swells at the news, and I can’t tell if it affects Lo or not. He looks utterly blank by the revelation.

“Divorce?” I wonder. Lo swoops his hands around my waist and I lean back against his chest. My eyes shut as I feel the pump of his heart and the warmness of his weight. I wish he’d lean me over and…no, Lily.

“Oh yeah,” Ryke says. “It was pretty messy. They were supposed to have joint custody of me, but my mom won full in the settlement.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“I have,” Ryke admits, somewhat detached like he’s dealt with all of this before and come to terms with it. “He’d send me gifts all the time, and my mom would throw them out. But she let me meet him the first Monday of every month since I was seven. He seemed like an okay guy, but I have years of my mom telling me some…pretty horrible things about him. Stuff that she shouldn’t have been telling me so young. After a while I stopped seeing him, and I stopped loving him too.” Ryke glances at Lo. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Aren’t your parents divorced?”

“I live with my father,” Lo says flatly. “He’s the greatest dad in the fucking world. Sorry yours couldn’t have been better.”

Ryke’s face hardens. “You have a good relationship with him?”

“The best.”

I stare at the ground, my stomach rolling at his biting tone.

“Your girlfriend doesn’t seem to agree.”

“Stop psychoanalyzing her movements,” he shoots back. Yes, please stop. Especially because I have to cross my ankles to focus on something other than sex at the present moment.

The elevator dings. As soon as my mind rights itself on a proper course, a sudden wave of anxiety crashes into me. Bringing Connor and Ryke to the fashion show feels like doom. I’ll end up trading these overwhelming emotions for fantasies and carnal highs. That sounds better than this creeping anxiety.

We head to the limo, and by the time we reach the venue, I’ve concocted ten different scenarios with Lo in the backseat, and I’ve spaced out approximately five times. Lo notices my fantastical departures, but I’m sure no one else does.

The spot between my leg pulses, eager to be relieved, but I avoid facing any unease so I torture myself with these images. Of Lo on me. Of Lo in me. Of him whispering to take me. It’s so stupid.

I’m here for Rose.

And yet, I can’t stop.

I ball my hands, forcing myself to concentrate on the present moment.

I’m here.

Nowhere else.

An elevated runway sits in the middle of the room and white plastic chairs line both sides, no one here except photographers, publicists, models, and stylists. Most run off to the backroom where I’m sure Rose busily dresses the models. Daisy is probably being fitted right now in a silk day dress for the everyday kind of girl. I should go see them, but I want to do something else, something I know is wrong in this current time.

“Lo,” I whisper, clutching his bicep. I look at him with shallow breath and bedroom eyes. Please, come with me. Please…

“Can you wait until we go home?”

Ryke catches those words just as Connor dials Rose’s number and wanders off. “What’s wrong?” he asks me.

“Nothing.” I shoot Lo a warning look. “I’ll be right back.” I go to leave for the bathrooms, and Lo catches my wrist.

“You need to try,” he tells me.

“Like you’re trying?”

Lo puts his lips to my ear and whispers, “I am trying. I’ve only had beer today. You know this.”

I can’t imagine not fulfilling this need right now. It hurts too much. It’s all I can think about. And if Lo won’t help me, then I’ll help myself. Without cheating. I disentangle from him. “I don’t want to sit through the show like this. We have time.”

“What is it that you need to do?” Ryke asks me. I hate the hard tone of his voice, as though I’m one step away from killing Lo by causing him stress, by handing him a glass of alcohol, by watching him drink without reproach.

I glare. “It’s none of your business.”

“Hey,” Ryke says. “I was just going to ask if I could help.”

My cheeks heat. “You can’t.”

“Jesus, someone woke up on the wrong side of the fucking bed.”

“Don’t you talk about me in a bed,” I retort, being nonsensical and irrational.

Lo grabs my wrist. “Lily, stop.”

“You’re defending him?” I gape. “Really, Lo!”

Lo whispers heatedly in my ear. “Do you hear yourself right now? You’re not thinking right.”

I shove Lo off my chest. “You both are assholes,” I say, looking between them as they stand side by side. Dapper, handsome, ice and stone. I hate them. I hate me. “I don’t even know why I agreed to any of this.” To being with Lo. To letting Ryke follow us around. If I stop and think for two seconds, maybe I’ll understand that I’m projecting all of my anxiety from the fashion show onto them. And it’s unfair, immature and cruel. But I don’t want to think. I just want to do.