Addicted to You (Addicted #1)(9)

His bicep flexes at the movement, and I take a huge step backwards. No, no, no.

“You’re aroused,” he says, his eyes still on mine.

“And if you hadn’t teased me, I wouldn’t be in this position,” I say, frantic. “If I still can’t satiate this, I’m going to have to spend my afternoon traipsing around Philly for a guy wanting an afternoon quickie. Thanks a lot.”

Lo grimaces and drops his hands to his side. “Well now I’m stuck going to your family’s lunch, so I guess we’re even.” He turns his body, letting me through.

“Don’t come in,” I warn him again, my eyes bugging. I’m more afraid of what I’ll do to him if he does.

“I never do,” he reminds me. With this, he heads to the kitchen and waves tersely, downing the rest of his whiskey.





*


After my second shower and self-medication in the form of porn stars and an expensive vibrator, I tug on actual clothes: a pair of jeans and a maroon V-neck.

Lo sits in the living room, eating pizza and flipping through channels. A new glass of whiskey balances on his leg.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize quickly.

His eyes briefly flicker to me before returning to the television. “For what?’

Sticking your fingers in me. “For getting you involved in Sunday’s luncheon.” I uncertainly take a seat in a red recliner opposite the couch.

He watches me like he always does, assessing my current state. He swallows his bite of pizza. “Honestly, I don’t mind going.” He wipes his fingers on a napkin and picks up his glass. “Better your father than mine.”

I nod. So true. “So…are we okay?”

“Are you?” His eyebrows rise.

“Mmm-hmm,” I mumble and avoid eye contact by grabbing a slice of pizza and scurrying back to the safety of my chair. Safe distance, check.

“I’ll take that as a weak yes, considering you can’t so much as look at me right now.”

“It’s not you; it’s me,” I say through a mouthful, licking sauce off my finger.

“Again, what every guy loves to hear.” I can feel his eyes grazing my body. “I’m not even coming on to you right now.”

“Don’t even start,” I warn, holding up a finger. “I swear, Lo.”

“Okay, okay.” He sighs. “You’re going to The Blue Room tonight, aren’t you?”

I jerk back in shock. “How’d you know?”

He looks at me like seriously. “You rarely go to the same club more than three or four times. For a while, I thought we were going to have to move one city over so you could find a place to…” He pauses, trying to find the words. “…fuck.” He flashes that bitter smile.

“Very funny.” I pick a pepperoni off the cheese. “Do you need a sober driver tonight? I can drop you off somewhere before I leave.” I have no problem shooing away beer and hard liquor.

“No, I’m going to the club with you.”

I hold in my surprise. He only ventures out with me on selective nights, and they vary too often for me to make sense of them. “You want to go to The Blue Room? You do realize this is a dance club and not some smoky hole-in-the-wall bar?”

He shoots me another look. “I’m well aware.” He swishes the ice cubes around in his glass, staring at the liquid. “Anyway, it’ll keep us from staying out too late and missing tomorrow’s luncheon.”

He has a point.

“You’re not going to care if I…” I can’t even finish the thought.

“If you leave me to go bang some guy?” he says, kicking his feet on the coffee table beside the pizza

I open my mouth but lose my thoughts again.

“No, Lil,” he says, “I won’t get in the way of what you want.”

Sometimes I wonder about his desires. Maybe he does want to be with me. Or maybe he’s still pretending.





{3}


I remember the first moment when I realized I was different from other kids. And it had nothing to do with boys or sexual fantasies and everything to do with my family. I sat in the back of my sixth grade English class, tugging down my plaid skirt required by all prep school kids. As the teacher left, a few boys scooted their desks to mine, and before I could form a reason for their closeness, they whipped out soda cans. Diet Fizz. Fizz Lite. Fizz Red. Just plain Fizz.

They took swigs and then left the cans scattered on my desk. The last boy opened his can of Cherry Fizz and smiled mischievously. “Here,” he said, actually handing me the soda. “I popped your cherry.”

The boys snickered and I turned the color of Fizz Red that stained a ring on my notebook.

In retrospect, I should have thanked them for buying all the Fizzle products. Every soda bought from the vending machine would line my pockets one way or another. They were probably the sons and daughters of oil tycoons, not nearly as exciting as being able to say that my father created the company that outperformed Pepsi last year. But I was too shy and mortified to do anything but sink further in my desk and wish for invisibility.

Lo can relate in some ways. He isn’t faced with his family fortune on billboards and in restaurants, but every would-be-mother knows a thing or two about Hale Co. products. Baby powder, oils, diapers, basically anything for a little newborn is created by the company. So Fizzle drinks may appear all over the world, but at least the Calloway name isn’t scribbled on the label.