Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4)(60)

When we reach the doors to the bar, I gently set her down, and the cameramen are shoved back by some bouncers. We’re let in almost immediately, passing a long line of people who’ve probably been waiting for thirty minutes to enter.

The moment the door closes behind us, the noise only intensifies. Boisterous drunk people—not my favorite f*cking setting. Some of them are models, beautiful features, thin girls.

And there’s my brother. He actually looks like a model, easily fitting among them with his sharp cheekbones.

His ass is on a f*cking barstool, the pub smoky. Connor is right beside him, drinking a glass of water like nothing is wrong.

I’m going to kill them.

“Daisy!” a girl exclaims. A freckle-faced model, really young, hugs Daisy with a big smile.

“Christina!” Daisy grins. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes flicker to me once like I’ll be okay. Go to your brother.

So I let her catch up with her friend while I make my way to the bar. “Hey,” I say, putting a hand on Lo’s shoulder. He sips his Fizz, acting like there’s no alcohol in the dark-colored soda. “How was shopping?”

“Boring,” Lo says, eating a fry from a plate that he shares with Connor. He glares at the shelves of liquor behind the bar, looking like a murderous little f*ck. I don’t know how else to describe my brother when he starts drinking. He always has that I hate you and everyone in this f*cking place look. The difference is that now it’s intensified by a thousand.

I nod repeatedly, my eyes flashing hot. I grab the f*cking stool beside him and drag it over to fit in between him and Connor. I’m not going to let Connor near my brother right now, consoling him. Lo doesn’t need a f*cking safety net, so I cut it off in one move.

Connor stays quiet, not arguing with me.

I flag down the bartender, a young French girl. “What can I get you?” She speaks English well.

“What he’s having.” I point at the glass.

Lo finishes off his drink in one swig. “I’m done. Let’s just get out of here.” He stands.

I clamp my hand back on his shoulder. “Sit your ass down. I want a f*cking drink.” I force him back in his seat.

“You sound like Dad, you know that?” he retorts, shooting a bullet my way to get me to stop.

That’s not good enough. I need him to tell me what he just did. I ignore him, watching the bartender make my drink. She puts in the ice.

“Ryke,” Lo snaps.

I turn to him. “What?”

I think he’s going to come clean, but I realize he’s watching the bartender out of the corner of his eye. Then he says, “Let’s go.”

“I told you. I want a f*cking drink.”

He goes quiet, and the bartender squirts Fizz into the glass. I’m guessing she’s already added the alcohol while I was looking at Lo.

He clenches his teeth and rests his forearms on the bar, deep inside his head as he stares off. I wonder if he’s going to stop me. I want him to admit that he drank. Instead he continues to stay silent, even as the bartender slides the glass over to me.

“Refill?” she asks Lo.

He shakes his head. “No, I’m good.”

“Cheers.” I raise my glass at him, and he watches me with narrowed f*cking eyes. I put the rim to my lips. Stop me, Lo.

This is a high stakes game of chicken.

And he doesn’t move a muscle or say a f*cking word.

I tip the glass back, and the sweet taste of Fizz mixes with the sharpness of whiskey.

Scotch whiskey.

He drank alcohol.

The more I repeat it, the more irritated and concerned I become. I drink half the glass, waiting for him to say something, to grab it out of my hand. But no matter if regret flashes in his eyes, he watches with a cold, dead gaze like I deserve this shit. Like this is my penance for ignoring him for over twenty years.

I set the glass down.

And it takes me a moment to process the weight of what happened.

I just broke my nine years of sobriety.

I stare right at him. “I hope you enjoyed that.”

“Which part? Me drinking or watching you do it?”

I am trying not to explode on him. My muscles are on f*cking fire. I grab the glass again, about to down the last of it, but he surprisingly steals it from me, passing it to the bartender.

“He’s done,” Lo says. When he turns back on me, he adds, “If you’re this big of an * sober, I can’t imagine what kind of * you are drunk.”

I grab his arm before he jumps off the stool and disappears through the tightly packed crowd. “You can’t do this shit,” I growl. “You’re supposed to call me if you have a craving to drink. I could have talked you out of it.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to talk to you!” Lo shouts all of sudden. He hops off the barstool, and I follow, having only an inch height advantage. We face each other, unresolved hate strung between us.

He doesn’t know anything about my childhood, and I don’t expect him to ask. All I wanted was a chance to undo what I had done wrong. To be there for him, to be his brother, and Lo makes it so f*cking hard. He never gives me a reprieve like Connor.

“Then call Lily,” I say, “your f*cking fiancée, who would be in tears if she saw you right now. Did you f*cking think about her when you drank? Did you consider what this would do to her?”