Ricochet (Addicted #1.5)(10)

“I don’t see her,” I mutter.

“How could you when you’ve been eye-fucking half the guys in here?”

I gape. I’ve had enough of his evil comments. I turn on him with clenched fists and fiery eyes. “What did I do to you?”

His jaw hardens to stone, and the muscles twitch in his face, holding back, restraining. Let it on out, buddy. My mental command must work because he says, “Do you look at other guys when Lo is in the room?”

That’s what this is about? My stomach drops and aches. A punch to the gut would probably be more pleasant. Of course Lo would care that I’m staring. I would care. And I haven’t truly fantasized about any other guy but him since he’s been away. But that doesn’t matter. Not when I know I’m one small step away from picturing a nameless, faceless body with all the right moves and all the right words.

But I don’t know how to stop once I’ve started. And I’m trying to put the brakes on. I’m desperate and needy right now, and everything I really, really don’t want to be.

I need a therapist, I think. I need to find someone who knows how to help me. I’ll try harder.

“It’s not cheating to look,” I say in a small voice. “And he’s not here, Ryke. Give me some slack.”

He lets out a long breath and rubs the back of his neck. “I hate that he’s dating an addict. You have no idea…” He pinches his eyes. “It makes this twice as hard, you know that?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”

He exhales again, tension finally leaving his muscles. “Look, I know you love each other. I know you’ll try to be together even if it kills you. I may seem like a huge dick, and I’m riding you hard…”

Uhhh… I cringe and flush, a horrid combination.

“Dammit. Not like that, Lily.” He shakes his head, his face contorting in slight disgust, and he points at me. “You think more perverted things than any fucking guy I know.”

Guilty.

“And I don’t know how to do this the nice way. I’m not like that, never have been. So sometimes that means being a pain in the ass.” He jabs his finger harder. “Don’t take that sexually.” Too late. He drops his hand and says, “I’ll choose him over you, every time, but you’re a huge part of his life, so that means you’re going to be a part of mine—whether you like it or not.”

“Okay,” I mutter. What else is there to say?

The party starts to liven as a famous pop star takes the stage on television. Everyone begins to sloppily mimic the dance moves, stumbling and knocking into each other. I don’t spot Daisy in the dance mob.

“Should we split up to look for her? Cover more ground?” I ask, biting my fingernails.

“No.” He grabs my hand, forcing my nails from my mouth. His eyes land on a group of guys snorting lines of coke, passing a glass dish between them by the window. “Should a fifteen-year-old be at this kind of party?”

Probably not. “They’re models.”

His brows furrow like do I fucking care? “So?”

I guess that’s not an excuse, but it’s so hard to talk to him. I feel like I’m constantly fighting with a Rock ‘em Sock ‘em robot. And I suck at board games.

I walk towards the punch bowl where I last saw Daisy and feel him trailing me again. He slips into the paths that I weave.

Six people surround a bong and pass it to one another, smoke pluming around their glazed eyes. Daisy’s thankfully not in the circle, and I peek around a few arms before seeing someone hugging an armrest to a couch. Next to her sits Jack, the black-haired “talker” who edges closer while she sips her drink and flashes a weak smile. I must have missed her with all the people dancing in the center.

When she sees me, she says something to him and stands quickly. She wobbles a little and then sets a hand on my wrist. “Oh good. I thought I was going to have to talk to him all night.”

Ryke inspects her with his usual fierce look, eyes flitting from her face to her Solo cup. “Aren’t you underage?” Technically, I am too, but I don’t mention that, especially since I haven’t been drinking, so the point is mute.

Daisy’s eyes narrow at him. “Are you my father?” she asks with the quirk of her head, her casual tone subtly biting. “I don’t think you are.”

“Why ask me a question that you’re going to fucking answer?” he snaps at her, not backing down even though she’s my sister and a teenager. Why does he have to be so confrontational? Lo would have ignored her. I think.

“It was rhetorical. Do you know what that means?” she asks. “It’s a question that’s said in order to make a point. A figure of speech.”

My eyes bug. Wow, she’s hostile. Must have something to do with our conversation about being treated older and then younger. Why else would she go off on him?

“I didn’t know,” he says with the tilt of his head. “Do you know what that is? Sarcasm.” He edges in her face a little. Taller than her by about four or five inches.

She raises her chin, holding her own. “You’re hilarious,” she deadpans.

His eyebrow arches. “I guess you do know what sarcasm is then.” He pries the cup out of her hand, his muscles relaxing in his broad shoulders. “What is this shit anyway?” He sniffs it and cringes. “That’s fucking foul.”