Ricochet (Addicted #1.5)(21)

“Faster, Lil,” he tells me, but he has a goofy smile on his face. As if this could be considered a new adventure. Racing from the cops during our first week of college. Me, chasing after him.

“We’re…going…up a…hill,” I huff, my pace between a walk and a jog. Something sticky glues to the bottom of my foot, and I cringe with a downturned frown. I hope that was just gum.

“I’m going to leave you,” he threatens, but I hardly believe him. Especially with the way he nearly laughs at me. And then he picks up speed again, sprinting forward, hoping that I’ll gain the strength to finally reach him.

I never do. But it’s a nice thought.

My knees bend beneath me, and I use the last ounce of my energy to dart towards him up the steep hill, traffic on the left side of us as cars return from the clubs and bars. The dorm party we attended wasn’t even that fun. The beer sucked, as Lo put it. There was no room to move, and the halls were so crammed with people that a weird smell permeated in the air. Like weed and sweat mixed together. Gross.

But I don’t regret it. Because Lo was there, and we’ll have something to laugh about later.

His black shirt begins to mold to his taught back and chest and arms, outlining the shape of his lean muscles, giving me an idea of what lies beneath. When he runs, he looks beautiful. As though no one can touch him, as though he’s leaving behind a burning world and heading towards a peaceful one. His cheeks will sharpen; his eyes will narrow in determination. Of course I can’t see any of that.

I just have a nice view of his ass.

That’s not too bad to look at either.

And then I begin to fall. Pain shoots up my ankle so excruciating that I let out a cry. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I sit on my butt and inspect the bone. It’s not protruding from my skin, but the muscle feels tight and strained.

“Lil?” Lo rushes back to me, nearly skidding down the hill with a face full of worry. He bends to my ankle, and inspects the bone just as I did. His fingers lightly touch my skin. “How bad does it hurt?”

“Bad.” I grimace.

“As bad as when you broke your arm?” he asks, reminding me of the bully on the playground when we were little. Harry Cheesewater.

I shake my head, and he puts his hands underneath my armpits, hoisting me up like I’m a little doll. I try to put some pressure on my foot to test it, but the pain intensifies like a thousand sharp needles. My eyes begin to water, and I wipe them with a furious hand. Pissed that I fell. Especially with police sirens blaring in the distance.

Lo does not need to be thrown in jail. The last time he was in there, his father threatened to ship him off to a military academy. The only thing that changed his father’s mind was my promise to help “fix” Lo, which was solidified with our fake relationship. Even if I wanted to help him, I can’t. He glared at me tonight just for suggesting he should switch to beer. I still wonder if he would have left me alone at the party if I told him to stop altogether. The best I can do is try to convince him not to drink an extra bottle. That’s in my power, and I use it as often as I can. But the only way he’ll truly get better is if he wants to first.

And clearly, he’s nowhere near that point. I’m not even sure what it will take.

He drank so much that his eyes glaze over. He’s still present—he’s still here—but I see the hunger to drink more, to lie down and just sleep with the drift and ease that liquor offers him.

“You probably sprained it,” Lo says, his gaze falling to my foot again.

“I can limp there,” I tell him. We should call Nola to pick us up. We hate cabs enough to risk being seen by a cop, but we still have my family’s driver. And Lo’s. But Anderson would be a last resort. For some reason, neither of us suggests our drivers as an option. It’s late, and I really don’t want to wake Nola to save us.

“That sounds like a stupid idea,” he says.

I look over my shoulder, the red and blue lights flashing in the distance. “Just go without me. I’ll catch up.”

And then his cheeks sharpen as they always do. “That sounds even shittier.”

“I haven’t had any alcohol,” I tell him. “If the cops catch me, then I’ll be fine. They catch you, and you’ll be in trouble with your dad.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” He lets out a deep sigh, and then spins around—back facing me. Just when I think he’s going to take off running, actually listening to my request, he does something quite different. He bends down, lifts up my legs and hoists me on his back. “Grab tight, love.”

My hands wrap around his neck, and he speeds off.

The wind whips my brown hair, and I listen to his easy breath as he carries me away from the chaos and towards the city where we live. I’ve ridden on his back before. When we were kids. When I couldn’t make it up the Great Sand Dunes in Colorado. When I forgot to wear closed-toed shoes in the Costa Rican rain forest. When I just needed a lift. He was always there.

Minutes pass and then those turn into hours, and Lo has slowed to a walk, the Philadelphia streets alive and glittering in the middle of the night. We head to the Drake—to our new apartment that we share together.

Lo has spun me around, and he holds me in a front-piggyback while I rest my head on the crook of his neck and shoulder, my eyes fluttering closed.

My desires have already been satiated for the night. The only person that crosses my mind is the man carrying me. “If you were an X-Men, I think you would be Quicksilver,” I say with a small yawn. He has superhuman speed, able to run as fast as lightening. He’s also the son of Magneto, who expects too much of him at times, their father-son relationship one of the rockiest among mutant kind.