Ricochet (Addicted #1.5)(49)

“Afraid of being alone with them?” I ask.

“I’m more afraid of you being alone by yourself,” he tells me.

Oh. He has zero faith in me. “I’ll be okay. We should get our bathing suits on.”

“Sure.”

We head to our bedrooms, and I manage to keep a safe distance from all the male servers. If Lo is hounded about being in rehab for alcoholism, how would people react to rehab for sex addiction? I can’t even imagine. Maybe it’s a good thing that in-treatment facilities turned out to be a bust for me anyway. I wouldn’t want to shame my family with the news—that their daughter or sister is some freak.

I close the door to my bedroom, one of the larger ones with a fancy gold bedspread, a fur throw, and a granite-topped dresser. A Victorian cream chaise rests against the right wall, gold-stitched pillows decorated on the buttoned cushions.

I slip on my simple black bikini and comb my fingers through my short hair before taking a quick peek in the mirror. If I inhale a deep breath, my ribs stick out. I feel low, and to combat this sinking emotion, I’d normally jump on my bed and find porn to watch. Masturbate until everything washes into bliss.

Things need to change, I remind myself. So I back away from the bed and stop fiddling with my fingers.

A knock sounds on my door. “You naked?” Ryke asks.

“No.”

He walks in. “You okay?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. I wish Lo was here. He’d make me feel better. Maybe not even with sex. He’d just smile, kiss me, tell me I’m beautiful and say, “Fuck them.” Because at the end of the day, we were the only thing that mattered to each other. All I needed was him.

“I hate people,” I blurt out. Lo and I used to shun the entire world because we were scared of the ridicule. Of how people would perceive us. We created this bubble around ourselves, filling it with lies and misery, until it eventually popped.

“So now you’re generalizing the entire world for three catty girls?” He picks up a sailboat decoration on the dresser, overturning it as he talks. “Four girls, if you want to include your provoking sister.”

“I exaggerate a lot,” I tell him. “And if anyone’s provoking it’s you.”

Ryke lets out a long, dry laugh. “That’s funny considering your boyfriend is ten times worse with his words. If anyone can poke at someone’s soul, it’s him…and probably my father, but that’s another story, isn’t it?” His lips form a pained smile.

“So you don’t hurt people with your words?” I question with raised brows.

“You want to know the difference between Lo and me?” Ryke asks, leaning his elbows on my dresser, nonchalant and assholish all in one swoop.

“Sure.”

“You remember the Halloween party? Lo stole liquor from the house, and he barely admitted that he took it. Before you came out there, he spent about five minutes telling them all the ways in which they were complete fucking morons. It wasn’t even close to being funny, especially not when he told Matt that guys like him are worth nothing in life. That they’ll take shit and eat it until they fucking die. It was cold and cruel.”

My chest hurts because I believe every word Ryke is telling me. I’ve heard Lo tear down people in prep school until they cried, not because it made him feel better but because they hurt him first and it was his greatest weapon of defense.

“He walks away sometimes,” I say in a small voice. “He’s not always like that.” I defend him because he’s not here to speak for himself. And what I said is partly the truth too. Lo knows when to walk away. Like the first time we were at The Blue Room. If someone’s harassing him back, he won’t stand there and take it for long. He’s too used to verbal abuse, and I think he’d rather not be weakened and drained by it. He’d rather just get out of the fucking way.

“Okay,” Ryke says, “but in the context of the Halloween party, he didn’t.”

“And what would you have done, Ryke? Not stolen the liquor? Not started the fight? Congratulations.” Rehashing the past puts a bitter taste in my mouth. We can’t change that event. Talking about it rubs my skin raw.

“I would have punched him,” Ryke says easily. “I would have decked the little shit in the face. That’s the fucking difference.” He straightens up, and my jaw slowly unhinges, not expecting that.

“You don’t seem like a fighter.”

“I don’t?” Ryke says, his eyes pulsing with something fierce. “If someone is giving me shit, I’m not going to stand there and take it. Maybe Lo was defenseless all his life, but I wasn’t.”

“And then what? It would have been four to one at that party. You would have gotten your ass handed to you.”

“I never said it would be the right thing.” He shrugs. “It’s just a different kind of wrong.”

His wrong. And Lo’s wrong. Neither are better or worse, I realize. Their dissimilar upbringings make them react to situations in opposite ways. That’s what he’s telling me.

It also makes me incredibly sad. Because he basically admitted to being as damaged as his brother. I picture his fist flying into Matt’s face before awful words are spewed, impulsive and brash.

Only it’s a different kind of damaged.