Ricochet (Addicted #1.5)(9)

“Lily!” Yes.

“LILY!” The door bangs with an angry sound. No.

My eyes snap open back to the present moment. The house party. I’m in the bathroom, my forehead sweaty. My eyes had been halfway rolled in the back of my head, almost about to climax with the memory.

I have yet to hit my sweet spot. The tension burns, but Ryke’s voice scares me enough to jump off the toilet like it zapped me. I hurry and dress. “Coming!” I tell him and cringe almost immediately. Really? I couldn’t choose any other word?

“I hope not,” Ryke says, his voice so close that I picture him leaning a shoulder against the door frame.

My cheeks welt in an ugly red. I wash my hands with plenty of soap and peek at the mirror. Besides my flushed face, I look presentable. So far, I’ve been trying to eliminate porn from my life, not fantasies. I shouldn’t be ashamed, but my stomach knots anyway.

That memory I focused on, I love. Because I later found out that Lo had paid the manager for a private screening of the movie, buying each and every ticket that would have filled the theater. He planned to arouse me. He planned to satiate my needs in a new way. Maybe Rose would call that enabling, but right now, it’s one of the sweeter memories in my spank bank.

As soon as I open the door, a girl with jet-black hair mumbles, “bitch,” and barrels ahead, shoving me into the nearby wall. Okay, that was not necessary. She slams the door, and then I glance up to see the aggravated, curving line of guys and girls—hands on their hips, eyes in tight glares.

My rash-like flush burgeons across my arms. Hopefully they believe I was puking up the punch, not fingering myself.

And when I turn slightly, I find Ryke, leaning on the wall just as I pictured. His arms are crossed and he scrutinizes me with hard, piercing eyes. His brown hair is styled nicely, giving these models a run for their money. He’s also slightly unshaven, which makes him appear older and tougher. He gives me a long once-over, as if trying to spot the stain of debauchery.

I ignore him and head towards the living room, knowing he’ll follow. I’m not surprised when I feel his presence like an annoying, unwanted shadow. When I reach the kitchen, he puts his hand on my shoulder, spinning me around to meet his accusatory eyes, as though I’ve already fucked up.

Maybe I have. I don’t know anything anymore. I wish someone could give me a guide on what exactly I’m supposed to do, but no one seems to know. My addiction isn’t fucking normal. That’s the problem.

“You look like shit,” he starts off.

“Thank you,” I say dryly. “If that’s what you scurried all across the city for, then mission accomplished. You can leave me alone now.”

“Why do you do that?” he snaps.

“Do what?” I do a lot of things. As does he.

“Act like I’m a fucking rat, scurrying.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe because you lied to me for months.” He could have told me he was Lo’s brother. I feel just as duped as my boyfriend, but the difference is I don’t let things go as easily. Not when Ryke is a rash I can’t medicate.

He rolls his eyes and says, “Get over it.”

I hate him. “Okay.” I flash an irritated half-smile. “I’m over it.” I try to pass him to go find my sister.

He sighs exasperatedly and grabs my arm to stop me. “Wait. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know your relationship with Lo. I couldn’t trust you with that information. Would you have told him?”

I pause, hesitating. I’m not sure. Maybe. I look up at him with furrowed brows, understanding his reservations. “I still don’t like you,” I always remind him.

“You’re not growing on me either.” His eyes flit around the room. “I couldn’t find Daisy. I looked for like ten fucking minutes.” He runs a hand through his hair, antsy.

I inhale a sharp breath. “Do you even remember what she looks like?”

“I’ve seen enough pictures,” he tells me. “Tall. Really fucking tall. Your green eyes. The Calloway brown hair. Too skinny and no boobs. About right?”

I glare even though it’s almost all accurate. Per her modeling agency’s request, she dyed her hair a light brown-blonde last week. “She’s fifteen,” I say roughly.

He shrugs. “Maybe she’ll get boobs then.”

I stare at him blankly, trying to find words that represent my emotions right now. I blink.

Nope, there are none.

So I land on my usual phrase. “You’re such an asshole.”

He never denies it. “Let’s just find your sister and go. We can watch the ball drop at your house.” He doesn’t rub it in my face that I ruined his plans for tonight. Who knows what type of woman he planned to meet up with and screw afterwards. I have avoided seeing Ryke in his natural habitat. It’s a part of him that I plan to keep very, very far away. Because that would mean we’re friends. And we are not friends. We’re just two people who happen to coexist on occasion and see each other around. That’s it.

I scan the area, pushing through the kitchen and towards the crowded dance floor. I don’t see her anywhere. Not even by the punch bowl that’s littered with picturesque male models. I trace their biceps with my gaze, their muscles spindling underneath their tight shirts. Jesus. This party is not for me. I feel my forehead heat with a layer of sweat in anxiety. Get me out of here.