Thrive (Addicted, #4)(11)

I return to the texts.

I can just give the shirt back to you when we go riding. – Daisy

Whatever you want. Just make sure to wear fucking boots this time and not flip-flops. – Ryke

They were sandals. I also just found your shorts. I’ll wear those the next time I see you too ;) – Daisy

Really?

Just wear the fucking boots, Calloway. – Ryke

You want me to ride naked? I usually don’t do that until after second base. – Daisy

I’d rather you wore my shorts. – Ryke

Does it turn you on when girls wear your clothes? – Daisy

I’ll see you tomorrow, Dais. – Ryke

See you tomorrow. – Daisy

That was the newest text.

“Are you okay, Lo?” Connor asks, off my volatile expression. Heat practically radiates from my muscles.

Rose twirls her straw in her margarita. I didn’t even see the waitress come by again.

“I’m great,” I say coldly.

Only a second or so later, Ryke returns to the table with a napkin. He sits right next to me in the free seat. “Got her number and her address.” He pockets the napkin with the scribbled info. Then he reaches over and grabs his water that’s near Rose.

“Does that girl know you just want to fuck her?” I ask, my voice coarse.

Tension spreads through the table, but remorse lies far off—in another realm of existence. In some good guy’s body.

“Yeah,” Ryke says, drawing out the word as he studies my expression. “I think she got the message when I said that I wasn’t into anything serious.” He pauses. “Did I do something…?”

I slide the phone across the mosaic-tiled table and set it right in front of him.

Since his chair is beside mine, he has to angle his body towards me. “You read my fucking texts?” He glowers.

“Why is she flirting with you?”

Ryke runs his hand anxiously through his thick brown hair. “It’s innocent, Lo.”

That’s not what I wanted to hear. “Does she know that?”

“Yes,” he forces.

“How? How does she fucking know that, Ryke? She’s sixteen, and you’re leading her on.”

Rose stops sipping her margarita. “Are we talking about my little sister, here?”

“We should stay out of this, Rose,” Connor tells her.

Rose snaps back at him in French, and they start arguing in the foreign language.

Ryke groans in distress and annoyance. “I’m not trying to lead her on.”

I snatch the phone back from him.

“Come on, Lo,” he complains.

I hold up a finger and scroll through the texts. Then I read: “I’d rather you just wore my shorts. What is that?”

“A joke.”

I glare, two seconds from chucking his phone at his face.

“A dirty joke,” he rephrases. “Okay, I know. It looks bad.” He lets out a deep breath, almost growling. “You have to cut me some fucking slack. None of this is intentional. It’s just how I am.”

I hate that excuse. He always uses it. He blames his personality for everything—like it’s a scapegoat. “I’ve never seen you talk to another girl like this.”

“That’s because other girls don’t talk to me like this. She’s fucking crazy and bold…” His mouth stays open like he’s about to say something else, but then his lips press closed. Rethinking that last statement.

“Finish it,” I snap. He’s going to say she’s hot. She’s sexy. Whatever. It’s written on his face.

He holds up his hands. “I’m done. I don’t know what else to fucking tell you.”

He absolutely sucks at relieving any sort of suspicion or anxiety that I have. “I’m trying to trust you,” I retort.

“Yeah? You’re not doing a good fucking job of it.”

My insides twist. You’re not doing a good fucking job of it—the words blare in the back of my head. It hurts that he’d even think that.

I lean closer to him, my heart pounding in my chest.

“You came into my life in a lie,” I say. “You weren’t honest about who you were, and when you came clean, I still let you take me to rehab. I still hang out with you, knowing that you could be lying about so much more. That is more blind trust than I’ve ever given anyone in my life. So don’t tell me that I’m not doing a good job.” My eyes burn. I’m giving everything I possibly can.

And it’s still never enough.

“You’re right,” he nods a few times and rubs his jaw. “I’m sorry. You have a right to be cautious of me. I just…” He shrugs, not able to find the words. He turns away and takes a swig of water.

Sometimes I just want to shake Ryke so hard until he tells me things straight. No half-lies. No tiptoeing around me.

I just want the cold truth. All of it. Finding out later—that stings ten times worse.

Why does he have such an easy time speaking freely to other people but when it comes to us he hesitates? It’s like our past is so dense that he refuses to crawl through it at times.

I’m stuck in it.

Like quicksand.

“Can you be honest with me?” I ask, remembering how no one told me that I was a bastard. Ryke had these answers for so long. And even when he finally met me, he kept them to himself for months. To protect me from myself, he basically said.