Thrive (Addicted, #4)(111)

It’s not that sharp. If I could, I’d just drink whiskey straight.

The bar erupts in exclamations and overly energetic shouts at the rugby match. French chatter overwhelms the small pub. Just as the noise begins to die down, a hand rests on my shoulder. “Hey,” Ryke says.

I just sip my drink.

“How was shopping?” he asks, his voice deep, like black, rolling clouds before the downpour.

“Boring.” I eat a fry and glower straight ahead, ready for his onslaught of: what the fuck are you doing? How could you break your sobriety again? Stop this stupid fucking shit.

It doesn’t feel stupid. He doesn’t have to be rushed by cameras and people that see a victim of a crime that never happened. Doesn’t he fucking get it?

I will always be Loren Hale: the guy who was touched inappropriately by his father.

And now Lily…

Ryke drags an empty stool between Connor and me, and I grind my teeth. I wait for Connor to move back, but he stays quiet.

Fine.

Whatever.

Ryke motions to the female bartender, and my muscles constrict. “What can I get you?” she asks.

“What he’s having.” He points to the glass.

The bottom of my stomach drops, realizing his stupid ploy. All so I can admit, out loud, that I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a bastard. I get it! I know what I am, and it’s no one good. I down the rest of my drink in one swallow. “I’m done. Let’s just get out of here.” I stand off the barstool. This isn’t happening. I don’t need him to do this. Why can’t he just let me go this once? I just need to breathe.

His hand grips my shoulder. “Sit your ass down. I want a fucking drink.” He literally forces me back onto the stool.

“You sound like Dad, you know that?” I retort. Just tell him. Just say the fucking words: I drank. They rise in a jagged ball to my throat. And I keep swallowing them.

The bartender begins to make his drink, setting ice in a glass.

“Ryke,” I snap, forcing his gaze towards mine. A purplish bruise mars his cheekbone, from when Daisy slapped him while she was having a night terror.

“What?” His jaw is hard. His eyes never softening. He reminds me of our dad. And it makes this more difficult. It makes it worse.

I inhale a strained breath, the oxygen never meeting my lungs. In my peripheral, I see the bartender grabbing the whiskey. “Let’s go.”

“I told you. I want a fucking drink.”

Why is he doing this? I tug at the collar of my shirt and turn back around, setting my forearms against the cold bar. Ryke has been sober for nine years.

Nine goddamn years.

Why would he even toy with the idea of breaking that? For me? My stomach roils, the alcohol making me more nauseous than anything.

“Refill?” the bartender asks me.

I shake my head. “No, I’m good.” I hate him. I hate that he’s pushing me this hard. I hate that he won’t leave me alone. I hate that he expects more out of me than I can ever give.

I am falling.

Beneath every sentiment I expel.

“Cheers.” Ryke raises his glass, pausing for a brief second, giving me an out. Telling me to stop him.

Stop him.

Stop him.

The rim hits his lips.

I am rigid. I am screaming at myself to move. To be a goddamn decent human being. To be worth this life that I’ve been given. And yet, I watch him, with deadness inside of me.

He drinks alcohol.

And I think: now we’re even.

For having the better life. For knowing about me for so long and doing nothing. For not standing up for me in the media and ending this torment.

It’s a thought that twists my face with brutal guilt.

He licks his lips, disappointment flashing in his eyes. Why does he have to be so goddamn good?

“I hope you enjoyed that,” he says angrily.

“Which part?” I snap on impulse. “Me drinking or watching you do it?”

Hit me. His muscles flex, a vein pulsing in his neck. And instead of raising his fist, he grabs the glass, about to drink more.

My lungs explode, and I pry it from his fingers quickly and hand it to the bartender. “He’s done.” I start to slide off the barstool as I say, “If you’re this big of an asshole sober, I can’t imagine what kind of asshole you are drunk.”

Before I leave, he grabs my arm. “You can’t do this shit.” Stop. Talking. “You’re supposed to call me if you have a craving to drink. I could have talked you out of it.”

“Maybe I don’t want to talk to you!” I scream. I climb off the barstool, and he follows suit, standing one inch taller. Face to face. Both wearing scowls so dark that you’d think we were mortal enemies, not brothers.

There is so much he’s never told me about his past. And I keep waiting to hear it. I never push. That’s not something I’d ever do to him. But the longer he stays quiet, the harder it’s become for both of us. We’ve hit a roadblock in our relationship, and I’m banging my head against brick while he watches me bleed.

“Then call Lily,” he says, “your fucking fiancée, who would be in tears if she saw you right now. Did you fucking think about her when you drank? Did you consider what this would do to her?”

No. I can’t think about her when I drink. It hurts too much. “I’m done with this shit,” I say. I try to walk away from this.