Thrive (Addicted, #4)(44)

Thank you,

Lily Calloway

I reread it a couple of times, checking for grammar. It sounds more professional than I thought it would. And then I hit send.

As soon as my finger touches the button, and the email dashes off into cyberspace, my anxiety rockets up about ten levels.





{ 18 }

0 years : 05 months

January





LILY CALLOWAY


It’s been thirty minutes since I sent the email, and I haven’t heard a response. Not that I assumed Wendy Collins would reply. I just thought maybe she’d email back with an “okay, I understand, thanks for letting me know. I won’t post anything else.” Wishful thinking.

I sit on the couch, my mind reeling. I know exactly what would calm me down and clear my thoughts. My fingers inch towards my shorts.

No.

I can’t.

I stand up quickly and pace back and forth. When I catch myself biting my nails, I drop my hand. Food. I can distract myself with food. The kitchen has been stocked with necessities and junk food. Perfect.

I open a cabinet and find a tub of icing in the top of the shelf. Standing on my tiptoes, I have to reach up to grab it. All the while, my pelvis “accidentally” grinds against the edge of the counter. It was an accident.

I think.

I don’t know anything anymore.

I let out a strained breath and back away from the counter, taking the icing with me. After I open the lid, I dip a spoon into the container and let out a relaxed breath.

The chair looms close to me and a sudden image bursts into my head. Me. Rubbing up against it. Just like the counter. Only maybe this would be better. I step closer, changing my mind just as my crotch brushes against the wood. I suddenly back away, my face burning. I whip around. There aren’t any cameramen but there are still cameras in the rafters. Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

Maybe they won’t use that footage. I have to believe that.

And what’s worse, my anxiety is so high that I’m grinding on inanimate objects to relieve it. That’s a little extreme…and weird, even for me.

I walk into the middle of the kitchen, my icing in hand.

What do I do? Nowhere is safe. If there are bad days for sex addicts, this is a very bad one for me. Should I call Lo? No. I don’t want to burden him with this. He’ll be overly concerned, and I need to figure it out myself.

The front door opens before I have a chance to make a proper decision. And the townhouse’s living room and kitchen are all in one visible space, nowhere to hide.

“What the fuck did you do?” Ryke growls.

Uh-oh. Did he see me grind on the chair? No. That’s impossible. He doesn’t have X-ray vision, and the world isn’t so unjust that it’d grant him a superpower before Lo or me.

“I’m…I don’t…” I end up stuttering.

“You wrote to Celebrity Crush,” he tells me, storming further into the kitchen.

“How do you know that?” I pull out my phone as soon as I say the words. But I remember I don’t have internet on it, so I slide it back in my shorts.

“They posted your email online.” He hands me his smart phone and my stomach does handstands and acrobatics worthy of gold medals.

Lily Calloway Responds to Celebrity Crush and Refers to Loren Hale as Her Boyfriend, Not Her Fiancé. Is the Marriage a Hoax?

Oh….no.

They have my original email underneath the title with a few choice words from Wendy Collins. Mostly, her calling me dramatic and sensitive.

The sad thing: I am a little dramatic and a lot sensitive.

I look back up at Ryke and his eyes have darkened considerably. “I had to do something. They had a poll, Ryke, a poll! And you freaking won it over Lo. That’s not okay!”

His eyebrows knot in confusion. I guess I’m not explaining it very well. “How many times do I have to tell you to forget about the fucking rumors?” he snaps. “Not only have you given the media a reason to believe they’re true, but my dad is fuming.”

My heart stops. “What?” I whisper.

“Lo’s back in the car on the phone with him,” Ryke explains. That’s why he’s so upset. It’s not about the rumors, not really. It’s because I put Lo in a position where he had to confront their father, the man that pushes him to drink.

I’m fucking things up.

My body goes cold and chills rake my arms. A pressure sets on my chest, so heavy that breathing takes work.

The door swings open again, and I expect to see Lo gracing the room next. Instead, I hear my sister’s edged voice.

“I’m walking in the house right now, Mother,” Rose says, her hand tight on her cell. My stomach thrashes in another beating. My mom’s pissed too?

“Hold on, I’ll ask her.” Rose cups the speaker and meets my gaze. “Mom would like to know why you didn’t use the family publicist before making a statement.”

“That’s a good question,” I say softly. My eyes trail away, looking for the answer, as if it’s on another side of the room.

Rose lets out a sigh and returns to her phone. “She didn’t have Cynthia’s number,” Rose says, which isn’t a complete lie. I have the number to Jonathan’s publicist, but not our family’s. Acquiring Cynthia’s number means communicating with my mother, something I haven’t done for a while.