Thrive (Addicted, #4)(73)

“One,” he replies. “And don’t you have to buy tampons?”

It would have been a rude comment if he wasn’t completely serious. “I don’t need them. I delay my period on birth control,” I say it all without blushing. Internally, I am patting myself on the back.

“Let me guess,” he says, his eyes darkening. “So you can have more sex.” My cheeks redden. Damn. But I have to give myself credit; I’ve been able to last this long talking about condoms and sex without my body revolting against me. When Ryke looks away, I give myself a literal quick tap on the shoulder. Go me.

“Hey,” Lo cuts in and puts his hand on Ryke’s shoulder. “Stop giving her a hard time.”

I’m used to it, and I’m sure I irritate Ryke just as equally. He barely glances at the rack before he tugs a pack of condoms off, which basically means he has a particular brand and size that he always wears. I focus on the check-out, avoiding eye-contact with the condoms—because knowing the size will weird me out.

My brain does a tailspin the minute I notice the line of magazines and tabloids stacked beside the counter. The headline stops my heart: Lily Calloway, Nymphomaniac and Reportedly Sleeping with Brothers. I’ve seen this many times before. But that’s the problem.

I thought that after the Celebrity Crush re-poll and positive effect of the reality show, these rumors would be put to rest. Not only that—but I would’ve never taken a quick condom pit stop for both Lo and Ryke if I knew the media was still buying into the rumors.

“Is this for you?” the attendant asks, eyeing the condoms and then the two guys. And me. Holy shit. Out of all bad ideas, this is a horrible one.

“No,” I cut in, wedging myself beside Lo. “We don’t want those anymore. And we’d like to buy all of these.” I start piling all the tabloids up on the counter.

“Not this again,” Ryke groans.

“Lily—” Lo starts.

“You don’t understand,” I snap. “You were eighty-eight percent, Lo. This shouldn’t be happening.”

“So you don’t want the condoms?” the attendant asks, confused.

“Yes, we want them,” Ryke says.

“No, we don’t,” I refute. “Just the magazines.” I empty the shelves and slide my card on the counter.

“For fuck’s sake, Lily,” Ryke snaps. “I’ll let you buy your fucking tabloids, but at least let me buy my condoms. I don’t want to have to go back out.”

“Fine,” I surrender. “The condoms too.” My neck heats. “But just so you know, we’re all three not sleeping together. These are wrong.” I slap my hand on the stack of tabloids. “He needs the condoms for other girls.”

“She gets it, love,” Lo says.

The attendant swipes my card, looking freaked out by me. I don’t care. All I want is for people to listen to the truth—is that too much to ask?

Lo sidles up behind me and wraps his arms around my shoulders. “She’s very protective of me,” he tells the attendant. “It’s sweet actually, when she’s not going bat-shit crazy, that is.”

The attendant smiles warmly, and I punch Lo in the arm. “I’m not crazy.”

His eyes soften in an apology. “I know.”

I carry the large stack of magazines in my hands, Lo and Ryke refusing to help on principle. The drive home is layered in awkward tension. I start reading the articles, and my anger only escalates. The word nymphomaniac sets me on edge. I’ve always identified with being an addict, and calling me a nympho makes it harder to argue that sex addiction is real. So many people claim sex addiction is used to excuse people of their philandering ways. And that’s not what this feels like at all.

By the time Lo pulls into the driveway, I’m fuming.

I jump out of the car only a second before it stops moving. “Wait up, Lily!” Lo yells at me. But I’m on a mission.

Brett and Savannah appear out of nowhere, but I’m sure they were waiting for us to come home. Their cameras zip to me and flash to Lo and Ryke. I walk past in a hurry.

“You’re being overdramatic!” Ryke screams at me.

I open the door. “I’m not being overdramatic!” I yell back. Okay, that was a little dramatic. I storm into the kitchen, shifting the magazines so they don’t fall over.

I make it to the sink and toss them right in. Perfect. Then I bend down to a bottom cupboard where Lo keeps the lighter fluid for the grill outside. I take it out and start squirting the pile of magazines.

“Whoa!” Lo and Ryke yell together. They rush me all at once, and then I feel someone else pry the plastic squirt bottle from my hand.

Connor.

Where the hell did he come from?

Lo draws me to his chest, his hands snug around my waist in comfort, but I hardly calm down. I just want to destroy the thing that has hurt me. If I can’t reply to the reporters or the comments, I might as well take it out on the actual magazines.

My older sister suddenly appears, tossing the soiled magazines in a large trash bag. Dammit. I struggle in Lo’s arms, hoping to reach at least a single tabloid and set it on fire.

It’s clear by his firm grip that he’s not letting me go.

“What’s going on?” Connor asks. His calm voice hardly instills tranquility. Tears threaten to rise, so helpless and angry, a toxic mixture that burrows nasty emotions inside of me.