Текст книги "Addicted for Now"

Автор книги: Becca Ritchie

Соавторы: Krista Ritchie
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

{ 43 }
LILY CALLOWAY

“What did I say about kissing and touching during our sessions?” Dr. Evans says angrily.

I try to subdue my smile as I break away from Lo. “Sorry.” I don’t feel that apologetic. I’m only here for my parents. I don’t believe in Dr. Evan’s methods anymore, and I try my best not to take his words to heart.

But the armor that I’m building still has a few chinks.

Like right now. Dr. Evans holds a small electrical box, and I have the sudden urge to vomit all over his ugly carpet. He sticks two electrodes to the inside of my wrist and then passes me the box. I set it on my lap and rotate the knob to the lowest shock level.

“I think you can go higher than that today.”

“She doesn’t want to,” Lo interjects.

“Make no mistake, Loren, this is my office. I can have you escorted out if I feel like you’re hindering my patient’s treatment.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly and turn the dial a couple notches. Too bad I don’t have the remote. That device rests in Dr. Evans sweaty palm, the commander of this torture.

“I’ll let you choose what you want to try today. Fantasies or porn.”

“Porn.” Having to relay my fantasies out loud is incredibly embarrassing, and he shocks me more when I start describing positions and body parts.

“Actually, how about we do both.” He reaches into his desk, pulls out a magazine and slides it to me. I set the mag on the armrest between Lo and me, and then I flip it open, already knowing the drill. Nude women don’t make me aroused, but the photographs with the couples do. As soon as I glance at a picture—Buzzzzz!—the shock ripples through my wrist and up my arm.

I let out a short breath and clench my hand. Lo rubs my back, and another shock jostles my wrist. My hand twitches.

“What the hell?!” Lo shouts.

Dr. Evans ignores Lo for the moment. “Look at the pictures, Lily, and describe a fantasy you might have if you were staring at these on your own.”

I instinctively glance at Lo, considering he would be in my fantasy, which is the wrong reaction. The shock pulses through my hand again, and I try to keep my arm still so Lo can’t tell. But he’s breathing heavily beside me, forcing himself in the seat and not at Dr. Evans’ throat.

“Loren, can you please move to the other chair.” Dr. Evans points to a cushiony one in the corner, as far away from me as possible.

Lo opens his mouth, and I have to cut him off. Last time he told Dr. Evans to suck his cock, and I’m not sure that’s going to blow over well a second time. “He’s fine. I don’t even see him,” I say quickly, returning my focus to the pictures.

Buzzzz!  I flinch. What did I do?

I’m starting to think Dr. Evans just likes to press that little button.

“Find a picture that’s particularly arousing for you.”

I flip through the magazine, bypassing all the large jugs and vaginas but having no luck. They really don’t make these for women. “Anything?”

“The internet just has a better selection,” I admit, still flipping aimlessly.

“Use this then.” He holds out an electronic tablet. I haven’t been on the internet since Lo banned surfing the web, and the lack of temptation has been nice. My days are easier without it.

I swap the magazine for the tablet and log onto Tumblr. This feels different than browsing through the magazine. Maybe because this has been a staple in my routine. I haven’t looked at mags since high school.

Having Dr. Evans watch me do this is a little personal.

“Find a photograph and describe your fantasy.”

I don’t want to, but I remind myself that my parents have been dealing with more difficult stuff than this. Suck it up, Lily.

I easily land on one that causes me to shift in my chair. A sting pinches my wrist. Fuck. I cringe, and Lo cranes his neck to look at the tablet.

“Talk,” Dr. Evans urges.

It’s a gif of a girl without any pants (or underwear) and a fully clothed guy. We can only see the lower half of the couple, but the guy runs his hand back and forth between her legs. “My fantasy?” I ask, wanting to avoid this portion.

“Yes, what do you visualize when you look at the photo.”

“Lo,” I say, “doing this to me, and then maybe he’d actually put his fingers…in…” Buzz! Buzzz! Buzzzz! “Motherfucker,” I curse under my breath and close my eyes tight.

“Take it easy, Oliver,” Lo sneers.

“Find another, Lily.”

I scroll through the tablet and land on a photograph of a girl’s oiled ass, but large male hands massage her butt and even edge closer and closer to her clit. Holy shit. Buzz!

The shock doesn’t dissuade me from picturing Lo massaging me this way. Maybe he’ll get some ideas from this session. Maybe it’s worth the pain.

But as Dr. Evans shocks me again, all my thoughts morph into shame. I guess, I shouldn’t want to like this. Dr. Evans boosts my fears when he says, “You’re trying not to be deviant anymore. This is bad.” He shocks me one more time and I wince. “Understand that we’re trying to relate these images to a negative stimuli. You should reach the point where these images don’t arouse you anymore. We’re going to shock the whore out of you, one way or the other.”

I give Lo another look but his lip has curled into disgust and he grips the armrest with white knuckles.

The clock ticks languidly.

We have one more hour.

* * *

My favorite part of therapy is the ride home. Even though I feel like I’m a million leagues below the sea, Lo never stops talking. He brings me back to the surface.

I press my forehead to the fogged window, rain pelting the glass. After four weeks in a drought, the downpour almost feels like a dream. He flicks on the windshield wipers and navigates the road. “Next session I’m going to call him a whore,” Lo tells me. “Give him a taste of his own fucked up medicine.” His eyes keep flitting to me in concern.

“You’re going to flip us off the road,” I say.

“You’re being quiet.” He merges onto the highway.

“I’m just thinking.”

“About Dr. Oliver Evans’ lack of pornographic magazines for females? What the fuck was he doing giving you a guy mag?”

Though, this was furthest from my mind, I will gladly take the distraction bait. I smile and rotate fully in my seat to face Lo. “You remember in eighth grade when you used to buy me magazines and rip out all the pages with only girl parts?”

He laughs. “It wasn’t all selfless. I thought the more you masturbated the less you’d have sex with actual guys.”

“Huh…” I suppose that makes sense. “Did you know that I used to dump out your bottles of Everclear?” I admit with a grin. The liquor was so strong that he scared me whenever he plucked a bottle from the cabinet. I guess I was too afraid to dissolve our system to actually tell him this, so I did the next best thing.

“I always thought I just didn’t remember drinking them.”

It feels nice to know that we had each other’s backs, even if it seemed like we could care less. “I never told you,” I say softly, “but I was always worried about your health. Your liver…” We don’t usually talk about the risks, at least we never have before. But somehow, banding together to take on evil Dr. Shock Therapy has made us closer in a different way.

He lets out a long breath. “I know you were, Lil. And it’s one of the reasons I can’t drink again.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“We have to take all these kinds of medical tests in rehab, and the doctors basically told me that if I continued down the path I was on, I’d do serious, irreparable damage to my liver.”

My eyes suddenly start to burn, silent tears building. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because I knew you’d be upset and probably blame yourself,” he says, “and it’s not your fault.” He glances at me and then back at the road. “Lil, please don’t cry. It’s really not your fault, and I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong with me.”

“But it could be.” I wipe my eyes and shake my head. “And how can this not be my fault, Lo? I enabled you all our lives. I should have—”

“What?” he says roughly. “What could you have done? Tell me to stop? I wouldn’t have. Physically taken the bottles away? I would have hated you. Tattled to my father? He wouldn’t give a shit. The only person who could have stopped me was me.”

“I could have done something.” I can’t sit here and act like I’m not to blame at all. I supplied him with booze sometimes. I facilitated his addiction.

“You did do something. You were there for me when no one else was.” He drives down another street and turns on the lights as the sun descends. “And Lil…” His eyes meet mine for a brief moment. “If you’re going to blame yourself for enabling me then I have to take fault for enabling you.”

“It’s not the same. Your addiction can kill you.”

“And those men you slept with couldn’t have beat the shit out of you? You couldn’t have contracted an STD or HIV? I let you take those risks and you let me take mine.” He turns a sharp left and I brace myself against the door. “How about we call it even? And then we make a pact to never do it again.”

“Okay,” I say. “Can we shake on it?”

His lips rise mischievously. “We can do better than that.”

Is he thinking what I’m thinking? “Like…”

He laughs. “Well, I saw you staring rather hard at that massage picture.”

Ohhhhh. Yes. No. Wait. “We shouldn’t.”

His brows furrow into a hard line, but he keeps his gaze on the road as the rain falls heavier. “Why not? And you may want to choose your answer carefully. If it begins or ends with the name Oliver Evans, I’m going to eject my seat.”

“It’s deviant.”

Lo lets out a long groan. “Please, for the love of fucking God never say that word again.”

“Well it is.”

“The only thing deviant is what that psychiatrist is putting you through. You shouldn’t be shocked for being aroused by those photographs. I get semi-hard looking at them.”

I frown. “You do?”

“Yes!” he says, half-laughing. “Any human would, Lil. Even if I thought aversion therapy was ethical, which I don’t, I’d only recommend it to people who stare at those photos with violent thoughts. Like rape or child molestation. You’re not a pedophile. The fact that he treats you like one kills me.”

I watch the rain scatter my window as I think this through. It’s not weird to be aroused by them, but it’s wrong to compulsively abuse porn. That sounds right.

“Hey,” Lo says, wanting my attention again. I turn to him, and he gives me a hard look, his eyes flickering between the road and me. “If his therapy methods are fucking with your head, then you’re going to stop.”

“I’m fine, honest. Talking to you helps.”

He grabs my hand and kisses my palm.

“So we went to our respective press conferences, finished publicly apologizing,” I list off. “I’m seeing my new psychiatrist. All we have left is the wedding, and after that I’ll receive my trust fund. My parents should forgive me fully, and everything will turn back to normal—or as normal as we can be.” Once a week, my father actually calls me to catch up. He even told me he was proud that I was seeing this psychiatrist. After everything that I did to his company—the backlash that he’s been through—for him to tell me that he’s proud was enough to cause happy tears. I can’t screw with that.

My mother will take more finesse to win over, and I know she won’t be completely content until the marriage. I can’t afford to stumble anymore.

“What if they don’t?” Lo says softly.

“What?”

“Have you ever thought that maybe, even after you do all of this, that your mother may still not forgive you?”

I shake my head, not willing to believe she could be that cruel. “She has to.”

But the way Lo stares at the road, like he sees a colder future than the warmth I’ve planned, makes me worry.

{ 44 }
LOREN HALE

Some days are harder than others. There are days where I don’t even think about alcohol, and then days where my brain circumnavigates around drinking and nothing else.

Today all I can think about is my mother. My real mother. Emily Moore. After my father gave me her address, I often imagine her house, what she looks like, her life without me.

What I do know for certain is that she’s a substitute teacher in Maine. Married. Two kids. When I was little, I rehearsed the same confrontation in my head. I’d stand on the stoop of my birth mother’s house. I’d ask her why she didn’t want me, why she never called or left a note. But in my mind, I was thinking of Sara Hale—not this Emily Moore.

The name has changed, but my questions haven’t. I just have to figure out when to go and who to take with me. Maybe Ryke or Lily, but neither know I’ve been plotting the date to travel to Maine. Ryke will disapprove, thinking I’ve embedded myself further into my father’s world. So I’m leaning towards a trip with Lily.

But I can’t meet Emily today, even if I want to.

Ryke wants to teach me how to rock climb. Not in a gym. Like on a real fucking mountain. I had to ask whether we were going to use ropes and a harness—considering the guy free climbs (he’s stupid enough to scale a mountain with nothing but his hands, legs and some chalk). We’re planning on climbing the normal, sane way. He can do the whole Spider-Man routine when I’m not watching.

I can’t leave until I finish filtering the morning mail with Rose.

The kitchen table overflows with letters, manila envelopes, and small packages.

Paparazzi have sold photos of Lily buying tampons in the grocery store. It’s ridiculous. And her “fan” mail accumulates with each new headline on the cover of a gossip magazine. Most letters are from old men who think she’ll reply or meet them somewhere for sex. That’s what’s been happening lately. People are grabby as hell. I thought that the guy in the hallway of Princeton was just a fluke, but a lot of men feel as though Lily wants all sex, even from them, just because of her addiction. And they make a go of trying to get it from her.

It’s like she has a twenty-four-seven “open” sign plastered to her body now. And there’s no way for her to spin it around to “closed,” which I know she wants to. Thank God she has a bodyguard.

I rip open a couple letters and nearly vomit at a picture of some dude’s balls.

“Shred this one twice,” I tell Rose, throwing the photo into her pile. The shredder rumbles by her feet as she feeds the machine more and more mail.

She glances at the photograph, flips it over and lets out a snort. “I’ll be thinking of you while you touch yourself,” she reads. “Your sentiments are not shared, Mr. Gordon.”

“This guy is living at the State Penitentiary. That makes me feel fantastic.” I toss her another letter and then slice open the packages with a knife.

I really wish we didn’t have to go through this mail at all. I’d much rather burn it without even opening, but some people actually send money. Sometimes as a joke, other times I think they honestly believe Lily will fuck them for cash. Rose, Lily, and I agreed to collect the money and donate it to a women’s shelter in the city. At least someone profits off this.

So Rose and I spend all morning ripping and tearing and shredding. Lily would join us, but Rose and I specifically try to censor her from Mr. Gordon’s balls and company. One day, Lily accidentally opened a letter with photographs attached, and her eyes grew wide in horror, as though the person was one step away from breaking into our house to rape her. I’ve thought about that possibility too, which is why I installed a better security system.

Lil doesn’t admit it, but Rose and I see that she’s afraid to leave the house. She rarely goes out, and when she does, it’s usually after a great deal of pleading.

Lily has accepted my mail-sifting routine with Rose, also calling it our “bonding time.” I haven’t been Rose’s number one fan, not even after the media-palooza went down. But what was once a frost-bitten relationship has surprisingly begun to thaw.

“Since I have to go to business meetings now,” I tell her, “I’m going to need some everyday kind of suits. You still have those black ones from your menswear line, right?”

She goes still and the shredder stops growling. “You don’t have to help me, Loren. I don’t need your charity.” In one month, Rose almost lost every single investor she had for Calloway Couture. Only one has stayed onboard out of sheer loyalty.

I roll my eyes. “It’s not charity. I need suits. Now that you fired a certain someone, yours are no longer plaid and ugly.” I can’t say Sebastian’s name unless I want to be assaulted with rage.

“He did have horrible taste,” she says, lips pursed. As soon as Rose ripped the guy from her life, he snapped a picture of himself for Rich Kids of Instagram and called her a cunt-bag. If you even utter his name, she looks ready to lunge for the ball-cutting shears.

Rose assesses my current wardrobe. A black V-neck and faded Diesel jeans. “You go to your office looking like that,” she reminds me. “Why would you need suits?”

“I have weekly meetings with my father. If I show up in this I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Running my own company terrifies me. I don’t want to pour my heart and soul into it and then have the entire thing destroyed. What Rose is going through—it fucking sucks. Maybe that’s why I’ve preferred apathy all of these years. You can’t be hurt when you have nothing to lose.

She mulls over my proposition and then begins to stuff the shredder again. It rumbles to life. “Fine, but you have to pay full price.”

I laugh. “No family discounts? I’m going to be your brother-in-law.”

“Unwillingly,” she says with cold eyes. Jesus Christ. I’m never going to live that down.

I blame Connor.

He somehow coerced me into revealing my true feelings about this wedding. I admitted to not wanting to marry Lily, not like this at least. I want to do it on our own terms. And somehow Rose has warped that into I don’t want to marry her at all. If I could, I’d be engaged for five more years. She’d be my fiancée and we’d get hitched when we’re both healthy and in love. But that’s not a future that will come true, so I stop trying to imagine it.

I smother that conversation by slitting open a small package. I made the mistake yesterday of reaching blindly into a box. I never, ever want to touch another man’s cum again. Rose couldn’t stop laughing while I soaked my hands in disinfectant for thirty minutes.

I dump the contents onto the plastic-lined table. A neon hot pink dick stares back at me. Without touching it, I slide the dildo into a trash bag.

The next box has what looks like an expensive vibrator, brand-new, wrapped in its original packaging. I leave it on the table as I read the card.

And then an excited squeal resounds from the staircase. Lily sprints down the stairs, her glee-filled eyes pinned to the vibrator.

I grab her around the waist before she can grab it. She points to the package. “That’s new!”

“I’m aware,” I say. “You still can’t have it.”

She cranes her neck. “It’s a Zell500. That’s a luxury brand. You can’t just toss it in the trash.” Her eyes go big. “That’s sacrilege.”

I’m tempted to read her the card: A beautiful toy for your beautiful pussy, my lovely Lily. It’s fucking creepy, and I know it will deter her. But I don’t want to scare her either. That’s what we’re trying to avoid with all of this.

“It’s a vibrator, Lily,” Rose snaps, “not the Holy Grail.”

I give Rose a smile. “So you don’t want it then?”

She glares like she’s ready to put me in the shredder.

I stifle a larger grin and turn to Lily. “Sorry, love. It’s going in the trash.”

She surrenders rather easily. I unhook my arms from her and slide the vibrator into the garbage with the others.

The front door opens, and Ryke saunters into the kitchen, carrying two large vases, white lilies poking his face. As soon as Lily spots the flowers, she slips behind my back and clutches onto my shirt—like whoever sent the floral arrangements are about to jump from the vase and grow life-sized.

“These were by the gate,” Ryke says. “I would have left them, but the paparazzi were trying to get photographs of the cards.” I hold open the trash bag, and Rose suddenly has a fit.

“They’ll break!” she yells at me. “And then the glass will tear the bag, slice someone, and blood will be everywhere. I can’t clean blood out of the hardwood.”

I narrow my eyes. “Just so we have this clear, I rank above the floor.”

“It’s Brazilian cherry,” she says like that makes all the difference. She turns to Ryke. “Throw the vases in the recycling bins in the garage.”

He tips the vases upside down, only the flowers and cards falling into my trash bag. Lily still hasn’t disentangled from my shirt. I gather her hands and intertwine her fingers in mine. “Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask.

Her eyes fix dazedly to the trash bag, and I’m not sure where she’s truly gone. But she’s not in a fantasy. She’s somewhere sadder and darker.

Very softly, she says, “I don’t want lilies at the wedding.”

She’s never referred to it as my or our wedding. It’s always the wedding. Marriage is supposed to be this happily ever after, but for her it feels like a means to an end.

“You don’t have to think about that,” Rose tells her. “It’s not for another year. We’re not even going to plan it anytime soon.”

Ryke nods to me. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah, I just need to change out of my jeans.”

“You can change in the car,” he tells me. “I have shorts and stuff in there.” He checks his watch. “I just want to beat a storm that’s supposed to roll in.”

Right because we’re going to be outside. Climbing a mountain. Just don’t kill me, God. That would be so fucking cruel to kill me now.

Before I leave, I kiss Lily lightly. “What are you doing today?” I ask, worried that she’ll spend the afternoon and night bingeing on old cartoons, isolated in the living room. She claims it’s a normal bout of summer laziness, but I know her well.

She can’t be afraid of the world forever.

“I was thinking about going to your office. Maybe get some work done,” she says. My lungs fill with relief. I love that I have chosen a business she can take pleasure in, something that can be both of ours one day. I want her to graduate college first, accomplish what I couldn’t.

“Call Garth,” I tell her.

She crinkles her nose. “He smells like old cheese.”

I grin. I chose the perfect bodyguard. “Don’t leave this house without him.”

“Don’t fall off a giant rock.”

“I’ll return him to you alive,” Ryke tells her.

“You better.” Lily holds a non-threatening finger at him.

He smiles coyly, like he plans on fucking with the ropes or the harness to scare the shit out of me, just to retaliate for the mankini prank in Cancun. I’m a little nervous, but after climbing in the gym with him, the mountain shouldn’t be too difficult, even if he gives me extra slack. I can handle the challenge.

* * *

We don’t even make it out of New Jersey before my phone buzzes in the middle console. The word DAD flashing in big bold letters.

“Don’t answer that,” Ryke says.

I’m driving. And I disobey his orders, answering the phone and keeping one hand on the wheel. I feel Ryke’s hot glare without taking my eyes off the road.

“Loren.” My father’s voice sounds through the receiver. “I need you to stop by the house sometime today.” His tone is pretty casual, so I figure the topic centers on my new company. It’s barely on its feet, but he loves to add his opinion.

“I’m heading out of town, so I won’t be anywhere near Philly.”

“Then readjust your schedule.”

“It’s not that easy—”

“I’m not asking.”

Ryke shakes his head repeatedly beside me, probably watching my eyes begin to darken the longer I talk to our dad. “You should have rejected the deal for your trust fund,” he says under his breath.

I pull the speaker away from my mouth to talk to Ryke. “I heard you the hundredth time you said it.”

“You’re his bitch,” Ryke rephrases, as if that’ll make me understand.

I grit my teeth, the highway signs zipping overhead. I need to get off the next exit if I want to see my dad.

I press the phone back to my ear. “What is it about?” I ask him.

“The leak.”

I nearly jerk the car into the other lane, a Trailblazer next to us.

“Lo!” Ryke yells, clutching the door. He snaps on his seatbelt.

Shit. “Sorry.” I start switching lanes, properly this time, heading towards the exit.

“Wait, where are you going?” Ryke asks angrily. He knows I’m heading to Philly. He just doesn’t know why.

I put the phone on speaker, realizing that Ryke will throw a tantrum unless he hears the truth from my father. I set the cell on my lap. “You know who the leak is?” I ask aloud, my heart thrumming. After a month without the knowledge, I was resigned with the fact that it just didn’t matter. Mostly because I didn’t have the energy to hunt down Mason or Aaron and care for Lily. I chose the right option, to be there for my best friend. But I want the information that has eluded us for so long. And the resentful, dark and bitter part of me wants this fucker’s head on a spike.

“Yeah,” he says. “I found the leak.”

“How?”

“The tabloid who first reported the news finally broke and gave us their source. It took five million to loosen their lips and uncover this bullshit.” He doesn’t add you owe me every penny. Even so, I feel like I do.

“Who is it?” I ask, my hands clutching the steering wheel so tightly.

He doesn’t say anything.

“Dad?!” I shout. A car honks, and I realize I swerved into his lane and cut off a pick-up truck.

“Keep your eyes on the fucking road,” Ryke chastises. “Or pull over and I’ll drive.” No, he’ll take us the other direction. And right now, I’m too wired to go climb a mountain

“Is Ryke with you?” my dad asks roughly.

“We’re on our way,” I tell him, ignoring how Ryke is searing a death glare into the phone.

“No, we fucking aren’t,” Ryke refutes.

“You both should come,” he tells us. “This is important, and I don’t want to discuss it over the phone.” He hangs up.

I flick on my blinker and drive along a side street, off the highway.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Ryke asks.

“He knows who the leak is,” I say like he’s an idiot. “What the fuck are you doing? We’ve spent months trying to track down this asshole.”

Ryke stares at the road with a hard gaze. “Maybe you should drop me off somewhere.”

I frown. “What? Where?” What’s wrong with him?

“Like anywhere but there.”

And then I realize that Ryke hasn’t come into contact with my father since the Christmas Charity Gala. Before rehab. Before everything.

A brutal silence strings though the car. And then I say softly, “Are you scared of him?”

“I can’t stand to look at his face.”

“What did he personally do to you?” I ask.

“I hated him because my mother did,” Ryke says briefly, but I can tell his mind is reeling, so I’m not surprised when he divulges more. “…when I was older, I tried to look at him differently, but she painted a portrait of a monster. So when I stare at his face, that’s all I fucking see.”

His words sink in, and I don’t have anything to say. I can’t change the way he pictures Jonathan Hale. That damage is too deep-seated.

“I tried to forget about him,” Ryke says, staring out the window. “I tried to act like I just didn’t have a dad. And then…” He shakes his head.

“What?” I prod.

“…and then I met you. And all that hate just came back ten times stronger than before.”

I hesitate before I ask. I fear his answer. “Why?” This is where he’ll say I’m just like my father. I’m the monster of the story. The thing to be hated.

“You defend him,” Ryke tells me. “He says some pretty fucking horrible things right to your face, and you just stand there and take it or you walk away. And then the next day, you’ll talk about Jonathan like he’s a fucking savior.” I can’t feel that great burst of relief when he doesn’t compare me to him. I just feel like shit.

I grit my teeth. “What am I supposed to do? Punch him? I wasn’t into the whole let me beat the hell out of my father tragedy growing up. Sorry.”

“You’re right,” Ryke says, surprising me. “You were stuck in that house, with that fucking asshole. But right now, you have the option to leave him. And you’re going back.”

“He’s not all bad.”

“And there you go, sticking up for him again.”

“He’s my father.”

“He’s our father,” Ryke retorts.

I hit the wheel with my hand, nervous and pissed and so fueled right now. “I can’t cut him out of my life!” Not because of the money. Not because of the trust fund or the information I need from him. I can’t leave Jonathan Hale because he’s my family. He’s my dad, and before Ryke and Lily, he’s all I fucking had.

“Pull over for a second.”

“I’m not turning around.”

“Just pull over.”

I drive into a gas station and park the car by the pump. I face Ryke, and my chest rises at the empathy in his eyes. He’s about to drop a bomb on me, but he knows I can take it.

“No one is going to tell you this,” Ryke says. “Everyone says it behind your back, but you’re going to hear it from me, right now.”

I stare at him for a long moment, already hearing his words before he says them. I think I know. I’ve always known.

“Our dad abuses you,” Ryke says, his eyes reddening. “He’s verbally abusive, and he’s fucked with your head.”

I let this sink in, but I’m so numb to the answer. I just nod. “Yeah, I know.”

Ryke nods a few times too, watching me, trying to gauge my mental state. And maybe he’s reliving the fact that he was the older brother, the one who was handed the better deal of two really shitty ones, not having to be raised by him, not having to endure the onslaught of fucking grow up! I didn’t raise you to be such an idiot! Why are you crying? Stop. Fucking. Crying.

“Don’t guilt yourself over this,” I tell Ryke. I feel nothing. I should be red in the eyes like him, but I just can’t be. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah,” Ryke says, nodding again, but he’s more upset than before. “The fact that you believe you can have a real relationship with him fucking terrifies me, Lo. That’s what kills me. And that’s why I don’t want to go there and watch him try to emotionally manipulate you.”

I break his gaze and stare at the wheel. “I’m not asking you to come with me.” My voice is edged but considerably low. “I can drop you off at your house.”

We sit in uncomfortable silence again. For maybe five minutes, both of us just thinking.

And then Ryke says, “If I go, you think he’ll lay off you?”

“Is that even a question?”

Ryke nods. “All right. Let’s go.”