Текст книги "Addicted for Now"

Автор книги: Becca Ritchie

Соавторы: Krista Ritchie
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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

“Are you sure?” He would do that? He’d go stomach a whole hour or two with our father just so the verbal assaults are redirected his way?

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

I don’t know what I’m feeling. My lungs seem to lift from my chest, and I know what word I want to say. I know what word I can’t.

Thank you.

In this moment, I truly feel like I have a brother. One that’s probably too good for me.

{ 45 }
LOREN HALE

“You don’t drink?” My father is hung up on this one fact about Ryke. Overhead fans circulate cool air on the patio, and I sit in between Ryke and my dad like someone about to referee an arm wrestle.

“Not since high school,” Ryke says. “I overdid it.” He doesn’t mention how he crashed his car into a mailbox.

“And that’s why you’ve deluded Loren into thinking he’s an alcoholic—because you couldn’t handle your liquor?”

The muscles in Ryke’s jaw twitch. “Get to the fucking point, Jonathan. Who’s the leak?”

My dad leans back in the iron chair, cupping his glass of scotch. “I’ll get to the fucking point when I feel like it. Maybe I want to have lunch with my two sons first.” He presses a button on his phone. “Carter, make three burgers for us.”

“Any preferences, Mr. Hale?”

“The usual.”

“They’ll be right out.” The line clicks.

“I’m not your son,” Ryke says, even though he does, on occasion, call Jonathan his father when he’s trying to make a point. Like in the car. “My mother took full custody of me, in case you forgot.”

“How old are you?” My dad asks mockingly. “Oh wait, you’re twenty-two. In the eyes of the American judicial system, you’re an adult. And as an adult, you’re not your mother’s property like that Ferrari she bought with my money in her goddamn driveway.”

Ryke rubs his jaw in agitation and looks around the patio like he’s trying to find some excuse to leave, but then his gaze drifts to me and he stops searching for that escape.

We can’t go until we find out the leak. And if that means eating a burger with the devil, then so be it.

My father sets his scotch down and focuses on me. “Have you met your mother yet?”

Shit. I can feel Ryke’s confusion and livid heat permeate in the air. “Not yet, I’ve actually been waiting for Lily to…adjust.”

“You’re going to meet your mother?” Ryke asks, accusation lacing the words.

My father doesn’t cut in, which means he’s curious about our relationship, wondering how close we’ve become these past months.

“Yeah,” I say.

Ryke shakes his head. “How long have you had her name? How’d you find her?” And then realization floods his face, looking between our dad and me. “You two have been speaking this whole time…” But his hate is redirected at Jonathan. “Can’t you leave him alone for one minute?”

“He wanted to know who his mother was. It’s not your place or mine to make that decision for him.” He sips his scotch casually, incensing Ryke more.

“I don’t care about that. I care that you used that information to draw him back in. I care that you push him to drink.”

“Ryke…” I start and then stop, not wanting to defend my father. Not now. “I was going to tell you that I started talking to him.”

“When? When I find you in the hospital bleeding from your stomach because you drank?”

My father groans. “You’re not still taking that ridiculous pill.”

Ryke turns on him. “It’s not a fucking joke.”

“It is,” my dad says. “You’re making him soft.”

“Yeah, you made sure he was fucking sharp, didn’t you?”

“Stop, both of you,” I say coldly. “I don’t want to talk about alcohol or Emily.”

“Fine,” my father says and stands to replenish his glass. “What do you do Ryke? Or are you like your mother, gobbling up all my money on furniture and clothes?”

“How about we leave my mother, the woman you fucking cheated on, out of the conversation as well.”

“Forgive me if I don’t like the bitch,” he says. “I always wanted you two to meet, and because I wanted it, she could barely tolerate the idea. And here you are, closer than ever. It’s as if it was always meant to be.” He grins, as if he set fate into motion.

“It wasn’t your doing,” Ryke refutes. “I didn’t meet Lo because of you. I met him because I wanted to.”

My father rolls his eyes dramatically. “I can’t ever win with you. Ever since you asked me some silly goddamn question and you didn’t like the answer.”

“I was fifteen,” Ryke sneers. “I just found out I had a brother. I felt lied to and cheated on. I needed your compassion and you fucking spit in my face. But I guess I should have known better.”

“You didn’t need compassion.” My father grimaces at the word. “You needed the truth, and I gave it to you. It’s not my fault you were too weak to handle it.”

“What are you guys talking about?” I ask, hesitating. Maybe I shouldn’t know. But I hate being in the dark.

My father is quick to answer. “Ryke asked me a simple question that day. Would you like to tell him, Ryke?’

“Fuck you,” Ryke sneers.

“I suppose not.” He takes a small sip from his drink, smacking his lips before he continues. “He asked me if I could take back the day that I fucked your mother—take back having you—would I?”

My throat goes dry, not expecting that. I think I know his answer. Because even in his hatred, his bigotry and vileness—there is one fact that my father has never let me question.

He loves me.

And it’s a fucked up love. Ryke is right. It does mess with my head. And it’s something I have so much trouble walking away from. Sometimes I don’t want to. Other times, it’s all I dream about.

My father’s eyes hold this unbridled clarity, unwavering from mine, the haziness of his drink gone to honesty. “I told Ryke that I would do it all over again. I have zero regrets, in this lifetime or the next.”

Zero regrets.

That’s what I pick out from that. Zero regrets. Not even when he grabbed me by the neck, not when he called me a shitty fuck at ten years old. Not when he made me feel like I was never good enough to be his son. Zero regrets.

Right.

No one says anything more at first. Ryke is probably worried that I resent him. He wished I wasn’t alive. But truth is, I kind of did too. Until I looked at Lily. Until I talked to her. I don’t think I could have survived this life without that girl.

I redirect the conversation to Hale Co., which my father only likes to discuss in small quantities. The company took a minor hit in comparison to Fizzle, but he’s still working on launching a new baby product. Something about cribs. It’s ironic that the world’s worst dad has a fortune from baby things, but since it was my grandfather’s business first, it makes the irony less valid. Unless he was an alcoholic asshole too.

The burgers arrive when he says, “This marriage helps Fizzle, but do you know what would really benefit Hale Co.?”

Ryke freezes, the lettuce falling out of his bun.

I must be slower because I don’t get it. “What?”

My father cuts through his burger with a knife, juices oozing out. His eyes find mine. “It’s a baby merchandize company. Babies would help.” I can’t breathe. “Little Hale babies in little Hale onesies. It would be great goddamn marketing.” He takes a bite of his burger. “You can’t beat that.”

“No,” I say instantly. My blood feels like it’s on fire. I have been coerced into marrying Lily. I’m not going to have children because my father tells me to. There has to be a line somewhere.

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“I said no. Not now. Not in a fucking year. Not ever.”

My father sets down his silverware and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Is this a new development?”

“No.”

“Is something wrong?” he frowns. “Are you sterile?”

“For fuck’s sake,” I snap. I didn’t think I’d have to discuss this with him. “I don’t want kids. It’s not because I can’t have them. I don’t want them.” I don’t want them to turn out like you. Or me.

Ryke stays quiet, but I can tell he’s processing. The only person I told was Lily. That’s the only one who mattered.

“You’ll change your mind,” my father says like he knows me so well. He picks up his knife again. “And it’s okay if it’s not anytime soon. Hale Co. can wait.”

We finish eating and after all the tense conversations, it’s hard to remember why we were here in the first place. One of the servers clears the last dish, and I ask the question. “Who’s the leak?”

“That, I can’t tell you,” he says.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Ryke growls, saying exactly what I’m thinking.

My father ignores Ryke. “The good news is that I have it under control, and it’s being handled quietly. If I tell you two, I’m sure you’ll cause a fucking mess that I won’t be able to clean.”

I don’t agree with him. I can’t. “I need to know,” I refute. “This isn’t some guy who did me wrong or fucked me over in a small way.”

“You won’t change my mind, Loren.”

“Why’d you tell me to come here then?!” I shout, blindsided by all of this. We sat here for nothing.

“To have lunch with you and to tell you that you need to drop this. Let it go.”

I spring up from the table like my soles are on fire. “Let it go?!”

My father glowers. “Loren, you’re overacting.”

“Lo,” Ryke says, rising and resting a hand on my shoulder.

“Overreacting?” I let out a manic laugh. “I have a girlfriend at home who’s scared to walk out of the fucking house without getting assaulted. And I’m overacting? It took her a month to stop tossing and turning at night.” I grip the chair. “She has men mailing her goddamn plastic penises from prison and alleged sex tapes being rumored every day. This bastard toyed with her for weeks, texting her vile things before he finally leaked it. And you have his fucking name!”

My father is on his feet. “And what the hell are you going to do? Yell? Shout? Stomp your shoes and make noise?” His eyes grow dark. “There is nothing you can do that I haven’t already done. It’s over. Let. It. Go.….please.” His voice has softened considerably, and I pale.

Please. He doesn’t use that word, and I know what I have to do.

I have to trust him.

But I don’t know who he’s protecting—me or himself.

{ 46 }
LILY CALLOWAY

Garth must have been ex-CIA or a stunt driver on some Hollywood lot before becoming a personal bodyguard. He lost the paparazzi tailing us within two minutes. It usually takes me a solid hour driving in aimless circles, and I get so bored that I make stops at The Donut Man for jelly-filled pastries. Now that I think about it, maybe the donuts are the reason it takes me so long.

Lo has tried to conceal the location of his office from the press. For now, it’s the one place void of cameras peeping through windows or gates. Being here makes me feel normal again.

I kick my feet on his desk and lean back in the nice leather chair. Garth is broad-shouldered, his peppery hair receding and his forehead oily. He sits on the couch, currently transfixed by his mini-tablet. We don’t talk much other than to discuss where I want to go, which is fine with me. Talking can be overrated.

Lo’s office has more personality than our bedroom. Posters of his favorite science fiction and superhero movies line the walls: Battlestar Gallactica, Star Wars, X-Men (of course), Spider-Man (the Andrew Garfield version), and Kick-Ass.

We ate up a whole day just stocking the bookshelves with all his comics, organizing them by issue. When he told his father he wanted to start a comics publishing company, he probably expected Jonathan to laugh in his face, tell him to grow up, and find a serious job. But no, his dad signed a check and wanted a formal business plan the next day.

 I thumb through one of the manuscripts out of the large pile. Lo has to read original comics (not all good) and choose which ones he wants to publish for Halway Comics. He lets me read them if he’s on the fence, but when I graduate from Princeton, I won’t be helping him with this side of the business.

I focus on the comic in hand. The art is surrealistic with a satirical edge. Some of the people even have dog heads. And some of the humans are drawn with animal feet. Lo can find the meaning behind most comics, but my brain just sees a dog-man with a big butt.

The comics I gravitated towards are more realistic and classical, like ones where the superheroes can spring from the page and fit in our world. Lo will try anything and everything, even panels that contain black dots and no words. I do love sexy superheroes, but those are hard to find in indie comics publishing. The most I’ve seen are sexy-clad characters that look like they’ll murder me in my dreams.

I sift through his pile and find a more realistic comic. Not superheroes, but it’s a noir strip with a detective as the lead. I flip through the pages to look at the pretty art.

Ahhh! I throw the manuscript on the floor and cover my eyes with my hands.

There is nudity in that comic book! And I’ve sworn off porn.

“Everything okay, Lily?” Garth asks.

“Yeah,” I croak. “I’m just gonna…go downstairs.” I bypass the dirty comic book on the ground and slip out of the room. I take the winding staircase down to the main level.

The first floor.

My dream.

I enter the store from the back (Employees Only) entrance and into the dimly lit space. Red linoleum booths hug the walls and windows, plastic wrap covering their cushions. The appliances and furniture are all hidden behind smocks, and I can still smell the fresh coat of warm gray paint on the walls. Red and gray and a bit of blue. I picked the color scheme, even after Lo warned me that the palette fit Captain America. We’ve been anti-Cap since he threw Wolverine out of an airborne plane.

I still love it.

Rows of low shelves create aisles and resemble a video store, but they’re going to be filled with comic books when the shipments arrive. The front area is sectioned with a small kitchenette for pastries and coffee. Not everything is here in the store yet. And it’ll be months before the place is ready to be opened for the public.

Lo pitched Superheroes & Scones to his father as a marketing strategy for Halway Comics. But I know the idea has nothing to do with his company. What he did was buy me something of my own, something I could look forward to after college. He found me happiness, and I think it’s worth more than any silly engagement ring.

A store that sells coffee, scones, and comic books.

It’s perfect.

And for once, we’re doing something good with our inheritance rather than wasting it away. For two people unwilling to let anyone in, sharing this intimate part of our lives—the nostalgic happiness of comics—has to mean something.

While we’re under construction, I can hide out in one of the plastic-wrapped booths with a comic, like my own secret getaway.

Someone knocks on the door, and I jump out of my skin. I can’t see the figure since the glass is shrouded in COMING SOON posters. It doesn’t even say what’s coming, and the building looks equally as closed and deserted with more ads all over the brick. For all anyone knows, this could be a future porn shop. Oh jeez. Now I can’t stop thinking about porn.

The rapping on the glass continues, and I take a tentative step towards the noise. The figure is shadowy and indistinguishable. But the shape looks tall enough to be a guy.

What if it’s the press? Or worse.

A stalker who stalked me here.

The knocking is louder and more persistent. I end up scurrying underneath the nearest booth before my heart abandons my chest. Maybe he didn’t see me. Maybe he’ll just go away.

If it’s someone I know, they’d call me, right? I pat my pockets for my phone. Oh no. I left my cell on Lo’s desk, along with Garth. Well Garth is not on Lo’s desk (at least I hope not), but he’s definitely upstairs, consumed with his mini-tablet.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Those knocks sound mean.

I scuttle further underneath the table, curling my knees to my chest. I imagine the glass shattering, the man barging his way through. Should I scream for Garth or just pretend not to be here?

Garth makes the decision for me. His hefty boots pound their way across the store, and the lock clicks, the door jangles, and the stalker is met with my intimidating bodyguard. That should deter him.

“Where’s Lily? I’ve been trying to call her.” The voice is calm, smooth, familiar and so very very unthreatening.

“I’m right here!” I crawl out from under the booth and dust the cobwebs off my kneecaps. Connor raises his eyebrows, as if he knows exactly what I was doing under there.

Garth must be confused because he (truly) says, “What were you doing under there?”

“I thought I saw a…rat,” I say quickly, “so I was inspecting the area to lay some traps later.” Before they can foil my lie, I turn to Connor. “What brings you to S&S?” I really should not try to shorten the name because every time I say it, I immediately think of S&M. My mind has dangerous side roads.

“Lo wants me to look over a contract. He said he left it in his office.” He gazes at me with a little more concern than I appreciate from Connor Cobalt. I like his self-satisfaction much better.

“Okay, I’ll bring you back there.” I add to Garth, “Can you stay here? Watch the door?” I try to smother the worry in my voice, but I fear I’m not doing a good job.

“Of course.”

In Lo’s office, I flick on the lights, and Connor targets the file folder on the desk. I find my dinky flip phone and scroll through all the missed calls from Connor.

“So who did you think I was?” Connor asks as he opens the file and sinks into the leather chair.

“What?”

“This is a new building. I don’t think rats have moved in yet. So obviously you were hiding from whoever you thought was at the door.” He’s too astute for his own good, and I’m sure he already knows the answer to his own question.

I pick up a Black Widow action figure on Lo’s bookshelf. “I wish I was Rose,” I say softly.

“Why is that?” She wouldn’t be so scared.

“She’d handle this better than me. She doesn’t even have a bodyguard.” I want that kind of confidence, but I just don’t think it’s something a twenty-year-old can learn. I’m too late.

“There’s a difference between courage and pride. Believe me, I’d sleep better at night knowing she had a bodyguard.”

“She is alone a lot,” I say. How can she not be brave? She’s willing to face the swarming paparazzi and media-hungry press by herself every day.

“Yes, but that girl would rather carry her own Taser than let someone else defend her, all to prove a point. So when she meets an adversary twice her size and in a much larger quantity, she’s going to realize that some battles are best fought with a sidekick.”

“Oh,” I say, finally understanding, thanks to his superhero analogy. My sister is not a team player. She’d rather do things on her own.

“While my talents are immeasurable, I don’t have the power to save her from halfway across the city,” Connor says. “And our relationship is a bit different from yours.”

“That’s an understatement, I think.”

He smiles. “Yes, it is.” He closes the folder. “What I mean to say is that I’m trying not to be afraid for her. Since we were teenagers, she has always looked to me for reassurance, even if she won’t admit it. I’m her…rock.” He stares off as he finds the right words. “The…unwavering thing. Confident, poised, unrelenting and annoyingly persuasive. If she sees that I’m frightened, she’ll gloat on the outside, as though I lost a round of chess, but internally she’ll begin to question herself. And I don’t particularly like when Rose loses her confidence and becomes less self-assured. She’s more vulnerable, and it breaks my heart.”

This is brand new honesty for Connor Cobalt, no insults hidden beneath the words. It’s just…the truth, from the soul. I kind of like it.

“Do you love her?” I ask, returning the action figure and taking a seat on the couch.

He flips the folder back open and reads the contract in his brisk, super-human manner, turning the page faster than I can read a magazine on a toilet. “Love is irrelative to some.” He dodges my question with a strange answer. As he concentrates on the contract, he begins closing the door on his brief openness.

I squint at him as I realize something else. “How come you don’t say wicked anymore?”

He briefly tears his eyes from the papers. “What are you talking about?”

“You used to say ‘wicked smart’ and ‘wicked cool.’ It was my favorite thing about you.” His lingo has changed since I first met him. Not completely though. I mean, when we run into someone he knows, he’ll sometimes throw out a ‘hey, bro.’

His lips rise. “I usually dumb down around the intellectually deficient so I don’t come off like a complete prick.” I think he just called me stupid. “But I see you as a true friend, so I’ve backed off some of the pretenses. Most people wouldn’t be able to stand all of me.”

“Can Rose?” I ask, still trying to process everything he’s saying.

His lips just lift higher. I suddenly come to the conclusion that I won’t ever know what Connor Cobalt really sounds like in his head—what words he finds abhorrent, what he thinks of certain situations, his real honest reactions that aren’t half-insults and half-something a little nicer. Maybe Rose already knows him. Or maybe she’s just as clueless as the rest of us.

I stick to a safe subject. “So next semester, you’ll be at Wharton and Rose will be in New York.” They both graduated from college in May (along with Ryke), and we threw a small celebration for all of them a couple weeks ago.

Connor’s dream came true—an acceptance to Penn’s prestigious Wharton School of Business for his MBA. Rose always scoffed at grad school. She thinks it’s just a piece of paper to brag over, at least for someone who’s an heir to a fortune. So she’ll spend her time at the Calloway Couture office in New York City, commuting from Princeton, New Jersey.

“That’s the plan,” Connor says.

I’m worried for them, and I know neither Rose nor Connor would appreciate my concern. But long distance relationships are difficult, and I can see all the drives back and forth not being worth the trouble—especially if Rose continues to struggle with her intimacy issues. She conquered sleeping in the same bed as Connor during Cancun, but she has yet to make the leap to sex.

I want her to find love and the fireworks, but nothing I do or say will change her problems. I’m just her little sister, and a broken one in her eyes.

Connor’s gaze falls to the floor where a comic book is splayed—the page opened to a pair of giant naked boobs and an erect penis. “Lily.”

“I wasn’t looking at it!” I defend. “I mean, I was, but then I wasn’t.” I grimace. How can speaking be this hard? I take a deep breath and realign my thoughts. “I was flipping through it and then when I came upon the…” I frown. “…genitals. It burned my eyes and magically flung from my hands.”

“I’ll forgive you for the hyperboles if you’re telling the truth.”

“I am! Cross my heart.” I start drawing crosses over my heart with my finger, but then I get confused. “Am I supposed to draw Jesus crosses or X’s?”

“Sometimes I wonder if we speak the same language.”

“X’s,” I say with a nod, ignoring his slight. “Definitely X’s.”

He returns to the contract, and I sidle to the window, peeking through the blinds to check for paparazzi or sketchy men lurking on the side street.

I don’t know how to vanquish this fear. I have an overwhelming desire to hide in the bathroom and masturbate my anxiety away. But I want to feel like I did in Cancun. Safe and not so crazy compulsive. I yearn for that stasis again.

My new therapist doesn’t seem equipped to help me, and I can just imagine his methods to combat this fear, a monster-sized shock machine in hand. So I refuse to share my anxieties with him.

But I won’t drown in self-love either. I’m going to try something new, and just wade in my unease until I figure out how to handle the close scrutiny and media properly. Until I figure out how to breathe again.