Addicted to You Read online

  Anyone (apparently Nola too) would assume that Lo has friends. On an attractiveness scale, he ranges right between a lead singer from a rock band you’d like to fuck and a runway model for Burberry and Calvin Klein. Although, he’s never been in a band, but Burberry did scout him once. They retracted the offer after seeing him drink straight from a nearly empty bottle of whiskey. Modeling agencies have standards too.

  Lo should have lots of friends. Mostly of the female kind. And usually they do come flocking. But not for long.

  The car travels along another street, and I count the minutes in my head. Lo angles his body towards me while his fingers brush my bare shoulder, almost lovingly. I make brief eye contact, my neck burning as his deep gaze enters mine. I swallow hard and try not to break it. Since we’re supposed to be dating, I shouldn’t be afraid of his amber eyes like an awkward, insecure girl.

  Lo says, “Charlie is playing sax tonight at Eight Ball. He invited us to go watch him.”

  “I don’t have plans.” Lie. A new club opened up downtown called The Blue Room. Literally, everything is said to be blue. Even the drinks. I’m not missing the opportunity to hook up in a blue bathroom. Hopefully with blue toilet seats.

  “It’s a date.”

  Silence (of the awkward variety) thickens after his words die in the air. Normally, I’d be talking to him about The Blue Room and my nefarious intentions tonight, making plans since I am his DD. But in the censored car, it’s more difficult to start R-rated conversations.

  “Is the fridge stocked? I’m starving.”

  “I just went to the grocery store,” he tells me. I narrow my eyes, questioning whether he’s lying to play the part of a good boyfriend or if he really did make a Whole Foods run. My stomach growls. At least we all know I didn’t lie.

  His jaw tightens, pissed that I don’t know a fib from a truth. Normally I do, but sometimes when he’s so nonchalant, the lines blur. “I bought lemon meringue pie. Your favorite.”

  I internally gag. “You shouldn’t have.” No, you really shouldn’t have. I hate lemon meringue. Obviously he wants Nola to think he’s an upstanding boyfriend, but the only girlfriend Loren Hale will ever treat well is his bottle of bourbon.

  We stop at a traffic light, now only a few blocks from the apartment complex. I can taste freedom, and Lo’s arm begins to feel more like a weight than a comforting appendage across my shoulders.

  “Was this a casual event, Miss Calloway?” Nola asks. What? Oh…shit. Her eyes plant on the muscle-tee I snatched from the frat guy’s floor. Stained and off-white with God knows what.

  “Umm, I-I,” I stammer. Lo stiffens next to me. He grips his thermos and chugs the rest of his drink. “I-I spilled some orange juice on my top. It was really embarrassing.” Was that even a lie?

  My face flames uncontrollably, and for the first time, I welcome the rash-like patches. Nola gazes sympathetically. She’s known me since I was too shy to say the Pledge of Allegiance in kindergarten. Age five and timid. Pretty much sums up my first years of existence.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” she consoles.

  The light flickers to green and she redirects her attention to the road.

  Unscathed, we make it to the Drake. A towering chestnut-brick structure juts up in the heart of the city. The historic 33-story complex boards thousands and teeters into a triangle at the apex. With Spanish Baroque influences, it looks a cross between a Spaniard cathedral and a regular old Philly hotel.

  I love it enough to call it home.

  Nola offers a goodbye and I tell her thanks before hopping from the Escalade. My feet no sooner hit the curb than Lo clasps his hand in mine. His other fingers run over the smoothness of my neck, and his eyes trail my collar. He sets his hands on the openings of my muscle shirt, touching the bareness of my ribs but also concealing my breasts from Philly pedestrians.

  He observes me. Every little movement. And my heart speeds. “Is she watching us?” I whisper, wondering why he suddenly looks like he wants to devour me. It’s part of our lie, I remind myself. This isn’t real.

  But it feels real. His hands on me. His warmth on my soft skin.

  He licks his bottom lip and leans closer to whisper, “In this moment, I’m yours.” His hands run through the armholes of my shirt and he settles them on my bare shoulder blades.

  I hold my breath and immobilize. I am a statue.

  “And as your boyfriend,” he murmurs, “I really hate to share.” Then he playfully nibbles my neck, and I smack him on the arm but fall victim to his teasing.

  “Lo!” I shriek, my body squirming underneath his teeth that lightly pinches my skin. Suddenly, his lips close together, kissing, sucking the base of my neck, and trailing upward. My limbs tremble, and I hold tightly to his belt loops. He smiles, in between each kiss, knowing the effect he has on me. His lips press to my jaw…the corner of my mouth...he pauses. And I restrain from taking him in my arms and finishing the job.

  Then he slips his tongue inside my mouth, and I forget about the fakeness of his actions and believe, for this moment, that he’s truly mine. I kiss back, a moan caught in my throat. The sound invigorates him, and he pushes closer, harder, rougher than before. Yes.

  And then I open my eyes and see the absence of the Escalade on the curb. Nola’s gone. I don’t want this to end, but I know it must. So I break the kiss first, touching my lips that swell.

  His chest rises and falls heavily, and he stares at me for a long moment, not detaching.

  “She’s gone,” I tell him. I hate what my body eagerly aches for. I could so easily hike a leg around his waist and slam him against the building. My heart flutters in excitement for it. I am not immune to those warm amber eyes, the ones that a functioning alcoholic like Lo carries. Endearing, glazed and powerful. The ones that constantly scream fuck me! That torture me from here until eternity.

  With my spoken words, his jaw hardens. Slowly, he peels his hands from me and then rubs his mouth. Tension stretches between us, and my very core says to jump, to pounce on him like a little Bengal Tiger. But I can’t. Because he’s Loren Hale. Because we have a system that cannot be disrupted.

  After a long moment, something clicks in his head, horrified. “Tell me you didn’t blow some guy.”

  Oh my God. “I…uh…”

  “Dammit, Lily.” He starts wiping his tongue with his fingers and dramatically takes what’s left of his flask and swishes it in his mouth, spitting it out on the ground.

  “I forgot,” I cringe. “I would have warned you…”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I didn’t know you were going to kiss me!” I try to defend. Or else I would have found toothpaste in that frat’s bathroom. Or some mouthwash.

  “We’re together,” he says back. “Of course I’m going to fucking kiss you.” With this, he pockets his flask and aims his sights on the entrance to the Drake. “I’ll see you inside.” He spins around, walking backwards. “You know, in our apartment. That we share, as a couple.” He smiles that bitter smile. “Don’t be too long, love.” He winks. And part of me utterly and completely crumbles to mush. The other part is just plain confused.

  Reading Lo’s intentions hurts my head. I trail behind, trying to unmask his true feelings. Was that pretend? Or was that real?

  I shake off my doubts. We’re in a three-year long fake relationship. We live together. He’s heard me orgasm from one room over. I’ve seen him sleep in his own puke. And even though our parents believe we’re one small step from engagement, we’ll never have sex again. It happened once, and that has to be enough.

  {2}

  I inspect the refrigerator’s contents. Champagne and expensive brands of rum cram in most space. I open a drawer and discover a pathetic bag of carrot sticks. As a girl who frequently burns off thousands of calories by grinding on pelvises, I need my protein. I’ve heard enough mean comments about my emaciated figure to wish for meat on my ribs. Girls can be cruel.

  “I can’t believe you lied ab
out groceries,” I say, irritable. I slam the fridge closed and jump on the counter. For however historic the Drake claims to be, the inside looks more like a modern escape. White and silver appliances. White countertops. White ceilings and walls. If it wasn’t for our red and gray upholstered furniture and framed Warhol-inspired art décor, we’d be living in a hospital.

  “If I knew I was going to make a pit stop at Douchebag Row, I would have bought you a bagel at Lucky’s.”

  I glare. “You ate this morning?”

  He gives me a duh look. “Breakfast burrito.” He pinches my chin, still taller than me even though I’m on the counters. “Don’t look so glum, dear. I could have always stayed at the diner while you found your own way home. Want me to rewind time?”

  “Yes and while you’re leaving me to escape the frat house, you can go and pick up groceries like you told Nola.”

  He sets his hands on either side of me, my breath hitching. “I change my mind. I don’t like that reality.” I want him to lean in, but instead, he edges back and starts gathering liquor bottles from the white cabinets. “Nola needs to think I feed you, Lil. You’re looking a bit skeletal. When you breathe, I think I can see your ribs.” Boys can be cruel. He pours whiskey into a square glass beside me.

  I purse my lips and open a cabinet above his head. When I slam it, he flinches and spills whiskey all over his hands.

  “Jesus.” He finds a towel to dab up the puddle of alcohol. “Did Mr. Kappa Phi Delta not do his job?”

  “He was just fine.”

  “Just fine,” Lo says, his eyebrows rising. “What every guy loves to hear.”

  Red welts surface on my exposed arms.

  “Your elbows are blushing,” he tells me, a smile growing as he re-pours. “You’re like Violet from Willy Wonka, only you ate a magic cherry.”

  I groan. “Don’t talk about food.”

  He leans over, and I stiffen. Oh my… Instead of taking me in his arms—something I imagine in a momentary lapse of weakness—he brushes the bareness of my leg while grabbing his cell from the charging dock. I immobilize again. The touch barely fazes him, but my insides ripple in eagerness and want. If he was a no-named, redhead with splotchy acne, I may still feel this way. Maybe.

  Maybe not.

  My fantasy tangles: Lo keeping his fingers on my knee. Roughly leaning over me, trapping me beneath his weight. My back arching against the cabinets—

  “I’ll order pizza if you go take a shower. You smell like sex, and I’m reaching my limit of inhaling foreign male stench.”

  My stomach collapses, and my fantasy poofs into reality. I hate picturing Lo and me unchastely together because when I wake up, he stands inches from me, and I wonder if he can tell. Can he?

  I scrutinize him while he sips his whiskey. After a lingering moment of silence, his brows scrunch and he looks at me like what the hell? “Am I going to have to repeat myself?”

  “What?”

  He rolls his eyes and takes a large swig, not even grimacing as the sharpness of the alcohol slides its way down. “You, shower. Me, pizza. Tarzan eat Jane.” He bites my shoulder.

  I ease back. “You mean Tarzan likes Jane?” I hop off the counter, about to go wash off the frat house from my skin.

  Lo mockingly shakes his head. “Not this Tarzan.”

  “Alcohol makes you mean,” I say casually.

  He raises his glass in agreement while I pad down the hallway. Our spacious two bedroom apartment masquerades as our lover’s den. Pretending to be together for three years hasn’t been simple, especially since we started the ruse as seniors in high school. When we decided on the same college, our parents actually proposed our living situation. They’re not very conservative, but even so, I doubt they’d understand or agree with my lifestyle, bedding more guys than is appropriate for a young girl.

  My mother cited my eldest sister’s college experience as reason enough to share a space with my “boyfriend.” Poppy’s random roommate brought friends over at all hours, even during finals week, and she used to leave her dirty clothes (including panties) on my sister’s desk chair. Her inconsiderate behavior was enough for my mother to settle on off-campus housing for me and push Lo right into my bedroom.

  It’s worked out for the most part. I remember a weight rising off my chest once the doors shut and my family was gone. Leaving me alone. Letting me be.

  I step into the quaint-sized bathroom and shimmy off my clothes. Once in the steaming hot shower, I exhale. The water washes away the smell and grime, but my sins are here to stay. The memories don’t vanish, and I desperately try not to imagine this morning. Waking up. I love the sex. It’s the after part that I haven’t quite figured out yet.

  I squirt shampoo on my hand and lather it in my short brown locks. Sometimes I picture the future. Loren Hale working for his father’s Fortune 500 company, dressed in a tight fitting suit that chokes at the collar. He’s sad. I never see him smile in my imagined futures. And I wouldn’t know how to rectify it. What does Loren Hale love? Whiskey, bourbon, rum. What can he possibly do past college? …I see nothing.

  Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not a fortune teller.

  I’ll stick to what I know. The past—where Jonathan Hale brought Lo to informal golf games with my father in attendance. Me by his side. They discussed what they always do. Stock, ventures and product placements for their respective trademarked brands. Lo and I played Star Wars with our golf clubs, and they chided us when I bruised Lo’s ribs, swinging my light saber too haphazardly and too hard.

  Lo and I could have been friends or enemies. We always saw each other. At boring conference waiting rooms. In offices. At charity galas. In prep school. Now college. What could have turned into a cootie-driven relationship with constant teasing transformed into something more clandestine. We shared all secrets, forming a club with a two-person quota. Together, we discovered superheroes in a small comics shop in Philly. Something about Havoc’s galactic adventures and Nathaniel Grey’s time-traveling plights connected with us. At times, not even Cyclops or Emma Frost could fix our troubles, but they’re still there, reminding us of more innocent times. Ones where Lo wasn’t boozing and I wasn’t sleeping around. They allow us to revisit those warm, unadulterated moments, and I gladly return.

  I finish scrubbing last night’s debauchery from my body and slip my arms in a terry cloth robe. I cinch it around my waist as I head into the kitchen.

  “Pizza?” I ask sadly, noticing the bare counters. Technically they’re anything but bare, but I’ve become so desensitized to Lo’s liquor bottles that they might as well be invisible or another kitchen appliance.

  “It’s on its way,” he says. “Stop giving me those doe eyes. You look like you’re about to cry.” He leans against the fridge, and I subconsciously eye the zipper to his jeans. I imagine his gaze on the strap to my robe. I don’t look up to ruin the image. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

  “I’m not sure.” I have a one-track mind, and it doesn’t involve food.

  “That’s discomforting, Lil.”

  “I eat,” I defend poorly. I see him pulling my robe in my fantasy. Maybe I should drop it for him. NO! Don’t do it, Lily. I finally look up and he watches me so carefully that my face immediately begins to heat.

  He smiles into a sip of his glass. When he brings it down, he licks his lips. “Do you want me to unbutton them, love, or should I wait for you to get on your knees first?”

  I gape, mortified. He saw right through me. I’m so obvious!

  With his free hand, he pushes his button through the hole and slowly unzips, showing the hem of his black tight boxer-briefs. He watches my breathing go in and out, jagged and sporadic. Then he takes his hands off his jeans and leans his elbows on the counter. “Did you brush your teeth?”

  “Stop,” I tell him, way too raspy. “You’re killing me.” Seriously, my entire body, not just my lungs, hyperventilates.

  His cheekbones sharpen, his jaw locking. He sets his drink dow
n and then zips up his jeans, fishing the button back through.

  I swallow hard and tensely hop on the gray wooden bar stool. With shaky fingers, I run them through my tangled, wet hair. To stop replaying the moment, I pretend it never happened and go back to our earlier conversation. “It’s a little difficult to constantly stuff my face when we never have food here.” We eat out way too often.

  “I don’t think you have a problem stuffing your face,” he says, “just not with food.”

  I bite my gums and flip him off. His words would hurt more from anyone else. But Lo has his own issue that rests in the palm of his hand. Everyone can see it, and as I glance between him and the drink, his crooked smile hardens. He presses the rim of the glass to his lips and turns his back on me.

  I don’t talk to Lo about feelings. About how it makes him feel to watch me bring home a different guy every night. And he doesn’t ask me how it feels to watch him drown into oblivion. He stifles his judgment and I withhold mine, but our silence draws tension between us, inescapable. It pulls so taught that sometimes I just want to scream. But I keep it inside. I hold back. Every comment that undercuts our addictions fractures the system in place. The one where we both live being free to do as we please. Me, bedding any guy. Him, drinking all of the time.

  The buzzer rings beside the door. Pizza?! I beam and head over to the speaker box in the foyer, pressing the button. “Hello?”

  “Miss Calloway, you have a guest downstairs. Should I send her up?” says the female security attendant.

  “Who?”

  “Your sister, Rose.”

  I internally groan. No pizza. Time to pretend with Lo again—even though he’s fond of keeping up the charade when no one’s around, just to taunt me. “Send her up.”

  Lo goes into roadrunner mode and zips around the kitchen, shutting liquor bottles into locked cabinets, pouring his drink into a tinted blue cup. I click the remote and the flat-screen TV blinks to an action flick. Lo plops on the gray-stitched sofa and kicks his feet onto the glass coffee table, acting like we’ve been immersed in the movie for the past half hour.