He wipes his mouth with his hand. “Maybe.”
Ryke looks over his shoulder every so often. His eyes dart between us, his expression too enigmatic to understand. If Matt trusts him, he can’t be any better than the Ninja Turtles.
Maybe I can cry instead of paying him. Don’t guys get really uncomfortable when girls start sobbing?
“So what are you supposed to be? Robin Hood?” Connor asks.
“Green Arrow,” I correct before Ryke can.
Ryke looks back, and he scrutinizes my costume, his intrusive gaze heating my body. “You know Green Arrow?” he finally asks, meeting my eyes.
“A little,” I mumble. “DC comics aren’t really my thing.” I like the underdog stories, the kind where any average person can be a superhero. Peter Parker, mutants—they know a little something about that.
“Only losers read DC,” Lo adds. Okay, I wouldn’t go that far.
“I don’t read comics,” Ryke confesses. “I’ve just seen Smallville on television. What does that make me?”
“A prick.”
Ryke’s eyebrows shoot up, surprised by the hostility. “I see.”
“For the record,” I interject, “I don’t agree with Lo. I’m not a comic book elitist.” Anyone can read comics, and if you don’t it’s perfectly okay to enjoy the characters in other mediums.
Lo makes a point to roll his eyes at me.
Ryke ignores my comment and turns to Connor who has gone quiet. “Why are you with these two? Aren’t you usually surrounded by a pack of people trying to kiss your ass?”
“I’m broadening my social reach.”
As we near the car, I realize I need to formulate a plan. But my brain short-circuits with each panicked breath. We step onto the street and the wind churns, blowing my hair. Connor’s limo hugs the curb.
“Where the hell is your car?” Ryke asks, eyes flickering cautiously to the house.
“Right here.” Connor knocks on the door and Gilligan, his driver, pops open the lock.
I motion for Lo to climb in before me. He sways on his feet, needing no other encouragement. When he’s safely on the leather seat, I begin to relax. Somewhat.
“Where’s your purse?” Connor asks. And then his eyes gradually widen. “Wait, you didn’t bring a purse, did you?”
“I-I…” I avoid Ryke. Is he going to shake me down? Hit me? His broad muscles tense, and I shrivel back in fear.
“What did you do?” Connor asks, horrified.
I open my mouth, but as I look up, I realize he didn’t address me. He glances from Ryke to the lawn where Ninja Turtles sprint out the door, dodging motionless zombies and heading straight for…us.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Get in the car,” Ryke urges.
I hop in too fast and whack my head against the metal frame. I curse under my breath and rub the welt, ducking further inside. Lo lies on the longest seat, eyes closed and cradling his flask like a teddy bear. I sit beside him and rest my hand on his ankles.
Connor enters and surprisingly, Ryke follows suit. He slams the door and locks it. “Drive!” he yells.
Gilligan speeds down the suburban street, and the Ninja Turtles race after our getaway limo, their figures visible in the brightness of the taillights. When we gain more and more distance, they slow to a stop and fade into the darkness.
I spin back, facing Connor and Ryke.
Connor says, “Let me guess. There was no fight inside the house.”
Ryke watches Lo wheeze in an unconscious sleep. “I made it up,” he admits, sounding detached. “Is he okay?”
“Wait.” I hold up my hands. “What’s going on? Why did you help us?” He was standing on the sidelines watching the drama play out. He could have easily stayed there, not made a move, not intervened. Instead, he created an elaborate lie to get the Ninja Turtles inside and us to safety. Random acts of kindness do not exist in my world. The only answer that makes sense—he wants to be friends with us, choosing a billion dollar net worth over twenty-five million like Connor said.
For the first time, Ryke unfastens his gaze from Lo. “You think I could stand around and watch Matt drunkenly grab a girl?”
“Lots of people would,” I mumble. His brows scrunch into something hard and dark, making me more reserved and cautious.
“Yeah? Then people fucking suck.” He glances back at Lo who hugs his flask. All of a sudden Ryke leans forward and snatches the flask from Lo’s fingers. He unscrews the cap and rolls down the window.
“What are you doing?” I say, frantic. I jump to the other seat and try to pry the flask back. “That’s not yours!” I struggle to reach for the alcohol, so he won’t dump out the liquid onto the dirtied roads.
Ryke effortlessly holds the flask away from me, but I angle my body against the open window, blocking him from any sort of exit. He stares at me like I’ve suddenly mutated into a lizard. “What’s your problem?”
“That’s not yours to trash!”
“Yeah? I take it that’s your boyfriend?”
I glare, not saying a word otherwise.
Connor watches curiously but only observes.
Ryke swishes the liquid. “This,” he says, “caused all the fucking drama today. So I’m doing him a favor, you a favor, and everyone else in this fucking limo a favor by tossing it out.” He goes for the window again, and I spider the door, my arms stretched out to stop him. He places a hand above mine—his body so close that I feel the rise and fall of his ribs against my chest. Oh God…
He tries to pass me by extending an arm towards the window, but I knock it away. Amber liquid splashes over the both of us. And I fight against him for the flask, but I end up dousing us in more alcohol. To end the struggle, he pins my arms to the cushion. “Stop,” he forces.
I glare at his hold. “How is this any different than Matt grabbing me?”
His jaw hardens to stone. “I’m trying to help your boyfriend.” With this, he eases off and rests his back against the seat.
My bare stomach is slick with alcohol, and heat rises to my face at the remembrance of my actions. I pick up Lo’s empty flask and slide onto my seat, my eyes still narrowing in distrust at Ryke. “Who are you?”
Connor’s eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t know him?”
I glare. “Should I?”
“This is Ryke Meadows, captain of the track team. Michael and Matt are on it as well.”
I inhale a strained breath. “So,” I turn my heated gaze on Ryke, “those are your track buddies?”
“Yeah,” Ryke says. He glances at Lo again and leaves his place to sit on the other side of my boyfriend.
“He’s fine,” I nearly shout. I know how to take care of Lo. I’ve been in this situation plenty of times to understand when he needs a hospital and when he needs water and a bed.
Ryke doesn’t take my word for it. He puts two fingers to Lo’s neck, checking his pulse.
Connor nods to me. “You knew he was drinking their expensive booze the whole time, didn’t you?”
Ryke’s brows cinch, and with the paint across his eyes, his expression looks even darker and angrier than before. “You didn’t stop him?” He shakes his head in disapproval.
A surge of guilt assaults me, and I hate it. I hate him for making me feel this. I’ve done everything I can to protect Lo from himself without being hypocritical. “I tried.” I warned Lo not to, but I couldn’t force him to stop. Not when I wanted sex as much as he craved alcohol.
“And does he always drink this much?”
What’s with the interrogation? I bite my lip, not able to form the words that boil. “It’s his twenty-first birthday.” Most people end their twenty-first passed out drunk, but Ryke looks as suspicious as before. He sees through me just like the gigolo had.
“That’s bullshit,” Connor says. “Lo hasn’t attempted to hide his problem from me. I’ve never seen him without booze.”
I turn my head from their judgment and tighten my hand on Lo’s ankle. “I just ne
ed to get him home.” Wake up, I want to scream at Lo. He left me here to clean his mess. Again.
Connor drops the subject and the limo silently bumps along the badly paved city streets. I feel Ryke’s sweltering emotions, his breathing heavy as he tries to come to terms with the situation. Every time I catch a glimpse of him, he looks like he could punch a wall. Or more accurately, go for a run.
When the limo slows outside of the Drake, I crawl beside Lo and hook my arms underneath his, lifting his heavy body against mine.
“Lo,” I whisper. Wake up! I can barely carry him into a shower. How the hell am I supposed to drag him to the elevator? Asking for help happens to be a foreign phrase for me, so I spend the next couple of minutes struggling to upright his body and scoot him towards the door.
Connor and Ryke climb from the limo and then my door whips open. Connor sticks his head in from outside. “Lily, move. We’ll carry him.”
“No, Lo wouldn’t want that.”
Ryke lowers his head into view. “And most guys wouldn’t want to be carried in by their girlfriend either.” I take that as a personal insult, even though he may not mean it as one.
“He’s not even coherent to care,” Connor says, as if that settles the matter. I can see I’m not going to win this one.
I slide from the seat, bracing the cold Philly air. And Connor dips into the limo. “You take his feet.”
Ryke positions himself outside the door, and they exchange directions to each other until Ryke is able to scoop Lo into his arms, carrying him rather easily. I wish Connor was the one to hold him. Something about Ryke puts me on edge.
Nevertheless, he cradles Lo. The picture should be comical since Lo wears red and black spandex, looking like a wounded X-Men. But I imagine Lo waking up and seeing Green Arrow assuredly holding him in his arms. He would freak out. And not in a fan-boy kind of way.
“Watch his head,” I instruct as we walk through the revolving doors.
“I have him.” Ryke marches into the lobby without breaking a sweat.
Even in the elevator, I watch Lo closely, upset at the course of events. I’ve never allowed someone else to carry or help him. That job has been mine for as long as I can remember. And maybe I have been horrible at it, but at least he’s still alive, breathing. Here. With me.
At the door, I find my keys and lead them into our place. My nerves jump again when I realize this may be the most testosterone to ever cross the threshold of my apartment. Maybe not. I did have that moment where I brought two guys home.
“You can put him on the bed.” I lead Ryke into Lo’s room and motion to the champagne comforter. He sets him down. While I untie Lo’s boots, he scans the decorations, the Comic-Con posters, the photographs and the tinted cabinets. The way he looks off—it’s strange, as though he’s never seen a guy’s room before.
“You two live together?” Ryke picks up a picture frame from the desk.
“She’s a Calloway.” Connor leans a hip on the door frame, arms crossed over his chest.
Ryke says, “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“My dad created Fizzle,” I explain.
“I know, that explains why Connor’s hanging around the two of you, but that has nothing to do with you two being together.” He puts the frame down.
Connor raises his hand. “Just to clarify, I actually kind of like these two. Never a dull moment.”
Ryke shrugs off his leather jacket that’s soaked in alcohol. “So you’re in a serious relationship with Lo?”
“What does it matter to you?”
His face twists in irritation. “Are you always this defensive with people who save your ass?”
Yes. Instead of admitting my faults, I answer his previous question. “He’s a childhood friend. We just started dating, but we’ve lived together since the start of college. Satisfied?”
“That’ll fucking do,” he says, picking up another frame.
Connor asks, “What time do you think Lo is going to be awake? He promised me that we’d go to the gym tomorrow.”
I sigh. “Promises from Lo are like bars at 2 a.m.—empty.” I open the desk drawer and find three bottles of Advil. I toss the bare container in the trash and dump four pills from the second bottle into my palm. Hurriedly, I fill a glass of water from the bathroom and place it beside the bed with the capsules.
“You do this a lot,” Ryke states.
I shut off the lights, not meeting his eyes and usher them into the living room. I wrap my body in a cream cotton blanket, hiding my hands that have begun to shake. While they choose the couch, I curl up in the red suede recliner.
Ryke soaks in the atmosphere from the cushions, inspecting the light fixtures, the unused fireplace and the Warhol-inspired polar bear prints. It’s like he’s constructing a person out of our things. I don’t like it.
“You both should leave. I’m kind of tired,” I say softly.
Connor stands. “Okay, but I’ll be here in the afternoon to pick up Lo for the gym. He may not keep his promises, but I collect on all offered to me.”
Ryke stands just as Connor leaves through the door. He continues to glance around, his eyes flitting over the kitchen, the bar stools, the bookshelves…
“Are you planning on stealing something?” I ask. “We really don’t have that many valuables here. You should try my parents’ house.”
Ryke’s face contorts. “You’re something, you know that?” His eyes narrow. “Just because I’m staring at your fucking lamp, doesn’t mean I’m going to hijack it.”
“If you’re not taking mental pictures to come back later, then what the hell are you doing?”
He cocks his head to the side and stares at me like I’m truly a moron. “I’m trying to get a sense for who you are.” He points to the fireplace mantel where a crystal vase sits, a house warming present from Poppy. “Rich.” He nods to the liquor bottles that litter the kitchen counters. “Alcoholic.” How can he form that conclusion from a few bottles?
My nose flares. “Get out.”
His eyes continue to narrow. “Does it hurt—hearing the truth? Has anyone told it to you before?”
I rarely ever become this worked up, but my chest rises with something foreign and furious. “You can’t look at things and understand us!”
“Yeah? I seem to have struck a chord. And I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m right.”
“What’s your problem?” I spit. “We didn’t ask for your help. If I knew you were going to be such a…” I growl, not able to form complete words at this point.
“A gorilla?” he banters. “A monkey? An ape?” He takes a step closer to me. I could punch him. I have never felt such hostility towards someone before.
“Leave me alone!” I shout, almost whining. I also hate the tone of my voice.
“No,” he says adamantly.
I clench my teeth, suppressing the urge to stomp my foot like a weirdo. “Why?”
“Because if you thought Lo was in serious trouble, I don’t think you’d do a thing about it. And that fucking pisses me off.” He looks me over. “So deal with me.” He moves backwards to the door. There’s a huge part of me that agrees with Ryke. I don’t know how to help Lo without hurting myself. And I’m too selfish to find a solution to his problems.
“I don’t ever want to see you again,” I say, honest and truthful.
“Well, that sucks for you,” Ryke tells me, turning the knob. “I’m fucking hard to get rid of.” With this, he leaves. And I want to scream. He’s that concerned about Lo’s well-being that he’s willing to see us a second time?
The door closes, and I try not to think about him. Maybe he said empty threats to force guilt on me. No one would inject themselves into another person’s business like this.
Then again, he stopped a fight that was not his to end. Clearly, he’s the type of guy to stick his nose where it does not belong.
Chapter Twenty-Three
As Ryke continues to plague my mind, I waste the rest of the ni
ght on porn and toys and drown in sweat and natural highs. We should have stayed home for Lo’s birthday like he wanted. I wish we had, and I won’t make the same mistake next year.
Every time I cuddle in my sheets, willing slumber, tears bridge and they flow uncontrollably. Being in a real relationship was supposed to fix the kinks in our lives. It should’ve made our problems easier. We no longer have to pretend. We can be ourselves. We’re free from one lie. Isn’t this the part where our love overcomes our addictions? Where our problems magically solve from a kiss and a promise?
Instead everything has trickled into the gutter. Lo drinks. I screw. And our schedules overlap and bypass too often, becoming more destructive than healthy.
No one told me you can love someone and still be miserable. How is that possible? And yet, the thought of walking away from Loren Hale collapses my lungs. We’ve been friends, allies, for so long that I don’t know who I am without him. Our lives intersect at every possible junction, and separating sounds like a fatal, irreparable cut.
But something is so wrong.
My wrist aches by the late morning, but I still pop in another DVD. The buzzer rings as I plop on my mattress. No. I am in no mood to entertain Connor. Also, I may jump his bones. My body stays riled, and I desperately need Lo. But his actions last night deserve little reward. Even if withholding hurts me more than him, he isn’t getting any anytime soon.
The buzzer lets out another aggravated wail. Great. Lo is still passed out.
I crawl from my sheets, throw on a T-shirt and sweat pants before I slam my thumb on the speaker button. “Hello?”
“Miss Calloway, I have a Mr. Cobalt here.”
“Send him up.”
I make coffee, hoping caffeine will make Connor look like an ugly hobbit that’s too ghastly to pounce on. Though, Frodo is kind of cute.
“Was that the buzzer?”
I nearly drop the cream.
Lo rubs his eyes, walking wearily to the cabinets, scavenging for saltines and bloody mary mix. His hair looks wet from a shower, and he only wears a pair of running pants that hang very low on his hips.
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