Addicted_A Good Girl Bad Boy Rockstar Romance

by Zoey Oliver

  “Well, whatever he was, he saved our asses. I heard that right after we left, the cops shut the whole damn thing down. Lizzie is pissed. Not to mention, two of the sorority girls were already called in for disciplinary hearings today because they got arrested, and at least four other people are being kicked out of school.”

  I walk stiffly over to my closet, pulling a cotton dress off a hanger with shaky fingers. What am I going to do? I feel so humiliated. So betrayed.

  My memories flicker in my mind in a brief montage: Lizzie and Claudia laughing at me, Emma laughing at me on the stairs, Lonnie and Babs laughing at me. Everybody's laughing at me.

  Everybody except Serena, and I don't even know what she thinks. I presume there's more the video, they are probably laughing at her too.

  “My parents are coming to get me in two hours,” she informs me through clenched teeth. “This is only the start, Kita. Who knows whatever else they are going to put on the web. Do you have somewhere to go?”

  I shake my head. I don't know what to do. I want to take a shower, but I can’t imagine showering here anymore. I can imagine doing anything here. I need to…

  I don’t know what.

  And then I look down, unfolding my cramped fingers. My hand has been in a fist since I walked through the door. The brass key glimmers against my palm. My skin is raised around its edges, almost as though the key is becoming part of me.

  “Kita? You okay?”

  “I really don't know if I’m okay,” I reply in a shaky voice that sounds almost like it’s coming from someone else. “But I think I know where I'm going.”

  Chapter 6

  Daniel

  After I drop Kita off, I watch the front of the house for a few minutes. I want to make sure she gets inside okay, but I also want to make sure that she doesn't come right back out.

  That's not going to happen, I tell myself. You need to get going. Do something else.

  Forget this ever happened.

  I drive away, not really sure where I’m going. I need to think about something else, find something positive to focus on. Why am I acting like this? I don’t usually run around telling women what to do. But something about her makes me want to guide her, keep her close and safe.

  About a half-mile away from the warehouse district, there are a cluster of primary education groups. The director of one came to me for startup funds a few years ago, right after I sold my workout app. Soon after, the other three came to me as well. They didn’t need much, and I was happy to help.

  The workout app made that all possible. That was a strange experience. After a career in the military, wallowing in top-secret data and keeping so many confidences that I sometimes couldn't even think straight, the thing people really wanted from me was exercise. Military style workouts, rolled up into an app that people could keep on their phones, keeping track of their progress as they went along. That thing took off at just the right time, and I was left with so much money that I felt guilty.

  Educating preschoolers and grade schoolers is basically the exact opposite of what I've spent my adult life doing. I roll the car to the curb and just get out to watch the kids in the enclosed playground area. I hired a group of architects and engineers from the University to create a playground that is stimulating mentally and physically, to support some of the work this particular group is doing with autism spectrum kids. Seems like physical activity has some positive effect on the more drastic symptoms of ADHD as well.

  It is sort of gratifying, watching these kids run around, screaming their heads off. Not that different than the kids that I was with back in basic training. These kids could've easily dropped through the cracks before they even got old enough to enlist. Now, by all accounts, they're doing great. Thriving.

  It's nice to know that I can do something positive with my life.

  For a moment I consider going in, maybe just walking through and saying hello to the woman who runs this place, but for what? Do I really need that kind of affirmation? Is that what I'm looking for?

  No, I’m not going to interrupt her day just to inflate my ego. It’s time I got going.

  On my way back to my house, I swing by the technology incubator. Just a square-shaped, four-story building that I bought from the city when it was in danger of being knocked down. Now it's got fourteen companies ranging from one to twelve people all working on apps, computer programs, basic technology services. Eighty people work in this building every day, keeping this part of the city moving, supporting the small grocery stores and haircut places and the taco take-out joints.

  I could probably go in there too, get my dose of gratitude to fluff up my ego a little bit. But that also seems pathetic.

  When the garage door rolls up, Freddie stands up straight from under the hood of my ’64 Mustang, wiping his hands on oil rag and nodding at me respectfully. I park the Mercedes in the line and wave at him in greeting. He gives me an abbreviated salute and bends down again, probably changing the oil or air filter or something like that. Basically, something to do, something for him to keep busy. I've got ten cars that he keeps in tip-top shape, and he still doesn't have very much to do.

  That's pretty much it; that's my life. All the money I made helps a brigade of other people live from day to day. Maybe it makes some basic improvements in people's lives, but is that enough?

  I still have more money than I could ever spend. I’ve gotten my thumbprints all over the city to the extent where buying anything else just seems like showing off. Is that it?

  I really have to wonder, as I walk through this completely silent house. There's nothing here to hold me. It looks like a large-scale hotel room, like nobody even lives here. The sofa looks the same as it did when I picked it up off the showroom floor. Everything is in its place, because nobody ever touches it.

  Even making breakfast for Kita this morning has made a notable small difference in the house. It smells like I cooked here, because I did. Pancakes, too, which is not something I would normally indulge in. Too many carbs, not really the sort of thing a fitness instructor indulges in. But I was happy to do it for her, because I just wanted to make her happy. Standing in front of the refrigerator, I considered about fourteen kinds of protein smoothie or dairy free, fruit-based energy drink and finally just realized that a young woman that age would really prefer pancakes.

  I can still smell the oil in the air, and her chair is still slightly askew from its usual place. That's actually sort of nice.

  I remember her standing there, trying not to be seen in the archway into the kitchen. As soon as she appeared and I realized she was wearing my shirt, my core trembled with excitement. It was so familiar, such an intimate gesture that I couldn't help but savor that thrill, something I hadn't felt in years and years.

  But I can't think about that, I remind myself. She's gone, and it's for the best. The last thing someone her age needs is some 40-year-old man… some old man… bossing her around and managing her details. Which is what I would do, I know it.

  But she looked so beautiful. I can think about it for just a moment more, can't I? Those tiny, graceful steps she tentatively took into the kitchen. The elegant, strong lines of her legs and back... clearly she is someone who was trained as an athlete at some point. But her hands are soft now, not calloused. I don't think she's doing anything at the present time. The pads of her fingers are pink and almost translucent, like a doll’s. When I pressed the key into her palm, her hand fit so neatly between my hands, I didn't want to let her go.

  It reminds me of when I pulled her out of that bar, picking her up so effortlessly and holding her to me like a doll. She awoke something inside me, something primal and undeniable. I want to keep her there, gathered to my chest, where she is safe from those other girls. She seems to fit there, as though I am a lock and she is a key. Now that she is no longer here, I feel empty again.

  Just like that, she is gone. Everything is back to the way it was, where I'm the only sound in the space. Just me and maybe the ref
rigerator. Maybe the computer. That's it. Only my footsteps.

  That and more money than I could spend. What am I supposed to do, just keep giving it away to strangers? Is that really going to be fulfilling? Or am I going to look back in ten years and realize that I frittered away a fortune because I was too stubborn to reach out to another person in a personal way?

  I wonder if I could run into her again. I could make an effort, become more of a part of campus life. I already know what people might think of me, that it's strange to have someone my age who is not truly affiliated with the school skulking around the perimeter, keeping an eye on things for no good reason. Maybe that's just my nature, to keep watch.

  I could move closer. I could look for more real estate located around the sorority house. I'm definitely going to be looking into their bandwidth footprints. That's been the easiest way to target and identify misbehavior so far. Maybe even reach out to some of my contacts and see if there's more information on the street.

  I have to do something. The void that she has left inside me seems so wide I can practically hear wind rushing through it.

  The chime of the doorbell almost makes me jump, jolting me out of my daydream. Normally, deliveries come to the side door, and Freddie just signs for them. Someone at the front door is probably wanting to sell me something or trying to save my soul, perhaps.

  When I open the front door, she stares up at me, blinking, her expression impossible to read. Hopeful? Brave? Stubborn?

  She is standing there in a cotton dress, something she obviously feels a lot more comfortable in than my shirt. It scoops just under her collarbones with short sleeves and a pretty print of blue flowers. Still, I can see her toes working inside her flat shoes, belying her nervousness.

  She clears her throat.

  Her fingers push her hair behind her ears.

  Her lips open and close, but nothing comes out.

  “Kita,” I finally say, “do you want to come in?”

  I see her swallow several times, and she nods, eyes downcast. She walks in the front door. She shifts from foot to foot as her eyes flicker around the dimly lit foyer area. I close the door behind her, aware of what a solid sound it makes.

  “Are you all right? Is everything okay?”

  She nods quickly, but won't meet my eye as she bites her lips together and looks away. I realize her hands are trembling.

  “Kita? What is it?”

  Startled, she turns to me. She takes a step forward, and before I know it she has wrapped her arms around me. Automatically I hold her to me as she quakes, quietly crying, shaking and unable to speak.

  Chapter 7

  Kita

  Daniel doesn't ask me to explain, and I don't think I could have put it into words anyway. As soon as he opens the door it is though a wind picks me up from behind, pushing me into the house and into him.

  Somehow, in his arms, everything makes at least a little bit more sense. I don’t know why, but once I’m there I can let go a little bit and my emotions overwhelm me. I find myself trembling and whimpering in his arms, unable to hold back any longer.

  He strokes my hair automatically, supporting me with a strong arm behind my shoulders. I let myself be weak in his arms and he holds me up until I'm done.

  But then, embarrassment comes back to me. What am I doing? Here I am, crying like a little kid. It’s just stupid, really. I should be able to handle this.

  “I'm so sorry,” I mumble as I push myself away, noticing the egg-shaped splotch of wetness on his shirt that my tears left. At least my nose isn’t running. At least I'm not that kind of a mess.

  “It's quite all right,” he says in a low, comforting rumble. Just the sound of his voice is so thick and deep it's like honey. Like caramel. Just hearing those words really does make me feel better.

  “It's just, I didn't know where else to go…”

  “Come and sit down,” he says, tugging me by my hand. I follow him obediently to the sofa and curl up in the corner of it, pulling a throw pillow over my middle and hugging it tightly.

  “Can I make you some tea?” he asks me, his face a mask of concern. I nod gratefully, thankful for the tea as much as for a couple minutes to collect myself.

  As he walks back into the kitchen, I can't help but notice the strength and grace of his movements. Reminds me of the dancers and gymnasts my mother knew. I wonder if he can dance.

  Wait, what am I thinking? Who cares if he can dance?

  I'm being ridiculous.

  “Honey?” he calls from the kitchen, and I flinch in surprise. Some part of me seems to think he's calling me honey, and a bubble of giddiness bursts in my chest.

  No, stupid, I tell myself. He's asking you if you want honey in your tea. Don't be a dope.

  “Yes, please,” I call out, my voice reedy and weak in the large space.

  And suddenly, I realize how ridiculous this is. Why am I here? I just show up on his door like an orphan? What must he think of me?

  But in a few moments, he returns to the sofa with a tray holding a steaming mug of tea and a small plate with more berries on it. From the looks of him, so fit and strong, he is probably one of those healthy-eating people. I like that. I was raised that way, before I had to go into foster care and learn how to eat Cheetos and French fries as a whole meal. Berries and yogurt… roasted vegetables and cucumber salads and briskets… that’s the way I prefer to eat.

  “Here… careful, it's hot,” he says as he hands me the mug then settles a safe distance away on the sofa. His eyes are hazel green, I notice as he peers at me intently. It's hard to look at them directly, but I sneak small glances, just to assure myself that he's not angry with me for returning so quickly.

  “I’m very glad to see you again,” he finally mumbles, brushing away my remaining concerns. “I was troubled by your return to the sorority. That's not the right place for you. Did you say that you do not have access to campus housing?”

  I shake my head slowly, realizing in hindsight what a mistake that was. I was happy to decline campus housing in favor of the sorority when I made my application. Now, the decision seems like a bad one.

  “Do your foster parents live close by? Could you perhaps commute?”

  I clear my throat. I'm not even sure I’m ready to talk about this, and I don't really have a plan for the future to discuss with him. My big plan for my life until an hour ago was to pledge Chi Rho Pi and make the Dean’s list, then program apps the rest of my life.

  After finding out about the video, my revised plan consisted of marching my feet in the direction of this house. I don't know what happens after this.

  But he doesn't seem like the sort of person who does anything without a plan, so I scramble in my mind, trying to put something together.

  “Because I'm over eighteen,” I begin, placing the words together like beads on a string as they come to me, “I don't have a home to go back to. Once you're a legal adult, the foster system needs that vacancy, so…”

  My voice trails off. He says nothing, just exhales slowly through his nose. But I feel as though he's working it out, puzzling a solution with a flurry of activity behind his calm exterior.

  “I'm honored that you trusted me enough to return,” he says quietly. His eyes search mine as though calculating the risk he's taking me by telling me that. “What would you like to do next?”

  My mouth opens and closes.

  “I'll just…” I take a deep breath. I count to three, then to five. As I squint into my imaginary future, nothing materializes. It’s all just fog. “I just need a little time to think. I just… oh, this is stupid, isn't it? I should probably just go back —”

  “Don't go!” he barks sharply, startling me. I push myself back further into the corner of the sofa and he advances, but only an inch or two.

  He raises his hands, palms out, in a gesture of innocence. “I'm sorry, that came out wrong,” he admits. “What I meant to say is, I think you're doing the right thing. I think you should distance yourself f
rom them. Going back there would be a mistake.”

  “But I really don't have anywhere else to go,” I stammer, afraid that my voice will crack again, that I'll start crying again. “There’s school… all my friends… all my things are there…”

  “Not a problem,” he shrugs.

  I shake my head. It does not make any sense.

  “What's not a problem?” I ask. Did not just tell him all my problems, literally?

  He smirks as though he's figured out the answer to a riddle before I did. “I can have all your things here in two hours, would you like that?”

  “I… really don't know what you're talking about,” I say cautiously.

  “Do you remember my driver? Freddie? I’ll have him retrieve your things. It's not a problem.”

  He nods, obviously pleased with himself. But I feel a little irritated, if I'm telling the truth. He looks just the tiniest bit smug about the situation.

  “Okay, I don't know if I really need somebody to, you know… take over or whatever,” I start.

  His expression darkens. “That's not what I'm trying to do,” he mutters.

  I just let him think about it for a few seconds. His eyes focus on the back of his knuckles as his brow furrows for a few moments. Just by looking at him, I start to really wonder what's going on inside his head. There must be a whole room full of people talking in there. He seems to think quite a bit before he speaks.

  Actually, I sort of like that. That's very different from most people I know.

  “Tell me,” he begins again. “What changed your mind?”

  I feel my cheeks get hot as I remember the video Serena showed me. Lizzie's face, twisted into a sneer. Those boys staring at me like I was some kind of a piece of meat. The one who slid his hand up my thigh…