Ricochet (Addicted #1.5)

by Krista Ritchie

  “Getting rid of me?” I joke. “Am I not that fun?”

  She smiles. “I just don’t want to leave you here alone. I’m the one who asked you to come, after all. And it may take me awhile to escape the punch bowl.” She nods to the big tub full of red liquid and sliced pineapples. “See Jack over there.” I spot the black-haired, European guy that I noticed before.

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s a talker. I can’t ever get away from him, and I feel guilty when I try. It’ll take me probably ten minutes.”

  “I can come save you,” I suggest.

  She shakes her head and tucks her hair behind her ear. “No, no. I have it handled. Have fun. Mingle,” she tells me again. As if mingling is the solution. It is not.

  My palms sweat and my nerves jostle as she disappears. I really want to go follow her, but she basically said do not follow me, Lily. Didn’t she? I swallow down my anxiety and accidentally lock eyes with a dark-skinned model, his biceps bulging as he sets two palms on the alcohol table.

  I bite my fingernails, losing control. Maybe I should try to calm myself. Go off and do my own thing. Find someone…Bret…

  No.

  My body thrums with the usual cravings that I’ve denied myself for seven whole days. The only thing that will satiate the nerves, the fear, and everything that balloons my dizzy head is sex.

  Sex is the solution.

  But instead of picking a male model to throw myself at, I focus on the bathroom. Go there and you’ll feel better, I think. Over and over. I don’t need a boy. I can help myself.

  So I head to the bathroom in the little hallway. After waiting in a semi-long line, I lock the door and settle on the toilet seat. I try to remind myself that I accomplished this ritual in far grosser places. I wiggle my shorts and panties to my ankles.

  I take a small breath and relax and find the throbbing spot with my fingers. Closing my eyes, I drift into my mind, transporting myself from this party to other steamier places.

  I picture Lo. I recreate a not-too-distant memory where we were together for real.

  The lights had dimmed; the movie trailers had ended, and the opening credits were rolling. In the blackness, I tried not to concentrate on Lo’s heavy breath, the way his arm and leg pressed firmly into mine. His eyes fixed to the screen, not acknowledging the aching tension with a look towards me. Instead, his right hand skillfully roamed my leg, silently telling me to focus on the film. Even if the theater was empty, being secluded in the back row did not help ease my desires.

  His hand rubbed the bareness of my knee, edging closer to my thigh with each passing minute. I squeezed them tight, the tension mounting with unbearable slowness. I inhaled shallow, sharp breaths, waiting for the inevitable plunge of his fingers, wanting so much more.

  He was such a tease. That has never changed.

  His hand drifted up and up. Under my skirt, touching the soft fabric of my panties. My mouth fell open as his finger brushed the pulsing spot. So light. Not enough force or pressure. I squirmed and ached and resisted the urge to cry out for more.

  Silence. Darkness. The fear of being caught. That was the tantalizing atmosphere we were playing with. I swallowed hard, keeping my head towards the screen, but the images flashed blankly at me. I was lost in these deep, deep feelings.

  My heart quickened in fear at the thought of someone walking in. Ushers randomly checked the theater, and I didn’t want to be banned or arrested. But I lost the strength to say no the moment his palm caressed my knee and slid upwards.

  I sunk low in my seat and covered my eyes with my hand. My head naturally started tipping backwards as his fingers stroked my wet, sensitive mound.

  “Lo,” I cried in a soft breath, a little choked.

  His parted lips brushed my ear so slowly I nearly came right there. And then he whispered, “Stay still. Don’t moan.”

  I needed him to fill me. And as if on cue, his fingers dove inside, his thumb making circles on my clit. A breath caught in my throat. Don’t moan. Ohhh…

  The comedy in the background wasn’t loud enough to drown out future noises that I knew would come. No way could I inhale these sounds. One already escaped, sharp and unrestrained.

  He no longer focused on the film. His lips skimmed the nape of my neck, but the darkened theater masked his movements. I just felt him. The fullness of his lips, the way his arm brushed against my breast, pulsing his fingers in a toxic rhythm.

  I felt the climax coming like riding up the hill on a rollercoaster. Take me, I wanted to scream. I held it in. I swallowed my moans and gripped the armrest to my left. My mouth opened as he hit the right spot. I bucked a little, my toes curling and a layer of sweat gathering.

  Oh no.

  Instinctively, I clenched my legs tight together, putting his hand in an uncomfortable vice, anything to subdue the sounds that were about to leak from my lips and get us caught.

  He kissed my temple and then whispered, “I need my hand, love.”

  My eyes were shut tight, and I shook my head repeatedly. No, no, no. If I was supposed to come without screaming then he couldn’t do that right now. I had to…compose myself first. An insane part of me thought about removing his hand altogether and straddling his waist, getting something more substantial to feed this need.

  His free hand gently skimmed my neck, and then his lips met mine, kissing so deeply and so hard that the insane part of me won out. I wanted his cock inside of me, completely, and I didn’t give a damn about where I was. Hurriedly, I reached over to undo his zipper, fumbling in the dark for the entry.

  His lips detached from mine, and he snatched my wrist to stop me. He leaned into my ear once more, his breath tickling my sensitive skin. “I want my other hand first.”

  I hesitated for a brief second before I relaxed my thighs and relieved the pressure from his hand. I went back to searching for his zipper, but then Lo pushed his fingers faster and harder inside of me.

  My eyes fluttered, my back arched, and the cry I had been avoiding came out like I had reached the pinnacle of all pinnacles.

  Tricky bastard.

  I thought that was it, but he kept his fingers in place, and my whole body skyrocketed again. And again. I leaned forward from the sudden waves, and clutched his hard bicep and cotton shirt, his arm still pressed strongly against my chest, gliding down below, disappearing between my legs. Just thinking about the way he was inside of me sent me spiraling.

  He slid his free hand over my mouth, blocking out the noises that persisted and rocked through me. One after the other. My body shuddered and wouldn’t let up. Not when he would shift a little, touching a place that put me into a new tailspin.

  Any fear of an onlooker was drowned by the ecstasy that filled my head. Clinging to him in desperation. In vital, palpable need.

  I no longer craved for something more. He was enough.

  “Lily!” Yes.

  “LILY!” The door bangs with an angry sound. No.

  My eyes snap open back to the present moment. The house party. I’m in the bathroom, my forehead sweaty. My eyes had been halfway rolled in the back of my head, almost about to climax with the memory.

  I have yet to hit my sweet spot. The tension burns, but Ryke’s voice scares me enough to jump off the toilet like it zapped me. I hurry and dress. “Coming!” I tell him and cringe almost immediately. Really? I couldn’t choose any other word?

  “I hope not,” Ryke says, his voice so close that I picture him leaning a shoulder against the door frame.

  My cheeks welt in an ugly red. I wash my hands with plenty of soap and peek at the mirror. Besides my flushed face, I look presentable. So far, I’ve been trying to eliminate porn from my life, not fantasies. I shouldn’t be ashamed, but my stomach knots anyway.

  That memory I focused on, I love. Because I later found out that Lo had paid the manager for a private screening of the movie, buying each and every ticket that would have filled the theater. He planned to arouse me. He planned to satiate my needs in a
new way. Maybe Rose would call that enabling, but right now, it’s one of the sweeter memories in my spank bank.

  As soon as I open the door, a girl with jet-black hair mumbles, “bitch,” and barrels ahead, shoving me into the nearby wall. Okay, that was not necessary. She slams the door, and then I glance up to see the aggravated, curving line of guys and girls—hands on their hips, eyes in tight glares.

  My rash-like flush burgeons across my arms. Hopefully they believe I was puking up the punch, not fingering myself.

  And when I turn slightly, I find Ryke, leaning on the wall just as I pictured. His arms are crossed and he scrutinizes me with hard, piercing eyes. His brown hair is styled nicely, giving these models a run for their money. He’s also slightly unshaven, which makes him appear older and tougher. He gives me a long once-over, as if trying to spot the stain of debauchery.

  I ignore him and head towards the living room, knowing he’ll follow. I’m not surprised when I feel his presence like an annoying, unwanted shadow. When I reach the kitchen, he puts his hand on my shoulder, spinning me around to meet his accusatory eyes, as though I’ve already fucked up.

  Maybe I have. I don’t know anything anymore. I wish someone could give me a guide on what exactly I’m supposed to do, but no one seems to know. My addiction isn’t fucking normal. That’s the problem.

  “You look like shit,” he starts off.

  “Thank you,” I say dryly. “If that’s what you scurried all across the city for, then mission accomplished. You can leave me alone now.”

  “Why do you do that?” he snaps.

  “Do what?” I do a lot of things. As does he.

  “Act like I’m a fucking rat, scurrying.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe because you lied to me for months.” He could have told me he was Lo’s brother. I feel just as duped as my boyfriend, but the difference is I don’t let things go as easily. Not when Ryke is a rash I can’t medicate.

  He rolls his eyes and says, “Get over it.”

  I hate him. “Okay.” I flash an irritated half-smile. “I’m over it.” I try to pass him to go find my sister.

  He sighs exasperatedly and grabs my arm to stop me. “Wait. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know your relationship with Lo. I couldn’t trust you with that information. Would you have told him?”

  I pause, hesitating. I’m not sure. Maybe. I look up at him with furrowed brows, understanding his reservations. “I still don’t like you,” I always remind him.

  “You’re not growing on me either.” His eyes flit around the room. “I couldn’t find Daisy. I looked for like ten fucking minutes.” He runs a hand through his hair, antsy.

  I inhale a sharp breath. “Do you even remember what she looks like?”

  “I’ve seen enough pictures,” he tells me. “Tall. Really fucking tall. Your green eyes. The Calloway brown hair. Too skinny and no boobs. About right?”

  I glare even though it’s almost all accurate. Per her modeling agency’s request, she dyed her hair a light brown-blonde last week. “She’s fifteen,” I say roughly.

  He shrugs. “Maybe she’ll get boobs then.”

  I stare at him blankly, trying to find words that represent my emotions right now. I blink.

  Nope, there are none.

  So I land on my usual phrase. “You’re such an asshole.”

  He never denies it. “Let’s just find your sister and go. We can watch the ball drop at your house.” He doesn’t rub it in my face that I ruined his plans for tonight. Who knows what type of woman he planned to meet up with and screw afterwards. I have avoided seeing Ryke in his natural habitat. It’s a part of him that I plan to keep very, very far away. Because that would mean we’re friends. And we are not friends. We’re just two people who happen to coexist on occasion and see each other around. That’s it.

  I scan the area, pushing through the kitchen and towards the crowded dance floor. I don’t see her anywhere. Not even by the punch bowl that’s littered with picturesque male models. I trace their biceps with my gaze, their muscles spindling underneath their tight shirts. Jesus. This party is not for me. I feel my forehead heat with a layer of sweat in anxiety. Get me out of here.

  “I don’t see her,” I mutter.

  “How could you when you’ve been eye-fucking half the guys in here?”

  I gape. I’ve had enough of his evil comments. I turn on him with clenched fists and fiery eyes. “What did I do to you?”

  His jaw hardens to stone, and the muscles twitch in his face, holding back, restraining. Let it on out, buddy. My mental command must work because he says, “Do you look at other guys when Lo is in the room?”

  That’s what this is about? My stomach drops and aches. A punch to the gut would probably be more pleasant. Of course Lo would care that I’m staring. I would care. And I haven’t truly fantasized about any other guy but him since he’s been away. But that doesn’t matter. Not when I know I’m one small step away from picturing a nameless, faceless body with all the right moves and all the right words.

  But I don’t know how to stop once I’ve started. And I’m trying to put the brakes on. I’m desperate and needy right now, and everything I really, really don’t want to be.

  I need a therapist, I think. I need to find someone who knows how to help me. I’ll try harder.

  “It’s not cheating to look,” I say in a small voice. “And he’s not here, Ryke. Give me some slack.”

  He lets out a long breath and rubs the back of his neck. “I hate that he’s dating an addict. You have no idea…” He pinches his eyes. “It makes this twice as hard, you know that?”

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”

  He exhales again, tension finally leaving his muscles. “Look, I know you love each other. I know you’ll try to be together even if it kills you. I may seem like a huge dick, and I’m riding you hard…”

  Uhhh… I cringe and flush, a horrid combination.

  “Dammit. Not like that, Lily.” He shakes his head, his face contorting in slight disgust, and he points at me. “You think more perverted things than any fucking guy I know.”

  Guilty.

  “And I don’t know how to do this the nice way. I’m not like that, never have been. So sometimes that means being a pain in the ass.” He jabs his finger harder. “Don’t take that sexually.” Too late. He drops his hand and says, “I’ll choose him over you, every time, but you’re a huge part of his life, so that means you’re going to be a part of mine—whether you like it or not.”

  “Okay,” I mutter. What else is there to say?

  The party starts to liven as a famous pop star takes the stage on television. Everyone begins to sloppily mimic the dance moves, stumbling and knocking into each other. I don’t spot Daisy in the dance mob.

  “Should we split up to look for her? Cover more ground?” I ask, biting my fingernails.

  “No.” He grabs my hand, forcing my nails from my mouth. His eyes land on a group of guys snorting lines of coke, passing a glass dish between them by the window. “Should a fifteen-year-old be at this kind of party?”

  Probably not. “They’re models.”

  His brows furrow like do I fucking care? “So?”

  I guess that’s not an excuse, but it’s so hard to talk to him. I feel like I’m constantly fighting with a Rock ‘em Sock ‘em robot. And I suck at board games.

  I walk towards the punch bowl where I last saw Daisy and feel him trailing me again. He slips into the paths that I weave.

  Six people surround a bong and pass it to one another, smoke pluming around their glazed eyes. Daisy’s thankfully not in the circle, and I peek around a few arms before seeing someone hugging an armrest to a couch. Next to her sits Jack, the black-haired “talker” who edges closer while she sips her drink and flashes a weak smile. I must have missed her with all the people dancing in the center.

  When she sees me, she says something to him and stands quickly. She wobbles a little and then sets a hand on my wris
t. “Oh good. I thought I was going to have to talk to him all night.”

  Ryke inspects her with his usual fierce look, eyes flitting from her face to her Solo cup. “Aren’t you underage?” Technically, I am too, but I don’t mention that, especially since I haven’t been drinking, so the point is mute.

  Daisy’s eyes narrow at him. “Are you my father?” she asks with the quirk of her head, her casual tone subtly biting. “I don’t think you are.”

  “Why ask me a question that you’re going to fucking answer?” he snaps at her, not backing down even though she’s my sister and a teenager. Why does he have to be so confrontational? Lo would have ignored her. I think.

  “It was rhetorical. Do you know what that means?” she asks. “It’s a question that’s said in order to make a point. A figure of speech.”

  My eyes bug. Wow, she’s hostile. Must have something to do with our conversation about being treated older and then younger. Why else would she go off on him?

  “I didn’t know,” he says with the tilt of his head. “Do you know what that is? Sarcasm.” He edges in her face a little. Taller than her by about four or five inches.

  She raises her chin, holding her own. “You’re hilarious,” she deadpans.

  His eyebrow arches. “I guess you do know what sarcasm is then.” He pries the cup out of her hand, his muscles relaxing in his broad shoulders. “What is this shit anyway?” He sniffs it and cringes. “That’s fucking foul.”

  “Hunch punch,” she tells him. “It’s kind of strong. I’ve only had a glass and a half.” Her eyes droop a little though, but she seems coherent. Not yet drunk. Maybe buzzed. I decided not to drink because alcohol loosens inhibitions, and mine need to be padlocked.

  Suddenly, two guys start yelling in the middle of the dance floor. Their girlfriends try to pull them back, grabbing onto their thick muscles, but they can’t restrain them as they begin to barrel forward.

  “Really?” Daisy shakes her head at the scene. And before I digest the abrupt fight, her boots clap against the hardwood and she slides between bodies to reach the two furious guys.