Addicted for Now (Addicted Series 2)

by Ritchie, Krista

  “You’d rather be there with her, I know that. But didn’t Rose tell you—”

  “I get it,” I snap. Our relationship needs room to breathe—Rose so very pointedly put it the other day. I’m trying to give Lily more space. I’m making a conscious effort to change our codependent relationship.

  That doesn’t mean it doesn’t fucking suck.

  But I have nowhere else to be but right here. No other invitations from friends (I have none) or family (my father practically disowned me). No job. No school. I am a worthless piece of shit. I grimace and turn that into a half-smile, shaking my head. I chug half of my water to drown these stupid thoughts.

  “Have you started taking Antabuse yet?” Ryke asks.

  The doctors at rehab prescribed me a drug for my recovery, and I forgot I told Ryke about it. If I drink on the meds, I’ll have stomach pains and severe nausea. It’s supposed to deter alcoholics from falling off the wagon. And even though I decided not to attend AA meetings, I still need to follow the right steps to get healthy.

  I didn’t tell Lily why I’m not going to AA. The reason will make her think I’m even more fucked up. I’m a hard person to be around, and when I was in rehab, I pushed two recovering addicts to drink and break their short sobriety.

  I always say the wrong things.

  And the facility administration forbade me from going to group meetings because I was “adversely affecting my peers.” They also highly advised I not attend AA meetings in fear that I would be the same asshole there.

  Ryke agreed with them.

  So here I am.

  “I haven’t taken it yet,” I tell Ryke. “I think I’m going to start tomorrow.” I’ve heard horror stories about people becoming violently ill just from a sip of beer. I wanted to have a couple days without that suffocating fear before I started.

  “You should take it now. Do you have it on you?” Ryke asks. He’s such a fucking pusher.

  “No,” I snap. He doesn’t listen to me, already unzipping my bag and rummaging through it. “What is this, TSA? Leave my shit alone, Ryke.” He finds the inside zipper easily and holds up an orange bottle. His eyebrows rise accusingly.

  My teeth ache as I bite down. “Wow, you found my pill bottle. Congratulations. Now put it back.”

  I wait for him to yell at me for lying. I prepare for the verbal onslaught with narrowed eyes, ready to combat or storm away.

  But he never mentions it. Instead, he uncaps the bottle and doles out a pill on his palm. “Take it,” he says roughly. “If you’re waiting for yourself to fuck up, then you might as well fuck up while you’re on it. I’m sure puking all night after a shot of whiskey will do you some good.”

  He’s right.

  I hate that he’s right.

  I take the pill from him and toss it back with some water. It feels official. Like this is it. No alcohol. Forever.

  Forever.

  God.

  I have a sudden impulse to run to the bathroom and stick my finger down my throat. Somehow my Nikes weigh me down on the trimmed grass, and I clench my water bottle as I take another large swig.

  Ryke starts to stretch, pulling his arm across his chest. “Have you spoken to Jonathan?”

  “No.” I leave it at that, not wanting to be probed about my father. No one really understands my relationship with him. Not Lily. Definitely not Ryke.

  And it’s more complicated than just hate and dislike. It’s what drives my mind wild. It’s what makes me seriously want to kick that fucking bleacher and grab a beer.

  But I remember Lily, and I immediately tell myself no. No alcohol. Ever. One memory has kept me grounded for a while, deaf to any compelling arguments from the devil on my shoulder. It’s what stopped me from heading into that bar yesterday.

  In my foggy memory, I wake up, glazed and half-delirious to the people in my kitchen. Rose, Connor and Ryke camped out in my living room like the Scooby Gang. And the three of them told me the night’s events—as though I wasn’t even there. My body was, but my head was floating in another dimension.

  And Ryke was the only one who could stomach the words. “You fucking passed out while a guy attacked Lily.”

  And “attack” was an understatement. Something could have happened that night. But it didn’t. Ryke and Connor stopped the guy when that should have been me. My whole life, I had one fucking job. Protect Lily. Make sure her addiction doesn’t get the better of her. Make sure she doesn’t get hurt. She did the same for me. And I failed her. Somewhere down the line, I fucked up.

  Never again.

  Ryke holds out his arms like what the hell, and I remember what he asked me. Have you spoken to Jonathan?

  “I said no,” I tell him again, like the answer isn’t registering in his head.

  “No, that’s it?” Ryke wants more. Everyone wants more.

  But I feel like I’m giving everything I have.

  “I thought it was a yes or no question. What else is there?” Lots. But nothing I can bear to say out loud. My father left me a few messages on my phone the past week.

  I want to have lunch, Loren.

  We need to talk.

  Don’t push me out of your life over something this fucking stupid.

  Call me back.

  I’ve ignored him so far, but I can’t forever. There’ll be a point where I’ll have to face my father. It won’t be for money, but the allure of a handout will always be there. Because it’s so fucking easy. Drinking, that’s easy. Taking his money, that’s easier.

  The hard things are the right things, I’ve learned. But I’m not Connor Cobalt—built with the infallible ability to go the extra mile, to do the extra work. I’m the kinda guy that always stops short.

  But I do have a plan for some cash. The only problem—it involves a conversation with Rose Calloway.

  “He’s going to try to buy you back,” Ryke tells me. “That’s what he fucking does, and you’re going to have to say no. He’s your fucking trigger, Lo. You shouldn’t be around him while you’re recovering.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, lugging my bag over my shoulder. Most days, I regret asking Ryke to be my sponsor. Even if he’s pretty good at it. Trigger or not, Jonathan Hale is my father. Ryke doesn’t understand him the way I do.

  He’s not all bad.

  { 7 }

  LILY CALLOWAY

  My second test score came back last week, and it was a big fat F. I knew transferring from an Ivy League to another Ivy League wasn’t the cure for my poor grades, but I hoped that Princeton would kick my lazy butt into gear. With Rose running around the same campus as me, I should be more motivated. Plus, my hours are no longer wasted away on porn and self-love. But I didn’t predict that my time would be consumed by therapy in New York and trying to rebuild my relationships with my sisters. Getting healthy and making amends is almost as big a time bandit as wallowing in my addiction.

  I have so many issues to deal with that school is that last thing on my mind, when it should probably be the first. Lo may be back but time doesn’t stop for us, and I can’t fail my classes in Princeton too. I’m already behind as it is.

  Which is why a tutor sits beside me, though he’s not doing much “tutoring.”

  For the past thirty minutes, I watched him browse Rich Kids of Instagram, a site that I boycott and find generally revolting. I nudge him to help me twice, and he points to my book. “Do another problem,” he says without peeling his eyes from his phone.

  I miss the days where Connor Cobalt gave me a hundred-and-ten percent of his tutoring attention, even going as far as making me flashcards.

  Sebastian Ross may just be the worst tutor alive.

  He invades my personal space for a second, and I think he may actually be showing me how to do a Statistics problem.

  He sticks his phone beneath my nose. “Whose watch do you like better?” He extends his wrist and holds it by the screen, the band gold and the gadgetry so complex that my eyes hurt. The one in the picture is no simpler
. A teenager stands outside his gray-bricked mansion, wrists displayed like he’s preparing to box.

  “Neither.”

  “Amuse me.”

  Amuse him? How about amuse me! I’m the one who should be entertained by numbers and words. Connor would know how to make studying fun.

  I try not to glare. “I like my watch.”

  Sebastian’s one eyebrow arches, so smarmy and elitist that I have to give him props for mastering the technique. He snatches my wrist to inspect the device. He huffs. “You’re wearing a toy.” He flicks the plastic cap, nearly causing the hands of the clock to stop.

  “Hey,” I say, retracting my arm and clutching my wrist to my chest. “That’s Wolverine, you know.” The yellow and blue band buckles on my bony wrist, and the X-Men hero is printed inside the watch-face.

  He looks mildly interested now. “Is it a collectible?”

  “…maybe.”

  He restrains the urge to roll his eyes. “Where’d you get it?” he asks. “The kid’s section in Target?”

  My cheeks redden even though they shouldn’t. “No,” I retort. “Lo won it from a vending machine. You know, the ones where you put a quarter in and it drops out the little egg thing.” We had a seventy-five percent chance to get either Superman or Batman, so when Wolverine popped out, it seemed like fate. We were easily entertained.

  Sebastian grimaces. He has a pretty good stink-face too. “You touched those things?” He returns to his phone, scrolling. “Sometimes I wonder how you’re related to your sister.”

  Sometimes I wonder why she’s friends with you.

  I would exchange Sebastian for a better model, but not when Rose asked him, her best friend, to tutor me. Before Connor came into the picture, Sebastian escorted Rose to every social function, her go-to arm candy.

  He leans back on the couch, wearing khaki slacks, a blazer and glasses with wide frames and thin rims. I have a suspicion that he’s someone who only wears glasses for show, not function. And his honey blond hair is slicked neatly and parted on the side, groomed and styled.

  Even if he didn’t take the time to look good, Sebastian is the kind of person that was born to be pretty.

  Normally I’d be tempted. But I have Loren Hale.

  And Sebastian is gay. So there’s that.

  When he snorts out loud, I catch a glimpse of his cell. There’s a picture of a guy sitting in a hot tub on a million-dollar yacht, surrounded by expensive bottles of champagne.

  Now I roll my eyes. I really want to grab the phone from his hand and chuck it across the room. “Have you even taken Stat?” I ask.

  “Stats.”

  “What?”

  “It’s called Stasticsssss,” he says, hissing the “s” for further emphasis. “Not Statistic.” His gaze stays fixated on that stupid phone.

  “Have you taken Statsssss,” I hiss back.

  “Yes, it’s an under level requirement for business majors at Princeton,” he says sharply. “Obviously Penn has different standards.”

  Being insulted by my tutor isn’t a new thing for me, but I’m not taking his jabs easily. Maybe because he seems more interested in pictures of rich kids showing off their Ferraris and guzzling liquor.

  “You know, Rose claimed that you’re some kind of hot-shot tutor on campus—that you even have a waiting list,” I snap.

  “I am. And I do.”

  “People actually pay you to ignore them?” I shut my book. I’ve known Sebastian since I was ten, but I spent more time at the Hale residence than my own, so know is really up for debate. He has always been into appearances, especially clothes (which as a fashion designer, Rose values in a friend), and his ostentatiousness is nothing new.

  But I didn’t know he was such a raging dick.

  He’s actually looking at me this time. “They pay me for other things.”

  Like sexual things? I frown. No, that can’t be right.

  Can it?

  He sees my brows scrunch in confusion.

  “I do have a waiting list,” he says, “but not for tutoring.”

  That clarifies nothing. A naked Sebastian pops in my head, getting propositioned for sex like a gigolo. I withhold the urge to ask if he’s a hooker. Although it’s there, threatening to be blurted out.

  “Then…what?” I mumble. Wow, that took a lot of self-control.

  His leg drops from his knee and he leans forward to grab his leather briefcase. What if he sells sex toys? Okay, doubtful, but he would jump up ten points in likability for me.

  He pulls something heavy out and sets it on my textbook before zipping his briefcase closed.

  These aren’t dildos or vibrators or Ben Wa balls.

  It’s paper. Stacks of stapled paper with red markings along the margin.

  They’re old exams.

  This is one of those moments where someone hands you a joint and you have to make a choice to either pass it on or take a puff.

  “Isn’t this cheating?” I ask, not touching the papers on my lap. Fingering one may just corrupt me.

  Sebastian slides a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and slaps the carton on his palm. “Don’t scribble the answers on your hand,” he says. “Memorize them. That can’t be too difficult for you, can it?”

  He twirls a cigarette between two fingers.

  “Rose won’t like it if you smoke in here.”

  Sebastian arches that one brow again and gives me a look like I know Rose better than you. He lights the cigarette.

  Fine. Rose will do a better job reprimanding him anyway. I flip through the old exams, most of them marked up with A’s. “What if the questions are different?”

  “You have Dr. Harris,” Sebastian says. “He always recycles questions from tests. Just be sure to memorize all of them.”

  I thumb through the stack. “There must be fifty exams in here.” How can I memorize all of them?

  “They date back ten years. So yeah, there’s a lot.”

  I hesitate to use them as a study tool, even though it’s not outright cheating. “And you can’t actually tutor me?”

  He blows a line of smoke towards the ceiling. “You didn’t just sort-of fail your first two exams, Lily. You bombed. Most students would be crying in a corner, and if they had me as a resource, they’d be riding my—”

  “Okay,” I cut him off. And then realize that sounds like I actually want to ride his… “I mean, never mind.” I shake my head, roasting from the forehead down.

  He wears a crooked smile as he puts the cig to his lips. “To pass the class, you have to make A’s on the last two tests and the final. I’m not a miracle worker.”

  “Connor Cobalt is,” I mutter under my breath.

  He must hear because he says, “Connor thinks he pisses rainbows, but he’s not that good. And he’s definitely not better than me.” He leans forward and taps ash in my plastic cup—full with Fizz Life, Fizzle’s new soda, zero calories and no aspartame. I stare at the soiled drink for a long while, trying to process what he just did.

  But when I turn, I see him tapping more ash into the porcelain vase on the end table that a friend of Rose’s gifted her from Prague. “Rose is going to skin you alive.”

  He smiles that smarmy smile again. “She’s all growl.”

  I’m not so sure about that. When we were kids at a beach resort, she saw a freckle-faced boy picking on a girl near a water slide. He called the young girl fat and pointed at her one-piece. Rose intervened and used some choice language that would make eight-year-olds blush. When the pudgy boy didn’t respond how she hoped, she grabbed his swim-trunks and yanked them to his ankles.

  After that, I was glad to have my sister on my side. I never wanted to cross her. And even as I think about that story, I realize she would kill me if she knew I was even sort of cheating.

  But what’s worse, hearing her wrath after I use the tests or seeing her disappointment by failing out of Princeton? Disappointment can cripple me. So the former is definitely more appealing.

 
“Look, Lily,” Sebastian says. “College is all about beating the system, and the smartest people are the ones who figure that out. You want to be smart, don’t you?”

  For the first time in a while, I have a fighting chance to do well. “Okay.”

  “So you keep those and you memorize hard. I have copies of them, of course.” He rises and buttons his navy blazer. He wanders around the living room, bored. “And don’t mention this to Rose. I love her, but she’s moral to a fault. It’s kind of annoying actually.”

  I ignore his last slight. I can’t believe I have to lie to Rose, but this seems like the right path. I can’t fail more classes. I’ll be in college until I’m forty.

  I set the old exams next to a tall stack of tabloid magazines on the coffee table. I went out this morning and bought every gossip mag in the gas station. I checked for my picture, any article, any brief mention of my addiction. Rose even searched through the newspaper and online posts, but we both came up blank. Either the blackmailer is stalling or he’s waiting for another opportune moment to strike.

  We don’t even know what he wants yet. He just keeps threatening.

  “So…” I trail off as I watch Sebastian pick up a porcelain ballerina on the fireplace mantel, checking the underside for the designer or the authenticity. “If Rose believes you’re actually tutoring me, what do I tell her when you’re not here on Thursday?”

  “I’ll be here, pretending. I can even bring more old exams for your other classes.” He sets the figurine down. “You copy them, though, and I’ll make your life a living hell.” His blasé voice makes the warning worse, somehow.

  My phone pings, and I pick it up to check the message. The sound interests Sebastian enough to saunter over and plop by my side again.

  Is Rose home? – Connor

  Not yet. I text back.

  Sebastian catches the conversation over my shoulder. He puts his cigarette to his lips, waiting for the response, but there is none. I’m about to slip my phone in my pocket, but Sebastian says, “Give that here.” And he steals the cell from my hands.

  I should protest and put up a fight, but his I’ll make your life a living hell line is ringing in my head. He’s kind of scary.