I think I can do that.
We enter the house, and I skid to a stop by the grand staircase, absorbing a home that I spent most of my childhood in. It’s quieter and darker than my parent’s place and carries a somber quality. Maybe because I have more memories here. And not all of them good.
“Can we do this in the morning?” I ask. Postponing the inevitable sounds nice. I could take another sleeping pill too, or Lo might even go down on me tonight. I shouldn’t be thinking about sex right now. I shake my head to try to reset it. I’m a spin-cycle revolving backwards.
Lo strokes my hair. “My father is impatient.”
Oh, right. He leads me to his father’s office where I’ve been many times before. Jonathan is already pouring himself scotch when we walk in. I settle on the brown leather sofa, and Lo scoots close beside me.
I remember kissing Lo on this couch. We’d have these hot and heavy make-out sessions, complete with over-the-clothes caressing, just to be caught by Jonathan or the staff. We weren’t really together, but we made excuses to kiss each other. We said that we were “reinforcing our relationship,” even though it was just pretend. I liked the stroking and the groping more than I should. And Lo did too, I suppose. He just never declared, outright, that he wanted to be with me.
Jonathan lingers by the liquor cart, examining his bottles. “Greg and I agreed not to speak during the briefing. If it felt formal, it’s only because we didn’t want the thing to last all fucking night.” He raises a crystal bottle of amber-colored liquid. “Would you like a glass or are you still being obnoxious?”
“No thanks,” Lo says, his voice firm.
Jonathan returns the bottle and slumps in the plush leather chair behind his desk. He shuffles the three files out along his desk as he takes a slow sip from his glass.
“From here on out, the goal for both of you is to reform your images. You will become upstanding individuals who can proudly wear your last fucking name.” He flips open a file and scans the page. “We’ll start with Lily. The easiest solution would be to deny all the claims, but no one would believe that sixty men were lying.”
I already knew I couldn’t deny the accusations, and I wouldn’t want to. Most are true. I wait for the word, the one that will seal my fate—rehab.
“So your parents and the lawyers have drawn up a list of things you must do. It’ll help restore your reputation, and in effect, that of our companies. Simple, easy, seamless, yada fucking yada.”
“What if she doesn’t do them?” Lo asks.
Jonathan shoots him a sharp look. “I was getting there. Hold your fucking tongue for a second.” His eyes fall to me. “Starting today, you no longer have access to your trust fund. When you complete all the tasks, your inheritance will be restored to you in full.”
My money is gone.
I’m broke. Just like Lo.
I wish I could talk to my parents. I would have completed their list without putting my financial security up as collateral. The guilt motivates me enough.
Jonathan stares at Lo, and I know he wants him to ask for his own trust fund back, especially now that we’re both penniless. But Lo remains resolute and tight-lipped.
His father switches his attention back to me. “I must admit, your father didn’t like this idea all that much. He preferred you keep your trust fund, but your mother convinced him otherwise.” I wonder why Jonathan tells me this; maybe to vouch for his best friend. I’m not sure.
“What’s on the list?” I ask softly. “Do I have to leave?”
Jonathan lets out a short laugh. “Running away doesn’t solve anything. In fact, it makes you look guilty. No, you’ll stay in the city, preferably Princeton after the lawyers get done with the university.”
I’m not going to be expelled? Hope surges through me, only to be smothered by Jonathan’s next words. “You will apologize publicly during a press conference, and you will start seeing a psychiatrist handpicked by your parents.” He narrows his eyes at the list. “They also want you to stop visiting bars and clubs, but really, the three of us in this room can agree that you can go, just don’t be seen. This is about your image not a fucking path to morality.”
He taps his pen on the folder. “The most important and last item on the list…” He reaches into his suit jacket and reveals a small black box. I don’t look at Lo. My eyes zone in on the case as Jonathan opens the lid, a shiny diamond ring inside. “Congratulations,” Jonathan says, his voice more rough than enthusiastic. “You’re now engaged, and the wedding will be held in a year.”
My joints don’t work properly, even though all my thoughts scream violently for me to take the ring. It’s a small price to pay for what I’ve done. But to turn what Lo and I have into bait for the media, cheapening our love, hurts beyond words.
More tears pool.
“Lil,” Lo says, squeezing my hand. “We can find another way.”
We can’t.
This is what they want, and we’ve been selfish long enough. I shake my head, grab the box and pluck out the ring that glitters as I slide it between my fingers. It’s larger and more extravagant than anything I’d ever want. I take a small breath and slide it onto my finger.
It fits perfectly.
I can’t stop staring at the way it sparkles and dwarfs my small hand. It’s gaudy and feels cold and wrong.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Lo. He’s fixated on the piece of jewelry as much as me, and I already know what he’s thinking. This isn’t what he imagined for us either, a proposal by his father in his office.
Maybe…maybe we’re just not meant to have a happy ending.
Maybe we don’t deserve it.
{ 36 }
LOREN HALE
When I was in rehab, I had plenty of free time to let my mind wander. Stupidly, I started thinking about how I would propose to Lily. Not any time soon, but when we were both healthy and happy. I even envisioned the ring I would buy her—a small pink sapphire. Simple, non-traditional. I think she would have liked it.
Now I’ll never know.
I glare at my father, hating that he has hijacked my proposal. It’s not entirely his fault, but if we’re being coerced into marriage, I’d rather have something on my terms. He could have given me a day’s notice. Anything.
Instead, I’m going to shelve this memory with all of my other black, inky tarred ones, ruined by something larger and nastier than me. Lily quietly appraises the ring with sad eyes. I wish I could fix this, but rejecting her parent’s pleas will hurt her more. The shame she caused is tearing her from the inside out, and doing nothing to repair the damage would rip her soul.
“The wedding,” I say, breaking the tense silence. “You said it’s in a year.”
My father nods and sips his scotch.
I itch to taste it, but I focus more on Lil, and any ache for alcohol subsides. For once, I truly feel strong enough to help her. “She has to complete all the tasks before her trust fund is returned. Does that mean she’ll have it again when she agrees to the wedding?”
“She gets it when you’re married.”
My stomach caves. A year? She’ll be broke for a whole fucking year even if she does everything they say. Lily can’t hold down a job while she’s going through recovery. I remember how I found her hiding underneath her desk in Rose’s office, afraid of the male models. She’s not ready to handle the stress of a workplace environment with her addiction at bay. That anxiety is what causes her to go crazy.
“We’ll get married sooner,” I offer. Why prolong the wait? She’ll have money. The cameras will stop hounding us. She won’t be gossiped about in blogs anymore. All will be right again.
“Really?” Lily asks, her eyes big and glassy.
I wipe a fallen tear with my thumb. “Two weeks or one year, it doesn’t make a difference to me, Lil. I’d marry you tomorrow if it’d make you happy.”
She nods once and lets me hold her close.
“It actually does make a difference,” my father cuts in, chil
ling my bones. “It can’t look like a shotgun wedding designed to coax the media. It has to look real. One year. No sooner and no later.”
He strangled my only alternative.
My father closes a file and opens another. “Now for you, Loren,” he says, “the media has modeled you as the pathetic boyfriend, cheated on and discarded. You will publicly release a statement about how you and Lily have had an open relationship, something new age. You have been sleeping around with other women, and you knew she was sleeping with other men. But since your romantic engagement, you both have decided to commit to each other fully.”
Lily holds in a breath, probably believing I’ll refuse this stipulation. She wants this to be easy, for us to agree and move on. I’m accustomed to lies. If this one helps, I’ll gladly carry it. I nod in acceptance and my father closes the file.
“That’s it?” I ask.
“You’re not the sex addict,” he reminds me with a dry smile and the raise of his glass. He takes a long swig, and my mind lapses back to the money issue.
I have to ask him.
For Lily.
For me.
So we have one less problem to solve. So we can stop taking handouts from our siblings.
“About my trust fund…”
Lily bristles beside me. “Lo, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” Whatever the repercussions, whatever I have to do to please my father, I’ll work out. A part of me screams failure. I’m giving up by crawling back to this man. But the other part says this is the right way. And I’m listening to that side of my brain. Whether it’s the dumb fucking side—that’s to be seen.
“What about it?” He swirls the scotch in his glass, creating a small whirlpool.
He’ll make me ask. Beg. Plead and grovel. I’m not about to drop to my knees, but I’m close. I’m almost there. “You told me I could have it back,” I remind him, but I’m not an idiot. I know there are strings attached. “What do you want me to do?” Not college. Not college. Not college. I cannot go back to school, surrounded by booze, surrounded by fully functioning twenty-somethings. It drives me to a bottle more than Lily knows. It’s a reason why I opted not to return.
Every sane, happy person is like a reflection of what I could have been, like being met with Christmas Future every day. I don’t want to be haunted by my problems like that.
“What I want you to do,” he says, “is be a fucking man.”
I glare. “Last time I checked, I was one.”
“Having a dick doesn’t make you a man,” he replies. “You’ve been an irresponsible little boy all your life. I give you things and you shit on them. If you want your trust fund, you have to use the money to make something of yourself. You can’t fuck it away.”
“I’m not going back to college.”
“Did I say anything about college? You’re not even listening to me.” He throws back the rest of the liquor into his mouth and smacks the glass on the desk.
I flinch.
And he stays silent, not about to divulge the details. Apparently I’m supposed to know what being a man really entails. In my father’s head, that could mean anything.
“Okay,” I accept blindly. He just wants me to meet my potential, not squander away his wealth with apathy. His terms should be in my power. Hopefully.
His brows jump in swift surprise, but it slowly washes away, replaced with a true, genuine smile. I think I just made my father happy.
That happens…well, almost never.
“I’ll call the lawyers. Your inheritance will be back by tomorrow morning,” he says, “and I expect a business proposal by next week.”
“A what?” My stomach tightens.
He rolls his eyes and his mouth downturns. That smile lasted point-two seconds. “For Christ’s sake, Loren. A business proposal. You don’t have to be involved in my company, but you better create your own. I don’t even fucking care if it succeeds. Just get off your lazy ass.” He stands and hovers over the liquor cart to refill his empty glass. “It’s late. You two should spend the night here.”
I don’t want to step into my old bedroom, a haven for bad memories and shitty mistakes. I shake my head. “We’re staying at Ryke’s tonight.”
He stiffens at the name. “Then get going. I have work to do.” As we walk towards the doors, he says, “And when I find the leak, he’s going to wish he never fucked with our family. I can promise you that.”
{ 37 }
LILY CALLOWAY
We’re all back at the Princeton house, and I haven’t spoken to Rose in three days. She leaves the house early and returns late. And every time I call, her automated message clicks. Usually Rose answers on the second ring.
H&M and Macy’s dropped Calloway Couture from their stores, citing the “negative attention” as reason to pull the garments from the hangers and shelves. I apologized over text, and I caught her once in person to utter the words, but she patted me on the shoulder and said something about a meeting and hopped into her car.
She texted me this morning. I’m just busy, and I’m sorry I don’t have more time to talk. I don’t blame you. Keep your head up. – Rose
I’m not feeling very sprightly today, but the text helps ease the weight on my chest. My last test is today before finals start next week, and it marks the first time I’ll set foot on campus since the scandal. I shouldn’t go. I didn’t study or memorize the answers from old exams. I just plopped on the couch and watched reruns of Boy Meets World.
My limbs sag heavily, an anchor that tethers me to the bed, to the floor, to the couch. Morning, noon, and night. The urge to disappear, a superpower that I have always wanted, strikes me more often. Dr. Banning would tell me that I’m depressed, maybe even prescribe medication for me. But I haven’t spoken to her since my meeting with the lawyers.
I’m not allowed to see her. I have a new psychiatrist now. Dr. Oliver Evans. I’ll meet him next week.
The shower is my one solitude: a place where self-love exists, where the steam and my prickling nerves combust and ward off anxiety. The guilt accompanies the high. And IknowIknowIknow. I’m technically not allowed, but I’m monitoring how long I spend touching myself. This isn’t the same thing as porn. I can’t masturbate in public. I’ll never overdo it if I just restrict myself to self-love shower time.
And anyway, after last night’s attempt to have sex, Lo will probably steer clear of me for a good thousand years. It started fine. I was ridiculously excited to finally sleep with him after two weeks of abstinence. The hour sped, tricking my mind into believing we only fooled around for five whole minutes, not sixty. I needed more time.
He kept telling me no. And I even tried to spider him and ensnare him in my sex web, which (now that I think about it) couldn’t have been all that sexy. I turned into the compulsive sex-monster that we both feared. Then, something worse happened.
I burst into tears.
So not only did I whine for sex, but I cried when I didn’t get it. I’m ashamed to the point of reclusiveness. I never want to show my face, to anyone. I don’t blame Lo if he never wants to sleep in the same bed with me ever again.
I glance at the kitchen clock. Lo and Ryke can no longer run at the Penn track or jog down the block without being bombarded by paparazzi or nosy students. So they’ve resorted to sprinting around the land at our house in Princeton. At least it’s gated.
But they shouldn’t come inside for another ten minutes. My damp hair wets my shirt. I think I can squeeze in one more shower before they enter the house. I hop off the bar stool and race to the bathroom. I retrieve a small bag of tampons from a cabinet in the way way back. Stuffed in between all of them is a pouch with my waterproof mini-vibrator. I take it out and shove the bag back.
Shower or bathtub?
I hate that we don’t have a combo bathtub-shower scenario. This would be a lot easier then. Self-love standing up is not my favorite, and that’s what I’ve had to do in the shower.
The bathtub calls me.
Bubbles. I can have bubbles too. But I only have…ten minutes. I think I can make it work. Bubbles have to be worth it.
Quickly, I turn the faucet, test the water for the perfect warmth, and squirt in bubble mix (of course) and toss in one of those pink soap balls (not really sure what they do). The water swishes into a pale pink hue, and I breathe in the flowery aroma, the scent pretty close to lilies.
So I call it a success.
I shed my clothes and sink into the water, gasping at the way the warmness skims my thighs and up to my breasts. I hold the vibrator in one hand, anticipation and glee filling me first. I close my eyes, lean back, and let my mind wander while my hand moves.
I focus on a particular memory, one with Lo during our sophomore year of college. We were roped into attending my parent’s holiday party back at their Villanova mansion. Since we planned on spending the night, we both decided to get drunk off the eggnog. My mother shooed us upstairs so we didn’t disrupt any of the other guests, and we locked ourselves in my room for the rest of the night.
Standing by the foot of the bed, he kissed my neck and lips with an intoxicating gaze, inhaling every part of me, a look that devoured my body in a single second. Even though we were alone, he didn’t stop.
I was aroused. He was drunk. And he gladly lent me his mouth, and I accepted (at first) because my mind was on a super rush. His lips pressed against my collarbone, tender and then deep, sucking. His fingers slid down my waist, lower and lower.
“Lo.” I let out a ragged breath and tried to hold onto his white button-down, trying to keep my body upright. But the world was dancing, and I wanted nothing more than to be swept up in it—preferably with a thrust and a high.
He retracted and held my cheeks, his amber eyes carrying a strong haze, but not enough for him to be completely gone to booze. He was still with me. Here. For now.
Addicted for Now (Addicted Series 2) Page 35