Ricochet (26 page)

“You’re okay,” I whisper. “Lo, you’re not sick.”

“I doused his door with pig’s blood.”

I cringe. “It was supposed to be poetic, and what he did
wasn’t much better.” I flush at the raw memory where I opened a package sent to
my house, addressed to me. Lo sat with me on my bed, thinking we ordered a
comic book we’d forgotten about. And when I pulled the flaps of the box, I
screamed at the contents inside.

A dead white rabbit.

Lo found a note spotted with blood, and I pushed the box
away, the smell as ghastly as the image. “
Here’s
something you can hump,
” he read. Trent signed his name at the bottom. What
an idiot, I thought with thick tears. Apparently his girlfriend broke up with
him because we had sex at a hockey game
months
ago
. He was on the “away” team, driving in town a couple hours to beat
Dalton Academy.

And Trent blamed me for the breakup. As though he had no
part in it, as though I was a siren who seduced him.

The next day after I received the “hate” package, I spent
the night at my house. Rose wanted me there since my mother’s book club usually
ran late. She didn’t want to be alone with her, so I stayed. Lo got wasted, and
then I heard, he was thrown in jail for vandalism and underage drinking.

All I could think:
At
least he took a cab. At least he had enough sense not to drive drunk.

“Maybe it was fucked up,” Loren whispers.

“I liked your note,” I murmur.

His brow rises. “
Drink
up, pig?
”

I smile. “Yeah.”

His eyes drift to my lips. “You’re strange.”

“So are you.”

“Good.” He leans closer. “We can be strange together.”

His heart thuds against my chest while his hands fall on
either side of my shoulders, pressing to the cushion. His head dips low, and
his mouth hovers an inch from mine. He stays still for a moment, and my nerves
prick at the way we’re melded together, the way he seems to fit perfectly against
me.

My chin tilts up, my eyes closing as I fantasize about where
this could head. He could take me here. Now. And never let go. He could rock
until my hips buck and my thighs clench around his waist. I could be so full of
Loren Hale that I’ll ache when he decides enough is enough.

His large hand caresses my cheek, holding my face with
security. “Open your eyes,” he whispers.

My lids flutter, and I see him staring so intently,
absorbing my tiny, sharp movements. Full of lust and power and
soul.
And then I begin to wake up from
my dream. He’ll see what a fiend I am. He’ll realize how needy and gross I can
become, and he’ll toss me away as a friend and as a lover. If I cross the
line—if he fills this need inside of me—what will become of us?

What will become of
me
?

The fear washes me cold. And my breathing deepens in alarm.
“Your father’s gone,” I remind him. There’s no reason to pretend anymore. Not
when we’re alone.

His forehead wrinkles in a deep frown. He licks his bottom
lip and shakes his head. “He may come back.”
He won’t
, I should tell him.

But his other hand disappears between our pelvises, and his
fingers touch outside my long johns, to a spot that causes me to tremble
beneath him and I let out a sharp gasp.

“You’re wet,” he breathes.

“Lo…” I start, shutting my eyes as I begin to drift off
again.

“Look at me,” he says.

Tension wraps us in a tight, uncomfortable cocoon, and I
succumb to this one wish, opening my eyes for the second time.

His two hands hold my face again, cupping me with intensity
and purpose and deep passion. My parted lips nearly meet his.

“You need me,” he whispers, his breath filling my lungs.

Yes.

But the word stays buried beneath fear. I stare at him,
drowning in his amber eyes.

He stares at me, swimming into my heady gaze.

It’s what we don’t say that hurts the most. Neither of us
will speak to unwind the things that cause this friction to build and torment.
So we watch and wait and listen to each other’s heavy breath.

Some choices define us. And in this moment, I make a
decision that will change the course of our lives forever.

Or maybe, I just prolong the inevitable.

Either way, in my heart, I know this feels right.

BONUS MATERIAL

ADDICTED FOR NOW

Chapter One

{1}

Of all the days in the month, I have to be stuck
in traffic on the one that means the most to me. I try not to badger Nola, my
family’s driver, on our ETA to the house I share with Rose. Instead, I
anxiously shift on the leather seat and rapidly text my sister.

Is he already there?
Please say
no,
please tell me I haven’t missed his
homecoming. I’m supposed to wait on the white wrap-around porch of our secluded
house: many acres of lush land, a crystal blue pool, black shutters. The only
thing it’s missing is the picket fence. I’m supposed to give him a tour of the
cozy living room and the granite kitchen, leading him upstairs to the bedrooms
where Rose and I sleep. He won’t be in one of the two guest rooms. Nope, he’ll
be making residence in mine for the first time ever.

And maybe awkwardness will linger at the idea of sharing a
bed and a bathroom day and night, at the idea of cohabitating beyond a kitchen.
Our relationship will be one-hundred percent
real,
and
there’ll be no nightcaps of bourbon or whiskey. I’ll be able to say
don’t do that
. And he’ll be able to grip
my wrists, keeping me from compulsively climaxing until I pass out.

We’re supposed to help each other.

For the past three months, that’s what we’ve planned. And if
I’m not there to greet him—then I’ve already messed up in some way. After three
whole months of being physically apart, I thought I’d be able to get this
right—the celebration of his return from rehab. On top of desperately wanting
to touch him, for him to hold me in his arms, I feel a sudden wave of guilt.
Please be late like me
, is all I think.

The text pings, and I open the message with a knot tightening
my stomach.

He’s unpacking
–
Rose

My face falls, and a lump rises to my throat. I can just
picture his expression as he opened the car door, expecting me to fling my arms
around him and start sobbing into his shoulder at his arrival. And I’m not there.

Was he upset?
I text back.
I bite my nails, my pinky starting to bleed a
little. The habit has made my fingers look ghastly these past ninety days.

He seemed okay. How
much longer will you be?
– Rose

She must hate being alone with him. They’ve never been good
friends since I chose to spend time with Lo more than I do with her. But she’s
been kind enough to allow him to stay with us.

Maybe ten minutes
.
After I text her, I scroll through my contacts and land on Lo. I hesitate
before I type another quick message.
I’m
so sorry. I’ll be there soon
.

Five slow minutes pass with no response, and I’ve squirmed
so much on the seat that Nola asks if she needs to stop somewhere so I can use
the bathroom. I decline. I’m so nervous that my bladder probably won’t function
properly anyway.

My phone buzzes in my hand, popping my heart from my
ribcage.
How was the doctor?
– Lo

Rose must have clued him in on the reason for my absence. I
scheduled my gynecologist appointment four months ago because she’s crazily
booked, and I would have canceled if I thought I’d be able to nab an
appointment sometime soon. But that’s doubtful. And it didn’t help that my
gynecologist is near the University of Pennsylvania in Philly, not even close
to Princeton where I now live. Having to drive back has eaten up all of my
time.

I had to wait for
about an hour. She was running behind
, I text.

After a long moment, a new message flashes
. Everything’s okay though?
– Lo

Oh, that’s what he was asking. I’m so hung up on missing his
homecoming that I didn’t think about him being worried. I type back.
Yep, looks good.
I cringe, wondering if
that was a weird reply. I basically just said my vagina looks good—which is
kinda strange.

See you soon
– Lo

He has always been a brief texter, and right now, I’m
cursing him for it. My paranoia grows and the pressure on my chest does not
subside. I grip to the door handle, about ready to stick my head out of the
moving vehicle to puke. Dramatic, I realize, but with our situation—recovering
alcoholic and a struggling sex addict—we’re anything but mundane.

Ninety whole days passed and I stayed faithful to Lo. I saw
a therapist. But sex still has a way of making me feel better, masking other
emotions and filling a deep hollowness. I’m trying to find the healthy kind and
not the compulsive “I have to fuck everyday” type of sex. I’m still
uncomfortable talking about it, but at least I made progress the same way Lo
did in rehab.

My mind whirls right up until Nola pulls into my driveway.
All thoughts vacuum out into another dimension, and I dazedly say thanks and
drift from the car. Purple hydrangeas frame the three-story house, rocking
chairs lined in a row on the porch, and an American flag clings against a metal
pole near a weeping willow.

I try to inhale the peacefulness and bury my anxiety, but I
end up choking on springtime pollen, coughing into my arm. Why does the
prettiest season also have to be the most foul?

I shouldn’t hesitate in the front yard. I should rush right
inside and finally touch the man that plagues my fantasies. But I wonder how
different he will seem up close in person. I worry about the awkwardness from
being apart for so long. Will we fit the same way we used to? Will I feel the
same in his arms? Or will everything be irreparably different?

I muster a bit of courage to walk forward. And by the time I
climb the porch, the door swings open. I freeze on the highest stair and watch
the screen door clatter into the side of the house. Then he emerges, wearing a
pair of dark jeans, a black tee, and an arrowhead necklace I gave him for his
twenty-first birthday.

I open my mouth to say something, but I can’t stop my eyes
from grazing every inch of him. The way his light brown hair is styled, full on
top, shorter on the sides. The way his cheekbones sharpen to make him look
deadly and gorgeous. The way he reaches up and rubs his lips, as though hoping
they’ll touch mine. He rakes my body with the same impatience, and then his
head tilts to the side, our eyes finally meeting.

“Hi,” he says, breaking into a breathtaking smile. His chest
falls heavily, nearly in sync with my uneven rhythm.
 

“Hi,” I whisper. A large distance separates us, reminding me
of when he first left for rehab. Picking up a foot and closing the gap feels
like crawling up a ninety-degree angle. I need him to help me reach the top.

He takes a step near me, snapping the tension. All these
sensations burst in my belly. I love him so much. I missed him so much. For
three months, I felt the pain of being separated from my best friend while
trying to fight my sexual compulsions. I needed him to tell me everything was
going to be okay.

I needed him by my side, but I would never take him from
rehab for my benefit, not when it would be detrimental to his recovery. And I
want Lo to be healthy more than anything. And I want him to be happy.

“I’m back,” he murmurs.

I try to restrain my tears, but they flow unwillingly,
sliding from the creases of my eyes. I should be emerging from the doorway to
greet him, and he should be the one lingering on the porch stairs. Why are we
so backwards all the time?

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, wiping my eyes slowly. “I should
have been here an hour ago…”

He shakes his head and his brows pinch together like
don’t worry about that.

I stare at the length of him again with a more confident
nod. “You look good.” I can’t tell that he’s sober exactly. He hasn’t lost that
look in his eye—the one that seems to kiss my soul and trap me altogether. But
he’s not beaten or withered or gaunt. In fact, he has more muscle to his name,
his biceps supremely cut. And after a Skype session some time ago, I know his
whole body matches those arms.

I wait for him to say
so
do you
, but his eyes trail me once more, and I watch the way his chest
collapses and his face twists in pain.

I blink. “What is it?” I glance down at my body. I wear
jeans and a loose-fitting V-neck, nothing out of the ordinary. I wonder if I
spilled coffee on my jeans or something, but I don’t see what he does.

Instead of telling me what worries him, he inches forward,
the deep hurt in his eyes frightening me. What did I do wrong? I shuffle back—a
reaction I hardly would have predicted for today. I nearly stumble down the
stairs, but his arm swoops around my waist, drawing me to his chest, saving me
from a plummet into the grass below.

His warmness snares me, and I clutch his arms, afraid to let
go. He stares intensely before his gaze drifts to my arms…my hands. He peels
one off his bicep, his fingers skimming over mine, stealing the breath right
from my lungs. He raises my hand in between us and then lifts my elbow, giving
me a good view of my arm.

My chest sinks, realizing the source of his confusion and
hurt.

“What the hell, Lil?” he says.

I scratched my arm raw during the last therapy session
yesterday, and an ugly red welt will most likely scab tomorrow. Even with
gross, bitten fingernails, I managed to irritate my skin.

Lo inspects my nails, his nose flaring to hold back even
more emotion.

“I’m fine. I was just…anxious yesterday. Therapy was harder.
You were coming home…” I don’t want to talk about this now. I want him to hold
me. I want our reunion to be epic—
The
Notebook
worthy. And my stupid anxiety and bad habit has ruined the perfect
outcome I imagined. I reclaim my hand and touch his jaw, forcing him to stop
focusing on my problems. “I’m okay.”

The words feel a little false. I am not one-hundred percent
okay. These past three months were a test I could have easily failed. At times,
I thought giving up was better than fighting. But I made it. I’m here.

Lo’s here.

That’s all that matters.

His arms suddenly slide around my back, and he melds my body
to his. His lips brush the top of my ear, sending shivers spiraling across my
neck. He whispers, “Please don’t lie to me.”

My mouth falls. “I didn’t…” But I can’t finish because tears
begin to pool, burning on their way down. I grip his shoulders, holding him
tighter, afraid he plans to pull away and leave me broken on the porch. “I’m
sorry,” I choke. “Don’t go…”

He edges back, and I cling harder, desperate and afraid.
He’s a lifeline I cannot quantify or articulate. I depend on him more than any
girl should depend on a boy, but he’s been the backbone of my life. Without
him, I will fall.

“Hey.” He gathers my face in his hands. His glassy eyes
bring me back to reality.
To the fact that he feels my pain
just as I feel his.
That’s the problem. We hurt so much for each other
that it’s hard to say no. It’s hard to take away the vice that will numb the
agony of the day. “I’m here,” he says, a silent tear dripping down his cheek.
“We’re going to beat this together.”

Yes.
“Can you kiss
me?” I ask, wondering if that’s allowed. My therapist handed me a white
envelope filled with my sexual limitations—what I should and should not do. She
advised me not to read it and to give it to Lo instead. Since I’m supposed to
strive for intimacy, not celibacy, I need to relinquish my control in bed to
him. He’ll set the guidelines and tell me when to stop.

I handed the envelope to Rose yesterday and told her to
deliver it to Lo just in case I chickened out. As concerned as Rose has been
for my recovery process, I’m sure that was the first thing she did when Lo
walked through the door.

I have no idea how many times I can kiss him.
How much I can climax or if I’m allowed to have sex anywhere other
than a bedroom.
I’m so compulsive about intercourse and foreplay that
limits
have to be set, but following
them will be the hardest part of my journey.

His thumb wipes away my tears, and I brush his. I wait for
his answer, my eyes glued to his lips that I want to kiss until they sting and
swell. His forehead lowers, dipped down towards mine, and I become so aware of
how his fingers press into my hips, of the hardness of his body. I need him to
close that gap between us. I need him to fill me whole.

Hastily, I meet my lips to his, expecting him to lift me up
around his waist, to plunge his tongue in my mouth and slam by back into the
siding.

But he doesn’t give in to my desires.

He leans back and breaks the kiss in a matter of seconds. My
stomach drops. Lo rarely tells me no when it comes to sex. He’ll play into my
cravings until I’m wet and wanting. Things, I realize, are about to really
change. “My terms,” he whispers, his voice husky and deep.

My whole body already pulses from his nearness. “Please,” I
beg. “I haven’t touched you in so long.” I want to run my hands over him. I
want him to thrust into me until I cry. I imagine it over and over, torturing
myself with these carnal thoughts. But I also want to be strong and not throw
myself at him like he’s only a body I missed. He means so much more to me.
Maybe he’s hurt by my persistence to kiss him? Maybe he sees it as a bad sign?
“I’m sorry,” I apologize again. “It’s not that I want you for sex…I mean, I do
want sex, but I want you because I miss you…and I love you, and I need…” I
shake my head. My words sound stupid and desperate.

“Lil,” he says slowly. “Relax, okay?” He tucks a piece of
hair behind my ear. “You don’t think I know this is hard for you? I knew we
were going to run into this moment.” His eyes fall to my lips. “I knew you were
going to want to kiss me and for me to take you quick and hard. But that’s not
going to happen today.”

I nod rapidly, hating those words but trying to soak them in
and accept them. Uncontrollable tears begin to flow because I’m afraid I may
not be able to restrain my compulsions. I thought being away from Lo would be
the difficult part, but learning how to have a healthy, intimate relationship
with him suddenly seems impossible. He’s a man that I want to take advantage of
every minute of the day. If I’m not doing it, then I fantasize about it. How
can I stop?