Ricochet (ADDICTED SERIES)
Ricochet: Chapter 2

The hospital was a fiasco. Even a week later, I cringe at how Daisy lied to the nurse. She asked for her name, and Daisy spurted out, “Lily Calloway.”

I didn’t correct her because I understood her motives. She didn’t want the hospital to call our mother and have her involved in the situation. So I handed the white-scrubbed nurse my I.D., which could pass for Daisy because my sixteen-year-old picture is nearly obscured. I was even surprised the DMV didn’t force me to retake it. In the photo, my hair nearly shields my whole face, and I tilted my head down, trying to end the photo-taking process as quickly as possible. Afterwards, Lo made fun of me for the picture, but his wasn’t much better. He smiled sarcastically, looking like a supreme sixteen-year-old asshole.

Thinking about Lo does not help my mind tonight. I roll in my bed, clenching the sheets and pressing my face to my pillow. Some nights are worse than others. This one has been brutal.

My body heats with a layer of sticky sweat. I just want him. My eyes tighten closed, and I imagine his hands raking the bareness of my back, spindling up my hips towards my shoulders…

I need someone to take me in their arms, to rub their palms over all the aching parts, to knead my breast and suck my neck, to make this tension explode into a high. I crave it so badly that I end up biting my fingernails to the beds, turning on my side and staring at the wall, wondering if I should go find something to ease this into a nice, blissful release.

No.

I lick my lips and shudder, my body shaking as I prolong what it wants. Or maybe, it’s just my brain playing tricks on me. Maybe it’s all in my mind.

I inhale a deep breath and rise against my oak headboard. I find the remote on the end table and click on the flat screen television above my dresser. It swamps the wall, looking futuristic among my white canopied, king-sized bed and red velveteen chaise. Rose decorated my room, and I have to admit, she did a pretty good job with the pop art and the black checkered pillows. I could do without the canopy. One night, I rolled into it like a tortilla and started moronically swatting at it.

I click through the On Demand channels and peruse the nightly specials, landing on an X-rated film where a professor seduces a student. So cliché, but it’ll most definitely make me hot and bothered. I just hope that it helps me find the release I’m looking for.

I fast-forward the beginning where the girl usually just gives head. Normally, blow jobs in porn don’t turn me on…unless the guy does something sweet like hold her hair back and tell her she’s beautiful giving it. But I’ve seen too many scenes where the guy jackhammers the thing down her throat. Being choked by cock does nothing for me.

I reach the middle of the film, and the professor spreads the girl across his desk. He wears vintage framed glasses and a white button-down. His pants are already off and he quickly charges into her without any other foreplay. She lets out a frighteningly loud scream and then her moans start. “Mmmmmmmyeah. Like that….yeaaahhh.” She massages her own large breast while he thrusts hard. I can tell she’s faking it, and maybe horny guys don’t care—but I do. Her noises heighten and I realize that her orgasms are making me cringe. Not all porn is created equal.

I exit out and order another film.

Wanting to be surprised, I skim the description and barely glance at the title. This time I fast-forward again and quickly discern what type of category the film falls into.

The girl is draped over a bench in a locker room while the guy spanks her bare ass. It’s either submission or bondage or maybe a bit of both. I sink into my bed, silently hoping this girl doesn’t scream like a hyena.

She lets out a small yelp when the guy pushes inside of her. His thrusts are hard and rough and she clutches to the lockers for support. He grabs at her body and lets out a series of carnal grunts. After only a couple minutes she says, “Please make me come, sir. Please.”

Usually this does it for me. But I feel nothing. Not even turned off. I’m just…empty.

I mute the video and debate about purchasing another, but I’m not even sure a film with my favorite porn stars will help. This seems silly when all I want is Loren Hale. Visual stimulation doesn’t cure the craving for my boyfriend.

Tonight’s miserable experience suddenly triggers a recent memory with Lo—when he was sober for a very short period of time. I pause the film and wipe my eyes.

Lo plopped on my bed in our Philly apartment while I fired up my porn. I’d asked him if he wanted to watch a video with me, thinking it might be different now that he was sober. He had looked at me with crinkled eyebrows and a crooked grin before shrugging and following me into my room.

On the screen, a girl-next-door blonde rested in the jail cell, and a young, sexy cop entered, scanning her body with a lustful gaze.

“Why is she even there?” Lo asked, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. I rested my head on his hard chest, my heart beating wildly at the thought of what might happen next between us. I wanted him to take me just as the cop would take the girl.

“I think she was mistakenly jailed for soliciting or something, and this cop is going to question her about it. But really she’s going to have sex so he’ll let her go.”

Lo’s brow arched. “I see.”

I swallowed hard, wondering if he was analyzing what I wanted. He rarely watched porn with me. Whenever I put one on, I made it a private event, but with Lo there, the anticipation was enough to prick my nerves and tighten my insides.

The blonde girl fidgeted a little as the cop started to frisk her. His fingers moved down to the hem of her shorts. “Shouldn’t he have done that before he put her in jail?” Lo asked with a smile.

“It’s porn. It doesn’t have to make sense.”

Her back arched as the cop’s fingers dipped into her panties and out of sight. “Are you hiding anything that I need to know about?”

She shook her head. “No…sir…” Her breath caught, and then she let out a long pleasured moan, practically convulsing from his touch. And my breathing went shallow.

That was until I looked back at Lo. He wore a deep frown, as though trying to understand me through the porn. I sat up and disentangled from him. “This is a bad idea,” I said, about to shut it off. I scrounged around for the remote, but he grabbed my wrist lightly.

“No, wait, I’m watching this here.” He stayed transfixed to the porn.

The cop unzipped the girl’s shorts and tugged them to her ankles and then completely off. “You’ve been a very bad girl. Leaving here will be very, very simple if you cooperate. Just take this right here…” He motioned to his dick, and she grabbed it, her eyes big and innocent. “Put it in your mouth and fuck it. Can you do that for me?”

The girl nodded rapidly. She leaned forward while he dropped his navy pants—no underwear on. She gathered his cock in her hands and filled her mouth.

“Fuck, yeah.” He groaned deeply and pulled her hair off her face. “Take your punishment, baby.” I actually thought this blow job scene wasn’t a complete turn off. Of course, it probably helped that Lo was sitting next to me. She licked him up like a popsicle and then popped her mouth off it with a refreshing “ahhhh.”

Lo let out a long laugh, breaking the mood instantly. My whole body heated with embarrassment, not the type of “hot” I wanted.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Shhh,” he said, a big goofy smile on his face. I tried to speak again, but he put his hand to my lips, covering my mouth while he watched the film, mesmerized and amused.

“You like that?” the cop asked. The girl responded with a deep, throaty moan, and she rocked her head back and forth again. Then she took his cock out of her mouth and smacked it against her cheek. “Fuuuuuck,” he groaned. “Fuck, yeah.”

The cop yanked the girl to her feet and pulled down her top, kneading her breasts. “These are very nice.”

Lo laughed louder and looked to me, his hand still firmly planted on my mouth. “This really turns you on?”

Finally, he loosened his grip to let me reply.

“I usually skip the beginning,” I confessed. “Unless…” Nope, not telling him.

His eyes lit up. “Unless what?”

I blushed as I said, “Unless the guy holds her hair back.”

Lo’s smile engulfed his face. “That’s adorable.” He took the remote though and sped ahead to the actual sex where the couple talks less and usually just moans and grunts.

“Watching this is better than having sex with another person?” Lo asked, narrowing his eyes at the screen.

“No…maybe…sometimes,” I stammered. “It’s convenient.”

He looked back to me, eyebrows raised. “Better than me?”

I shook my head. “No way.”

“So you’ve had sex that was worse than watching porn? Who the hell were you fucking?” he asked.

I shrugged, not really having a way to answer that question. My eyes slowly left his for the movie where the cop had the girl spread-eagle on the floor. It was hard to look away, especially since I anticipated some steamy action ahead.

“Hey,” Lo breathed, brushing his fingers against my chin. He gently tilted my head towards him, and his parted lips looked ready to kiss me. I waited for him to close the gap between us, but instead of taking me in his arms and mimicking the film, he spoke. “In a competition between me and this…” He jabbed his finger towards the movie. “I’ll win. Every time.”

He licked his lips, his eyes skimming my breasts and my abdomen and the place that thrummed for pressure between my legs. He was about to prove that he was better than porn—even though I already told him so. He reached over and turned up the volume a little, right when the cop rolled off her to switch positions. I tried not to look at the screen, but the cop was big. Then the girl skillfully climbed right on top of him, arching her back so her enormous breasts became the focus of his attention.

Lo straightened up and grabbed my legs, yanking me so hard that my breath rushed out of my lungs. My back thudded flat on the mattress, successfully distracting me. He hovered over my body and leaned close. His mouth found my ear, and his tongue slipped inside, my limbs quivering.

As he pulled away, he whispered huskily, “Can a film do this?” He grabbed my wrists, bringing them above my head as he did so often. He trapped them with one hand, and using the other, he lifted up my shirt and my bra. His lips sucked lines from my breast to the hem of my pants, teasing and drawing out intolerable sensations. I wanted him to push inside. To come with every thrust. And I knew he would give it to me. When it came to sex, he offered me everything.

A film could not touch me the way Lo could.

I’d almost give anything to hear him finish with, “I love you.” As he always did.

Instead, I now stare at my paused television, wishing Lo was here to fill my needs instead of meaningless porn. I can’t even try to reach my climax from it. All I do is think of Lo, and how he basically said—in his own sly way—that I should quit watching porn and find my fix with him.

The film seems corny and cheesy and so fucking stupid in comparison. So I shut it off.

I stand up and gather all of my videos, and I stuff them in the little trash bin under my desk. They don’t all fit, so I pick up the aluminum bin and open my door, about to find a larger trashcan that’ll hold all my dirty secrets.

This seems right.

But ditching porn won’t lessen any tension spun inside me.

Not yet at least.

As I head down the stairs to the kitchen, I hear distant voices. It’s near midnight, but I’m not surprised by the conversation. Connor Cobalt and Rose schedule time together like one would a business meeting. She let me know that he may be over late in January since nights are the only time they can see each other this month.

“Why are you reading that?” Rose asks him. I inch forward and creep towards the living room. I edge close and peek behind the curved archway. Their backs face me as they share the cream couch, draped with a purple throw blanket. From here, I smell the fresh cut flowers that fill the vase on the glass coffee table. Connor brings a new bouquet every time they wilt. This time, he picked out yellow and pink daises that remind me of my youngest sister.

Rose’s arm presses against Connor as they sit close, each with their own laptops. Both are wearing insensible clothes to be hanging around the house. Connor sports a charcoal gray suit—worth thousands no doubt—while she wears a Calloway Couture piece: a black mini dress with a see-through maxi skirt on top. Classy, as always.

Connor doesn’t look up from his screen. “Because it’s useful.”

“Freud is not useful. He’s infuriating and sexist and wrong half the time.” She tries to shut his laptop, and he clasps her hand, bringing her knuckles up to his lips.

He gives her a light kiss before saying, “Just because you don’t like his theories doesn’t make him wrong. There’s good stuff in here.”

“Like what? ‘Penis envy?’” she snaps.

I frown. What the hell is penis envy? And more than that, are they really talking about my sexual needs again? I caught Rose with a stack of books the other day, all about sex addiction, and they were not only highlighted and bookmarked, but there were post-it notes stuck inside. And these notes, let me tell you, did not have Rose’s handwriting. Since Connor Cobalt was my tutor first, I can spot his cursive, calligraphy-like penmanship.

I can deal with my sister in my business, but her boyfriend who thinks he’s always right…well, that was a little hard to swallow.

I’m adjusting to it. Even if it’s incredibly weird. For years, Lo was the only one who knew my secrets, and now I have three more people keeping the news quiet. It’s a lot to handle.

And definitely too much to process.

“Yeah,” Connor says, “penis envy and psychosexual development.”

“You’re so off base. My sister doesn’t have penis envy—that implies that she could possibly have the Electra complex.”

I cringe, knowing what that is. I have no craving to hook up with my father. No thank you.

“I never said she had it,” he says easily, not defensive like most men with Rose, a girl who attacks full force, eyes icy and hard, ready to combat with claws and power. I love her for it. And whenever they bicker, I’m inwardly waving Rose Calloway flags, cheering for my closest sister to come out on top. “But your sister is a sex addict. Whose theories are you going to start with? Aristotle? The Hamburgler? Or how about Erik Erikson? Lily has a thing about names.”

Rose gives him a sharp look. “The Hamburgler, really?”

“Freud pioneered psychoanalysis. You discredit him and that’s when the McDonald’s references start flying.”

She slaps his laptop closed, and he rests an arm on the back of the couch, turning towards her a little. I have to edge back behind the wall, concealing more of my body from view.

Connor has rosy pink lips, thick wavy brown hair, and a smile worth the millions in his trust fund. “Yes?” he says, eyeing her lips that pinch tightly.

Rose wears her brown hair in a slicked back ponytail. Her yellowish-green, cat-colored eyes pierce him. “The psychosexual theory has a way of picturing women as broken, inefficient toys that need to be fixed.”

“I know,” Connor says. “A lot of it is misogynistic, but it’s interesting, don’t you think?”

“No. I find it infuriating.”

His lips quirk in a smile. “Just like me?”

She rolls her eyes, but she sort of lingers there as she refuses to lose contact completely. I can tell she wants to kiss him, maybe just as much as he wants to kiss her. But then she turns her head, breaking the moment. Just like Rose to push a guy away. Sometimes I think she fears a lack of power that comes in a relationship, as though she may lose some sort of advantage if she lets Connor in.

He doesn’t look defeated. In fact, his eyes pulse with the exact opposite. Determined. Challenged.

A hair falls from its hold in her pony, and Rose tucks it behind her ear. “I think I’m onto something here. This psychologist suggests that sexual addiction can be closely related to obsessive compulsive disorder. If I look into OCD, then maybe I’ll have a better understanding of what Lily is going through.”

“We,” he says.

Rose’s brows furrow. “What?”

“You said ‘if I look into OCD.’ I told you I want to help, so I’m going to help. Lily is my friend too.” He shifts so their bodies press a little closer, and Rose’s laptop sits on each of their legs. They seem to be having a “moment” so I decide to make a quiet exit and head into the kitchen, but as I turn, one of the DVDs on the top of my bin slides off and clatters to the wooden floor.

I freeze, my eyes widening as their necks turn. I’m a deer caught in their headlights. Please don’t say anything. Let me drift away and pretend we didn’t meet gazes.

No such luck.

Rose shuts her laptop so I can’t see her screen, and she rises from the couch, smoothing down her dress with her hands. “What are you doing up? I thought you took a sleeping pill.” And then her eyes wander to the DVDs in the trash bin.

“I haven’t taken one yet,” I say, avoiding Connor. His presence has increased the volume of my embarrassment. And yet, both of them act completely innocent, as if this isn’t out of the ordinary. Why am I always the one to roast a new shade of red?

“What’s that?” Rose wanders over to my frozen state by the archway, straddling the space between the granite kitchen and the living room. Connor stands and puts his hands in the pockets of his slacks, casual. Having your girlfriend’s sister carry an overflowing bin of porn is so normal.

“I was tossing it,” I tell her as she inspects the DVDs with a quick glance.

“What brought this on?” Rose asks, but something hopeful flickers in her eyes. She can see that I’m trying, and my chest floats, feeling a little better by her reaction.

“I just thought it was time to get rid of it all.”

“That’s the rest?” Connor asks, sidling to Rose. His presence drives knots in my stomach—the way he stands a good four inches taller than Rose, more than that for me. His strong, muscular build reminds me of what I’m missing.

Uncomfortable, I take a step backwards and shun their gazes. “I’m going to trash this and then head back upstairs.”

Rose must read me too well because she uses her arm to push Connor back. “You need to go.”

“Rose, she’s fine. She can’t be afraid of men forever. And anyway, she attended a party with male models. How am I any different than one of them?” I catch him flashing his impeccable smile.

“You did not just compare yourself to a high fashion model.”

“I did.”

Rose stares at the ceiling like oh my God. “You want to know how many times in a day I question why I’m with you?”

“Five times.”

“A hundred.”

“If you told me you were going to exaggerate, I would have picked that, but I thought we were being realistic here, hun.”

I snort. “Smooth.”

Connor gestures to me. “See, she’s fine.”

Rose sets her hands on her hips and looks to me for a final verdict. If I said no, she’d toss out Connor. And Connor is kind of right, as much as I hate to admit that. I shouldn’t be scared of the opposite sex being so close. Even if I have been a bit jumpy after New Year’s.

“He can stay,” I tell her.

Her eyes narrow at me like I chose the wrong answer.

I mouth, what?

She makes a small motion with her head to Connor. Did she not want him over here anymore? But then I see Connor and he’s—no lie—grinning from ear to ear, as though he won the Academic Bowl Tournament against Princeton, Rose’s college (and now mine).

She lost that tiff, I see.

“I’ll help you with your porn,” Connor says. He goes into the kitchen to find a trash bag while I try to wipe that line clean from memory. I set the bin on the floor and wait for Rose to explode. Her face scrunches like she’s ready to give birth.

When Connor disappears into the pantry, Rose lets loose. “I can’t stand him,” she says. “Honestly, he drives me nuts, Lily.”

I try really hard not to laugh. Rose and Connor broke up five times in December. I’m suspecting that number to double in January. They both call it quits and then they’ll reunite in a couple days. It’s as cute as it is exhausting.

“I think you drive him crazy too,” I tell her. “And I mean this in the Britney Spearian sense.” I hum the nineties tune and sing the chorus. Her face darkens, not amused. I can’t help but laugh. That’s Rose for you.

Her shoulders relax as she takes in the DVDs again. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yeah,” I say quickly, not wanting to think too much about the giant leap. I’d rather race towards the finish line than slow crawl right now. Which is why I nervously tap my foot, waiting for Connor to hurry back with the bag that’ll seal my fate. Hopefully I’ll trample the urge to buy new films in the future or click into dirty sites on the internet. I think I can do it. I hope. That’s all I really have at the moment.

“So…” I say, nervously twiddling my fingers. “…you think I have OCD?” It would make sense, sort of. I do relate my sexual needs to compulsions. The need to obtain that natural high. Kind of like an obsessive compulsive’s need to follow their systematic routine. I just never related the two.

“Some psychologists believe that addictions correlate with OCD, but I can’t diagnose you,” Rose says truthfully. “You really need to visit the therapist—”

“I know,” I cut her off. “I know, I just…I haven’t decided which one I want to go to.” Who knew there were so many sex addiction therapists in the area? And I already searched for a Sex Addicts Anonymous group and came up completely blank. Since most groups consist of men trying to thwart their sexual cravings, they have a strict no-female policy. It makes sense, but it has also made it nearly impossible to find an SAA that accepts women. I’ve given up the hunt for now and plan to do one-on-one therapy.

There are also in-treatment facilities for sex addiction. Rehab, like Lo. But Rose squashed those as an option pretty quickly. She really wouldn’t give me a definite answer, and after beating around the bush, she blurted out that I have social anxiety. That I shouldn’t be in large groups trying to fix my problem.

Yesterday, I rebutted, “I don’t have social anxiety.” And in the same instance, I was nervously pacing my room.

She tilted her head with raised eyebrows. “When’s the last time you were in a group setting?”

“Lots of times,” I told her. “I go to clubs, Rose. People are everywhere.”

“But are you forced to talk to them? Do you talk to anyone other than Lo? Really, Lily, think about it. Do you even bring up a conversation with your one-night stands or do you just give them a look and screw them?”

She was right. Maybe I do have social anxiety. And according to Rose, I should concentrate on one thing at a time. I also think she’d rather look after me than send me away. She’d go crazy not knowing what exactly the rehab’s program would be or what they would do. So right now, therapy is the best solution.

“I’m working on that for you,” Rose tells me. “I have a meeting with two tomorrow.” Literally, she has been setting up appointments just to quiz the therapists. I love her more than she knows. “The last guy was a complete idiot. I asked him about cognitive behavioral therapy and he gave me a blank stare. I’m not lying.”

Connor approaches with the trash bag. “She’s not,” he adds. “I was there.”

My cheeks redden, but they hardly notice. Or maybe they just don’t care. Yeah, that has to be it.

Before I can put the DVDs in the bag myself, Connor picks the bin from the floor and dumps it into the garbage. The fact that he’s in close contact to my porn has seriously knotted my stomach and heated my entire chest.

Connor says to Rose, “That last man was a complete asshat.”

She hesitates to agree with him, though I can tell she does.

“What’d he do?”

Connor ties the bag and sets it by the wall. He casts a furtive glance in Rose’s direction, all secrets, something that I had with Lo. My heart sinks, but I push the thoughts away quickly.

“Well, we showed up to the therapist’s office, and Rose introduced herself and told him her sexual problems—”

“Wait…” I hold up my hands, my eyes bugging. I look between the two of them, and they stand as though nothing is out of the ordinary. As though this story is fucking normal! I blink at Rose. “You did not pretend to be me, did you?”

She shakes her head. “Of course not, Lily.”

I exhale. Good. That would be embarrassing.

“I told him that I was a sex addict, but I gave him my personal information. You’re fine.”

Oh my God. “Why would you want to do that?”

She shrugs. “It was the only way this man would see me. I had to be a patient first.”

I cringe, refusing to look at Connor. I’m more shamed for her than I should be. I realize this may be what I feel soon. Maybe even tenfold. “And what happened?”

Rose scrutinizes my reaction and immediately closes a short gap between our bodies. She puts her hand on my shoulder. “You don’t need to hear this. Not every therapist is like him, and I promise you, Lily, that I would never send you to one that I didn’t think was absolutely perfect.”

Right, but a glimmer of fear still strikes me cold. “Still, I want to know.”

Connor puts a couple fingers to his lips, inspecting me the same way my sister had, wondering if I can handle the truth.

“Please,” I add.

My pout must win them over—or at least Rose because she breaks first. “He asked me what my sexual preferences were, and I told him that I gravitate towards porn and one-night stands but nothing too kinky.” The weekend Lo left for rehab, I actually professed to Rose most of my secrets. I explained my habits of ditching family events (and even told her which ones) for a quickie in the bathroom or hookup at a club. Nothing earthshattering. Get in. Get high. Get out. That’s how I liked it with everyone but Loren Hale.

“And what happened?” I almost go to bite my fingernails, but I decide to cross my arms instead, keeping my palms buried beneath.

“He went through a list of things, asking me if they turned me on,” Rose says, unabashed.

Connor looks equally unaffected. God, they ooze confidence. He chimes in, “Fingering, dildos, vibrators, head, anal, doggy style—”

“She gets it,” Rose snaps.

He grins back, and I swear they have another “moment”—Rose looking like she wants to rip his face off, and Connor looking like he wants to kiss her for it. So weird.

I rub my hot neck. “Have you guys ever been embarrassed?” If this is a smart-person superpower, I totally want it.

Connor stares at the ceiling in thought. “Well, there was that one time…actually, no…” He shakes his head. “No, that wasn’t me.” His dark blue eyes meet mine. “I’m embarrassment free.”

“Me too,” Rose says.

I squint at her. “Really?” There has to have been a time…oh yeah. “What about when you were in sixth grade on a school field trip to D.C.?” I wasn’t with her, but her classmates rehashed the story with such theatrics that only a robot would go without feeling. My mom said she cried angry, embarrassed tears all the way home.

Rose’s eyes widen in alarm. “Do you want to know what the therapist said or not?”

“Are you blushing?” Connor asks Rose with a laugh. Connor: 2. Rose: 0. She’s going to kill me.

“Let’s get back to the subject at hand,” I say, trying to cover for her, but the damage is done.

Connor nudges her hip with his elbow. “What is it? Did you fall into the Reflecting Pool?”

“No,” she deadpans, glaring at the wall.

“Did you misquote Abraham Lincoln’s speech?”

“That wouldn’t happen, and that’s not the least bit embarrassing.”

“I would be embarrassed,” he says with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah? Well you’re like a green rooster. If your kind exists, there’s only one of you.”

He grins. “Say that again.”

“I’d rather embowel your cat.”

I laugh. “Ooh, burn.” Bringing Sadie into the arguments always livens things up. Rose has threatened to mutilate his pet about twenty different ways. It’s her main weapon against her boyfriend, but he finds each one as amusing as the next. Apparently, Rose has yet to enter his apartment on account of Connor’s tabby cat that hates women. Since the cat is also full-fledged female, Rose finds the creature as close to a demon as an animal can be.

Connor tries hard not to break into an even wider smile and show defeat. He cocks his head to the side. “Some idiot boy gave you a wedgie, didn’t he? Give me his name; I want to talk to him.”

“It was the sixth grade,” she says with furrowed brows. “You don’t need to go through my history book and attack all the people who have wronged me.”

I chime in, “Yeah, because she’s already castrated most of them.”

Connor lets out a laugh, and I swear, he’s about ready to drop on one knee and propose. He licks his lips to hide his growing pleasure. “So I’m right then? Wedgie?”

“What? No.” Rose jerks back, offended. “I don’t even find it that embarrassing anymore. It actually just chaps my ass, which is why I think we should move on.”

“I don’t want to move on from this, hun. Just let it out. Breathe and release.” He inhales strongly and blows out of his mouth, teasing her a little, and her cat-eyes burn holes in him.

“Fine, Richard.” Oh, she even used his real name. Things are getting serious now. I can’t deny—their tiffs do take my mind off missing Lo and my habits. Sometimes I think that being around Rose and Connor helps take the edge off. Other times, I just feel like they stand in the way of me and my desires. “I was walking through one of the Smithsonian museums, and I stopped in front of a model of the solar system. While I was reading the labels, a group of boys in my class gathered behind me and pointed and snickered before saying, ‘I can see Uranus.’”

Connor doesn’t laugh. “That’s not even clever.”

It gets worse, is all I think.

Rose’s lips twitch, trying to smile, but anger flits in her eyes at the memory. “I ignored them, and then they said, ‘Hey, your anus is bleeding.’”

Connor frowns.

“I started my period that day.”

I grimace at her pained memory. Those things stay with someone forever. Even if they seem small and insignificant, childhood stories like Rose’s are the ones that last a lifetime.

“Give me their names.” Connor motions to her with two fingers as he takes out his phone and opens the note app.

Rose actually lets out a weak smile. “I yelled at them,” she tells Connor, “that day—I turned around and told them to shut up, and I ran into the bathroom and cried and called my mother.” Her face turns serious. “I never want to have children.”

My stomach drops at the bomb she just exploded in the room. I knew this about Rose, but talking about kids in front of a pretty new boyfriend would be a trigger for them to scamper away.

Clearly, this is a Rose Calloway test.

Connor inhales deeply, as though digesting the sudden proclamation. His face stays blank, accepting Rose’s challenge. She’s practically asking him to run the other way. “After that, I wouldn’t either. Boys should be more respectful about the female reproductive system. It’s what brought those fuckers into the world.”

Rose laughs at this, almost cackling. I can’t help but smile too. “Fuckers?” she repeats.

He shrugs. “It’s better than dipshits.”

“I actually think dipshit is more appropriate.”

My eyes scrunch. “Are you two seriously discussing curse words?”

“Yes,” they say in unison, turning their attention back to me. Rose picks up where she left off on the story involving the therapist. “Anyway, he went through a list and asked me what I preferred, I told him, and he asked how often. Then, he asked me if I tried to stop, but he said it in a way that was completely unprofessional.”

Connor elaborates. “He told her that most women come into his office seeking attention, especially from him since he’s good looking and fit, and that in order to verify her problem, she would need to—and I quote—‘suck cock until her mouth bled.’”

My jaw unhinges. “What?” I say in a small voice.

Rose punches him in the side, and he feigns wincing, incensing her more. “I was trying to be brief about it,” she says. “You didn’t need to tell her word for word.”

“I hate paraphrasing. To use your vocabulary, it chaps my ass.”

Rose holds up a hand to his face, ignoring him and telling him to shut up in one swift motion. Her eyes meet mine and they soften considerably. “I learned later that he had never treated a female sex addict before. I’m trying to find a woman who understands your condition. And I promise, she will not only be respectful but she’ll be intelligent and know more than Connor and me put together.”

“That’s impossible,” Connor tells her. “We’re the two smartest people in the entire world. You put us together, and you get a superhuman.”

Rose rolls her eyes dramatically, but she’s actually smiling. “You’re an idiot.” She nods to me. “Okay?”

I believe Rose. I trust her more than anyone else in the whole world, maybe even more than Lo. He would be so offended if he heard me say that, but in this moment, I think it’s true. He’s not here. But I have her.

There’s something beyond comforting about that. “Thanks, Rose.” I give her a hug and hope that no matter how horrible I am, no matter how much I bitch and regress, she’ll forgive me.

2 YEARS AGO

My wedges dangle in my hand. My bare feet touch the dirty sidewalk. I’m running. Well, more like chasing. As I try to catch up with Lo, a freshman dormitory looms in the background, cop cars swarming the brick building. Underage drinkers cuffed or given a not-so pleasant citation.

Lo spins around, slowing and shuffling backwards at the same time. He’s so good at running away from things. At eighteen, I still struggle to keep up with him.

“Faster, Lil,” he tells me, but he has a goofy smile on his face. As if this could be considered a new adventure. Racing from the cops during our first week of college. Me, chasing after him.

“We’re…going…up a…hill,” I huff, my pace between a walk and a jog. Something sticky glues to the bottom of my foot, and I cringe with a downturned frown. I hope that was just gum.

“I’m going to leave you,” he threatens, but I hardly believe him. Especially with the way he nearly laughs at me. And then he picks up speed again, sprinting forward, hoping that I’ll gain the strength to finally reach him.

I never do. But it’s a nice thought.

My knees bend beneath me, and I use the last ounce of my energy to dart towards him up the steep hill, traffic on the left side of us as cars return from the clubs and bars. The dorm party we attended wasn’t even that fun. The beer sucked, as Lo put it. There was no room to move, and the halls were so crammed with people that a weird smell permeated in the air. Like weed and sweat mixed together. Gross.

But I don’t regret it. Because Lo was there, and we’ll have something to laugh about later.

His black shirt begins to mold to his taught back and chest and arms, outlining the shape of his lean muscles, giving me an idea of what lies beneath. When he runs, he looks beautiful. As though no one can touch him, as though he’s leaving behind a burning world and heading towards a peaceful one. His cheeks will sharpen; his eyes will narrow in determination. Of course I can’t see any of that.

I just have a nice view of his ass.

That’s not too bad to look at either.

And then I begin to fall. Pain shoots up my ankle so excruciating that I let out a cry. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I sit on my butt and inspect the bone. It’s not protruding from my skin, but the muscle feels tight and strained.

“Lil?” Lo rushes back to me, nearly skidding down the hill with a face full of worry. He bends to my ankle, and inspects the bone just as I did. His fingers lightly touch my skin. “How bad does it hurt?”

“Bad.” I grimace.

“As bad as when you broke your arm?” he asks, reminding me of the bully on the playground when we were little. Harry Cheesewater.

I shake my head, and he puts his hands underneath my armpits, hoisting me up like I’m a little doll. I try to put some pressure on my foot to test it, but the pain intensifies like a thousand sharp needles. My eyes begin to water, and I wipe them with a furious hand. Pissed that I fell. Especially with police sirens blaring in the distance.

Lo does not need to be thrown in jail. The last time he was in there, his father threatened to ship him off to a military academy. The only thing that changed his father’s mind was my promise to help “fix” Lo, which was solidified with our fake relationship. Even if I wanted to help him, I can’t. He glared at me tonight just for suggesting he should switch to beer. I still wonder if he would have left me alone at the party if I told him to stop altogether. The best I can do is try to convince him not to drink an extra bottle. That’s in my power, and I use it as often as I can. But the only way he’ll truly get better is if he wants to first.

And clearly, he’s nowhere near that point. I’m not even sure what it will take.

He drank so much that his eyes glaze over. He’s still present—he’s still here—but I see the hunger to drink more, to lie down and just sleep with the drift and ease that liquor offers him.

“You probably sprained it,” Lo says, his gaze falling to my foot again.

“I can limp there,” I tell him. We should call Nola to pick us up. We hate cabs enough to risk being seen by a cop, but we still have my family’s driver. And Lo’s. But Anderson would be a last resort. For some reason, neither of us suggests our drivers as an option. It’s late, and I really don’t want to wake Nola to save us.

“That sounds like a stupid idea,” he says.

I look over my shoulder, the red and blue lights flashing in the distance. “Just go without me. I’ll catch up.”

And then his cheeks sharpen as they always do. “That sounds even shittier.”

“I haven’t had any alcohol,” I tell him. “If the cops catch me, then I’ll be fine. They catch you, and you’ll be in trouble with your dad.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” He lets out a deep sigh, and then spins around—back facing me. Just when I think he’s going to take off running, actually listening to my request, he does something quite different. He bends down, lifts up my legs and hoists me on his back. “Grab tight, love.”

My hands wrap around his neck, and he speeds off.

The wind whips my brown hair, and I listen to his easy breath as he carries me away from the chaos and towards the city where we live. I’ve ridden on his back before. When we were kids. When I couldn’t make it up the Great Sand Dunes in Colorado. When I forgot to wear closed-toed shoes in the Costa Rican rain forest. When I just needed a lift. He was always there.

Minutes pass and then those turn into hours, and Lo has slowed to a walk, the Philadelphia streets alive and glittering in the middle of the night. We head to the Drake—to our new apartment that we share together.

Lo has spun me around, and he holds me in a front-piggyback while I rest my head on the crook of his neck and shoulder, my eyes fluttering closed.

My desires have already been satiated for the night. The only person that crosses my mind is the man carrying me. “If you were an X-Men, I think you would be Quicksilver,” I say with a small yawn. He has superhuman speed, able to run as fast as lightening. He’s also the son of Magneto, who expects too much of him at times, their father-son relationship one of the rockiest among mutant kind.

He mulls this over and then whispers, “I’d rather be Hellion.”

I know. I’d rather be Veil most of the time and escape my most embarrassing moments by whisking into nothingness, but the truth is, I’m probably not even worthy of being compared to an X-Men. At least Lo is like someone. At least he can relate.

He glances down at me as I begin to fall asleep. “How’s your ankle?”

“Wonderful,” I whisper, “because I’m not standing on it.”

“I think we have an ice pack in the fridge.”

My eyes shut fully. “Mmm, sounds nice.”

He kisses the top of my head and then whispers, “I love you, Lil.”

We say the words all the time, but the power has not been lost. They mean more to me than he’ll know. Because at the end of the day, this type of love is different than a first-sight encounter with a man at a bar, a crush in prep school or a bubbling, new romance. Our I love yous encompass years of heartache, of hurt, of laughter and pain.

And every time we say the words, I feel the rush of our childhood. I couldn’t imagine ever losing that.

* * *

After a full night of icing the muscle, I’m so chilly in the morning that I crave warmth. At ten a.m., I fill up a bubble bath and lie in the soapy suds, letting my injury soak in the soothing waters. Bliss doesn’t even define this feeling. That is…until Lo opens the bathroom door and sluggishly walks in. I sink further down into the water and gather some foamy bubbles to hide my naked body.

“You have your own bathroom,” I remind him as he runs water under his toothbrush. A blue Spider-Man one that he carried in here.

He turns around, supporting himself against the edge of my counter. Only drawstring pants on that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. But I keep my eyes firmly planted on his.

“I wanted to see how your ankle was doing,” he admits before putting his toothbrush in his mouth. One week into college, and I still haven’t fully adjusted to living with him. We were comfortable before, but sharing space has blurred even more lines that really didn’t need any more blurring.

“I’m warming it,” I explain and lift my foot up from the water, leaving out the part about wanting the heat a lot more than my ankle needing it.

I didn’t expect him to walk over, toothbrush still hanging out of his mouth, and press his fingers to the swollen area. I try not to let the pain cross my face too much.

Lo pops the toothbrush from his mouth and points to me. “Bed rest for you,” he orders before turning and spitting into the sink. He rinses and squishes with water.

“You feel okay?” I ask, watching him wipe his lips on the towel.

When he returns his attention to me, his eyes land on the bath. “I could use a bubble bath,” he says, a smile playing at his lips. Another moment where I should say no and not submit to his teasing and playfulness.

But the words just don’t come, and he’s already shedding his pants down to his black boxer-briefs and hopping right into the waters. The Jacuzzi is large enough for seven people, so it’s not that awkward.

He lets out a loud moan as he sinks into the waters. I can’t help but smile.

“Just don’t come any closer,” I warn. “I’m naked.” I flush at the words.

It’s his turn to smile, a mischievous one that I do not like.

“Lo,” I warn again.

He raises his hands from the water, coming in peace. “I’m staying right here.” Good. “It’s you that we both should be worried about.” I frown. He may be right about that. I scoot a little further back, avoiding his silly smile. I press my body firmly to the porcelain tub.

After a moment, Lo clears his throat and plays with the bubbles, running them between his fingers. “So…last night, did he use a condom?”

“Yeah.” I nod, giving into his question even though I have no desire to talk about last night.

“You know because college guys are different,” Lo says, still fixated on the bubbles.

“They’re hornier,” I agree. It’s my very own sexual playground. Maybe that’s why Lo looks so concerned.

“They drink more,” he adds, “and may forget to use one. You can’t let that happen, okay?”

For the past week, I’ve been so neurotic about Lo being in college, surrounded by parties every night where the liquor never runs out (most of the time). I never thought he’d have fears about me.

Against better judgment, I scoot forward a little and nudge his foot with mine. At least, I hope it’s his foot. I can’t really tell through all the bubbles. “I’ll be fine,” I say confidently, “I’m always the one in control during sex. I call the shots.” It helps that I don’t drink since I usually need to drive Lo home afterwards. Last night we had Nola drop us off with the intention of going home at a reasonable hour without the cop lights flashing in the background. Oops.

“Do you even realize how small you are?” Lo asks in disbelief. “Honestly, Lil.”

I splash some bubbles in his face. “I’m big enough.”

“You’re ridiculously skinny and five foot five. I’m big.”

My eyes drift down. Unintentional. At least I hope so. He’s already smiling again and my cheeks burn. “Can we move on?” I ask, partly whining. “I just don’t know what you want me to say.” He won’t tell me to stop, so there’s no use in revolving around this topic like some vomit-inducing carousel on a playground.

“No, I don’t want to move on,” he says roughly. “And I want you to convince me that I shouldn’t be nervous whenever you run off with a guy who looks like he could snap you in half.”

“If I can convince you, you’ll drop this subject for at least the rest of the year?” I ask, already thinking of what I could say…or do.

“Deal.”

“Fine,” I reply. “Then you act like the horny college guy—”

“Not difficult.”

I roll my eyes. “And I’ll show you just how in control I am.”

He stares me down. “You do realize you’re naked.”

Oh…shit. I forgot.

“Which makes this even better,” he tells me. “More realistic, right?”

Right. But my heart has started to thud in my chest, also reminding me that this is real, but maybe it’s not. We are still kind of pretending. Good God. Alice in Wonderland had an easier fucking time discerning reality than me.

I give him a nod, and before I can process anything else, Lo reaches into the water and grabs my hurt foot. I don’t know where this is going. Maybe he’s worried about my ankle again. He gently takes it in his hands and then kisses the heel sweetly.

I’m so confused. How am I supposed to convince him I’m in control if he’s just kissing my foot?

His eyes meet mine, and they don’t break away, not as he leans in and puts his mouth around my toe. Holy shit. I can feel his tongue swirling around it, and then he starts sucking. I feel like someone lit me on fire. The bath does not help smother the flames.

When he licks the arch of my foot, I pull it right out of his hands.

His eyes rise accusingly. “You didn’t like that?” he asks, knowing full well I did.

“I don’t let them suck my toes,” I say.

“Let’s see what you do then,” he challenges.

I take the bait and edge closer, glad that the bubbles hide my body from view. He relaxes against the porcelain tub now, leaning back while I straddle his waist. He tries to sit up and take charge again, and I slam my hands against his chest. My mouth finds his neck and I start leaving a trail of kisses while my hips move back and forth over him. The hardness in his pants grows beneath me; I’m thankful he still wears his boxer-briefs even if I don’t have any clothes on. I just need to remember this is to prove a point. Nothing more.

Before he can make another move on me, my hand lowers to his cock and I grip it firmly but not too hard. He groans and leans back into the tub. I smile into my next kiss and start to massage outside his underwear. I’ve got this.

But then he grabs me by the waist and in a swift motion, I’m suddenly on the bottom. I try and jerk away but his fingers find my wrist and his other hand sinks beneath the waters and touches the spot in between my legs. I shudder in need. My body just so damn confused at this point.

He leans in, his lips brushing my earlobe. “You’re in control?” he asks huskily. “Fight me.”

I try to push him off again, but he just pushes back, pinning me to the slippery tub. My slick, naked chest touches his and my mind can’t process anything but the words more and need.

I know I’m losing.

“I can’t.”

He doesn’t back away. Just shakes his head in slight distress. “Why not?”

“You’re too big.” And I think I want it.

He breaks into a smile, but it quickly disappears when he realizes what this means. “So you’re going to…” he trails off, not able to say the words.

“I’m going to…not fuck any linebackers or burly guys. And I have pepper spray, and like I said—I can take care of myself as long as the guy doesn’t get too aggressive.” Or isn’t Loren Hale.

“You didn’t say that.”

“I’m saying it now.” He’s about to move away and I quickly blurt out, “Can you put them in me?” No. No. No. I did not…

His hand still lingers on my pussy, cupping it. I don’t look at his eyes but I can feel him staring at me with amusement.

“You have rules,” he reminds me. “I can’t make you come, remember?” Right. I initiated that rule after Lo and I went a little too far one day. We didn’t have sex, but I climaxed and it was too much. Even if we were in a fake relationship. But we still fool around. He still touches me. I still touch him. And right now, I’m so eager that I just want to feel him inside of me. Somehow.

“Make up your mind, Lil,” he says softly.

I know he’ll do it if I ask. He’d do anything for me, but I don’t know if it’s fair to him.

“I’ll just…get something else.” Like a toy.

“You sure?”

I give him a weak nod and he finally pulls away from me. Even in the warm water, I feel kind of cold by the absence of a body.

By the absence of him.