[Addicted 01.0] Addicted to You

by Krista Ritchie

  Lo lies fully clothed on his champagne-colored duvet. He’s curled up on his side, and his light brown hair sticks in different directions. In his right hand, he cuddles an empty bottle of Macallan, a ten thousand-dollar whiskey.

  Five more liquor bottles scatter the ground. Some half-full, others dry. But those have to be from other nights entirely. He has a high tolerance, but not that high. All of these bottles would knock out a whole football team and probably kill him. I try not to think about that.

  I go to the bathroom and wet a hand cloth with warm water. Back in his room, I sidle to his low bed, the mattress coming up to my legs. I bend over and press the towel to his forehead.

  “Lo, time to get up,” I say softly. He doesn’t stir. This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to wake Lo up for something important.

  I abandon him passed out on the bed and race around his room, sweeping empty bottles and locking away full ones. When all the alcohol disappears, I turn my attention back on him. “Loren Hale!” I yell.

  Nothing.

  I try shaking his arms, his legs, his waist—anything that will make him rise to join the living.

  Nothing.

  He stays gone to the world and inside I’m cursing him for choosing this day to be so wasted. Time slips by, and my pulse heightens with every second. I can’t leave him. Lo wouldn’t do that to me, and if we go down, we go down together.

  I unzip my dress and step out. In nothing but a pair of boy-short panties and a plain bra. At least I know what to do in these situations from his past experiences. Hopefully it will work.

  With the little upper body strength I possess, I grab under his armpits and tug him off his bed. We both clamber to the floor, and he lets out a soft groan.

  “Lo?!”

  He sinks back into unconsciousness, and I quickly spring to my feet and drag his heavy body towards the bathroom. “You. So. Owe. Me,” I say with each jerk. The words aren’t true. We’ve both banked enough favors that we no longer even count.

  I kick open the glass door to the shower and pull him in with one last heave. His head lies in my lap, and even though I wear beige undies, I’m not too embarrassed. How can I be when he lies vulnerable in my arms? He may not even remember this in an hour. Better my underwear soaking than my dress.

  I stay on my knees, panting as I reach up for the faucet nozzle. I turn the water to the coldest cold.

  It sprays down on the both of us, and within ten seconds, Lo sputters awake, spitting out water from his mouth like I’m drowning him. I turn the water to a warmer temperature, and he tries to right himself, lifting his torso off my lap. He slips when he attempts to simply lean on the tiled wall.

  His eyes close and open sluggishly. He still hasn’t spoken a word.

  “You have to bathe,” I tell him from my corner of the shower. “You stink like booze.”

  He makes an incoherent mumbling noise, tightening his eyes shut. We don’t have time for this. I stand, grab the shampoo and soap, and return to his side while the water rains down on us.

  “Come on,” I breathe softly, remembering how he hates when I speak in my “normal” voice on bad mornings. Apparently it sounds like knives slaughtering baby pandas. His words, not mine.

  He lets me pull his T-shirt over his head and barely helps me maneuver his arms through the holes. Water beads on the ridges of his abs, a runner’s build that usually stays hidden beneath clothes. No one would expect how fit he is. Or that he does occasionally hit the gym. That’s the best kind—the surprise of something more underneath something already handsome. I envy all the girls who get to experience that feeling for the first time with him. I shake my head. Focus. I train my gaze off the curves of his biceps and concentrate on his jeans. Without another thought, I unbutton them and yank down.

  When the heavy, sopping denim sticks at his thighs, his eyelids flutter open. I blush uncontrollably even though this isn’t the first time I’ve undressed him.

  He peers down at me. “Lil…” he mumbles, sounding lethargic.

  Okay, we do not have time for this. I yank. Hard. And they finally surpass his damn muscular thighs and to his ankles where the denim is much easier to manage. Now soaked in nothing but his black boxer-briefs, I have to use all of my strength on the task at hand.

  I take the soap and lather them into a loofa and wash across his lean torso, down his abs…umm…skipping that area…and to his thighs and legs. I don’t have much time to wash his back, but I don’t think it will be a problem.

  The worst part is the smell. A bourbon scent emits from his pores, and after trying different soaps and colognes, we found some that work to mask the repugnant odor.

  His addiction scares me sometimes. Alcoholism can destroy livers and kidneys, and one day, he may not wake up from a night of bingeing. But how can I tell him to stop? How can I judge him when I am nowhere near ready to let go of my crutch? So for right now, this is the best I can do.

  I lather the shampoo into his hair while he keeps his eyes open, using his own strength to remain somewhat conscious. He’s coming to, but I’m not sure he realizes where we are yet. “Have fun?” I ask while my fingers basically give him a scalp massage.

  He nods slowly, and his gaze lowers to my bra—beige and now pretty much see-through. Uh…

  I pinch his arm, and he lifts his head back to me. His eyes change, the amber color swimming and intensifying in the steam. He stares deeply, too intense. I hate when he looks at me like that. And he knows it. His hand rises and caresses the back of my neck. Whaaat…I shake out of my confusion and jerk away with a scowl. I don’t have time to deal with his hungover, delirious moves.

  He gives me a smirk. “Just practicing.”

  “Do you know what time it is?” I grab a plastic cup, fill it with water, and dup it over his head, not caring as the shampoo burns his eyes. He squints and mumbles a curse, but he’s too tired to actually rub it off.

  When the soap suds fizzle out, I drape his arm over my shoulder and lug his body to his bedroom. This time, he cooperates and helps me.

  He collapses on the duvet, and I spend the next few minutes drying him off with a towel like he’s my pet dog. He stares at the ceiling, transfixed. I try to talk to him, needing him responsive for the luncheon.

  “We stayed out really late last night for Charlie’s saxophone gig at Eight Ball,” I remind him as I search in the drawers for a suitable outfit.

  He laughs lightly.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Charlie,” he muses with bitterness. “My best friend.”

  I swallow hard and take a deep breath, trying to keep it together. I can do this. I find another pair of boxer-briefs, slacks and a powder blue button-down. I turn back to him, debating on whether or not I’ll have to see his junk.

  His sopping underwear soaks his comforter, too wet to leave on with a pair of pants.

  “Can you change yourself?” I ask. “I just want to limit the number of times I see your penis.”

  He tries to prop his weight up and succeeds, holding himself upright on the bed. I’m impressed. And also, sort of, starting to regret talking about his penis. Especially with the way he’s looking at me. He blinks a few times before saying, “Leave them on the bed.” I set the stack of clothes beside him and grab my dress that’s slung over his desk chair.

  Worry still beats in my chest. I enter my room and replace my soaked underwear before slipping into my dress. Is he going to be coherent enough to have a conversation?

  In prep school, his father used to ground Lo as he stumbled home from a late night of drinking or when he found his raided and drained liquor cabinet. When Lo’s grades started tanking, Mr. Hale threatened to ship his son to a military academy for young boys, thinking the structure would be beneficial for a rowdy teenager. I’m not even sure he connected the events and understood that Lo’s real problem was alcohol.

  In reflection, he needed AA or rehab, not a blue blood manufacturing camp. Instead, I gave him me: a scapegoat fo
r his constant bingeing. That summer, we made the deal. And as soon as he told Jonathan that he started dating Greg Calloway’s daughter, his slate wiped blank. Mr. Hale slapped him on the back, told Lo that I’d be good for him, and if I wasn’t, he’d find a way to change his behavior. So we masked our lifestyles in order to continue them.

  Even though Lo hardly became a model citizen in his early teenage years, my parents were overjoyed at the news of our relationship. The sound of a Calloway-Hale union surpassed the quality of the man on my arm. As if it’s 1794 and our marriage will garner military power and land rights. Hello, we are not royalty.

  With our new alliance, we lied for each other and hid our infidelities, playing the role of doting boyfriend and girlfriend. The deeper we sink, the harder it is to crawl out. I fear the moment where neither of us can breathe again—when someone discovers our secrets. At any moment, everything can crumble beneath us. The dangerous game both excites and terrifies me.

  I return to Lo’s room and relax when I see him fully dressed, leaning his side wearily against the bedframe. His shirt is unbuttoned and untucked.

  At least he has pants on.

  “Can you help me?” he asks casually. Without slurring!

  I nod and take small steps towards him. I skim the hem of his button-down, and his hot, liquor breath prickles my skin. To avoid any bubbling feelings, I make a mental note to grab a pack of mints before we leave.

  “I’ll be fine by the time we get there,” he assures me.

  “I know.” I avoid eye contact as my fingers fumble with the button by his taut abs.

  “I’m sorry,” he says softly and then laughs. “At least I gave you something to fill your spank bank.”

  I sigh heavily. I don’t purposefully fantasize about Loren Hale to get aroused. That would be way too awkward each time I meet his eyes. It’s already bad enough it happens on accident. “You’re not in my spank bank, Lo.” I think he might complain or laugh, but he looks confused and kind of hurt. I don’t have time to dig through the meaning.

  “Sorry then,” he snaps, agitated. He feels bad, and I suddenly wish I just played along. He loses his footing in his drunk stupor and falls back into the mattress. To catch myself from tumbling to the floor, I hold onto his arms tightly, but that sends me right into him. And when time starts to slow, I realize that my hand is planted firmly on his chest; my legs are pressed against his, and the only thing that really separates us is his pants and my dress.

  He breathes heavily, his muscles constricting underneath my weight. Something deep pulses in me, something bad. His hands stay on the small of my back, on the dip above my ass. And as he licks his lips, watching me peruse his body with eager, wanting eyes, I tap into the sensible part of my brain. I mutter, “Your dad is going to be at the luncheon.”

  His face blanches, and he lifts me up onto my feet like I weigh nothing. “We need to go,” he says, leaving the last few buttons undone. He eyes the clock. “Now.” His worry clears most of his hangover, and I hope that it will be gone by the time we reach Villanova.

  Chapter Four

  We’re ten minutes late, but we’re not the only ones.

  My father missed his flight from New York back to Philly because his personal pilot had the flu. He had to arrange a new one to fly his private jet. The whole ordeal shouldn’t take long, but my father requires a background check on all his drivers. The new pilot will probably have to prove his competence with at least an hour of test flights. My mother always meets him when he lands, so she’s also MIA from this supposedly important luncheon.

  But I’m not complaining. The extra time will help Lo become a bit more responsive. We sit on the patio with a view of a large infinity pool and yellow rose bushes. The mid-morning sun glints against champagne glasses, filled with mimosas. Berries, cheeses, crackers and petite sandwiches systematically line a white-linen tablecloth. Everything stays in its proper place, on tiered platters or doilies.

  My stomach gurgles, and thankfully no one waits for our parents to chow down. Jonathan Hale hasn’t arrived either, and he claims he’s caught in traffic, but I have a suspicion he’s waiting in his car, not wanting to be at the luncheon without my father present.

  Lo keeps his arm on the back of my chair, settling into the charade. His closeness makes my body tense, and I end up sitting on the edge of my seat, as far away from that hand as I can be. Hopefully my distance is not too obvious. I ache to be touched more sinfully, but I know I shouldn’t at this inappropriate time. And realize I should be near my supposed boyfriend. It’s all so complicated.

  “Pass the book over here,” Poppy says, holding out her hand. Like the rest of the Calloway girls, my eldest sister stands out among crowds. A small mole on her upper lip screams Marilyn Monroe sexiness, and her skin looks far more tanned than the rest of ours, like a sun-kissed brunette. When I meet Poppy at malls or outlet stores, she turns heads. Sometimes I do too, but I think it has more to do with my chicken legs—so skinny they could crack like a wishbone. Not attractive, I know, my mother usually reminds me.

  Daisy slides her modeling book to Sam, who passes it to his wife. Poppy grins as she flips the pages. “These are gorgeous, Dais.”

  The compliment doesn’t faze my youngest sister. She’s too busy munching on tiny sandwiches like she hasn’t eaten in the past month.

  “How was Fashion Week? Meet any cute boys?” I bat my lashes, trying to be funny but probably looking goofy and awkward.

  Daisy snorts. “I think Mom ruined any kind of game I could have.” She ties her brown hair into a pony, making her unblemished skin and narrow face look all the more striking.

  “Wait? Mom went with you?” I shouldn’t be too surprised. Our mother tagged along to every single ballet rehearsal Rose had, even skipping family meals to watch her practice. She could have easily joined the cast of Dance Moms.

  “Uh, yeah,” Daisy says. “I’m fifteen, remember? Hell would freeze over before she let me do Fashion Week by myself. How did you not know that?”

  “I’m kind of out of the loop.”

  “That is the understatement of the century,” Rose says.

  Poppy smiles. “Don’t be mean, Rose. You’re going to scare Lily off for another two months.” We all know who the nice sister is. Still, I can’t help but love Rose more. Maybe because we’re the closest in age or because she actively tries to be a part of my life. I see her more than I do anyone else.

  Rose sips her mimosa with tight lips.

  Daisy points an accusing finger at me. “You haven’t been to Sunday luncheon for two months?” She scrutinizes me, as if searching for any visible wounds. “How are you not dead?”

  “I ask the same question all the time,” Rose cuts in, “seeing as how I get crucified if I miss one.”

  “The perks of dating a Hale,” Poppy says, this time sounding bitter too.

  Lo’s fingers tighten on the notch of my chair at the sound of his name.

  My throat tightens. Poppy spent years convincing our parents to accept her boyfriend and welcome him into the Calloway brood. Since Sam had barely six figures to his name, my parents feared he wanted Poppy for her inheritance. So my father hired him at Fizzle even though Sam only had a high school diploma and a resume with Dairy Queen as his sole employment. Eventually, my father learned Sam’s benevolent intentions and approved of their marriage. And subsequently my mother did too.

  Now a small munchkin with Sam’s dark hair and bright blue eyes runs somewhere around here. Poppy smiles often and has more maternal affection than our own mother, but she won’t ever forget the judgment they cast on Sam or all the hassle, even if their intent was pure.

  Her resent ricochets back to me since they swiftly embraced my relationship with Lo.

  “If I could change my name I would,” Lo says, the room blanketing with even more uncomfortable tension.

  Poppy says, “Which one?” And the mood begins to lighten. The girls laugh at Lo’s expense, but laughter is better than taut muscles
and furtive glances. Lo has never been too keen on his full name. One reason why Rose always calls him Loren.

  “When did you get so funny, Poppy?” Lo asks, tossing a grape in her lap. I’m surprised he chooses not to banter back with a flower insult, considering my mother named all four of us after a plant. It’s only embarrassing when we’re all together in public, so I can deal.

  “Resorting to food fights already, Loren?” Rose interjects. “The luncheon hasn’t even officially begun.”

  “Now you know why they don’t care if we bail for months,” he tells her. “Mystery solved.”

  “Can I see Daisy’s book?” I ask Poppy.

  She hands it to me across the table and it knocks into the stem of my champagne glass. I curse under my breath and jump up before the orange juice stains my dress.

  Lo quickly grabs a napkin, standing with me. He rests a hand on my arm and dabs the spill around my chest, thinking nothing of it. I guess no one else would either because we’re together (not really), and my mind has begun a serious free-fall. A server enters with more towels, and I am burning too much to actually move.

  “I’m sorry.” Who am I apologizing to? Myself for being clumsy?

  “Ohh, Lily is turning into a rose,” Poppy teases.

  Rose shoots her a glare at mentioning her name within a slight insult, and I only redden further.

  Lo sets the napkin on the table, and whispers in my ear, “Be cool, love. It’s just a little spill.” He smiles in amusement and his breath tickles my skin. I practically ooze into his arms. He kisses me on the lips, so light, that after his mouth has separated from mine, all I can think about are them returning.

  The staff zips in and out of the patio, cleaning the mess around us like worker bees.

  When everyone settles and I reattach my head to my body, I stiffly sit back down, and flip open Daisy’s book. Lo leans into me to peek at the pictures, his thigh meshing against mine. The photos. Yes. I blink, focusing. In most of them, Daisy stands against a white backdrop without any makeup. Beauty shots, I suppose. I turn another page and my mouth falls.