Ricochet (Addicted #1.5)

by Krista Ritchie

  Daisy is watching me carefully, but I don’t have the heart to explain my history to her. Not now anyway. Plates of sea bass slide onto our placemats, and I stiffly pick up my fork. I can’t eat, not until I let some words loose.

  “I’m not having sex with you,” I immediately blurt.

  His eyebrow quirks and I realize that might not have been the “unfinished business” he had in mind. And then he says, “We’ll see.” Okay, maybe it was. Or maybe he’s just planning on cornering me, putting me in some provocative situation and then snapping a few pictures, taking a video, and then sending them to Lo.

  Oh God.

  Daisy butts in. “Hey, back off. She has a boyfriend.”

  Aaron snorts and says to Daisy, “Do I look like I give a shit?”

  “I do,” a new voice enters. And this time, I internally cheer at the sound of Ryke’s deep, threatening tone. He slides into the seat between Daisy’s date and Aaron, closing the circle. He wears a fitted charcoal suit with a skinny black tie. His brown hair is styled, but he’s not clean-shaven. How did he get invited to a Fizzle event? Better yet, why would he accept it and come here?

  I don’t really care. I’m just glad he is.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Aaron spits.

  Ryke motions to a server and points to his placemat, silently asking for food. Then he faces Aaron with narrowed eyes. If Lo were here, I think he’d appreciate the backup. We’ve never had it before, and I have to say, it’s kind of nice.

  “Loren Hale’s brother,” Ryke tells him.

  Aaron chokes on a laugh. “Bullshit. Lo’s an only child.”

  “Then don’t believe me. I don’t really fucking care. But you start messing with his girlfriend, and then I will care.” A server places his plate in front of him, and Ryke digs into the mashed potatoes, not giving Aaron any more attention.

  Aaron looks back to me, and his eyebrows jump up, but he mouths, later. No, I don’t like later. He even winks.

  Shivers run down my arms.

  Daisy squints at Ryke. “Why are you here?” she asks over her oblivious date, still texting. “Did my mom call you?”

  Ryke cuts into his fish. “Nope. My father did.”

  I frown. “What?” That makes no sense. Jonathan Hale basically blamed Ryke for Lo’s decision to go to rehab, leaving him with an empty house. Why would he want to invite him?

  “Yep,” Ryke says. “He called me up, spewing some shit about how we should put the past behind us. But he’s an awful fucking liar.” He swigs his water. “He wants information about Lo, but like hell I’m giving it to him.”

  I try not to acknowledge Aaron, but I don’t like the way he’s listening so intently, digesting our families’ secrets and filing them for later. I sip my own water to clear my throat. “So why come?”

  Ryke points at me with a knife. “Knew you’d be here. Knew Lo wouldn’t.”

  Ah, yes, he doesn’t trust me. “What confidence.” I love Lo enough to restrain myself.

  I glance at Aaron, who stares a little too forcefully.

  But without Lo to hide behind, my only defense against Aaron is to run. And I’m not as fast as Loren Hale. Not even close.

  Daisy keeps leaning on the legs of her chair. “I’m confused,” she says, tossing her rose-shaped napkin on the table.

  “Eat,” I tell her.

  She sighs and picks at the fish.

  Thankfully, the lights begin to dim so we’re not the main focus in the room. Aaron turns around, back facing me, so that helps ease the tension in my shoulders. The stage brightens, and I try to relax in my chair and concentrate on my father.

  He walks onto the stage and mans the glass podium. The ballroom quiets, except for the sound of silverware hitting dishes. He looks rich. How else do you describe a man worth billions? Even in his fifties, his gray hairs are masked by brown dye. He always has a genial smile, the kind that makes him seem approachable, even if he’s usually too busy to greet. I love him for what he’s given me, and I think he’d buy us the world just for the chance to see us smile.

  “Friends, family,” he says, “I’m so glad to have you all here today to celebrate this special occasion. I founded Fizzle in 1970 with an extremely ambitious—and somewhat naïve—plan to create the next best soda that could rival the likes of Coke and subsequently Pepsi. With the help of angel investors and some faith, Fizzle became a household name in just three short years.” Everyone claps. I join in, admiring my father for his drive and passion. I can’t imagine coming out of college and starting my own business with such fortitude and strength. I’m not him. Or Rose. Or my mother.

  I’m just so very lost.

  He holds up a hand to shush us, and the noise settles to silence. “Almost fifty years later, Fizzle products are sold in more than two-hundred countries. Just in the United States, we’ve taken away the title of the northern soda of choice from Pepsi. By next year, we plan to steal southern hearts with our brand new soda. We believe the taste and contents of this drink are unlike any Coca-Cola product and we’ll have diehards choosing…Fizz Life.”

  He steps back from the podium and a screen behind him shows an animated graphic of a Fizzle commercial, a gold background with dark colored bubbles rising up. A silver can spins in the center with gold writing that reads FIZZ LIFE, white bubbles decaled at the bottom. No black on the can at all.

  “Fizz Life is zero calories, aspartame-free. It’s naturally sweetened with a recipe blended by our food scientists.” Servers with gold-plated trays begin to walk around the room with cans of Fizz Life, passing them to the tables. Our waiter sets down a can in front of my plate. Hundreds of people begin popping the tabs, air expelling and carbonation bubbling, the noise so very true to the soda company’s name. “This is not only the healthiest soda on the market, but it’s also the drink of the future.”

  The tagline: Fizz Life, Better Life flashes across the screen. Underneath sits my father’s exact words: the drink of the future. Maybe it is.

  Daisy holds out her drink to me. “Cheers.” I clink her can with mine, and she turns to her date to do the same, but he’s scrolling through his Facebook app. Ryke already has his open, sipping the new soda.

  When he notices her date and her chagrin, he says, “He’s a winner.”

  The guy doesn’t even realize he’s being talked about.

  “First place, pure bred,” Daisy agrees, raising her soda before throwing her head back, taking a very large swig.

  I sip mine a little. The flavor tastes different than Diet Fizz and Fizz Lite. Not sweeter or bitter. Just…different. Good different, I think. I could most definitely grow to like this one more than Diet Fizz.

  “Wow that tastes really good,” Daisy says. “I totally had my doubts.”

  Ryke nods in agreement. “Not bad.”

  I glance at Rose to see how she likes it, but her can sits untouched by her uneaten plate of food. Her fingers pinch a full champagne glass. But I just looked over there and it was half full. Which means this is a new one.

  Maybe I’m hyperaware of alcohol now, but I feel like she’s drinking more than she normally does. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her drunk or even “composed” drunk—which is what I imagine she would be, the kind where you can barely tell. Sort of like Lo. But not.

  Her eyes sear holes into our mother’s back, her table adjacent to ours. This is not good.

  My father continues to talk about the soda and the company’s history and each investor individually.

  I don’t think I can help Rose. Not because I don’t have the strength to, but I’m almost a hundred-percent positive she would never let me. She does not see me as her equal. I am the damaged, broken sister, the one who needs repair. If I act as though she needs help, then she’ll freak out. I have to find someone that she’ll actually listen to without becoming incredibly defensive.

  I make a sudden decision, silently hoping it’s the right one, and pull out my phone from a little pocket in my dress and start texting.r />
  Where are you?

  The reply only takes a few seconds. Not surprised. At my house. Everything okay? – Connor

  I type quickly. No. I need you to come to the event. Rose isn’t doing so well.

  My phone begins to buzz repeatedly in my hand. Connor is calling me. Before I stand from the table, I glance at Aaron. He no longer watches the stage, but his eyes set on me. If I leave the ballroom, will he follow?

  I can’t answer the phone at the table. So I have to take the chance. Just as I rise, Aaron begins to push his chair back, about to stand too.

  But then Ryke points at him with his knife. “You follow her, and I’ll slit your fucking throat,” he deadpans. That was a little unnecessary, but the warning works because the longer Aaron looks at Ryke to see if it’s a bluff, the longer Ryke digs into his food. I can’t even tell where his head is at. Neither can Aaron. My enemy scoots closer to the table, leaving me alone for now.

  And I thankfully weave around the tables and out the grand double doors.

  I already missed his first call, but the phone still rings incessantly. I answer. “Hi.”

  “What’s wrong?” Connor asks, his voice deep with worry that I’m not used to. He’s always confident and poised and self-assured. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say with a nod. “It’s Rose that I’m concerned about.” I falter, trying to pick the right words. “I don’t know if you realized, but my mother set her up with someone tonight. And she’s more pissed than I’ve seen her in a while…” I wonder if I should mention the drinking.

  “Wait…what? That doesn’t make sense,” Connor says. “Samantha told me that she would be going to the event alone.”

  I roll my eyes, not in the least surprised by my mother’s betrayal or the fact that she got caught. “She lied. My mother has never let Rose go stag. I think Rose hoped that she could go alone if our mother believed you two were still together.” But no one could have anticipated Samantha Calloway talking to Connor before tonight.

  “Who’s her date?”

  “Matthew Collins, the son of—”

  “Robert Collins, Fizzle’s primary lawyer, I know. I’ve met him. I had brunch with him and your father.” Oh… that’s awkward.

  “Are you on your way?”

  “I jumped in a limo when I read your first text,” he tells me. “Rose may not be pleased to see me, regardless of her mother’s affairs.”

  I hesitate, wondering if he’s right. Will she be resistant if he interferes? “She’s not used to letting someone else help her.”

  “I don’t think any of you Calloway girls are,” he says. I take this in and realize he might be right about that. But I’m learning to relinquish my control to other people. I’m learning to accept help that’s been offered. I hope Rose will do the same, even if she feels like she has everything taken care of.

  “Promise me that you won’t run away from her,” I say in a sharp breath. “Even if she pushes you away—”

  “I won’t let her go,” Connor says. “But is there something you’re not telling me, Lily? Has something already happened?” I catch the strain in his voice, so subtle and brief but present.

  She’s drinking more than usual, I should say. But what if I’m just projecting my insecurities about alcohol onto her? With Lo in rehab, this is totally plausible. Still, I’m learning to say how I feel. I inhale a deep breath and let it out. “I’m afraid by the time you get here, she’ll be drunk. And I’ve never seen Rose drunk, so I’m not entirely sure what she’ll do or how she’ll be…she just keeps glaring at my mother from across the room…”

  “Okay,” Connor says. “Okay, don’t provoke Rose. Try not to set her off.”

  I internally laugh. Yeah, that’s going to be a little hard. Most topics ignite fire in her eyes when she’s in a mood. And I know, without a doubt, that our mother has put her in one. “When will you be here?” I shift anxiously and rub my arm.

  “Soon. Will you be okay or do you need to stay on the phone with me?”

  “I’ll be fine. Ryke is here…” I trail off, knowing that Connor and Ryke have never really been friendly after Lo left for rehab. I think the only reason they endured each other’s company was because of their mutual like for Lo, and when he’s not here it becomes painfully obvious they’d rather be on separate continents.

  “Well, I’m sure he’ll fuck tonight up somehow,” Connor says. I remember Connor describing Ryke as a “Rottweiler you keep on a chain in the yard, guarding your house, but something you’d rather not let inside.”

  I hesitate to agree. Ryke has helped more than hindered thus far, but that could always change. “I’ll see you,” I tell Connor. He says bye and we both hang up.

  I sneak back into the ballroom, the lights still dim, but no one stands on the stage. Everyone is lively with chatter, and I smell chocolate ganache cake, my father’s favorite. When I approach my table, I see Rose sitting on the edge of her seat, her nails rapping against her champagne glass. Her poor date looks like a wilted flower, beaten to death by Rose’s intelligence. I’m sure she schooled him on another subject, and he has nothing left to do but pick at his dessert.

  Speaking of dessert. I sit and find a beautiful slice of cake in front of me. Actually two beautiful slices. They almost make up for the fact that Aaron creepily stares at me on the other end. I ignore him. That seems like the best solution right now.

  I glance at Daisy who teeters back on two legs of her chair again. “You don’t want your cake?” I ask her. Of course I noticed that she was the one to push her plate into my area, offering me a second slice when I haven’t even touched my first.

  She shrugs. “I would eat it, but you know…” She rolls her eyes and glances at Ryke, as though they’ve already had this same conversation. I shouldn’t have asked. I know she’s not allowed to gain an obscene amount of weight because of modeling. So she watches what she eats, lest our mother criticize her waistline even more.

  Ryke has his plate in his hand, and he leans back in his chair like Daisy. Her date hunches forward, now playing a game on his phone. Jeez, he really doesn’t want to be here. Ryke has a good view of Daisy and vice versa. He scoops a large bite of gooey chocolate fudge on his spoon. “This looks so fucking good,” he teases her. “So moist.” Okay, I know he says that I always think sexual thoughts. But that was sexual. Moist is a gross word, and I’m a sex addict. He’s definitely trying to ruffle her.

  I don’t approve of his methods.

  But at least she refuses to glance at him.

  I can tell he’s trying to get her to eat, and I think he enjoys pushing people’s buttons. The only problem: I think my youngest sister is made of armor—kind of like him.

  He licks the rim of the spoon and then sucks the cake off it, letting out a deep, masculine moan.

  My eyebrows scrunch at him and I mouth, stop. I know his plan won’t work. Daisy won’t eat if she feels like our mother’s going to scold her for it.

  Ryke keeps the spoon in his mouth and he glares back at me. Then he points at Daisy’s plate. I sigh heavily and slide it in front of her.

  “Oh no,” she says to me, “you are not in on his stupid plan.”

  “You love chocolate,” I remind her.

  “I love a lot of things I can’t have,” she says pointedly.

  True. I shrug at Ryke, giving up already. I’m not so resilient. Ryke, on the other hand…

  “Daisy,” he coos, waving his spoon around the air to try to get her to look at him. She barely stirs. He tries a different tactic. He dips two fingers into the gooey chocolate filling. No, I internally scream in my head. He’s not going to…

  My eyes widen and my mouth falls as his fingers rise to his lips. What the fuck is he doing?! Ryke…needs to stop pushing the line with her. He might find it amusing, but I’m afraid she’ll take his teasing as a sign of something…more. This. Isn’t. Good.

  Daisy frowns at my expression, and she follows my gaze for the first time. Ryke pu
ts his two (not-so chaste) fingers in his mouth. I am screaming at him in my head. Even as he sucks the gooey ganache off, he shuts his eyes, faking a fucking chocolate orgasm just so she’ll eat the damn cake.

  Daisy snorts and tilts back a little farther in her chair to act all cool and composed. And then, the legs begin to slip underneath her. I gasp, picturing her smacking backwards on the ground. But Ryke is faster than my frozen joints. His eyes have already snapped open. He reaches out and grabs the top of her chair, setting both of them on four legs at the same time.

  My sister puts her hands on the table, leaning forward as though a rollercoaster just flung to an abrupt stop. She looks winded and stunned all at the same time.

  Ryke barely misses a beat. He pushes an extra spoon in front of her.

  And to my surprise, she actually picks up the silverware and scoops a big bite of cake on it. She hesitates for a second.

  “It’s not arsenic,” he says.

  Her lips rise in a small smile. “Your hips also don’t have to be measured in the morning.”

  “They can be,” he tells her. “Will you eat the fucking cake if I measure my hips?”

  “And your ass,” she says.

  “You want to know the size of my ass?” His brow rises.

  “Yep.”

  “Eat the cake.”

  She hides her growing smile and takes a large bite. She closes her eyes and sinks back into her chair, relaxing more than before and melting into chocolate heaven. “I wish I could eat this every day.”

  “You can, but then you’d be ‘fat.’” He uses air quotes.

  “The tragedy,” she says, pushing around the rest of her cake and smashing it until it’s a mushy lump.

  “Okay, enough abusing the fucking dessert.”

  “Do you always say fuck?” she asks. “I don’t think I’ve ever been around you where you haven’t said it at least once.”

  “What can I say? It’s my favorite fucking word.” He flashes a dry smile.

  “You know what’s scary,” she says, pointing her spoon at him. “You’re a journalism major, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be a wordsmith?”