Addicted After All （Addicted #5）
Krista Ritchie & Becca Ritchie
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHORS
Due to the 2-year gap between Addicted for Now （Addicted #2） and Addicted After All （Addicted #3）， you must read Thrive （Addicted #2.5） or the Calloway Sisters spin-off series before reading Addicted After All.
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LOREN HALE
In the pitch-black of night, I run as fast as rage will carry me. Gravel from the suburban road digs into my bare feet, February’s cold biting my flesh. I had no time to slip on shoes, a shirt or even grab a coat.
“Motherfuckers,” Ryke growls through gritted teeth, using his full power, endurance—everything that made him a collegiate track star—to chase after dark-clothed figures that bolt down the street. I never thought I’d be able to match my brother’s speed. No longer weighed down by self-pity and hatred, I can go farther than I dreamed.
And I do.
My legs pump forward in sync with his, our muscles sharpening in the same way. Our veins bursting and heating with blood-red fury. Because we thought these stupid fucking guys shot one of the girls through the window.
A minute ago, Ryke and I were upstairs and heard a few loud bangs, followed by Lily and Daisy’s panicked screams. As we rushed to the main floor, Daisy was ghostly pale. Lily was holding her little sister’s hand, and my gaze dropped to Lil’s stomach, a noticeable bump at eighteen weeks pregnant.
I fucking ran on instinct. Only this time, I’m not the one being chased.
Ryke was right by my side, no hesitation, no questions asked. He took one look at Daisy’s horror-stricken face, and he just lost it. Our fame and notoriety shouldn’t put either of the girls in harm’s way. It’s complete bullshit.
All six of us—Ryke, Daisy, Connor, Rose, Lily and me—now live in a rich, gated Philadelphia neighborhood. Only these so-called “gates” surround the neighborhood, not our eight-bedroom house. Sometimes, the real shits are the ones right down the street, and for the past two weeks, they’ve egged our door, toilet-papered the yard and forked the grass.
This is the first time we’ve heard them scamper away, and so this is the first time we’ve ever tried to catch them.
We gain on them, and their muffled cursing becomes louder, their panic clearer in their hurried steps, and half of the guys scatter towards a brick mansion with floodlights illuminating a massive door. About three guys continue to sprint ahead.
Then they spin around and point their paintball guns at us. A series of pops split the air before a couple shots connect with my shoulder and ribs, like a two-second punch.
Jesus. I want to shout until my throat bleeds and shake them until they get it. Until they realize that we’re not board games they can play with—when they’re sitting in their rooms with nothing to do.
We are people. Real. Living breathing things that have breaking points. I want to scream it all, but I can’t utter one single goddamn word. Everything is caged in my lungs.
The guys stop shooting at us when they realize we’re much closer. “Go, go, go!” they scream at each other. One guy in a hoodie glances over his shoulder, and then he trips over his own feet. Right as he stumbles, about to eat the asphalt, I grip the back of his black sweatshirt. My pulse sky-rockets with my adrenaline.
Ryke slows to a stop with me.
“Let me fucking go!” the guy shouts, thrashing in my grasp. I feel my heart bang against my chest, my brows furrowing at his scrawny build. He’s young.
In a matter of seconds, his friends leave him, racing further into the darkness. He notices his buddies sprinting away, and he redirects his anger. “HEY! YOU PUSSIES! YOU’RE GOING TO LEAVE ME HERE?!”
I rip the paintball gun out of his hand and toss it to Ryke, and then the guy whips around on me, swinging his fist haphazardly at my face. I easily dodge it, but he’s squirming so much that it’s hard to hold him upright without him slipping in my hands.
“Get a grip,” Ryke growls at him.
He tries to elbow my ribs, and I grasp his arm, adding with a sneer, “You’re the one who’s been fucking with us.”
“And you’re the cuntbag who’s called the cops like a little bitch,” the guy snarls back. That’s when the hood falls off his head, and I stare directly into his venomous gaze. Tousled brown hair and a young, soft face. He can’t be any older than seventeen.
My blood chills. And I crane my neck at Ryke. “Do you see any cops?” I ask him with a mocking tone.
“No,” Ryke says, his voice rough.