I look to my left, and Ryke grips the guy by the arms, fighting against his drunken, hostile movements. The guy swings. Ryke ducks, and then slams him into a stall. The guy falls hard into a toilet bowl, his forehead hitting the porcelain lip, and his legs splay out the door.
Ryke clenches him by the shirt, lifting him up. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he screams. But I feel like that question should be directed at me.
Connor steps in front of my transfixed gaze, but I stare past his eyes.
“Where’s Lo?” My voice is small and not my own.
“He’s still at the bar,” Connor says softly. “Lily.” He waves a hand in my face. “Lily, look at me.”
I do, but I don’t. I’ve never changed my mind after I invited someone to have sex with me. I’ve never been hurt by my addiction. Not like this.
Ryke kicks the guy in the groin and then bangs the stall door on him.
This is all wrong. Lo should be here, not Connor and Ryke.
“I want to go home,” I murmur.
Ryke puts a hand on my shoulder and steers me out of the bathroom and away from my attacker—or at least a guy who doesn’t understand the word no. A frown weighs down his face. “I need to go find Lo. Connor will you…”
“I’ve got her.”
Ryke’s hand leaves me only to be replaced by Connor. He guides me, and I float away from the bar, outside, and into the backseat of Connor’s limo. Connor finds a water bottle in the cooler and places it in my palm.
“Why did you come into the bathroom?” I ask. I should have sealed my own fate once I stormed off.
“You were acting strange all night, Lily. I was worried, so I told Ryke we should check on you.”
The car door opens, and Ryke enters with a wobbling Lo. He staggers but manages to duck underneath the frame before hitting his head. He collapses onto the seat across from me, and immediately shuts his heavy eyes, drowning in a sea of darkness, silent and void of turbulent thoughts.
Ryke climbs in beside him, shutting the door and giving Connor’s driver the order to go. I envy Lo so much right now for his peaceful, temperate sleep, the kind that shields the world’s dissonance, if only for one night.
Ryke checks his pulse and then nods to me. “Are you okay?” A welt grows on his cheekbone like the guy elbowed him.
I blink away tears. “I asked for it.”
Ryke’s face contorts, like I physically impaled him. “What? Why would you say that?”
Connor covers his eyes with his hand so I can’t see his reaction. If Ryke looks this wounded over something bad happening to me, I’m sure it’s not good.
“I let him touch me,” I say. “…but then…then I changed my mind. I think it was too late by then.” My hands shake. I wish Lo could hold them. My knees bounce. I wish he was awake. I wish I didn’t need him this much, but I love him. I sniff as tears spill. “It’s my fault. I gave him the wrong impression.”
Ryke gapes. “No means no. I don’t care when you say it, Lily. Once it’s out there, it’s out there. Any halfway decent guy would have backed off.”
My heart clenches. If Lo finds out this happened while he was at the bar, it’ll crush him. I won’t inflict that type of pain on Lo. “Don’t tell him.”
“He needs to know,” Ryke says.
I want to scream back about how wrong he is, about how the information will tear Lo apart, not strengthen him, but something sensible pulsates in my head, telling me to listen. I never do.
“This will kill him,” I choke. “You’re not helping!”
“You can’t keep this from him, Lily. Think about how much pain he’d be in if he found out and everyone knew but him? And he will. Don’t kid yourself.”
Maybe he’s right. I disintegrate into the seat, surrendering to Ryke’s unapologetic glare. I wipe the rest of my tears with a quick swipe and stare out the window. The limo quiets for the rest of the ride. No one talks. Not even as Ryke carries an unconscious Lo up to the apartment. Not when I close his bedroom door, locking him in for the night.
When it’s just the three of us left, Connor is the first to break the silence. “I’m going to make some coffee. If you want to go to bed, I understand, but I’d like to talk to you.”
I don’t deserve friends, but I try to hold onto them because I fear the blackness and emptiness that waits if I let go.
“Can you make me hot chocolate?”
“Even better. You could use some calories.”