“Leave me alone!” I shout, almost whining. I also hate the tone of my voice.
“No,” he says adamantly.
I clench my teeth, suppressing the urge to stomp my foot like a weirdo. “Why?”
“Because if you thought Lo was in serious trouble, I don’t think you’d do a thing about it. And that pisses me off.” He looks me over. “So deal with me.” He moves backwards to the door. There’s a huge part of me that agrees with Ryke. I don’t know how to help Lo without hurting myself. And I’m too selfish to find a solution to his problems.
“I don’t ever want to see you again,” I say, honest and truthful.
“Well, that sucks for you,” Ryke tells me, turning the knob. “I’m fucking hard to get rid of.” With this, he leaves. And I want to scream. He’s that concerned about Lo’s well-being that he’s willing to see us a second time?
The door closes, and I try not to think about him. Maybe he said empty threats to force guilt on me. No one would inject themselves into another person’s business like this.
Then again, he stopped a fight that was not his to end. Clearly, he’s the type of guy to stick his nose where it does not belong.
{18}
As Ryke continues to plague my mind, I waste the rest of the night on porn and toys and drown in sweat and natural highs. We should have stayed home for Lo’s birthday like he wanted. I wish we had, and I won’t make the same mistake next year.
Every time I cuddle in my sheets, willing slumber, tears bridge and they flow uncontrollably. Being in a real relationship was supposed to fix the kinks in our lives. It should’ve made our problems easier. We no longer have to pretend. We can be ourselves. We’re free from one lie. Isn’t this the part where our love overcomes our addictions? Where our problems magically solve from a kiss and a promise?
Instead everything has trickled into the gutter. Lo drinks. I screw. And our schedules overlap and bypass too often, becoming more destructive than healthy.
No one told me you can love someone and still be miserable. How is that possible? And yet, the thought of walking away from Loren Hale collapses my lungs. We’ve been friends, allies, for so long that I don’t know who I am without him. Our lives intersect at every possible junction, and separating sounds like a fatal, irreparable cut.
But something is so wrong.
My wrist aches by the late morning, but I still pop in another DVD. The buzzer rings as I plop on my mattress. No. I am in no mood to entertain Connor. Also, I may jump his bones. My body stays riled, and I desperately need Lo. But his actions last night deserve little reward. Even if withholding hurts me more than him, he isn’t getting any anytime soon.
The buzzer lets out another aggravated wail. Great. Lo is still passed out.
I crawl from my sheets, throw on a T-shirt and sweat pants before I slam my thumb on the speaker button. “Hello?”
“Miss Calloway, I have a Mr. Cobalt here.”
“Send him up.”
I make coffee, hoping caffeine will make Connor look like an ugly hobbit that’s too ghastly to pounce on. Though, Frodo is kind of cute.
“Was that the buzzer?”
I nearly drop the cream.
Lo rubs his eyes, walking wearily to the cabinets, scavenging for saltines and bloody mary mix. His hair looks wet from a shower, and he only wears a pair of running pants that hang very low on his hips.
My body tightens, and I turn away just as his eyes meet mine.
“Hey.” He puts a hand on the bareness of my neck, brushing back my hair.
“Stop,” I choke. I lengthen the distance between us.
I watch familiar remorse cloud his features. He looks me up and down, from my sweaty legs to my clothes that stick to my body, and my hair that’s tangled and damp.
It must look like I’ve been having sex.
He places a hand on the counter to keep his body upright, like the wind knocks out of him. “Lily—”
A fist bangs on the door. “Loren Hale!” Connor calls. “You better wake up. You promised me gym. I want gym.”
Lo reluctantly leaves my side and lets him in. “You’re on time,” he says flatly, going back to the kitchen.
“Always am.” He watches Lo grab a bottle of vodka from the freezer. “You know, it’s barely noon. Brain cells generally don’t respond well to alcohol this early. Gatorade is the better option.”
“He’s making a bloody mary for his hangover.” My defense spurted out before I could stop it.
“What she said,” Lo adds, not making me feel any better about covering his problem. Don’t think about it. He pops open a V8 and starts fixing the drink. Connor says something about electrolytes.