Becca Ritchie - Addicted for Now

“Lo,” Rose snaps. Her hand flies back to her hip. She could tell I was dodging. “Spill.”

I inhale. “As you know…” I rub the back of my neck, heat flushing my body all of a sudden. I’m not used to that. “…I don’t have a college degree, so getting a job that pays better than minimum wage is going to be a challenge.”

The silence lingers, waiting for me to continue, three sets of eyes boring into me in curiosity and hesitation. They think I’m on the verge of giving up, of throwing my hands in the air and saying I can’t do hard, physical labor. I can’t flip burgers. I can’t fucking be a normal lower-class guy who has to work for his money. I’ve never had to do that, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t try. They think less of me, and I haven’t given them reason to believe otherwise.

“I’d have no problem flipping burgers,” I explain, “but I owe Ryke forty grand for rehab that I’d like to pay in a reasonable amount of time…plus, you know, rent.” I pause again, half expecting Rose to bail me out and say, you don’t have to pay rent, Lo, you’re practically family. But I forget who she is for a brief second. Maybe her little meltdown over a vase tricked me, but she stands resolute, strong, unwilling to let me take the easy road.

Good.

Still, I glare. Habit. “You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?” I say.

She smiles icily. “Last year in the Cayman Islands, you said that not even the abominable snowman would want to fuck me.”

Lily gasps, “You did not.”

“I did.”

She punches my arm. I mock wince. Yeah, I deserved that.

Connor stays completely impassive. But he holds Rose closer, as though silently saying I’m wrong. Clearly guys with insanely high IQs want to fuck her.

I let out a deep breath. Here it goes. “I’ve already been scouted by modeling agencies before,” I explain. “You’d be an idiot not to use me in your menswear campaign.” Way to go, Loren. Call her an idiot. That’s definitely the way to land a job. Jesus Christ, no wonder you’ve never had one.

“I remember that,” Rose says stiffly.

“How come you’ve never modeled if you were scouted?” Connor asks.

“I may have walked into the interview drinking straight from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.” I was fucking with the agency, wasting peoples’ time and mine. I didn’t really want to model. I still don’t, but it’ll be quick money. And this is a chance for me to redo my past mistakes. I can make things right.

Connor lets out a long whistle. “Impressive.”

“I think so too.”

Rose looks ready to reignite their old argument, but Connor leans in and whispers into her ear again. French. Can’t understand a fucking word. She eases considerably.

“I need a translator,” Lily whispers to me.

“Or an interpreter.” Preferably not a male interpreter. I can just picture Lily getting aroused and flushed from some French guy. Even that proposed fantasy makes me cringe. Jealousy is the one thing I don’t ever want to tear us apart. But it’s there. Festering.

Rose finally pins her eyes back on me. “Modeling is difficult,” she says, her voice much softer. “It’s not just about having a good body or a pretty face. Ask Daisy.”

“I know,” I say. “But Rose, this isn’t going to be a career for me. I just need to make enough money to pay back my debts and get on my own two feet. That’s it.” I glance at Lily for a second. “And you won’t have to mess up your schedule for Lil. I’ll be there while the other models are. It’ll be better.”

Lily holds onto the waistband of my jeans, and she says, “And what are you going to do after modeling?”

I have no idea. The fog of my future is too thick to clear. “One step at a time,” I say. She nods, understanding.

Rose mulls over my proposition for a minute. And then she says, “Fine.”

I break into a full grin.

And she adds, “But just so we have things clear, I’m doing this out of pity.”

My smile vanishes. “You could have stopped at fine.”

It’s her turn to grin. “I know.”

Two days pass and I still haven’t had sex. And on top of that, I welched on telling Lo about the old tests. But I plan to. I just need to…phrase it correctly so he joins my immoral side of things. And Connor has yet to find any evidence about the so-called blackmailer (or whatever he is—considering he still hasn’t asked for anything in return).

“What about Patrick Bomer?” I sit with my legs crossed on the bed, an old navy-blue Dalton Academy yearbook on my lap. Big black circles outline certain faces and on others I’ve drawn X’s…and mustaches.

I raise my head and catch Lo’s frown through the circular mirror mounted above our dresser. He spent a solid twenty minutes dressing this morning and another ten minutes on his hair. It’s his first job at Calloway Couture. Hell, it’s his first job ever, and he’s freaking out about it.

“Why would Patrick hate me?” he asks, disheveling the thicker pieces of his hair on purpose.

“You won first place in our art class’s end-of-the-year projects.” Lo took a five minute video of a plastic bag blowing in the wind, which was beyond boring and beyond unoriginal, seeing as how American Beauty did it first.

He turns to look at me. “What? That’s not my fault. My project was damn good.”

“The entire class fell asleep,” I remind him. And Patrick made a bronze sculpture of Apollo, but it was hardly appreciated by Mr. Adams.

“So he should be pissed at the teacher, not me.”

I don’t refute because he’s right. Teachers gave Lo special treatment, even so much as awarding his crappy video the highest prize because he’s a Hale. Because his father is a multi-billionaire with connections so intricate that a spider would be jealous of the web Jonathan Hale weaves.

I glance at my computer screen on the bed. “Maybe he’s not angry anymore,” I add. “He’s at Carnegie Mellon for art now.”

“How do you know that?”

“Facebook.”

Lo groans. “Please tell me you didn’t sign up.” We’ve had an anti-social media rule since high school. We like privacy too much to waste it away on cyberspace.

“I didn’t. I signed you up.”

His eyes darken.

“The way I see it,” I say quickly, “is that if someone hates you, they’ll probably start slandering you on here.” I point to the screen. “It’s like a fly trap for suspects.”

Surprisingly, he risks his wrinkle-free, steam-pressed khakis to sit down on the bed beside me. Our canopy net tangles in his leg, and he curses under his breath, swatting the fabric away. “I swear I’m going to cut this stupid thing down.”

“I like it.” Even if I got caught in the net like a praying mantis last night. I roll sometimes when I sleep. It happens.

“We’re not in a jungle trying to ward away bugs.”

“Rose designed the room,” I remind him. She decorated it while Lo was away at rehab. “She’ll be hurt if I change it because of you.”

“Even better,” he says. I doubt he believes that.

“I’m going to forget what you just said,” I mutter and swivel the computer screen to him.

Lo gapes. “You had to use that photo as my profile picture?”

I break into a wide smile, and I can’t stop staring at the photo. He’s shirtless except for a pair of Spider-Man pajama pants. He looks sexy and cool.

The website consumes his attention, and he scrolls through the profiles of old students. “Married, married, pregnant, dead, engaged, pregnant, married,” he lists. “Did anyone stay in their twenties after high school or did everyone just pass GO to collect a 401k and diapers?”

“Maybe they’re in love,” I defend.

“We’re in love. You don’t see us getting married or having babies.”

I frown, not sure why this hurts me a little. Marriage isn’t really a plan of mine, at least not until I’m older and move past this awkward, confusing stage of life. But the way Lo said those words—well, they make marriage seem nonexistent. Like instead of a maybe, he’s saying never.

“You don’t want to get married?” I ask softly. I can barely meet his gaze. I’m twenty, just stepping out of my teens. I shouldn’t worry about marriage and babies, especially not when we’re struggling being healthy ourselves.

He hesitates. “I don’t know. I’m not closing that door. I just can’t think about it.” He pauses. “Do you…think about it?” He frowns deeply, worried that we’re not on the same track. We usually are, and it’s kind of terrifying to see him veer off without me.

“Not a lot,” I say. “Before I was with you, I never thought I’d be married.” I slept with random guys. I thought monogamy wasn’t a lifestyle I could ever conform to.  Now that I’m starting to find a good groove, I’m beginning to fantasize about normality.

“But now you do?” he asks.

I shrug. “I guess but definitely not anytime soon. I want to get through the terrible twenties first.” I wave my hand. “Let’s not talk about marriage or having babies. It’s stupid anyway. We have more important things to deal with.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but his face contorts more, even graver than before. “You want kids?”

Oh…I can tell just by the way he says it that he doesn’t want them. A lump rises to my throat, and I feel like this is going to be a trick question. I look over my shoulder for the right answer but it’s not concealed there. “Umm…” I mumble. “I don’t know.”

He blinks, watching me as I watch him. The answers seem to spill out of our silence.

“Maybe,” I blurt out, not able to hold back any longer. “When I’m older but not too old, I guess. My eggs are on a clock.” I nod and then grimace. “I mean, you know…” I am two seconds from burrowing underneath the comforter and never coming out. Hide, Lily, hide! My face flames. I really wish my feelings weren’t so visible.

“Lil,” Lo breathes, his eyes softening considerably. I am one of those sea vessels wobbling in the ocean before they’re hit by a wave. “You…and me…” Here it is. “We probably shouldn’t have children.”

I stare blankly at the black and white comforter, gathering my thoughts. I never allowed myself to dream that far ahead, to construct a reality where Lo and I start a family together. Maybe because deep in my heart, I knew it doesn’t exist.

His words paint the blackness of my future into a clearer picture. And it’s an image I want to return to the store. A life where we don’t have kids. Where our family consists of me and him. And that’s it.

I understand where he’s coming from. We’re both addicts, and even if we could raise a kid, alcoholism is still hereditary. Lo wouldn’t wish his troubles on anyone, especially his own child.

“I know,” I say with a sadder nod. “I just don’t want to think about it.”

He distracts my sullen mood by pointing at a picture in the yearbook. “You gave Jacqueline Kinney a mustache. That’s just mean.”

My lips slowly rise, and I glance at his head. His hair sticks up in different directions. And I’m sure he thinks that’s what supermodel hair looks like, but Rose will not be pleased.

I scoot over, pushing the laptop away, and I run my fingers through his locks, combing his thick brown hair on top. He jerks back almost instantly.

“I spent valuable time on this.” He clutches my wrist.

“I think all that time was spent ogling yourself,” I refute. “Let me fix it.” But my gaze drifts from his hair, landing on his pink lips that hover so very close to mine. I imagine how they’ll feel on my soft ones. And I ache to press up against them.

His lips begin to move, but I don’t hear the words from them. I’m transfixed, and when they go still, a magnetic hold propels me to his mouth.

I touch his lips with mine, and he kisses back at first, soft and sweet. A raspy moan tickles my throat, and I crawl on his waist, straddling him, ready for something more. I just need him… I knead my fingers through his hair, and I squeeze my thighs.

He pulls back.

No. I breathe heavily like I’m currently running a half-marathon. I’m just starting to race up that steep incline, and he stopped me midway.

“Lily…”

My hands dip below his shirt, and I trace the ridges in his abs, gliding each finger along his bare chest. I unconsciously dig my pelvis, rocking a little, needing him more and more.

A groan escapes his lips this time, and he has to grab my wrists.