Becca Ritchie - Addicted for Now

My father watches my unwavering features, and his smile fades. “You’re serious?”

“She’s addicted to sex. She has been since…I don’t know, since she lost it.” I cringe, never wanting to talk to my father about this.

He rubs his mouth, connecting everything together. “Oh…” His eyes grow. “Oh…fuck.” He glances at my contract like he’s one second from snatching the paper and setting it on fire.

I pocket the contract, and his eyes lift to mine. “We have a deal,” I remind him.

“Sex addiction—are you even sure?” he asks. “That’s a serious accusation, something that would need proof.”

“She’s seeing a sex therapist,” I tell him, “and not that it’s any of your business, but she used to hire male prostitutes, so yeah—she had a fucking problem.”

“Had? Past tense?”

“We’re working on it.”

He lets out a low laugh that chills my bones. “You’ve been letting your girlfriend fuck other men?” He shakes his head, and I can practically hear his thoughts: that can’t be my pussy of a son. He stands to pour himself another drink. I usually don’t notice how often he refills, but this has to be the third or fourth time—an amount that would have most people sloshed. But he’s a functioning alcoholic. Twenty-four-seven drunk. No one can really tell. It’s there in his hard eyes, ready to lash out spitefully at any moment. He’s just riding that wave, the edge to his life sandpapered down.

And I know if I had a sip, I’d be the same exact way. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. I’m not aggressive, but sometimes I’m belligerent. I can make sure that won’t happen. I’ll be calm.

I have the sudden urge to flip my glass and ask for alcohol. I’ll get sick, I remind myself. It’s literally the only argument I can think of right now.

I try to focus on my father’s eyes and not the glass in his hand. “I didn’t let her fuck anyone when we were together. We only started dating seven months ago.” I explain quickly about our fake relationship, cursing myself that everything has become so complicated that I have to reveal this too.

My father hasn’t taken a seat yet. “You acted like you were together just so I wouldn’t send you to a military academy?”

“Yeah,” I say. “You were ready to ship me off, weren’t you?” I had fucked up and vandalized some guy’s house for messing with Lily. He mailed her a dead rabbit after his girlfriend discovered that he fucked another girl, and he blamed it on Lily, even though he was the cheating bastard.

I retaliated by dousing his door in pig’s blood. It was one of my more creative efforts. And I was black-out drunk. I honestly remember very little of the whole ordeal. But I can recall everything afterwards—how my father grabbed me by the neck and yelled in my face. What did you get out of this, Loren? Did it make you feel better? Do you like being such a sick fuck?

My father was prepared to kick me out after I dragged his name through the mud. I was the degenerate, the resident bad boy who would go to another school district just to mess with someone. I was suspended. I was a stupid kid who wanted to make Lily feel better—who wanted to change every horrible fucking thing. But I just didn’t know how.

My father wanted to be proud of me, but I gave him nothing to be proud of.

“Maybe I would have shipped you off,” he says, swishing his ice in his whiskey. “I was mad as hell back then. Your relationship with her was the only redeeming thing. So maybe.”

I nod. Yeah it’s why he let me stay. Maybe he would have missed me too. But he’ll never admit that.

“So if you two weren’t really together, what the hell were those noises coming from your room?”

I frown and then recognition hits me. I bury my face in my hands, mortified. “You heard her?”

“You weren’t the only one living here,” he snaps, “and you two were loud.” No. She was loud. “It’s not as if I was trying to listen. Believe me.”

This is so fucked up. I rub the bridge of my nose, wanting so badly to wake up. Wake the fuck up.

He finally settles in his chair. “Don’t tell me you let her fuck someone else in your bed.”

I drop my hand and scowl. “Let’s get something straight—you’re not allowed to talk about her fucking anyone. Not me, not someone else, not anyone. Got it?”

He rolls his eyes. “You just told me she’s a sex addict—”

“I don’t give a shit,” I say coldly. “She’s still my girlfriend. She’s still Lily. And I’m not anywhere near comfortable talking about this with you.”

“Maybe she’s just a slut,” my father says, clearly ignoring me. “Ever think of that?

I could punch him. I think I could. But I don’t. I use my words, just like he taught me. “I’m going to say this once, and then you will never ever fucking call her that again. Nor will we have this discussion.” I’m standing up now. “She has a problem. She cries herself to sleep because she can’t stop thinking about it. I hold her in my goddamn arms, trying to get her to quit. Sex is her drug.” I point to my chest, my arms trembling. “I get it. I fucking get it, and you should too if you think for a goddamn minute how much you rely on that.” I motion to his drink and he stiffens. “And if anyone is the slut, it’s you.” He paraded enough women in and out of the house that I could have easily obtained some complex. My chest rises and falls heavily as I finish speaking.

His voice softens considerably. “That still doesn’t explain what I heard in your bedroom. If you two weren’t together—”

I grimace. He’s still on that? “I used to let her masturbate in my bed.”

His eyes widen and he opens his mouth to speak. I cut him off. “No way,” I snap. “You don’t get to ask any questions about that. Our relationship—even fucked up—is between us. It has nothing to do with this situation.” That’s a lie, but I’m not discussing that shit with my father, no matter if our own relationship is complicated too.

He keeps his lips tight now and then sips from his glass.

“If the tabloids found out—” I start, but it’s his turn to interrupt me.

“Lily would be in the tabloids, being called names that you don’t like.”

“What about Fizzle?”

“It would suffer, and because you’re linked with her, so would Hale Co.” He rises from his chair. “Let’s find the bastard.”

I hate flying.

Not like Superman flying. But plane flying—trapped in a metal tube in the air.

Add in my fear of heights and the prospect of being in a small, confined space for a long period of time, and I begin to freak out a little.  I need the option to dash into a room and burrow underneath the covers, to hide from everyone and escape to my sanctuary.

Privacy, that’s my bread and butter (besides porn).

And now that I’m on the road to recovery, I can’t even join the mile-high club. I should already be in the prestigious sex-on-flight clan. Being denied for the umpteenth time aggravates me and cranks up my already intolerable sexual frustration.

Lo doesn’t fare much better. He used to love flying because of the mini-bottles of vodka. Now he just looks like someone stole his favorite toy.

The only upside is that we’re flying somewhere fun for Spring Break. Initially, I didn’t want to go anywhere. Traveling to a party locale during the wildest week of the year seemed like a disaster zone for a recovering alcoholic, but Lo basically forced me to concede. He said he wants to test himself, and there’s no better place than Cancun—with Ryke tagging along. Because we all know his half-brother would stand in front of a bus before letting Lo drink.

I would too. But I haven’t been put in that kind of situation yet.

My father’s private jet resembles a presidential living room more than a commercial plane. I lounge on a long plush couch with blue pillows. A television is mounted on the wall and plays a newer thriller film with Nicholas Cage.

Lo is sprawled out long-ways, his head in my lap as I give him a mediocre head massage. He reads a comic on his tablet, flipping the pages with his finger every so often.

Over on leather recliners, Rose slides her rook across a chess board. Connor leans forward with his fist to his lips in contemplation before he makes a move with his measly black pawn. The little alcove is nice for four people. And there’s another set of chairs and a table top to our right.

My eyes drift from the movie to the bathroom, hidden behind the same wall that the television occupies. “She’s been in there a long time,” I tell Lo in a soft voice. I am jealous of everyone in that bathroom. I just want to drag Lo by the arm and let him do whatever he wants to me in there. Preferably something that makes my back arch.

Lo expands a panel of his comic, his attention absorbed by persecuted mutants. I stop rubbing his temples, and then he follows my gaze. “Maybe she has to actually use the bathroom.”

“True.” An insensible part of me thought that tall, athletic volleyball players are immune to natural bodily functions.

I pause and glance over my shoulder, expecting to find Ryke to the right set of chairs. But that alcove is empty, only a couple bottles of water and splayed magazines. My eyes widen in realization. I gasp. “Ryke is missing.” I point to the bathroom door. “They’re screwing.”

Lo sits up, rising off my lap. I realize I am done giving him a terrible head massage. I’m surprised he hasn’t fired me before.

“They are dating,” Lo reminds me, powering off his tablet and tossing it on the cushion.

Ryke brought his “somewhat” girlfriend on vacation with us. In truth, Ryke doesn’t have real girlfriends. He just “dates” which is a loose term for seeing someone and having sex for a short period of time. At least, that’s how he explained it to me when Melissa stood at the airport with her rolling suitcase in tow.

Really, if I think about it, that’s what Lo used to do before we became an official couple.

I squint at the bathroom door, wondering when my X-ray vision will kick in.

It doesn’t.

“Why do I have the sudden urge to put my ear to that door?” My eyes grow big. Did I just say that out loud?

“You’re staying on the couch.” Lo tugs me onto his lap and kisses me lightly on the neck. I smile into our next kiss, his mouth meeting mine, but he draws back before I can deepen it. Damn.

My eyes flash back to the bathroom. “Can we? Later?”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, love.” He places a small kiss on the edge of my lips.

The bathroom door swings open, and I watch as Melissa struts out first, combing her fingers through her shoulder-length, honey blonde hair. I spring from Lo’s arms and rush to the bathroom as though I have to pee.

I don’t.

I just really want to catch Ryke red-handed. I think both Lo and I can agree that it’s overly fun trying to make his brother uncomfortable. I have yet to be successful. But one day, I’ll figure out what makes Ryke Meadows squirm.

When I look through the door frame, I find Ryke at the sink, washing his hands. He doesn’t even recoil in surprise.

“You are so busted,” I say. “I just saw Melissa leaving here.” I waggle my eyebrows for further effect, but he stays unblinking. Catching someone in an incriminating deed is not as fun when they don’t act like they’ve been caught. My mission: to make Ryke flinch for once.

“So?” He dries his hands on a cotton towel.

Being a cop can’t be nearly this annoying.

He says, “I’m sure you’ve spent plenty of time in a plane’s bathroom with someone else.” I have tried. None have been successful. But that’s not the point…right?

“We have a no-sex policy on this flight.”

“For you.” He gives me a stern look, and then his eyes float over my shoulder.

“You’re making her paranoid,” Lo says from the couch. “Wait until we land.”

My cheeks redden. Maybe confronting Ryke wasn’t the smartest idea. But at least Melissa has stuck earbuds in and flips through a magazine, settling in her chair among the empty alcove.

I shake my head at the guys. “No, it’s fine. Ryke, you can fuck Melissa all you want. Do it in the bathroom. On the couch, well not on the couch, I’m sitting there. The point is…” I take a breath. “Don’t let me stop you.” Because really, it’s my only distraction right now. Or maybe I just really want to hear it or something. No, I don’t. Okay, I miss porn way too much.