Addicted to You (Addicted #1)(4)
“Yes,” I say, and she heads towards the Drake apartment complex.
Lo nurses a coffee thermos, and even though he takes big gulps, I’m certain that the caffeinated beverage does not fill it. I find a can of Diet Fizz in the center cooler-console and snap it open. The dark carbonated liquid soothes my restless stomach.
Lo drapes an arm across my shoulder, and I lean into his hard chest a tiny bit.
Nola glances in the rearview mirror. “Was Mr. Hale not invited to the birthday brunch?” she asks, being friendly. Still, anytime Nola goes into question-mode, it jostles my nerves and triggers paranoia.
“I’m not as popular as Lily,” Lo answers for me. He has always been a much better liar. I blame it on the fact that he’s constantly inebriated. I’d be a far more confident, self-assure Lily if I was downing bourbon all day.
Nola laughs, her plump belly hitting the steering wheel with each chortle. “I’m sure you’re just as popular as Miss Calloway.”
Anyone (apparently Nola too) would assume that Lo has friends. On an attractiveness scale, he ranges right between a lead singer from a rock band you’d like to fuck and a runway model for Burberry and Calvin Klein. Although, he’s never been in a band, but Burberry did scout him once. They retracted the offer after seeing him drink straight from a nearly empty bottle of whiskey. Modeling agencies have standards too.
Lo should have lots of friends. Mostly of the female kind. And usually they do come flocking. But not for long.
The car travels along another street, and I count the minutes in my head. Lo angles his body towards me while his fingers brush my bare shoulder, almost lovingly. I make brief eye contact, my neck burning as his deep gaze enters mine. I swallow hard and try not to break it. Since we’re supposed to be dating, I shouldn’t be afraid of his amber eyes like an awkward, insecure girl.
Lo says, “Charlie is playing sax tonight at Eight Ball. He invited us to go watch him.”
“I don’t have plans.” Lie. A new club opened up downtown called The Blue Room. Literally, everything is said to be blue. Even the drinks. I’m not missing the opportunity to hook up in a blue bathroom. Hopefully with blue toilet seats.
“It’s a date.”
Silence (of the awkward variety) thickens after his words die in the air. Normally, I’d be talking to him about The Blue Room and my nefarious intentions tonight, making plans since I am his DD. But in the censored car, it’s more difficult to start R-rated conversations.
“Is the fridge stocked? I’m starving.”
“I just went to the grocery store,” he tells me. I narrow my eyes, questioning whether he’s lying to play the part of a good boyfriend or if he really did make a Whole Foods run. My stomach growls. At least we all know I didn’t lie.
His jaw tightens, pissed that I don’t know a fib from a truth. Normally I do, but sometimes when he’s so nonchalant, the lines blur. “I bought lemon meringue pie. Your favorite.”
I internally gag. “You shouldn’t have.” No, you really shouldn’t have. I hate lemon meringue. Obviously he wants Nola to think he’s an upstanding boyfriend, but the only girlfriend Loren Hale will ever treat well is his bottle of bourbon.
We stop at a traffic light, now only a few blocks from the apartment complex. I can taste freedom, and Lo’s arm begins to feel more like a weight than a comforting appendage across my shoulders.
“Was this a casual event, Miss Calloway?” Nola asks. What? Oh…shit. Her eyes plant on the muscle-tee I snatched from the frat guy’s floor. Stained and off-white with God knows what.
“Umm, I-I,” I stammer. Lo stiffens next to me. He grips his thermos and chugs the rest of his drink. “I-I spilled some orange juice on my top. It was really embarrassing.” Was that even a lie?
My face flames uncontrollably, and for the first time, I welcome the rash-like patches. Nola gazes sympathetically. She’s known me since I was too shy to say the Pledge of Allegiance in kindergarten. Age five and timid. Pretty much sums up my first years of existence.
“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” she consoles.
The light flickers to green and she redirects her attention to the road.
Unscathed, we make it to the Drake. A towering chestnut-brick structure juts up in the heart of the city. The historic 33-story complex boards thousands and teeters into a triangle at the apex. With Spanish Baroque influences, it looks a cross between a Spaniard cathedral and a regular old Philly hotel.
I love it enough to call it home.
Nola offers a goodbye and I tell her thanks before hopping from the Escalade. My feet no sooner hit the curb than Lo clasps his hand in mine. His other fingers run over the smoothness of my neck, and his eyes trail my collar. He sets his hands on the openings of my muscle shirt, touching the bareness of my ribs but also concealing my breasts from Philly pedestrians.
He observes me. Every little movement. And my heart speeds. “Is she watching us?” I whisper, wondering why he suddenly looks like he wants to devour me. It’s part of our lie, I remind myself. This isn’t real.
But it feels real. His hands on me. His warmth on my soft skin.
He licks his bottom lip and leans closer to whisper, “In this moment, I’m yours.” His hands run through the armholes of my shirt and he settles them on my bare shoulder blades.
I hold my breath and immobilize. I am a statue.