Ricochet

Ricochet
 
Copyright
© 2013 by K.B. Ritchie

All rights reserved. This book may not be
reproduced or transmitted in any capacity without written permission by the
publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review
purposes.

This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places,
characters, resemblance to events or persons, living or dead, are coincidental
and originate from the authors' imagination and are used fictitiously.

Cover image © Shutterstock

RICOCHET

{Addicted #1.5}

a
companion to the sequel

KRISTA & BECCA RITCHIE

{1}

I fucked up.

That’s the only thought I have when I digest my
surroundings. A live DJ blasts music from wall-engulfed amps while people
guzzle colored drinks. My youngest sister, Daisy, sips beer from a Solo cup,
scouting her model friends. I fear that she’ll pull a guy over and try to hook
us up—to take my mind off Loren Hale. Five hours ago, I believed a house party
would be a safe choice.

Not true.

So.
Not true.

I should be chastely tucked beneath my comforter, sleeping
through the New Year’s riffraff at my place with Rose.
Only
days ago, Lo—my best friend, my boyfriend, literally a guy who encompasses my
entire
life—left for rehab.
Rose
and I spent a full Monday packing my belongings. And I sorted through pictures,
knickknacks and valuables, bursting into tears in random spurts. Besides
clothes and toiletries, what’s mine was Lo’s. I felt like I was going through a
divorce.

I still do.
 

Only an hour in, Rose called movers and paid them to finish
packing my old apartment and unpacking at our new house. She bought a
four-bedroom villa near Princeton with five acres of sprawling, lush land and a
white wrap-around porch, black shutters and purple hydrangeas. It reminds me of
the southern homes in Savannah or the
Ya-Ya
Sisterhood.
When I told her this, she stood with her hands on her hips,
appraising the building with those powerful, yellow eyes. Then she broke into a
smile and said, “I suppose so.”

The isolation from male bodies doesn’t stop my flyaway mind
from traveling to bad places. Mostly, I worry about Lo. I toss and turn at
night only to have to swallow large doses of sleeping pills to rest. I miss
him. And before he left—I never imagined a world without Lo here. My throat
closed up at the idea, my heart dropped and my head spun. Now that the moment
has arrived, I realize that he took a piece of me with him. When I told this to
Rose, she patted my shoulder and said I was being irrational. That’s easy for
her to say. She’s intelligent, confident and independent. Everything I’m not.

And I don’t think…I don’t think many people can really
understand what it’s like to be so invested in someone—to share every single
moment and then to have them ripped from you. We have an unhealthy,
co-dependent relationship.

I know this.

And I’m trying to change, to grow beyond him, but why does
that have to be a stipulation?

I want to grow
with
him.

I want to
be
with
him.

I want to love Lo without people telling me that our love is
too much.

One day, I hope we’ll get there.
Hope
, that’s all I have to go on right now. It’s my driving force.
It’s literally what keeps me standing.

The first few days in withdrawals tortured me, but it helped
that I hid in my room. I refused to see the real world until I could push past
the most fervent urges. So far, I’ve contained my sexual needs by drowning in
self-love. I’ve thrown out half of my porn to try to appease Rose and to
convince myself that I’m on the path to recovery like Lo. But I’m not so sure
that’s the case. Not when my stomach clenches at the thought of sex. But
mostly, I want to have sex with
him
.

And I worry about that fifty-percent chance where I’ll drag
another guy into a bathroom, where I’ll pretend he’s Lo for a single moment to
satisfy my hunger. I shouldn’t be here.
At a house party.
Distance from wild things has helped so far. This—this isn’t even close to my
wildest moments, but it’s enough to push me someplace bad.

When Daisy called and invited me to a “house party,” I
imagined a few people mixing strong drinks and huddled around a television to
watch music performances. Not
this.
Not
an Upper East Side apartment crammed with models…
male
models. I can barely scoot an inch without a body part
invading my personal space. I don’t even look to see what kind of ligament
brushes my skin.

I should have told Daisy no. I have many fears since Lo has
left, but my greatest one is failing him. I want to wait for Lo, and if I’m not
strong enough to squash these compulsions before he returns from rehab, then
our relationship will really be over. No more Lily and Lo. No more
us
. He’ll be healthy, and I’ll be stuck
on a destructive turntable alone.

So I have to try. Even if something in my brain says
go.
I keep reminding myself of what
waits for me if I don’t wait
for him.
Emptiness.
Loneliness.

I will lose my best friend.

As per Rose’s knowledgeable instruction (she’s been reading
up on sex addiction—and so has Connor, but that’s another story), I should be
looking for a suitable therapist before I attend any social events that’ll
tempt me. Daisy has no idea about my addiction—that it surrounds the allure of
hot guys and the high of a lay. Rose is the only person in my family that’s
aware of my problem, and it’ll stay that way if I can help it.

Still, I didn’t tell Daisy
no.
Even as I was trying to say it, she used the “I never see you”
mantra to guilt me into submission. She topped it off by saying that I was
oblivious to the fact that she broke up with Josh during Thanksgiving. (First
mistake: asking “How’s Josh?” on the phone this morning. And I thought I was
being so sly remembering his name and all.) That’s how “uninvolved” I am in her
life. So not only was I processing her single-status, I was feeling a
torrential downpour of sisterly remorse. I had to say yes to make it up to her.
This is Lily 2.0—the girl who is actually trying to be a part of her family’s
world.

That means spending quality time with Daisy.
And worrying about her jumping back in the dating pool.
Especially if these older models are flinging in their hooks to
catch her.

So here I am.
Obviously not prepared for
this type of party.
Although, I did ditch my sweats
for black pants and a silky blue blouse.

“I’m so glad we’re here together,” Daisy exclaims for the
third time. “I never see you.” Her arm flings around my shoulder, pulling me
into a tipsy hug. I almost eat her golden brown, nearly blonde, hair. The
feathery, straight strands flow past her chest.

We separate and I pinch one of her locks off my glossy lips.

“Sorry,” she says, trying to pull back her hair, but her hands
are full: beer in one and a cigarette idly burning between two fingers in the
other. “My hair is too fucking long.” She sighs in frustration, still
combatting with the strands. She ends up using her shoulder and neck to try to
push her hair off her chest, looking like a spaz in the process.
 

I’ve noticed that Daisy curses more when she’s irritated.
Which is fine.
But I’m sure our mother would need to spend
an extra three hours meditating to forget about Daisy’s foul mouth.

And that’s precisely why I don’t care if she swears a lot or
not at all. Do what she wants to do, I say. Daisy needs to be Daisy for a
change, and I’m actually excited to see her away from my mother’s neurotic,
maternal claws.

She settles down and sets her elbow on my shoulder for
support. I
am
short enough to be her
arm-rest. “Lil,” Daisy says, “I know Lo isn’t here, but I
promise
that I’m going to take your mind off of him tonight. No
rehab talk. No mention of comics or anything that’ll remind you of him. Nada,
okay? It’s just me and you and a bunch of friends.”

“You mean a bunch of
attractive
people.
” I use the correct terminology. I am surrounded by pretty people
who could sprint along a beach, Baywatch-style, and cause a wave of boners. Or
they could walk down a runway and you’d probably be staring at their face more
than their clothes.

At least I would.

Does that make me the ugliest person here? I’m probably the
only un-model-ish girl. I nod. Okay. I’m cool with that. Surrounded by 10s and
I’m probably a 6. I’ll take it.

She blows out smoke from her lips and smiles. “They’re all
not that good looking. Mark looks like a gerbil in bad lighting. His eyes are
too close together.”

“And he gets booked for jobs?”

She nods with a goofy smile. “Some fashion lines like the quirky
thing. You know, the bushy brows, gap-tooth sorta look.”

“Huh.” I try to find Mark and his gerbil-ness, but he’s
nowhere to be found.

“I kinda wish I had a cooler signature trait.”

Signature
traits?
Sounds like getting a badass patronus
in the Wizarding World. Though I’m sure mine would be lame too. Like a
squirrel.

I try to deduce her signature trait, scanning her black leggings,
long gray shirt and army-green, military-style jacket. She doesn’t wear a
single stroke of makeup, her complexion smooth, fresh and peachy perfect. “You
do have great skin,” I nod, thinking I’ve solved the riddle. I’m so good. I
nearly pat myself on the back.

Her eyebrows rise and she playfully bumps my hip with hers.
“All models have good skin.”

“Oh.” I realize I’m going to have to come out and ask.
“What’s your signature trait?”

She puts her cigarette in her lips and then grabs a wad of
her hair shaking it towards me. “This baby,” she mumbles. She drops the strands
on her shoulder and tucks the cig back between her fingers.
“Long,
long, long Disney Princess hair.
That’s what my agency calls it.” She
shrugs. “It’s not even that special. With wigs and stuff, anyone can have my
hair.”

I would tell her to chop it off, but that’ll just rub in the
fact that she
can’t
do a damn thing
about it. Not when the agency controls her look. Not when our mother would go
into cardiac arrest. “You do
have
better hair than me,” I tell her. Mine is greasy half the time.

I should probably wash it more.

“Rose has the best hair,” Daisy says. “It’s the perfect
length and super shiny.”

“Yeah, but I think she combs it a hundred times a day. Like
the mean girl from
The Little Princess
.”

Daisy’s lips twitch with a smile. “Did you just compare our
sister to a villain?”

“Hey, a villain with good hair,” I defend. “She would
appreciate that.” At least, I hope so.

Daisy finishes off her cigarette and snubs it in a crystal
ashtray on the fireplace mantel. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Well I am. You’re always so busy. I feel like we really
haven’t talked much since you left for college.”
 

I feel even worse. Being so much younger than Poppy, Rose,
and me must have been isolating and lonely. Me being an addict and shunning my
entire family hasn’t helped. “I’m glad I’m here too,” I tell her with a large,
honest smile. Even if this may be my biggest test since Lo’s absence, at least
I know I did something right. Coming here, spending time with Daisy, it
is
progress.
Just a
different kind.

All of a sudden, her eyes light up. “I have an idea.” She
grabs my hand before I can protest. We exit the apartment and head for the
hallway. She sprints towards the stairwell, tugging me along in tow.

I’m just getting used to this new impulsive Daisy. Who, Rose
informed me, has apparently been around for the past two years. When we moved
into our new house, we invited Daisy to help decorate. On her tour through the
four-bedroom villa, she spotted the pool in the backyard. No mind that it’s
still winter. A mischievous smile warped her face, and she climbed out of
Rose’s bedroom window, onto the roof and prepared to jump in the water from
three stories high.

I didn’t think she would do it. I told Rose, “Don’t worry.
It’s probably just an attention thing.”

But she stripped into her underwear, took a running start,
and splashed into the pool. When her head popped up, she wore the biggest,
goofiest “Daisy” grin. Rose almost killed her. My jaw permanently unhinged.

And she floated on her back, barely even shivering.

Rose said when our mother isn’t around, Daisy tends to go
crazy. And not
the
I
’m going to drink my sorrows away and snort
some coke
rebellion. She just does things that our mother would condemn,
and Daisy probably knows we’re more forgiving. When Rose saw that Daisy survived
the jump without a bruise, she simply called her stupid and then let the issue
drop. Our mother would have ranted for a solid hour, flipping out over any
injuries that could have ruined her modeling career.

More than anything, I think Daisy just wants to be free.

I guess I was lucky enough to escape my mother’s strict
scrutiny.
But maybe not.
I didn’t turn out perfect.
One could even say that I am royally fucked up.
 

We climb the stairs to the highest floor, and Daisy turns
the doorknob, the biting cold prickling my bare arms.
The
roof.
She took me to the roof.