Ricochet (18 page)

Quickly, I pick a small pink bullet vibrator and hop back on
the bed. I wiggle my black cotton panties to my ankles and then slide the
device inside. I debate on whether to concentrate on Lo. On one hand, he’s the
sexist guy in my spank bank. On the other hand, tears build whenever I imagine
his amber-colored eyes staring at me, with his body thrumming on top of mine. I
just end up missing him and wishing he was here. In the flesh. Holding me.

I settle on clicking the remote and clearing my mind of
everything. I massage my breast underneath my gray cami-tank. Running my finger
over my nipple, I pulse my hips rhythmically against the device. Heat gathers
across my arms and legs, and my body throbs for a strong release. I slide my
hand along my stomach, past my belly button and to my swollen and tender spot
that aches to be touched. My fingers rub against my clit, causing my hips to
buck and my breath to catch.
Yes.

Please make me come.
Please make me come.
I chant over and over in my head.

Please.
I
alternate between rubbing slow and fast and speeding up the vibration of the
bullet with my remote.

I turn my head and cry into the pillow.
Please.
I beg my mind.
Lo…
Too
gone to this hunger to think about the sadness that accompanies his name.

Please.
And then
my insides writhe, my toes curl, and my head floats, a balloon ready to drift
away and pop. I pant heavily and stay still for a little bit. The high begins
to leave, and I desperately want to catch it—to bring it back and relive it all
over again.

It was too quick, too fleeting, too insignificant to replace
the hole in my heart.

So I start again.

An hour later and soaked in sweat, I am in no hurry to stop.
Each time I come down from an orgasm, I wait a couple minutes and crave the
next one before I start again. I’m dripping and wet and sore and none of those
things wills me to quit. I just kind of want to exhaust myself so much that I
pass out.

An urgent knock sounds on the door, and my heart drops. I
fumble with the remote, trying to turn off the vibrator, but it slips from my
fingers and onto the floor. I lean over to grab it without uncovering my lower
half with the plush comforter, but as I reach, my fingers brush the remote and
knock it underneath the bed.
Ohmygod.

“Lily!” Ryke says loudly. “I’m coming in. You better be
fucking decent.”

I am not decent. I am
not even three-quarters decent. I am semi-freaking-the-fuck-out decent.

“Wait!” I scream back. I have no time to think. I straighten
out my tank, covering an exposed breast that somehow popped out.
Oh shit.
The door opens before I can
even
search
for my underwear beneath
the depths of the huge gold comforter. I hug it to my chest and gulp as Ryke
walks in.

I try to give him a glare, but my paranoia ruins its full
power.
Why didn’t I lock my door?!

The bullet vibrator silently buzzes inside of me, and my
embarrassment hits a new peak. I never thought that was possible. I catch the
distressed look on his face as he runs two nervous hands through his brown
hair, a little thicker than Lo’s. I frown at his rare expression. Something has
unsettled him.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.
Is
it Lo?
What if something happened in rehab? What if he’s hurt? I straighten
up, my pulse hammering.

He crosses his arms over his bare chest and leans his spine
against my dresser, slumping forward a little, his eyes darkening. “One of the
girls just crawled in my bed.”

Not Lo, but this is still pretty disturbing. “What do you
mean?”

“I woke up,” Ryke says angrily, “to a sixteen-year-old
groping
me.” His fingers go through his
brown messy hair again. “I can’t deal with that shit. I trust myself not to do
something with a high school girl, but I don’t trust
them.
I almost got raped, Lily.”

I can’t help but snort.

“It’s not funny,” he says flatly.

“I know. I’m sorry.” But this…was kind of unexpected.

He goes to the Victorian chaise and squishes a pillow in his
hands, tossing each one on the floor.

“What are you doing?” I squeak out. He cannot be staying
here. I need to pull this vibrator out. I need
privacy.

He keeps one of the softest pillows on the head of the
chaise. “I’m not going back there.” He lies on his back, wearing no more than a
pair of drawstring pants that show a little too much definition in the crotch.
Seriously, why do Lo
and
his brother
wear those things to bed? They’re so…sexy…leaving my imagination to roam
towards bad, bad places.

He fidgets a little, smashing the pillow to get more
comfortable. This can’t be happening.

The vibrations make me lose focus. I can’t just sleep here
with this inside me all night. Action must be taken.
Even if
it will be the most awkward (possibly embarrassing) moment of my whole life.

I manage to reach down under the covers and hook my finger
on the string to the vibrator, pulling it out and cupping it in my hand. I can’t
leave it on the bed, not when it makes noises, and in the silence of the night
I’m too terrified that Ryke may hear and think I intentionally tried to get off
with him in the room.

 
So now comes the hard
part, I try to feel around for my panties without being too obvious. When I
touch the fabric, I pull them up around my thighs, trying not to wiggle so
much. When they’re on, I mumble, “I have to pee.”

I grab the plush comforter that weighs a freaking ton and
wrap it around my body like I’ve seen in all the movies. Only when I crawl off
the bed, the heavy comforter takes the sheet and an extra blanket underneath
it. Basically, I just stripped my bed.
Good
job, Lily.

I’m not smooth at all. I must look like a snowman wrapped in
a cocoon. At least it hides my half-waddle and the vibrator in my left hand.
Ryke says nothing about my strange behavior. Maybe he’s fallen asleep from his
traumatic event or I’m stealthier than I think.

Then…I face plant.

“You okay?” Ryke looks over.

My cheeks
heat,
and I roll over
like a burnt hotdog, still clenching the vibrator in my palm and stuffing that
hand into my blanket. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ryke sitting up and
staring at me like
what the hell
.

I glare now, propping my elbow on the floor for support.
“I’m a sex addict,” I tell him. Saying it feels good. “Maybe you shouldn’t be
sleeping in here.”

He rolls his eyes dramatically and plops back against the
chaise. “I can handle you. I have a greater chance of getting raped outside
this room.”

“You honestly believe they’ll rape you?” He’s being
ridiculous.

“She basically already molested me, and guys can get raped
too, Lily,” he says. “I thought you had to pee.”

I don’t, but I desperately need to reach the sanctuary of
the bathroom. Standing up feels like a chore, so I end up army-crawling with my
blanket around me. After I slide into the tiled room, I kick the door closed
and stand on my knees to lock it. Then I collapse on my comforter and stare up
at the ceiling. I drop the vibrator on the floor and it moves a little on the
marble tiles. I should roll it in a towel and stuff it into a drawer, wash my
hands, and go back to bed.

I know this.

But I don’t do it.

I feel like I
can’t.

In a quick motion, I grab the device and put it back in. The
pulsing kicks up my cravings, making all my nerves stand still for a brief
moment. I want more. My fingers skim down my belly and slowly descend over my
throbbing clit, and I start all over again. A cycle I just can’t seem to quit.
I shut my eyes and my breathing quickens. I block out everything from tonight,
and I lose myself to pleasure instead of worries and time and even this place.
I am nowhere but here.

My body shudders, and I rub harder with mastered urgency. I
wantwantwantwantwant.
No.
I
needneedneedneedneed.
PLEASE!

A moan escapes my lips, and my eyes flutter back. The sudden,
quick release electrifies my insides.

And poofs away within a few seconds. I pull out the vibrator,
and lie motionless on the floor. Tears sting my eyes as my actions swim up and
infiltrate the sane part of my brain.

What the fuck did I just do?

Dr. Banning flat-out told me that recovering from sex
addiction does not mean eliminating all sex. Just the unhealthy kinds. The
things that bleed into my daily life, disrupt my routines, and turn me into a
compulsive animal. Some addicts can handle self-love. I suddenly realize that I
can’t.

My chest hurts as tears spill down my cheeks. I don’t
understand why I can’t masturbate like a normal person. Why do I have to take
everything to extremes? I press my palms to my eyes and cry harder. The
situation feels too big for me. Everything seems too far out of my control.

I haven’t cheated on Lo. I’ve abstained from real sex, but
does it even matter anymore? I’m addicted to masturbating. When do I get a
break? I know the answer. And the tears pour full force now, my nose running,
my eyes burning.
This battle is a forever
sort of thing.

On my hands and knees, I ditch my comforter and crawl into
the bathtub, shivering a little as the air nips by bare legs and arms. Wearing
nothing but cotton panties and a tight tank. I sink against the porcelain and
clutch my arms to my chest, curling into a ball. I physically try to hold
myself together. But I still feel as though I’m breaking apart. Shattering.
Into small insignificant pieces.

 
No porn. No sex. No
self-love. What else is left?

Maybe people would find me dramatic and stupid for feeling
so empty without those three things. Maybe they’d laugh or spit at me in scorn.
But I have no energy left to explain
how
sex
fills a deep hole in my chest. How for a single instant, it seems to take
everything bad away.

Breathing hurts. Each inhale is like a knife stabbing into
my ribs. I shudder against the cold tub and kiss my knees, shutting my eyes
tight. I am losing my grasp on everything that has ever made me feel okay. Sex
and Lo—they have vanished and left me so very alone.

My head lolls to the side, drifting. My body feels heavy and
my tears grow silent, but the pain in my chest intensifies. I’m not even sure
what will make me feel better. Not sex. Not Lo. Nothing can make me whole
again. The thought steals my breath.

“Lily!” Ryke bangs on the door. “Come on out. You’ve been in
there long enough.”

I can’t move. I can’t speak. My lips have frozen with my
hope. Why would Lo even want to return home to me? He just escaped hell, who
would want to enter another one?

“Lily! I’m not playing around. Open the fucking door.”

I open my mouth to reply, but words stick in the back of my
throat, too strenuous to produce. Speaking takes strength that has eked away
with my confidence. My bottled insecurities attack me like a parasite with no
thought but to destroy until I’m weakened, withered and dead.

Moments later, I hear the door unlock. I assume he grabbed a
key from somewhere. Maybe a steward.

“Jesus Christ,” he curses and kneels beside the bathtub. I
blink slowly, still drifting. My cheek presses to the lip of the tub, but my arms
still wrap around my chest. My last safety blanket is myself. Right now, that’s
not very reassuring.

I listen to Ryke’s voice as he dials a number on his cell.
“Dr. Banning?”
 
What? Rose must have
given him my therapist’s number. “I’m Lily Calloway’s friend…I found her in a
bathtub. She’s unresponsive, and…” His usual stoic voice falters just a little.
It should pull me up from my stupor, but I am so, so very lost. I just need to
return home somehow. I need to find a reason to get up. “…I’m worried about
her. Can you talk to her for me?” He pauses. “I don’t want to touch her, but I
don’t see blood. I don’t think she hurt herself.”

I wouldn’t. Would I? No…

I feel the cold phone being pressed against my ear.

“Lily?” Dr. Banning’s calm voice fills my head. “Can you
hear me? What’s wrong?”

Everything.
This.
I
pray for strength, but it won’t come. I want to stand, but my legs won’t move.
I need a reason to continue… “I’m sorry I woke you up,” I barely whisper. The
words burn my throat, and I shut my eyes as a couple tears escape.

“Don’t be sorry, Lily. That’s what my emergency line is for,
okay? Can you talk to me? What are you feeling?”

“Embarrassed.” I squeeze my eyes with two fingers. I’m so
ashamed of what I am and what I do. How can I ever stop? It seems…like a
mountain I have not been tasked or equipped to climb.

“What else?”

“Tired. Ashamed. Upset.”

“You’re going through a lot right now, Lily,” she tells me.
“It’s normal to feel these things, but you have to stay strong. Before you feel
out of control, you need to talk to someone and tell them what’s bothering you.
It doesn’t have to be me, but I’m always here. How did this start? Is it about
Loren?”

“Yes. No…I don’t know,” I mutter. I pause and open up a
little, forgetting that Ryke squats by the tub only a foot away. As I talk, a
weight begins to slowly (very slowly) rise from my chest. It’s still there, but
it lessens just a little. “I’m going to have to stop masturbating, aren’t I?” I
lick my chapped lips and cringe at my own words.

“Do you think it’s unhealthy or a gateway into other
compulsions?” she asks, her tone serious.

“I do it,” I choke, “and I always want more. It’s never
enough.”

“Giving something up isn’t the same thing as losing control.
It’s the opposite, Lily. You’re taking back control.”