Ricochet (4 page)

I picture Lo. I recreate a not-too-distant memory where we
were together for real.

The lights had dimmed; the movie trailers had ended, and the
opening credits were rolling. In the blackness, I tried not to concentrate on
Lo’s heavy breath, the way his arm and leg pressed firmly into mine. His eyes
fixed to the screen, not acknowledging the aching tension with a look towards
me. Instead, his right hand skillfully roamed my leg, silently telling me to
focus on the film. Even if the theater was empty, being secluded in the back
row did not help ease my desires.

His hand rubbed the bareness of my knee, edging closer to my
thigh with each passing minute. I squeezed them tight, the tension mounting
with unbearable slowness. I inhaled shallow, sharp breaths, waiting for the
inevitable plunge of his fingers, wanting so much more.

He was such a tease. That has never changed.

His hand drifted up and up.
Under my
skirt, touching the soft fabric of my panties.
My mouth fell open as his
finger brushed the pulsing spot.
So light.
Not enough
force or pressure. I squirmed and ached and resisted the urge to cry out for
more.

Silence.
Darkness.
The fear of being caught.
That was the tantalizing
atmosphere we were playing with. I swallowed hard, keeping my head towards the
screen, but the images flashed blankly at me. I was lost in these deep, deep
feelings.

My heart quickened in fear at the thought of someone walking
in. Ushers randomly checked the theater, and I didn’t want to be banned or
arrested. But I lost the strength to say
no
the moment his palm caressed my knee and slid upwards.

I sunk low in my seat and covered my eyes with my hand. My
head naturally started tipping backwards as his fingers stroked my wet,
sensitive mound.

“Lo,” I cried in a soft breath, a little choked.

His parted lips brushed my ear so slowly I nearly came right
there. And then he whispered, “Stay still. Don’t moan.”

I needed him to fill me. And as if on cue, his fingers dove
inside, his thumb making circles on my clit. A breath caught in my throat.
Don’t moan. Ohhh…

The comedy in the background wasn’t loud enough to drown out
future noises that I knew would come. No way could I inhale these sounds.
One already escaped, sharp and unrestrained.

He no longer focused on the film. His lips skimmed the nape
of my neck, but the darkened theater masked his movements. I just
felt
him. The fullness of his lips, the way
his arm brushed against my breast,
pulsing
his fingers
in a toxic rhythm.

I felt the climax coming like riding up the hill on a
rollercoaster.
Take me
, I wanted to
scream. I held it in. I swallowed my moans and gripped the armrest to my left.
My mouth opened as he hit the right spot. I bucked a little, my toes curling
and a layer of sweat gathering.

Oh no.

Instinctively, I clenched my legs tight together, putting
his hand in an uncomfortable vice, anything to subdue the sounds that were
about to leak from my lips and get us caught.

He kissed my temple and then whispered, “I need my hand,
love.”

My eyes were shut tight, and I shook my head repeatedly.
No, no, no.
If I was supposed to come
without screaming then he couldn’t do
that
right now. I had to…compose myself first. An insane part of me thought about
removing his hand altogether and straddling his waist, getting something more
substantial to feed this
need.

His free hand gently skimmed my neck, and then his lips met
mine, kissing so deeply and so hard that the insane part of me won out. I
wanted his cock inside of me, completely, and I didn’t give a damn about where
I was. Hurriedly, I reached over to undo his zipper, fumbling in the dark for
the entry.

His lips detached from mine, and he snatched my wrist to
stop me. He leaned into my ear once more, his breath tickling my sensitive
skin. “I want my other hand first.”

I hesitated for a brief second before I relaxed my thighs
and relieved the pressure from his hand. I went back to searching for his
zipper, but then Lo pushed his fingers faster and harder inside of me.

My eyes fluttered, my back arched, and the cry I had been
avoiding came out like I had reached the pinnacle of all pinnacles.

Tricky
bastard.

I thought that was it, but he kept his fingers in place, and
my whole body skyrocketed again.
And again.
I leaned
forward from the sudden waves, and clutched his hard bicep and cotton shirt,
his arm still pressed strongly against my chest, gliding down below,
disappearing between my legs. Just thinking about the way he was inside of me
sent me spiraling.

He slid his free hand over my mouth, blocking out the noises
that persisted and rocked through me.
One after the other.
My body shuddered and wouldn’t let up. Not when he would shift a little,
touching a place that put me into a new tailspin.

Any fear of an onlooker was drowned by the ecstasy that
filled my head.
Clinging to him in desperation.
In vital, palpable
need.

I no longer craved for something more. He was enough.

 
“Lily!”
Yes.

“LILY!” The door bangs with an angry sound.
No.

My eyes snap open back to the present moment.
The house party.
I’m in the bathroom, my forehead sweaty. My
eyes had been halfway rolled in the back of my head,
almost
about to climax with the memory.

I have yet to hit my sweet spot. The tension burns, but
Ryke’s voice scares me enough to jump off the toilet like it zapped me. I hurry
and dress.
“Coming!”
I tell him and cringe almost
immediately.
Really?
I couldn’t choose
any
other word?

“I hope not,” Ryke says, his voice so close that I picture
him leaning a shoulder against the door frame.

My cheeks welt in an ugly red. I wash my hands with plenty
of soap and peek at the mirror. Besides my flushed face, I look presentable. So
far, I’ve been trying to eliminate porn from my life, not fantasies. I
shouldn’t be ashamed, but my stomach knots anyway.

That memory I focused on, I love. Because I later found out
that Lo had paid the manager for a private screening of the movie, buying each
and every ticket that would have filled the theater. He planned to arouse me.
He planned to satiate my needs in a new way. Maybe Rose would call that
enabling, but right now, it’s one of the sweeter memories in my spank bank.

As soon as I open the door, a girl with jet-black hair mumbles,
“
bitch
,” and barrels ahead, shoving me into the nearby
wall. Okay, that was
not
necessary.
She slams the door, and then I glance up to see the aggravated, curving line of
guys and girls—hands on their hips, eyes in tight glares.

My rash-like flush burgeons across my arms. Hopefully they
believe I was puking up the punch, not fingering myself.

And when I turn slightly, I find Ryke, leaning on the wall
just as I pictured. His arms are crossed and he scrutinizes me with hard,
piercing eyes. His brown hair is styled nicely, giving these models a run for
their money. He’s also slightly unshaven, which makes him appear older and tougher.
He gives me a long once-over, as if trying to spot the stain of debauchery.

I ignore him and head towards the living room, knowing he’ll
follow. I’m not surprised when I feel his presence like an annoying,
unwanted
shadow. When I reach the
kitchen, he puts his hand on my shoulder, spinning me around to meet his
accusatory eyes, as though I’ve already fucked up.

Maybe I have. I don’t know anything anymore. I wish someone
could give me a guide on what exactly I’m supposed to do, but no one seems to
know. My addiction isn’t fucking normal. That’s the problem.

“You look like shit,” he starts off.

“Thank you,” I say dryly.
“If that’s what
you scurried all across the city for, then mission accomplished.
You can
leave me alone now.”

“Why do you do that?” he snaps.

“Do what?” I do a lot of things.
As does
he.

“Act like I’m a fucking rat,
scurrying.
”

I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know.
Maybe
because you
lied
to me for months.”
He could have told me he was Lo’s brother.
I
feel just as duped as my boyfriend, but the difference is I don’t let
things go as easily. Not when Ryke is a rash I can’t medicate.

He rolls his eyes and says, “Get over it.”

I hate him.
“Okay.”
I flash an irritated half-smile. “I’m over it.” I try to pass him to go find my
sister.

He sighs exasperatedly and grabs my arm to stop me. “Wait.
I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know your relationship with Lo. I couldn’t trust you
with that information. Would you have told him?”

I pause, hesitating. I’m not sure.
Maybe.
I look up at him with furrowed brows, understanding his reservations. “I still
don’t like you,” I always remind him.

“You’re not growing on me either.” His eyes flit around the
room. “I couldn’t find Daisy. I looked for like ten fucking minutes.” He runs a
hand through his hair, antsy.

I inhale a sharp breath. “Do you even remember what she
looks like?”

“I’ve seen enough pictures,” he tells me. “Tall.
Really fucking tall.
Your green eyes.
The Calloway brown hair.
Too skinny
and no boobs.
About right?”

I glare even though it’s almost all accurate. Per her modeling
agency’s request, she dyed her hair a light brown-blonde last week. “She’s
fifteen,” I say roughly.

He shrugs. “Maybe she’ll get boobs then.”

I stare at him blankly, trying to find words that represent
my emotions right now. I blink.

Nope, there are none.

So I land on my usual phrase. “You’re such an asshole.”

He never denies it. “Let’s just find your sister and go. We
can watch the ball drop at your house.” He doesn’t rub it in my face that I
ruined his plans for tonight. Who knows what type of woman he planned to meet
up with and screw afterwards. I have avoided seeing Ryke in his natural habitat.
It’s a part of him that I plan to keep very, very far away. Because that would
mean we’re friends. And we are
not
friends.
We’re just two people who happen to coexist on occasion and see each other
around. That’s it.

I scan the area, pushing through the kitchen and towards the
crowded dance floor. I don’t see her anywhere. Not even by the punch bowl
that’s littered with picturesque male models. I trace their biceps with my
gaze, their muscles spindling underneath their tight shirts. Jesus. This party
is not for me. I feel my forehead heat with a layer of sweat in anxiety.
Get me out of here.

“I don’t see her,” I mutter.

“How could you when you’ve been eye-fucking half the guys in
here?”

I gape. I’ve had enough of his evil comments. I turn on him
with clenched fists and fiery eyes. “What did I do to you?”

His jaw hardens to stone, and the muscles twitch in his
face, holding back, restraining.
Let it
on out, buddy
. My mental command must work because he says, “Do you look at
other guys when Lo is in the room?”

That’s what this is about? My stomach drops and aches. A
punch to the gut would probably be more pleasant. Of course Lo would care that
I’m staring.
I
would care. And I
haven’t truly fantasized about any other guy but him since he’s been away. But
that doesn’t matter. Not when I know I’m one small step away from picturing a
nameless, faceless body with all the right moves and all the right words.

But I don’t know how to stop once I’ve started. And I’m
trying to put the brakes on. I’m desperate and needy right now, and everything
I really, really don’t want to be.

I need a therapist, I think. I need to find someone who
knows how to help me.
I’ll try harder.

“It’s not cheating to look,” I say in a small voice. “And
he’s not here, Ryke. Give me some slack.”

He lets out a long breath and rubs the back of his neck. “I
hate that he’s dating an addict. You have no idea…” He pinches his eyes. “It
makes this twice as hard, you know that?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”

He exhales again, tension finally leaving his muscles.
“Look, I know you love each other. I know you’ll try to be together even if it
kills you. I may seem like a huge dick, and I’m riding you hard…”

Uhhh…
I cringe and
flush,
a horrid combination.

“Dammit. Not like
that
,
Lily.” He shakes his head, his face contorting in slight disgust, and he points
at me. “You think more perverted things than any fucking guy I know.”

Guilty.

“And I don’t know how to do this the nice way. I’m not like
that, never
have
been. So sometimes that means being a
pain in the ass.” He jabs his finger harder. “
Don’t
take that sexually.”
Too late.
He drops
his hand and says, “I’ll choose him over you, every time, but you’re a huge
part of his life, so that means you’re going to be a part of mine—whether you
like it or not.”

“Okay,” I mutter. What else is there to say?

The party starts to liven as a famous pop star takes the
stage on television. Everyone begins to sloppily mimic the dance moves,
stumbling and knocking into each other. I don’t spot Daisy in the dance mob.

“Should we split up to look for her? Cover more ground?” I
ask, biting my fingernails.