Addicted for Now by Krista Ritchie, Becca Ritchie Page A

mistakes. I can make things
right.
    Connor lets out a long whistle. “Impressive.”
    “I think so too.”
    Rose looks ready to reignite their old argument, but Connor
leans in and whispers into her ear again. French. Can’t understand a fucking
word. She eases considerably.
    “I need a translator,” Lily whispers to me.
    “Or an interpreter.” Preferably not a male interpreter. I can just picture Lily getting aroused and
flushed from some French guy. Even that proposed fantasy makes me cringe. Jealousy
is the one thing I don’t ever want to tear us apart. But it’s there. Festering.
    Rose finally pins her eyes back on me. “Modeling is
difficult,” she says, her voice much softer. “It’s not just about having a good
body or a pretty face. Ask Daisy.”
    “I know,” I say. “But Rose, this isn’t going to be a career
for me. I just need to make enough money to pay back my debts and get on my own
two feet. That’s it.” I glance at Lily for a second. “And you won’t have to
mess up your schedule for Lil. I’ll be there while the other models are. It’ll
be better.”
    Lily holds onto the waistband of my jeans, and she says,
“And what are you going to do after modeling?”
    I have no idea. The fog of my future is too thick to clear.
“One step at a time,” I say. She nods, understanding.
    Rose mulls over my proposition for a minute. And then she
says, “Fine.”
    I break into a full grin.
    And she adds, “But just so we have things clear, I’m doing
this out of pity.”
    My smile vanishes. “You could have stopped at fine.”
    It’s her turn to grin. “I know.”

 
    { 9 }
    LILY CALLOWAY

 
    Two days pass and I still haven’t had sex. And on
top of that, I welched on telling Lo about the old tests. But I plan to. I just
need to…phrase it correctly so he joins my immoral side of things. And Connor
has yet to find any evidence about the so-called blackmailer (or whatever he is—considering
he still hasn’t asked for anything in return).
    “What about Patrick Bomer?” I sit with my legs crossed on
the bed, an old navy-blue Dalton Academy yearbook on my lap. Big black circles
outline certain faces and on others I’ve drawn X’s…and mustaches.
    I raise my head and catch Lo’s frown through the circular
mirror mounted above our dresser. He spent a solid twenty minutes dressing this
morning and another ten minutes on his hair. It’s his first job at Calloway
Couture. Hell, it’s his first job ever ,
and he’s freaking out about it.
    “Why would Patrick hate me?” he asks, disheveling the
thicker pieces of his hair on purpose.
    “You won first place in our art class’s end-of-the-year
projects.” Lo took a five minute video of a plastic bag blowing in the wind,
which was beyond boring and beyond unoriginal, seeing as how American Beauty did it first.
    He turns to look at me. “What? That’s not my fault. My
project was damn good.”
    “The entire class fell asleep,” I remind him. And Patrick
made a bronze sculpture of Apollo, but it was hardly appreciated by Mr. Adams.
    “So he should be pissed at the teacher, not me.”
    I don’t refute because he’s right. Teachers gave Lo special
treatment, even so much as awarding his crappy video the highest prize because
he’s a Hale. Because his father is a multi-billionaire with connections so
intricate that a spider would be jealous of the web Jonathan Hale weaves.  
    I glance at my computer screen on the bed. “Maybe he’s not
angry anymore,” I add. “He’s at Carnegie Mellon for art now.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “Facebook.”
    Lo groans. “Please tell me you didn’t sign up.” We’ve had an
anti-social media rule since high school. We like privacy too much to waste it
away on cyberspace.
    “I didn’t. I signed you up.”
    His eyes darken.
    “The way I see it,” I say quickly, “is that if someone hates
you, they’ll probably start slandering you on here.” I point to the screen. “It’s
like a