“I’m not killing you,” Ryke repeats.
Her smile fades. “Ryke,” she says, “I’m going to figure out how to ride a motorcycle with or without you. I was justgiving you the opportunity to have one of the bikes. I know you want it.”
He stares off, deep in thought, and then he shakes his head repeatedly, cringing. “Fuck.”
“What?”
He covers his face with his hand. “I can’t stop picturing you flipping the bike over.”
“I haven’t fallen off yet,” she reminds him.
“Have you tried to do a wheelie?”
She stays quiet. “No,” she mutters.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, not believing her one bit. “You’re going to kill yourself.”
“You keep saying that.”
“And is it not processing in your head or you just don’t give a fuck?”
She unfurls the crumpled piece of paper slowly. “I think… that I’ll be okay,” she sidesteps his question with more confidence than I could even possess. “But if you change your mind about the bike, here’s my number.” She writes down her cell on the paper.
I wonder if a premium channel is playing a Marvel film.
Before I click into special programming, I land on a newsfeed.
I see the wordsex.
Huh.
It’s like a big flashing light in my eyes. I stay on the channel in curiosity. Maybe some senator had a sex scandal.
“Lily, wait!” Lo shouts.
My heart stops as my mind tailspins, trying to digest the program and Lo.Wait, wait, wait.Tears brim. Lo was upset.
And that’s not a senator.
He was upset because ofthis.
It’s me on the screen.
I shrink into a ball on the couch, my knees tucking to my chest. My hands are fixed on my mouth, my eyes too wide to shut.
I think…I think…I don’t know what I think.
The news stations are congregated outside Penn, and the bottom of the screen reads:Fizzle heiress has over fifty sexual partners and counting. Rumored sex addict.
Is this national news? How is this a national issue? What the hell is going on?
I don’t hear Lo call my name again. I turn up the television, and I’m shaking so badly that I have to hold the remote with both hands.
The news anchor is a petite blonde woman with bright red lipstick. “We just confirmed from a source that Lily Calloway, daughter of the founder of Fizzle, is a sex addict. As well as the fifty plus known men she’s slept with, she’s also been known to hire male prostitutes.”
My throat closes up, but I manage to barely breathe a word. One word. “Lo.”
He doesn’t come to me, and I can’t tear my eyes from the television.
