‘No, that’s not it.’ I find I can’t hold her gaze. I thought I was done with guilt.
‘That’s what it feels like,’ she says softly. ‘Like you’ve revealed too much of yourself—the human side of you—and that it’s become my fault, somehow.’
She’s right, and she’s wrong. And if I don’t answer her, how will we get through the next six months?
‘There’s a gym in the basement accessed by the second staircase in the hall. You can access it from outside, too.’
‘Okay,’ she answers slowly. But it isn’t. She doesn’t really get this at all; how could she? Who goes to work out when most people are sleeping?
‘After the bar, I woke early. I wake early every day. I don’t sleep a great deal. It’s one of the effects of addiction.’ Her gaze widens, then regulates, and I give her a moment to let that settle in . Or maybe the moment is for me. My weakness is something I need to be reminded of occasionally. ‘Cocaine.’ The financial district stimulant of choice. City boys do love their Class A drugs, and this one is A for acceptable in the circles I move. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t use, and I haven’t for a long time.’
‘Well, that’s kind of obvious, I think.’
‘Is it?’ My eyebrows lift. I wasn’t expecting attitude.And confusion, perhaps?Addiction usually elicits sympathy or morbid fascination. Not that I make it a habit of sharing this information. I’m not what you’d call the sharing type.
‘Well, you’re not exactly mellow, are you?’
‘You’ve never dabbled?’ This much is obvious without the shake of her head. ‘Not even at university?’’ Another denial. ‘You spent a year in a central London university, and you never... ?’ How the fuck is that possible, Olivia the innocent? ‘And don’t I feel like the degenerate seducer all of a sudden.’
‘Hardly,’ she answers defensively. But I suddenly feel old.
‘Coke doesn’t mellow you out. It’s quite the opposite,’ I add almost in a whisper, brushing the strands of her hair from her shoulder. ‘Not that it matters because I don’t do it anymore. I also don’t drink. No more than a few glasses. Because when I do, it can bring back all the not so pleasant reminders of addiction. The sweats and the shakes, the fear and the self-loathing. And that’s what the night at the bar did.’
It’s not the whole truth, but she doesn’t need to hear the rest as she offers her sympathy, not in words, but in the warm hand she splays across my chest.
And the rest? My new addiction is her.
But I came to an understanding while on the treadmill, my legs working like pistons as I’d fought to exhaust this weakness from my system. Addiction is called a habit for a reason. And the only way to avoid it is to remove the source of the addiction. And I can’t do that right now. I need her right now to get my hands on JBW, which means I capitulate. I give in. And later, I’ll go cold turkey. When the ink is dry on the contract, I’ll remove her from my life, and the equilibrium will be returned.
But until then, I’ll gorge on her.
‘So.’ I peel her hand from my chest, bringing the backs of her fingers to my lips. ‘I can usually remove myself from society when I feel the way that I did. I should’ve insisted on travelling back alone.’
‘I’m not sure that would’ve helped.’
‘It might have been more pleasant. For you, at least.’
‘I’m guessing for you, too. Well, you’re not exactly an open book, are you?’ she adds by way of explanation. ‘But I appreciate you telling me the truth.’
Not the whole truth but enough. Enough to make me uncomfortable, but whether for being secretive or telling her anything, it’s hard to tell.
‘And I guess if I look really hard, maybe get out a microscope or something, that kind of sounds like an apology for the way you’ve treated me.’
‘I’m certain I’ve already said I never apologise.’ God knows how, but I manage to curtail my burgeoning smile.
‘Well, clearly, that’s not true because I make that two tonight.’
‘I retracted the earlier apology. That doesn’t count.’
‘Ah, so you admit it,’ she says, beginning to giggle. ‘You apologised at least once tonight.’
‘Never,’ I growl, taking her wrists in my hands and pushing them into the mattress, my knees bracketing hers. ‘I never apologise.’
‘Except when you do.’ A puff of sweet breath catches me on the cheek as she tries to blow strands of hair from her face. ‘A little help here.’
‘I never apologise, and I never help.’
‘Sorry. I forgot, oh dark and awful overlord.’
