Page 11 of Alik

When my smile falls, she looks down. “I’m sorry.”

The tension in my chest loosens as I finger a lock of her hair, amazed that she lets me without a fight.

How far would she let me go?

Does it matter?

I gently lay my palm on her jean-clad knee then smooth my thumb back and forth while leaning toward her, inhaling her buttery scent. This is nothing but an attempt to lower her guard, but I can’t say I don’t feel the stir in my cock as if it’s real. I like her this close, like the way she feels.

“I think you should drink your wine,” I say to her, my voice unusually heady.

“I can’t.”

She can’t.

She should. I’m giving her a chance. No one else gets this from me.

My palm on her knee grips as I lean in to her ear, my nostrils flaring. “Why not?”

“I’m sober.”

I stay frozen at her ear for a moment, my eyes narrowing with confusion. Slowly, my grip on her knee eases, and I pull back to look at her face. “What?”

Her hands fidget in her lap, and she shifts while staring at me with the fear I saw before, only now I know what it’s from. It isn’t fearof me, it’s fear of judgment.

She has no idea what I’m here for, does she?

Wiping her palms on her jeans, she stands and goes to the kitchen before returning with a chip held in her hand. When she reaches the couch, she hands it to me.

“It’s my one year,” she says in a voice that reeks of shame.

I flip the chip over while I examine it, but really, I’m just wrapping my head around this. Will her father still believe sheoverdosed? Yes. Yes, he will, absolutely. The plan still works. Nothing has changed.

But for some reason I can’t put a finger on, this feels like a problem.

“I was addicted to a lot of things, alcohol being one of them, but…” I look over at her to see the color drained from her face. Beads of sweat gleam on her forehead. “Heroin is what I struggled with the most.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

She picks at her nails, her jaw working. “It’s part of my program. I’ve been clean a long time, but… I…”

She runs her hands over her face then sits like her knees are about to give out. I’ve seen her nervous. This is something else.

If I’m going to cut the bullshit, now seems as good a time as any. But she has me curious.

I stare at her, waiting for her to go on, but when a full minute passes, I’m not sure she will. She’s so odd. I already know she’s an addict. Shejusttold me. What could be so bad that has her speechless?

“It’s okay,” I finally tell her. I start to say that I understand, but I don’t.

“It’s really not.” Her voice sounds guttural, and she crosses her arms tightly over her chest. “I’ve done things when I’ve been high. Bad things… I have to focus on my sobriety. I can’t be in a relationship right now, or really ever.”

My lips pull into a frown. I didn’t think I was capable of pity, but this woman is the definition of pitiful.

The bag of heroin in my pocket enters my awareness and starts to feel bulkier. It irritates my thigh until I shift, wanting to get this shit over with.

I stand and grab both cups of wine from the table before striding to the kitchen, a curious set of eyes on my back. After rinsing both cups out, I fill them with water and roll my neckwhile slyly pulling a tiny bottle from my pocket. I squeeze a few drops of liquid into Olive’s cup before turning and running into an imaginary brick wall as my eyes lock onto a pan on the stove.

Snickerdoodle cookies.

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