Addiction (Addiction Duet Book - Vivian Wood

ADDICTION
ADDICTION DUET BOOK ONE
VIVIAN WOOD
CONTENTS
Author’s Copyright
Addiction
1. Sean
2. Harper
3. Sean
4. Sean
5. Harper
6. Sean
7. Harper
8. Sean
9. Sean
10. Harper
11. Harper
12. Sean
13. Harper
14. Sean
15. Harper
16. Sean
17. Harper
18. Sean
19. Harper
20. Sean
21. Harper
22. Sean
23. Harper
24. Sean
25. Harper
26. Sean
27. Harper
28. Sean
29. Harper
30. Sean
31. Harper
If you liked Addiction…
His Virgin
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
His Best Friend’s Little Sister
About Vivian Wood
A UTHO R ’S CO PY R I GHT
COPYRIGHT VIVIAN WOOD 2017
May not be replicated or reproduced in any manner
without express and written permission from the
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this
author.
ADDICTION
S
1
S EA N
ean groped for the vibrating alarm. Was it
ten already? He didn’t need to look at
the iPhone to turn it off. For a second, he
considered keeping his head under the pillow and
sending a passive fuck you to the shop.
But he didn’t. Your sponsor would be so proud, he
thought as he blinked into the morning light that
streamed through the window.
I really need to buy some curtains. Or something,
he thought. Shirtless, he made his way to the
shower with its clawfoot tub. “All original!” the
leasing agent had crowed at him. Obviously, he’d
wanted to reply, but he needed that apartment.
It wasn’t much, but it was his. Even through the
steam of the shower, he could smell the pizza joint
on the first floor of the building. Every goddamned
morning. No amount of musky soap could
overpower wood-fired pizza.
His stomach growled. Pizza. And an ice-cold beer.
Or two—or a six-pack. Stop it, he told himself.
Weak ass.
As he toweled off, his phone blinked at him, the
blue light of a text message. “You better not be
late,” his boss had said.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, and turned on the read
receipt function just to let that asshole know he saw
it.
“I’m serious,” came the second text. “You know
we can see you up there, right?”
Sean sucked in his breath and turned off the read
receipts again. You were an idiot, getting a job in
the same building where you live.
He pulled on a black, fitted tee-shirt and ripped
jeans. One of the perks about being an upper-level
apprentice at an ink shop is nobody gave a shit
what you wore. The clothes perpetually smelled
like pepperoni thanks to Dolce Vita downstairs, but
it was a hell of a lot better than being a trust fund
kid. Like dad, he thought. Or Connor.
He knew that wasn’t fair, that his big brother had
made it on his own. Eventually, he added as he
finger-combed some product a hot piece of ass had
sold him through his hair.
Sean glanced at the biggest mural in his little
apartment while he gathered up his keys. Thank
god for landlords who never check in, he thought.
Sure, he’d promised himself he’d paint over
whatever he did in here. A nice, safe egg shell just
like when he’d moved in. But he knew he never
could. Even when he moved out—if he ever moved
out—there was something about art that lasted
forever.
In the past few months, though, his books had
started to overtake the walls. He’d filled up those
second-hand bookshelves instantly, crammed with
first editions of China Mieville’s Kraken, a dog-
eared Finch, and several editions of H.P.
Lovecraft’s work.
Surrounded by art, visual and literary, it made him
feel safe. He fingered the collar work that had
slowly started to creep up his neck, an extension of
the full sleeves. Even without seeing it, he took
comfort in the oil-black raven embedded in
oleander. One of the most beautiful and deadly of
flowers, he thought.
He glanced at the phone. Just 10:45, there’s still
time. God, I could use a drink. Sean’s thumb,
covered almost entirely with a black cross, hovered
over his last call. “Sponsor.”
“Sean,” said the familiar voice, the slightest trace
of a Korean accent. “You okay, man?”
“Hey, Joon-Ki,” Sean said. “Yeah, I’m good. Just
…”
“What is it? You need me to hit up a meeting with
you?”
“Nah, no. Nothing like that,” Sean said. Even after
three years of being sober, Joon-Ki was a hardcore
AA advocate. At Sean’s first meeting, he’d been
the only one who was close to bearable. All those
whiny alcoholics, so proud to claim the label. “Just,
I don’t know.” Wanted to hear your voice? Fuck,
that sounded gay.
“It’s cool,” said Joon-Ki. “You still working out like
a beast? That’s one of the best, and healthiest,
lifestyle changes.”
“Yeah,” Sean said. “I quit the early morning shit,
though, it’s not for me. Every night though, right
after the shop.”
“Routines are good,” Joon-Ki said. Sean could
almost see him over the phone, that spiked black
hair and surprisingly long lashes.
“Well, then I got that down,” he said. “Work, run,
lift, sleep. That’s my life.”
“That’s a good life.”
His phone buzzed against his jaw. He could still
hear Joon-Ki as he pulled it away to see a text from
Connor. And there’s big brother, arm wrapped
around some THOT. “Sam says hi,” Connor had
added to the MMS. Sam, that was her name. He
didn’t want to admit it, but Connor really had
scored with that one.
“Hey, man, I gotta go,” Sean said into the phone.
He only felt slightly bad about cutting Joon-Ki off.
“Yeah, okay, it is about that time for you. Thanks
for checking in. Call or text if you need me.” God,
it was like having a mom again. Or, at least what a
doting, caring mom is probably like.
Sean filled his thermos, filled it with the cheap
coffee timed to be ready at 10:30 daily, and
grabbed a pear. As he battled the door to lock
behind him, he swore under his breath. He was
going to be late. By three minutes, max, but still.
“You’re late,” his boss said as soon as he stepped
through the doors.
“Yeah, well. Close at midnight, then open the next
day, doesn’t really make for sound sleep,” he said
as he shrugged off the leather jacket.
“Leather?” asked one of the apprentices. He
seemed like a kid to Sean, looked like a high
schooler. It infuriated him that they were at the
same level. “You know this is L.A., right?”
He ignored Daniel, and his boss gave him one of
those frustrated, sitcom-level what on earth will I
do with you? expressions.
You won’t do shit, he thought to himself. “My bad,
Josh” he said, just in case. “I prefer the morning
shifts, you know that.”
That was an outright lie. He hated the morning
shift. Less walk-in money, but better appointment
money—when appointments happened and the
clients actually showed up. He checked the
schedule and sighed. No surprise there. Once again,
no appointments lined up.
“Daniel? You can go on home,” Josh told the other
apprentice. “You know the rules. The one on the
schedule shows up, you get the boot. Be back in
two hours for your usual shift.”
“Fucker,” Daniel said under his breath to Sean as
he walked out the door.
Josh had just finished up a septum piercing on a girl
who had to have lied about her age. “All done,” he
said as he handed her a mirror.
Piercings were easy money. Sean was sure that’s
why it’s all Josh did these days. Why labor over
some ink for hours when you could stick a pin
through some twat and get a hundred bucks?
He knew the reason, though. When you were a
tattoo artist, it wasn’t a choice. You drew because
you had to, and skin was the ultimate canvas. Sean
tucked into his sketchbook and let his vision carry
him away. When the door chimed, it seemed hours
later. He glanced up and saw a group of
exceptionally tight girls walk in. They chattered and
laughed in that clique-ish way he hated, but he
couldn’t tear his eyes away.
“Oh, God, I don’t know. Something feminine, for
sure,” the blonde said. “Harper? What do you
think?” she asked as she pointed to one of the
cheapest tattoos on the wall.
“A butterfly? Seriously?” The redhead replied.
“Isn’t that, like, the epitome of a tramp stamp?”
“Only if it’s on your lower back,” the blonde said,
as though she’d just dropped some serious wisdom.
“Ladies!” Josh said. He rubbed his hands together
as he approached. “How can we help you?”
“We’re all getting tattoos!” the blonde said.
“Matching?” Josh asked.
“God, no! We’ll all choose our own—”
“Small,” the redhead emphasized.
“Whatever,” the blonde rolled her eyes.
“Take a look at these books, here,” Josh said. “And
—Daniel! Right on time. Our two artists here, Sean
and Daniel, will take good care of you ladies.”
“I don’t know how you ladies could get any finer,”
Daniel said with that practiced smile and swagger
he had. “But when I get my hands on you, I’ll
definitely give it my best shot.”
The group giggled and flocked towards him. All
except the redhead, who examined the book of
drawings like her life depended on it.
“Look at this one!” the one with the long black
braid squealed. “Wouldn’t this look so hot at the
party Saturday? You know, if I wear that little white
crochete top I just got, the one that looks like Kylie
Jenners’—”
“A party, huh?” Daniel asked. “And you didn’t
even invite me?”
“Oh, my God, you should totally come,” said the
Kylie Jenner wannabe.
“Jesus,” said the redhead lowly. Sean caught her
eye and she bit her lip as she smiled at him. He’d
been the only one who heard.
Damn, she was one hell of a knockout. Built like an
hourglass with porcelain skin. Her thick, wavy red
hair fell over one eye, but she didn’t push it back.
And she didn’t break his gaze. “I’m ready if you
are,” she said to him.
“What you got?” he asked as she strutted towards
him. Little black ankle boots gave her an added
twitch that made it almost impossible to not ogle
her openly.
“This,” she said, and dropped the open book on his
chair.
“A snake,” he said. “You don’t strike me as the
snake type.”
“I like snakes,” she said with a shrug. “And you
don’t know me.”
“Where do you want it?”
“Here,” she said, and turned her back to him to
trace a long finger with blood-red nails across the
small of her back.
“Good choice,” he said.
“It’s not a tramp stamp?” she asked with a grin as
she perched on the chair.
He tried to stay professional as he tucked a paper
towel into her jeans and caught a look at her
turquoise thong. “That whole tramp stamp thing is
bullshit,” he said. “The best tats follow the natural
lines of the body, and the lower back is an organic
canvas for it.”
“I like how you talk,” she said. With her faced
away from him, he couldn’t tell if she was giving
him shit.
“So, you don’t seem as hyped about the party as
your friends,” he said. He let her check the imprint
on her skin before he readied the needle. She
nodded, wordless, at the coiled cobra on her back.
“Not really my thing,” she said. She jumped slightly
as he started to work.
“Oh? Not the typical SoCal party girl,” he said.
Normally he didn’t like shooting the shit with
customers. But normally, customers weren’t this
hot.
She laughed. “Hardly. But my friends party hard.
Normally I’d just fake sick, but since it’s at my
place …”
“I can go with you,” he said. The words were out
before he could stop himself. What the hell?
“Really?” she asked, though she didn’t sound
surprised.
“Sure,” he said. “I can keep you company. I, uh …
I’m sober. So, you know.”
It was the first time he’d said it to a total stranger.
Something about her, or maybe it was that he could
only see half her face in the mirror, just let it slip
out.
He saw her bite her lip in the mirror. “I mean, I’m
happy to have you there, if you don’t mind being
around a bunch of drunk idiots.”
“I can handle it,” he said.
After he’d finished up the little serpent, he handed
her the mirror so she could inspect it. “I love it,”
she said with a grin.
“I gotta wrap it up,” he said. “Turn around.”
“Okay. Here,” she said, and twisted around. “Put
your number in my phone and I’ll text you later
about the party.”
“Hey!” the girl with the black braid said. “I didn’t
get to see it!”
“You’ll see it Saturday,” the bombshell said.
He finished with the gauze and put his number in
her phone. “Sean Cavanaugh,” she said as she put
her phone away. “I’m Harper Brex.”
“Yeah, and you better Brexit outta here so I can get
mine,” her friend said. “A dragonfly,” she told Sean
as she took Harper’s place. “That’s not too slutty,
right?”
“Didn’t know there was such a thing,” Sean said.
He busied himself with the girl’s tattoo, but stole
glances at Harper when he could. He couldn’t get
over that body. Nobody was built like that, but he
could tell it was all natural.
As the group left, Harper gave him a wave. Sean
smiled halfway. He couldn’t help himself. He felt
lighter. And he hadn’t wanted a drink the whole
afternoon.
“Hey, that might be the first time I’ve seen you
smile!” Josh called. “Not that I can blame you. You
see the asses on those girls?”
“A
2
HA R PER
little bloated,” Harper mimicked under
her breath as soon as the door closed.
“Who does he think he is?”
One of the hottest up and coming designers in L.A.,
she told herself. Harper sighed. Tired was,
obviously, code for fat. Her feet hurt, even though
she’d balled up her Furoshiki shoes to strap on
between the go-sees. Since when did wearing
stilettos for a block or two hurt?
She chewed her lip as she checked the ETA on her
phone. Twenty-eight minutes to walk. And how
much for a Lyft? She didn’t even bother waiting for
the app to tell her. It would be spending money she
didn’t have.
Shit. All morning had been go-sees and there were
clearly no nibbles. Even the polite designers with
their canned, “I’ll get in touch with your agent if
we go in that direction” were clearly on the hunt
for someone else. Someone younger.
Harper shoved her standard black stilettos into the
Goode Kids knapsack she’d picked up at some folk
concert Molly had dragged her to. By the time she
reached her last go-see, she could feel a sheen of
sweat on her skin. Well that’s just perfect, she
thought. Harper wobbled on one foot while she
slipped on the stilettos outside the small brick
building.
“Harper!” Molly said as soon as she walked in. “I
didn’t know you were coming to this one.” Her
roommate scooted over and patted the stick
pleather seat beside her.
“Might as well give it a shot,” she said. “What time
are you?”
“Eleven thirty.” Molly ran a bronze hand across her
perfectly buzzed head.
“I’m eleven forty.”
“Awesome! I’ll wait for you.”
“Molly Horst?”
“Wish me luck,” Molly said, and she shot Harper a
dazzling smile.
Harper pulled out her little mirror and examined her
face before she was called. The eyelash extensions
definitely helped to open up her eyes—and draw
attention away from the little wrinkles that didn’t
fade as quickly as they used to when she stopped
smiling. And the microbladed brows certainly made
her look younger. She re-applied white liner to her
water rim and willed her eyes to look even bigger.
“Harper Brex?” the brusque voice cut through her
examination. Molly squeezed her arm as they
passed one another.
“You got this,” Molly whispered.
“Harper Brex,” the designer said as his assistant
handed him her comp card. “Five foot ten, twenty-
five years old—twenty-five?” The designer pushed
his obnoxious Jackie O. glasses up his nose and
squinted at her. “Yeah. I can see that. I wasn’t—
you look a bit tired, dear.”
“Sorry,” she said. She wanted to slap herself for
apologizing. “It’s my last go-see of the day.”
“Hmm, yes, well, I imagine that with your maturity
in this industry, you understand pre-show prep lasts
much longer than morning go-sees.”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“Alright, let’s see what you’ve got. Put this on.”
One of the assistants tossed a sheer dress to her that
would barely skim her ass. “I haven’t got all day.
Just to the mirror there and back.”
She pulled off her go-to wrap dress that didn’t mess
up her hair and stood briefly in nothing but a beige
thong while she pulled on the dress. “Thick,” she
thought she heard someone say.
The walk to the mirror and back was all autopilot.
She’d walked too many runways to keep count and
knew her saunter was perfect. But that wouldn’t
make up for her age. Or that goddamned stomach.
“Yes, well, thank you, Hannah. We’ll be in touch.”
“Harper,” she said, but the designer shooed her
away.
“Well? How’d it go?” Molly asked. She stood up as
soon as Harper walked into the hallway.
“It didn’t.”
“Oh, babe, you don’t know that yet.”
“Yeah. I do. I’m—I’m getting too old for this,
Mol.”
“Oh, please! You are not.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“What? ‘Cause black don’t crack?”
“Because you’re twenty-one!”
Molly walked back to the house at her side, in
companionable silence.
Lately, it seemed like all the designers and casting
directors don’t think she’s right for any campaign
or show. At first, she’d thought it had just been a
fluke. Maybe she really had overdone it on that
weekend trip to Tijuana and just needed a week or
two to rejuvenate. But she hadn’t bounced back.
Ever since she was seventeen, she’d slayed more
go-sees than other girls. Harper had been kept so
busy she’d hardly slept. Yeah, maybe that was part
of the problem, she thought.
As they approached the little storybook house, she
saw all five cars littered in the driveway and street.
“Oh, God, that’s just what I need right now. A full
house.”
Molly shrugged. “I heard in New York, they shove,
like, ten models into an apartment.”
“Yeah, well, seven in a tiny house isn’t much
better.” Still, she was relieved that she saw
Helena’s car out front. The house mother didn’t
keep a regular schedule of dropping in, and right
now Harper could really use some doting.
Harper started looking for the Yugoslovian former
model as soon as she pulled her shoes off in the
entryway. “Where’s Helena?” she asked Britney,
whose blonde hair was knotted on top of her head
while she binge watched The Bachelorette.
“Where do you think?” Britney asked, and pointed
to the back patio.
“Helena?” Harper asked. The screen door gave a
painful squeak as it opened onto a tiny piece of
land flush with orange trees.
“Harper,” she said as she exhaled a long plume of
smoke. “Where you been? Go-sees?” Harper loved
how Helena’s “wh’s” sounded so much like a “v.”
“Unsuccessful ones,” she said as she slumped into
the white cast iron chair next to Helena. “I just
don’t get it,” she said. “I mean, I’m not that old!
These days, the whole, rigid idea of what models
are supposed to look like is changing.”
Helena raised a brow and held out the cigarette to
Harper. Helena’s arms were bone-thin, and looked
even slimmer and more toned thanks to her dark
coloring. Harper shook her head.
“It helps,” Helena said. “With the fat.” She was
nothing if not blunt. “You need to take off a few
pounds. Then you go back, same designers, they’ll
love you. You’ll see.”
“Yeah,” Harper said quietly. “You’re right.” It
stung, just like it always did. She knew Helena
didn’t mean to sound harsh and that she should
have a thick skin by now, but she didn’t.
“Smoking, it kills the appetite,” Helena said. “You
lose the fat, and they still don’t book you? Then
you have a problem.”
“Thanks, Helena,” Harper repeated. “I’m going to
go change for the gym.”
“Good girl,” Helena said. “Gym is good, but
smoking, it’s easier.”
The last thing she wanted to do was trek to the gym
in the middle of a hot California afternoon, but she
knew it was good for her. As soon as she stepped
into the gym, she was hyper aware of all the girls
around her—taller girls, younger girls, girls with
bigger thigh gaps. She p...