Heroine Addiction by Jennifer Matarese Read Free Book Online Page B

wayward chip of shattered porcelain. Apparently Mom hadn't adored her precious china quite enough not to throw it at me as I packed to leave.
    On the dance floor, she beams as Dad guides her into a playful pirouette, excusing herself when she bumps into another dancer.
    My stomach threatens to eject its contents at the sight.
    "You okay?"
    I start at Nate's question, the genuine concern in his words. Guilt swims through me. I wish I could tell him what was bothering me without opening a can of worms I'd rather not share with anyone outside my immediate family. God knows it's just not my secret to tell.
    "I'm fine," I say, then run a reassuring hand over his forearm. "I'm just in an odd mood tonight, I suppose. Look, why don't you try and see if you can convince another one of those skittish little girls over there to join your sorry ass out on the dance floor?"
    Nate ventures a hopeful glimpse towards the jittery young women sprinkled here and there along the edges of the dance hall, best friends or sisters, homely girls who've been dragged along by friends or relatives who abandoned them for a more attractive party. You can spot them easily, dotting the edges of the dance floor and taking up valuable seats at the bar. He's probably already mentally anticipating how much fun it will be to charm them away from the quiet safety of their seats and draw them out of their shells in between playful dips and sly self-deprecating jokes. So enjoyably predictable, that man.
    He busses a hurried kiss across my cheek before ducking through the crowd with beer in hand in the direction of a chubby bespectacled redhead who cringes as soon as she spots him coming. I barely resist the urge to run over and assure her Nate's a lovely man, that what he likes in a girl is a sweet timid smile that's got plenty of room to grow. He couldn't be a heart-breaker if he tried.
    A sudden leaden weight presses down on my shoulder.
    I glance back to see my dad standing behind me, a broad smile stretching across his face. His hand gives my bare shoulder a light affectionate squeeze before he releases his firm grip.
    "I wasn't expecting to see you today," he says. "Or any time lately, for that matter. I thought you would be too busy with the cafe."
    I shrug, silently praying he doesn't feel the urge to embrace me. Mom wrapping her arms around me shocked me enough for one day, thank you very much. "The cafe can live without me for one afternoon. I guess I was just feeling a bit homesick, that's all." I attempt to cloud the lie with a teasing grin, hoping that Dad hasn't taken to snooping into other people's thoughts during our long estrangement. He'd certainly had ironclad rules about not doing so five years ago when it came to his own family and friends, but I still have no clue as to whether or not living with Morris for this long has warped the stiff instinct for protocol Mom drilled into all of us.
    Dad tilts his head until he snags my attention and says, "You know, you could call more often."
    "I'm physically capable of it, yes."
    Luckily, he doesn't take that as good old Vera poking at a bull with a pointy stick, trying to start an argument I know I won't win. It's probably just my subconscious at work instead, testing the waters, and his soft expression signals he's letting it slide.
    I move closer, giving the people milling around us a casual glance to confirm they're all paying attention to their own damn business. When I'm sure of it, I force a harmless smile, speaking so softly I'm afraid he might not hear me. "To be honest, I'm here on behalf of Morris. According to him, you've been missing for three days."
    Dad's expression, warm and rich like freshly baked brownies, doesn't falter. But I spot a flinty edge to the look in his dark brown eyes.
    "Don't worry, sweetie," he says. "I'll take care of Morris, all right?"
    I feel like I'm missing something. Instinct tells me that this isn't Dad speaking in euphemistic code to cover up a future bout of