No, Riley's vices were cars and women. Lots of women.
Max's elbow was bumped hard. He turned to see his best friend, Carter, high and drunk, with his arm wrapped around a cute brunette who was wearing very little.
"Cheer up, man," Carter said with a wide smile. "Come on. It's a party."
Max nodded and lifted his beer bottle, tipping the neck toward his friend. "I'm all good," he replied, draining his beer, knowing that the line he'd done not an hour before was losing its edge. "Can you hit me up?"
Carter nodded and fumbled in his jeans pocket, pulling out a small Baggie. "Have at it, my friend, and then get drunk, get laid, get something to put a smile on your fucking face!"
Max laughed as he watched Carter stumble over to one of the couches, where he collapsed with his new friend and began sucking face. Bastard was right, though. Max was almost twenty-two years old. He needed to cut loose, have some real fun, and snap out of the grief that still hung around his neck after the loss of his father a year and a half before. He just didn't know how to do it without a couple of lines and a beer. He knew his partying was teetering on the very edge of dangerous, but, ironically enough, that thrill alone kept Max's nose in the powder and a drink in his hand.
"You came!" The squealing sound of one of the half-naked vodka shots girls brought Max's head up from the bag in his hand. The skinny redhead scrambled from the table, pulling on her T-shirt-much to the annoyance of the men in the immediate vicinity-and hurried across the apartment to the open doorway.
Max watched her with a small smile that immediately dropped when he saw the girl she was greeting. Jesus. She was . . . tall and blonde. Very blonde. And natural blonde, too. That shit wasn't out of a bottle. It was honey and ash and sat on petite shoulders dressed in a red short-sleeved top. The jeans she wore were black and clung to her legs like a second skin. She was . . . Christ, she was lovely.
"Come and meet Riley! We've been doing naked shots!" Redhead bounced on the balls of her feet, dragging the intriguing new addition back toward the kitchen.
From Blonde's expression, as she looked around the mayhem, Max could tell she wasn't the type of girl who would disrobe and allow random men to shoot drinks off her tits. Bizarrely, that thought comforted an unfamiliar spot in Max's chest. She was lithe and elegant as she crossed the room, and Max found himself craning his neck to watch her over and around the other people at the party. People he'd forgotten about, didn't give a shit about.
"Riley, this is my best friend, Lizzie. Lizzie, meet Riley." Redhead draped herself over Riley's arm while Lizzie smiled.
And what a fucking smile it was.
All white teeth, sparkle, and fucking rainbows.
"Hey, Liz." Riley grinned. "You want a drink?"
"It's Lizzie, and, no, I don't drink and drive," she remarked. Max chuckled at her sass and the surprised look on Riley's face.
Riley's laughter exploded out of him. "Well, shit, Lizzie, let me get you a Sprite at the very least."
Before she could respond, Riley had poured her a Sprite and handed it to her with a wink. The smirk that graced Lizzie's face was sexy as hell. Max shifted closer to where they all stood, pushing the forgotten bag of coke into his back pocket, his attention well and truly diverted.
He observed Lizzie for the forty minutes she stayed, captivated. She was charming and funny, giving as good as she got when the banter started in earnest. She even glanced in Max's direction a few times. He smiled gently and nodded in reaction. The pink hue that lit her cheeks when he did was delicious.
Ordinarily, Max would have been at her side chatting up a storm with charismatic lines of flowery shit that, experience had taught him, chicks loved.
But something held him back. Something foreign and scary. Something that told him this Lizzie would hand him his balls if he tried to be anything but real and honest.
So he watched, knowing as she left that he had to see her again.
The grounds of the rehab center were vast. Fifteen acres, to be exact. Before the south-central Pennsylvania snow had gotten too deep, Max had meandered about the lands, stopped for a smoke, and meandered some more. The quiet was ear piercing and made him twitchy as all get-out. He was used to the hustle and bustle of New York City life, and the sprawling fields and fresh air were hard to get used to.
When he wasn't at one of his fifteen sessions a week with Elliot, with his sobriety counselor, or wandering aimlessly, Max sat in his room, listened to music, or read. And that was just fine when he was going through the initial cocaine withdrawals, which were fucking awesome and slowed him down to a damned snail's pace. Two weeks on, however, and he was starting to get itchy feet. Elliot had promised that, once he'd plateaued on his meds, Max could start working out with a personal trainer. Frankly, Max was dying to get into the gym to work off some of the tension and stress that curled his shoulders inward. But he had to wait. As an alternative, Max was offered the chance to join a yoga class.