Addiction Read Online Free Page B

did a double take. “Peter? That you in there?”
    I stood in front of the mirror, and a stranger gazed back. Could have been the medical director of the hospital. Or James Bond. Depending on my frame of mind.
    I took it all—the suit, the shirt, the tie. I held my nose and handed over my credit card.
    â€œGreat purchase,” the salesman oozed. “You’ll wear that suit for five years.”
    He made it sound like an eternity.

2
    THERE WAS a storm the night of Channing’s party. When I got to my car, the windshield had become a glaze of ice. My fingers turned numb as I hacked away at it with a dull plastic scraper when what I needed was a blowtorch.
    I had plenty of time to speculate about what I’d find when I met Olivia. From ebullient toddler, to mousy preteen, to what? I hoped a normal youngster, rebelling in the time-honored way in which adolescents differentiate themselves from their parents. I longed to be able to reassure Channing: This too shall pass.
    By the time I had cleared the car windows, I was late. I was supposed to pick up Annie on a street corner near the Cambridge Courthouse—she’d worked all afternoon, setting up her new office. I hoped Annie wasn’t freezing to death. I drove as fast as I dared, taking yellow lights as invitations to speed.
    Annie looked like a dandelion puff, her curly, reddish hair backlit by the streetlight, her face clouded with dragon’s breath. Instead of her usual jeans and leather jacket, she had on a full-length coat that looked like one of those sleeping bags that are supposed to keep you warm, camping out overnight on Mount Washington. She
slid into the car, leaned over, and gave me a light kiss on the cheek. Her lips were icy.
    â€œTo Marlborough Street, Jeeves,” she said, shivering. “And can you crank up the heat in this old car of yours?”
    I’d almost finished restoring the 1967 BMW. I was taking my time, hammering out the rear quarter panel—I’d done it once already, but a run-in with a red Firebird in a parking garage had left it in need of further straightening. After that, there wouldn’t be much left to do. I’d miss working on the car at quiet, ungodly hours, long before any sane person willingly contemplates crawling out of bed.
    â€œI do love that leather smell,” Annie added, inhaling. “Mmm. So comforting.”
    I inhaled too. But it was Annie’s scent, watermelon and rose water, that I was enjoying.
    I caught Annie eyeing me. “I was glad to hear from you,” she said.
    â€œIt’s been—” I paused, trying to remember how long it had been.
    â€œSix weeks,” Annie said.
    â€œNot.”
    Annie laughed. “No one can accuse you of rushing into anything. Though I have to say, I was disappointed at the change of plans.”
    I reached over and put my hand over hers. An electrical charge zapped up my arm. “A quiet dinner for two would have been nice,” I said.
    â€œNext time,” Annie replied, and put her hand on my knee and squeezed.
    It was with considerable effort that I continued toward Back Bay—down Memorial Drive, across the Harvard Bridge—instead of making a U-turn and heading back to my place.
    This stretch of Mass. Ave. was undistinguished—a row of rundown restaurants, convenience stores, and bars. As soon as we turned onto Marlborough Street, the landscape changed. Trees reached up from either side of the street, not quite forming an
arching trellis overhead. Electrified gas lamps cast a soft light on tidy rows of town houses, the cornices lined up in soothing, nineteenth-century uniformity.
    The parking was residents-only, but even a resident would have had a hard time finding a parking spot that night. We ended up at a meter on Clarendon and walked back.
    We stood on the sidewalk and gazed up at the house.
    Annie exhaled. “Wow.”
    â€œWow,” I echoed. “They used to live a few