Page 5 of Hothouse Flower (Calloway Sisters 2)

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bsp; Nope.

In fact, I only think it heightened the pull that says to connect with his body and elevated the strain that says don’t draw away.

He fixes my hair that he just messed, combing the strands with his fingers so it doesn’t look like I had sex or something.

“Daisy, are you in there?!” my mom shouts, worry lacing her voice.

Go, I mouth to Ryke.

He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear and then takes a moment to unlock the bathroom door. He slips inside and gently closes it behind him.

“Sorry!” I call to my mom. I rush to unlock my bedroom door. “I told you, I just like my privacy.”

I hear her snort. “From who? You live alone.” She pauses. “Are you sure you don’t want to come back to the family house in Villanova? You’ll have more company.” She’s lonely without me. That’s what I’ve deduced from her impromptu visits at any hour during the morning, day and night. I’m her youngest child of four daughters, the last to fly the coop.

So far, Ryke and I have been pretty lucky with her barging in like this. I’ve always been too afraid to leave the door unlocked, so she’s never entered the bedroom before Ryke could escape. And I don’t have the heart to tell her to stop coming around. It’d be like saying, hey, Mom, I’m eighteen—so I don’t care about you or your opinions anymore. Thanks. That’s shit, right? I already moved out pretty quickly as it is. And I love her enough that I want her to be a part of my life. I just don’t want her to be so…consuming.

When I finally open the door, she beelines inside, wearing a navy blue dress and a strand of pearls around her neck. She’s a thin woman with a bun perfectly rounded on the back of her head. She has the same brunette hair as my sisters—and me, if my modeling agency allowed me to dye my hair back to my natural color, that is.

Her eyes ping around my messy room. Tank tops, jean shorts and shirts splay over my chair, my desk, some even on the end of my bed. I have a habit of tossing things and forgetting about them. Even when Ryke is around, I don’t clean up much. His apartment looks worse than mine, which would just give my mom another reason to hate him.

He’s too messy for you, Daisy, she’d tell me. Add that to: He has no job. He’s living off his trust fund. All he does is climb mountains and ride his motorcycle. He looks mad all the time. He’s related to that witch Sara Hale. He doesn’t even talk to his father. (My mom is Team Jonathan Hale in the Hale feud, mostly because he’s my father’s bff.) Ryke’s related to Sara bitchy Hale. (That’s her main selling point.) Oh and he’s too old for you.

The “too old” bit will come later because even though Ryke is seven years older than me, it’s not an end-all for her. She’s actually tried to pair me with a thirty-year-old before. He was loaded from holding the copyrights to some popular song. A month after I turned eighteen, I almost went on a date with him, per my mother’s arrangement. My father was the one who put his foot down.

He cares about age difference.

“I called Hilda to come here last week to clean,” she says with an upturned nose. “Did she not make it?”

“I turned her away,” I announce. “I’m trying to be more independent.” And that means not hiring a cleaning lady to fold my clothes. “Lily and Loren didn’t have Hilda stopping by their apartment.” Now they both live in Princeton, New Jersey with Rose and her husband. Not too far away to visit.

My mom scoffs. “They could clean up after themselves.” True. Her gaze drops to my stomach, and she pinches my waist. “You’re not gaining weight before Fashion Week, are you?” she criticizes.

Have I?

Before I look, she appraises me and says, “Never mind. You should be okay.” She fixes my hair that must still be tangled, running her fingers through it like it’s precious gold. “Are you sure you don’t want me in Paris with you? I can keep you company while you’re getting your makeup done.”

“I just want to see what it’s like on my own,” I say, trying not to hurt her feelings.

She gives me a weak smile, pretending to be happy for me. “I love you,” she tells me, and then she kisses my cheek. “Let’s go shopping tomorrow. Noon. I’ll have Nola pick you up.”

“Okay.”

And just when I think all is clear, as she travels back towards the door, the shower turns on.

He knows she hasn’t left yet.

My mom frowns, and her neck elongates like a prairie dog. She zeroes in on the bathroom door. “Did someone spend the night with you?”

I’m not embarrassed or mad. I almost want to laugh at the situation. God, what kind of life do I live? “It’s Lily,” I lie. “Do you want to talk to her?”

I know she’ll say no. Lily’s sex addiction is what put my father’s soda company, Fizzle, in a state of distress. The negative press affected our family in so many different ways, and most of them, my mom disapproved of. I don’t hate Lily for it, not after seeing how guilty and ashamed she was. But my mom can’t really see past the negative. She hasn’t forgiven my sister yet.

“I won’t bother her,” she says. “Keep your phone on. And don’t lock your door anymore.” She always tells me that before she leaves. After she heads out of my bedroom, I listen for the shut of my apartment door. When it comes, I enter the bathroom.

Steam coats the mirrors and fogs the air. I can’t see beyond my daisy-floral shower curtain that sticks out from the tub. I hear the splash of the water on the porcelain and spot his drawstring pants on my shaggy green rug. He’s naked in there. Well, no duh, Daisy.

“My mom almost caught you,” I tell him.

“Good,” he says. “Then she can call me a ‘disrespectful degenerate’ to my face.” Yeah, she said that the last time she was here. Ryke was hiding in the bathroom then too, and he heard every insult.

“Hey, I stuck up for you then and before that, and before that.”

“No offense,” he says, “but your mom really doesn’t fucking care about your opinions on anything.”

I can’t really take offense to his words. I know it’s true. Only two times have I ever confronted my mother with the truth. That I’d rather be doing something—anything—other than modeling. And she told me that I was being childish and ungrateful, so I shut up on the spot. If I bailed on a photo shoot at the last minute, her face would morph with an expression like that’s my daughter? That rude little snob?

Disappointing my mother is like stabbing her in the womb—the very place I used to be. There’s a metaphor in there, I think.

Ryke suddenly shuts off the shower and yanks the yellow towel from a hook. I’ve been around too many half-dressed, nearly-naked male models to be that alarmed. But it’s different when you know the person. It’s different when you have a crush on a guy beyond just his body, when you like all of him.

And I like all of Ryke Meadows.

The shower curtain whips to the side, and Ryke steps out with the towel tied low around his waist, beads of water still dripping down his toned chest and abs. I’m about to leave, to give him privacy, but he says, “Come here.”

He’s by the sink. And I watch as he opens his toothpaste and squirts a line on his toothbrush and then a line on mine. He holds out my green Oral B. I take it gratefully, and we both brush our teeth at the same time, pretending not to look at each other through the mirror, even when we do.

It’s like we’re a couple.

But we’re not. And we never can be.

Some things are too complicated to ever come to pass. I know this is one of those things.

RYKE MEADOWS

I’m so fucking sick of taking cold showers, which is why I said fuck that yesterday. I need to start going to my apartment where I have the freedom to jerk off.

Every morning is about the same. Wake up in Daisy’s bed. Try to suppress a horrible fucking boner. Take a shower. Run with my brother. Take another shower. Try my absolute fucking best to stroke my cock without thinking of her long legs and that gorgeous fucking smile.

; Usually I succeed. Sometimes I don’t.

I’m only fucking human.

I enter a gated street and slow my Ducati down as I pass each fucking mammoth colonial house. Four sedans trail my ass. They’ve been following me since I left my apartment in Philly. Two cross the double yellow lines to ride beside me, their windows rolled down, cameras snapping and flashing.

I should be used to this shit by now, but I’m not. I don’t think I can ever be, not after I watched a fearless girl go from being completely fucking fine to scared of the dark to traumatized. It’s not just the cameras and invasive media. It’s everything that comes with it—her fucked up old prep school friends being one of those.

I flip off an entire sedan. At least my helmet is tinted and they can’t capture a picture of my face. I speed up and weave in front of them. The four cars attempt to block me in, wedging me between their vehicles. I rev the throttle, switch gears, and fucking take off.

I lose sight of them as I approach a gated house, hedges concealing most of it. I punch in the code, and the iron grinds open.

Daisy probably had a harder fucking time getting to her sisters’ place than me. I should have left with her. She lives two floors below me in the same apartment complex. I could have distracted the paparazzi while she rode off in another direction, but I didn’t. I left late because I was researching about Ambien, cognitive fucking therapy, other sleeping medication—anything to solve Daisy’s problem.

And I’m still at a loss of how to help her sleep without medication.

I park my Ducati on its kickstand and look up at the white house with black shutters, a wraparound porch, rocking chairs, a flag pole on a newly mowed lawn. It’s cute—all of them living together. My brother, his girlfriend, Rose and her husband. I’ve shared a house with them before, and it’s not something I’d repeat. For however much I love my brother, I fucking need space from him sometimes. He likes to test my tolerance. I have a ton, but I worry that if I lived with him for a long time, he’d break me down and I’d rip him apart.

I never want to hit Lo.

It’s a line that I fear crossing on a weekly basis.