Hothouse Flower (11 page)

“We didn’t have sex,” she says.

I shut my eyes and take a deep breath.
Thank fucking God.
“Was he a part of your weird fucking night?”

“Oh yeah,” she says. “I just don’t understand why I meet
people and they seem so perfect for me, and then I get them in bed, and they’re
just…wrong.” She pauses. “I think it’s me.”

“I already hate this fucking guy.” That’s a real
understatement.

“You would hate him more if you saw him last night. He
thought I was a virgin, and he was happy to deflower me upon a first-time
meeting.”

I glare. I want to rewind time and take everything back. I
want to tell her to
not
date a single
fucking soul. I wish my brother’s claims hadn’t gotten to me. “Stay away from
him.”

“I plan on it.”

The shower cuts off. “Hey, Daisy?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s almost four in the morning where you are. Take a
fucking Ambien and go to sleep, okay? Call me when you have time.”

She hesitates. “I have time to talk more now.”

“You need to sleep before you go to work.”

“It’s pointless. I have to be in for hair and makeup at five
thirty. Ambien may knock me out for hours, so I might as well just stay up.”

My door swings open, and Emilia stands with a towel wrapped
around her chest, her hair dry. “You’re out of soap,” she says. “I couldn’t
find any in your cabinets.” She hasn’t even taken a shower yet.

Fuck.
I grab my
keys off the kitchen bar. “I’ll get you some. Wait here.”

“You don’t have to go buy more,” she says.

“I’m not. There’s some in my friend’s apartment. She lives
below me.”

“I’ll come with,” Emilia says. “Hold on a sec.” She
disappears back into my room, and I catch her slipping on her blue dress from
last night.

I still have the phone pressed to my ear. “Daisy—”

“I’ll go.”

“No,” I suddenly say. I don’t want to stop talking to her,
not if she’s just going to spend the next hour paranoid. I can distract her
from her fears. Even thousands of miles away, that’s still fucking possible.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

Emilia comes out and gives me a smile.

“Yeah,” I tell her. I point to the door, and Emilia heads
out first. I lock it, and then we enter the elevator. Emilia looks from me to
the phone that hasn’t left my ear. It won’t either.
My friend,
I mouth to Emilia.

She nods and then tries to concentrate on the elevator as it
descends. I hit the fucking button a couple times, even though it’s already
lit, hoping it’ll go faster to save me from this awkward tension.

< 16 >

RYKE MEADOWS

“I talked to my therapist yesterday,” Daisy tells
me over the phone, the elevator still dropping. “She wanted me to describe what
happened at
Lucky’s
again. She said it would help
stop the nightmares.”

“Did it?” I ask briefly, feeling Emilia’s body stiffen the
longer I ignore her. But Daisy, a lonely, frightened girl in Paris, is going to
trump Emilia. Every fucking time. Especially when it involves the past and the
multiple events that have fucked her over psychologically.

“I don’t know,” she says. “It hasn’t helped before. I can
say the words just fine.” She recites with an even tone, “
Some angry guy outside of
Lucky’s
called me a
cunt and destroyed my bike.
I’ve moved past it.”

I cringe at the sound of
cunt
.
Ironic that I fucking hate a swear word—I know. But it’s grating, like
someone’s scratching my fucking eardrums. In the back of my head, I hear my
father calling my mom it, over and over. It makes me sick to my stomach.

“You’re leaving out a big fucking part,” I tell her, “and
it’s not something you can get over in a day.”

“It hasn’t been a day,” she snaps back. “It’s been
over
a year.” For that one incident,
yeah it has been that long. But it’s not the only thing that she’s gone through
after the media attention. Some people were bound to hate the Calloway girls
because they’re socialites, wealthy, entitled. The media likes to show them as
privileged snobs, so that’s what people think. But it didn’t give this fucking
guy the right to beat the shit out of her Ducati. And as she tried to stop him
from wrecking her bike, he turned around and assaulted
her
in broad fucking daylight. I wish I had been there.

I would have fucking killed him.

I ended up taking her to the hospital because she wouldn’t
tell anyone else about it. She didn’t want to worry her family.

They found out anyway, but they never learned about her
broken rib. Or the fact that the trauma of the event has stayed with her past
that single moment. They think it was no more than a few bruises.

I don’t fucking blame her sisters or my brother for not
noticing the change in Daisy from that point on. She likes to make it seem like
she’s okay, even when she’s not. She hates whining, crying and throwing
tantrums because she thinks she’ll come across as immature. When she’s hanging
out with all of us, people in their twenties, she’d do anything to avoid that
label. God fucking forbid she act her age.

And
fuck that
,
when a guy assaults you, you’re allowed to have every moment to scream. You’re
allowed to talk it out and ruin everyone’s week by burdening them with your
emotions.

“Don’t try convincing me of anything else,” I tell her. “I’m
going to be fucking stubborn on this subject.”

The elevator doors slide open. I slip into the hallway,
Emilia following close behind.
 

“Okay,” Daisy says, “what about you? Have you been
training?”

“I beat my time the day you left,” I tell her, stopping by
Daisy’s apartment door. 437 in gold iron on the dark wood. I fit the key inside
and glance at Emilia who stares at the number.

“By how much?” Daisy asks. “Was it the same mountain you
took me to?”

“Yeah, can you give me a minute? Don’t hang up.”

“Okay.”

I pocket my phone so I have use of both hands. I push open
the door, and Emilia slips inside with me. She scans the apartment quickly.
It’s the same layout as mine, but Daisy has a yellow couch, green pillows and
multicolored lanterns hanging from the ceiling.

“This friend is a girl,” she says, eyeing the clothes that
are scattered on the hardwood floors.

“Didn’t I say that?” I’m almost fucking positive I did.

“I must not have heard.”

I lead her across the living room, bypassing the small
kitchen where dishes are stacked in the sink. I should wash those for Daisy.
I’m pretty sure half of them are mine. I step over a skateboard. “Watch your
feet.”

“She’s a slob.”

To be honest, I don’t usually fucking notice. “She’s cleaner
than me.”

Emilia bumps into a wicker chair, and it knocks over a
purple surfboard that was leaning against the wall. I catch the board before it
hits her in the head.

Her eyes widen. After she exhales in relief, she says, “She
surfs and she lives in Philadelphia?”

“She’s learning, and she flies out to California when she
has free time, which is rare.” I don’t add that I go with her so I can climb at
Yosemite while she’s on the coast with
Mikey
.

Understanding washes over Emilia’s face. “This is Daisy
Calloway’s apartment.” She nods to herself. “She’s rich.” Her lips tighten, and
she’s now glaring at every piece of furniture, every article of clothing. “You
have keys to her place?”

I don’t answer her. I just walk into Daisy’s bedroom. The
bathroom door is already unlocked, and I point to it. “After you.” I don’t want
her fucking dawdling in Daisy’s room.

But she does anyway.

Her eyes float to Daisy’s bed, the green comforter tucked in
with half-assed effort. On a chair next to her, she lifts a white bra by the
strap and twirls it around her finger.

I grab it out of her hand with a glare. “Don’t touch her
shit.” I toss the bra on her bed.

“Why not? I’m about to use her soap, aren’t I?” She waits
for me to refute.

I stare at her hard.

Her eyes travel around the room again and land on the
bathroom. “How about I just take one here?”

“Why does that interest you?” I ask with narrowed eyes.
“It’s not any different from my shower.”

Emilia shrugs. “Do you know how many girls would love to be
her? Billion-dollar heiress. A supermodel at seventeen—”

“She’s eighteen,” I retort. I rest my elbow on the fucking
chair. “Look, she’s my friend. She’s nice enough that she won’t fucking care if
you use her soap or touch her things. But I fucking care if we spend more than
a few minutes here.”

“I’ll be quick,” Emilia says, and then she moves her feet
and enters the bathroom. I trail her, and I shut the door. She’s already out of
her dress before I look over. She waits for me to appraise her. I don’t. I’m
not fucking sorry either.

She steps into the shower, closing the curtain. “Couldn’t
she afford a glass shower?” she asks, standing in the tub.

People forget that I have almost as much money as the
Calloway girls, all pooled in my trust fund. I just never break into it for
more than I need. The most expensive thing I own is my fucking car.

“It wasn’t high on her priority list,” I tell her, speaking
loudly as she turns the water on.

I put the phone back to my ear. “Hey, you there?” I already
know she’s caught that whole conversation through the speaker.

“Yep,” Daisy says. “Tell her not to use your shampoo. It
doesn’t smell as good as mine.”

I end up smiling at that. She’d probably grin so fucking
hard if she saw my lips lift this much too. “Mine does its job. That’s all that
matters.”

“Normally, I don’t care about prices, but it’s a
ninety-seven cent shampoo. The only job it does is
pretending
to smell like lemongrass.”

“
Ryke
,” Emilia calls. “She has
men’s shampoo in here.”

I move the phone from my ear and say, “I know, and I don’t
fucking ask.”

“You don’t care?” Emilia wonders.

“No.”
Because it’s
mine.

After a moment’s pause, she asks, “Does she have an extra
razor I can use?”

I’m about to say,
I
thought this was going to be a quick fucking shower.
But Daisy’s voice
sounds through the receiver. Only I can hear her. “Cabinet behind the box of
tampons.”

For some reason, I gravitate towards high-maintenance,
jealous, out-of-their-fucking-mind girls. I’m used to the impulsive, the rash,
and the confusing as all hell. My mom used to chastise everyone I brought home,
saying that I look for the “crazy” in people. Maybe she’s right.

Maybe I like a little crazy.

I dig though the cabinet, knocking over the tampons to find
a package of razors. Just as I grab one, I spot a plastic circle with bubbled
capsules. I know what it is. I just don’t fucking understand what it’s doing in
Philly and not Paris. I take Daisy’s birth control and inspect the dates. It’s
almost all full, except for a couple pills missing. It looks like she stopped
taking them weeks ago, which would be fine if she didn’t admit to almost
fucking a guy in France.

“Did you find it?” Daisy asks.

“Yeah,” I say with a steel voice. I can’t talk to her about
the birth control with Emilia right here.

“What is that?”

I go rigid.

Emilia peeks from behind the shower curtain, water dripping
off her arm. She squints as she scrutinizes the pills. “Oh shit,” she says with
a laugh.

I pocket them and glower at her as hard as I fucking can.
“Here’s your razor.” I throw it at her. She catches it, but instead of
finishing her shower, she shuts off the water and steps out, wrapping the towel
around her body.

“Let me see that,” she says with a smile.

I hold the phone to my ear and say, “I’ll call you back.”

“What’s going on?” Daisy asks.

“Is that her?” Emilia’s eyes brighten at the phone.

I don’t like that look on her fucking face.

“Hey, Daisy,” Emilia calls loudly so she can hear, “thanks
for the shampoo. It smells like teen
spirit.”

“She’s fun,” Daisy says to me, a humored smile to her words.
She usually doesn’t take digs at her age to heart.

“No she’s not,” I say blankly, staring hard at Emilia. She’s
quick. In a swift second, she steals the birth control out of my pocket.

“Oh my God,” she laughs and waves the packet. “Male shampoo
and
she stopped taking the pill.” She
glances at the phone. “Hey Daisy, you need to tell your fuck-buddies to wrap
it, honey, or you’re going to be sixteen and pregnant.”

“I’m eighteen,” Daisy says flatly, but only I can still hear
her.

I glare hard at Emilia. “You need to fucking go.”

Her smile fades. “I’m just joking around,
Ryke
.” She tosses the pills back to me. I catch it with one
hand. “Daisy knows that.”

“
I’m
not fucking
joking.”

I hear Daisy’s voice go hysterical in my fucking ear. “Stop,
Ryke
, you can’t kick her out. She may sell that info
to the press.”

She probably will
anyway.
I roll my eyes and shake my head. “I’ll drive you home. Just don’t
make a big deal about this.” I raise the pills between two fingers to show her
what I’m referring to.

“Yeah, sorry.” Her eyes drift to the counter. “Is that her
brush?”

Fucking A.
“I’ll
wait for you in the bedroom.” I don’t care what she does anymore, as long as
she’s on her way
out
in five minutes
or less. I sit on the mattress while Emilia combs her hair. “You there, Dais?”
I ask her for what feels like the millionth time.

“Yeah, about the pills…I don’t like taking them around
Fashion Week. My mom says I gain too much weight when I’m on them. So…don’t be
mad.”

If I didn’t tell her to date other fucking guys, I wouldn’t
be so concerned right now. My nose flares, and it takes me a moment to answer.
“It’s your body. Just be fucking careful.”

“I will,” she says. Silence stretches over the line. “Hey,
Ryke
?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t fuck her in my bed.”

I grimace. “I would never do that.”

“Just making sure.”

I let out a deep breath. “I miss you.”
Fuck me.
Why do I say shit like that to her?

Because it’s the
truth.

She says, “It’s only been four days.”

“Feels longer than that.”

“Yeah, it does,” she says softly. “So what was your climbing
time?”

I almost smile. She remembered that I said I beat my last
record. “Two minutes, seventy-three seconds, eighty feet of ascension.”

“I’m proud of you,” she says. “Did you scream, ‘I am a
Golden God’ when you reached the top?”

“Only you do that, sweetheart.”

There’s a long pause again, and I can’t keep my smile from
filling my whole face.

When she collects herself, she laughs and says, “I did it
once, and it wasn’t even a real mountain.”

It was a gym rock wall. And it took her a week to complete
the hardest course. By the end, she pumped her fists in the air in triumph and
shouted that quote from
Almost Famous.
The
entire gym clapped.

It was really fucking cute.

“Do you feel better?” I ask her. She doesn’t seem as
paranoid or fucking antsy.

“When I talk to you, yeah, I do.”

“Then call me. I told you I wouldn’t fucking mind if you
did.”

“I didn’t want to bother you…the time difference…”

“I’ll answer your call if it’s at four in the morning or
midnight, Dais. It’s just fucking hard for me to call
you
because I don’t know when you’re on the runway.”

There’s a long drawn out pause, and I can tell she’s trying
to find the right words. She settles on these: “Thanks,
Ryke
.”
She says my name with this genuine, heartfelt affection. “I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

“I have to start heading over for hair and makeup. Call you
later?”

“I’ll answer.”

For you, I always
fucking will.