Hothouse Flower (17 page)

I think it takes a really strong person to be that way, to
not care what people think, even when you’re better than they say. I have no
idea why he’d be satisfied with doing that. “Why Russian?”

“Because she wanted me to learn it,” he says. “I also know
Spanish, Italian and French.”
 

I gawk. “Wait, what?” I punch his arm again. “You know
French?!
” Rose and Connor speak French,
and he’s kept this knowledge to himself. “Oh my God.” I smile deviously. “You
know what my sister and Connor have been saying this whole time?”

“Most of it is stupid.”

“Do they speak dirty to each other?” I’ve always been
curious.

“Sometimes,” he says. “But when they do, I try not to
fucking listen. Trust me.”

The elevator numbers blink from 10 to 9 to 8 in such a short
period of time.

Ryke
harbors so much inside his
head, and he’s kept so much to himself through the years. He’s more solitary,
more alone than I thought. Maybe he prefers it that way.
  

“Does Lo know?” I ask.

He frowns. “About what?”

“Russian, French, all of that.”

He shakes his head. “No. It doesn’t matter.”

“But…it makes you, you,” I say. “It’s a part of who you are,
isn’t it?”

His jaw hardens. “It’s not a part I like to fucking
remember, Daisy.”

Being controlled by his mom, he means. I think he chooses to
forget so much from his childhood that it’s made him into some shadowy figure
that’s just as tormented as his brother. I stand on the tips of my toes and
kiss his cheek. “Thanks for telling me the truth.”

The elevator doors open, and I head out of them. He catches
my hand, intertwining his fingers with mine as we enter the hallway. It was a
quick, impulsive gesture, one that has my heart on fire.

< 24 >

RYKE MEADOWS

I press the phone harder to my ear, thinking I’ve
heard Connor wrong. “Excuse me?”

“I stepped out for maybe ten minutes to talk to Rose. I
didn’t think he would order anything but a Fizz and some fries.”

“You’re telling me you turned your back for ten fucking
minutes and my brother downed
what?
”

“I don’t know. But I can tell he’s had something. He won’t
look at me, so I think he’s drinking a Fizz and rum.”

“Take the fucking glass from him.” I pace across the hotel
room, running my hand quickly through my hair.

“He’s upset,” Connor says. “We were bombarded by paparazzi
all day, asking questions about your father. He couldn’t handle it.”

They were just supposed to be shopping along Rue St-
Honoré
. Lo texted me earlier that Connor bought out Hermes
for Rose, having to ship most of the items back to his house. My brother seemed
fine, but I should have fucking called him and asked.

“Don’t fucking try to rationalize my brother’s addiction,” I
growl. “He’s sick, Connor.”

Daisy watches me with concern, putting on a maroon
turtleneck over her tank top. It’s stitched with three gold
Quidditch
hoops and the words:
I’m a Keeper.
She
mouths,
You okay?

I can’t answer her. I just glare at the carpet. “Connor, I’m
being fucking serious. Grab the fucking drink from him right now.”

“We’re at the pub beside the hotel.”

It clicks. Lo has no idea that Connor knows he’s drinking.
“You want me to be the bad fucking cop?”

“He has to have someone on his side,
Ryke
,”
Connor says. “He can’t feel like everyone’s ganging up on him.”

“He’s a fucking alcoholic!” I yell. “He’s not even supposed
to be
in
a bar. You’re telling me
you’re the smartest guy in the fucking world, and you can’t even pry a drink
from his hand.”

“I’m smart enough to know that it won’t do any good coming
from me. You’ve already proven to be the hard ass. I’m not taking that role.”

“I sincerely hate you right now.” I’m shaking I’m so fucking
mad, and I don’t know if it’s because Connor accidentally turned his back on my
brother or because I did. “You want to be his best fucking friend while I get
shit on, fine. I don’t care anymore.”

I hang up, breathing heavily. “We have to go.” I look up at
Daisy, and she has a purse across her body.

“Ready,” she says.

I grab my jacket, and we’re fucking out of there.

* * *

I have my hand on Daisy’s lower back while we try
to navigate through the crowded streets, filled with cameramen and sports
fanatics, wearing red and white rugby jerseys.

“Go England!” a drunk guy shouts with a British accent,
pumping his fucking fist into the air. That fist also has a beer in it. His
friends chant a victory song, even though they lost to their South American
rivals.

Daisy watches the sports fans in curiosity, her eyes
lighting up at all the chaos. If there weren’t cameras flocking her, I think
she’d go up to one of them and start a conversation just for the hell of it.

I try calling my little brother for the third time, but he’s
not answering his phone. I’m going to kill him. No, I’m going to kill Connor
and then I’m going to fucking kill him.

“Are you two dating?” a cameraman asks us.

“How long have you been a couple?”

“Kiss her,
Ryke
.” That picture
would be worth so much fucking money.

Daisy and I are always spotted out together, so that rumor mill
has been churning for a while. It just makes her mom hate me more, and it makes
my brother more cautious of us. But there’s never been proof beyond my hand on
her shoulder, my hand on her back, hugging—nothing serious.

Daisy locks eyes with one of the cameramen, her lips
curving. “I don’t kiss boys who ride motorcycles.”

I almost smile, but her one quote shoots off ten more
questions from each cameraman. We walk forward, and people keep congregating
around us.

“Daisy, someone weird is behind you,” a cameraman suddenly
says.

“Yeah, there’s a creeper. You better watch out, Daisy!”

I turn my head and find a leering guy who edges too close to
her. No camera in his hand, but he’s touching her fucking hair. And a scissors
sticks out of his pocket. I immediately push back his fucking arm, giving him a
warning glare. I’ve been to court three times for smashing cameras. I even
punched a “pedestrian” and was charged with assault. Even if that fucking
pedestrian was peering into Daisy’s apartment window with binoculars. I
couldn’t prove it. He said he was bird watching. And he was on the street,
public property.

Such bullshit.

He throws up his hands like I’ve infected him or something.
Fucking A.

I stand behind Daisy and usher her forward, gripping her
shoulders. “What was it?” she asks me, trying to catch a peek.

“Just a fucking guy.”

She puts on a good front when we’re outside. She’s not
alarmed or scared like Lily usually is. She’s just energetic and lively. At
night, when she’s alone, that’s a different story.

She spins around and walks backwards so she’s facing me. Her
eyes start at my hair and descend to my feet in the slowest fucking once-over
known to man. If that doesn’t fuck with my head and my dick…

The camera flashes are blinding at this point.

There’s something hypnotic about the light going in and out
on a beautiful girl. One second I can see her fully, the playful smile and bold
green eyes. The next second, she hides in the dark of the night completely.

It also scares the fuck out of me. There’s three feet in
between us. For every step I take forward, she takes one back. And in those
dark moments, I wonder if she’ll be gone for good. I imagine the light flashing
and she’s no longer smiling. And then with the next burst of light, I picture
fear in her eyes.

That one possibility pushes me to Daisy like a soul-crushing
force. And I grab her by the waist, about to spin her around, but she suddenly
stops. Our bodies knock into each other. Everyone is watching. The tension is
enough to choke us.

“Move,” I tell her roughly. “Or I’m going to throw you over
my fucking shoulder.”

She stays put, her smile growing. And I’m fucking glad I now
have an excuse to carry her. Daisy annoying the fuck out of me—that’s a common
back and forth we have in front of the paparazzi.

I swiftly pick her up, my hands on her hips, and I toss her
over my shoulder. She lets out a laugh, and I rest my palm on her ass.

Yeah, her father doesn’t really fucking like me.

This won’t help.

Connor thinks I’m an idiot to do things that put me in a bad
light—especially since I don’t bother to clarify my intentions. But in the end,
they’re going to think what they want to think. I can’t empty my soul to every
person who thinks I’m an asshole. I can’t even empty it to the people who
matter.
 

When we reach the doors to the bar, I gently set her down,
and the cameramen are shoved back by some bouncers. We’re let in almost
immediately, passing a long line of people who’ve probably been waiting for
thirty minutes to enter.

The moment the door closes behind us, the noise only
intensifies. Boisterous drunk people—not my favorite fucking setting. Some of
them are models, beautiful features, thin girls.

And there’s my brother. He actually looks like a model,
easily fitting among them with his sharp cheekbones.

His ass is on a
fucking
barstool, the pub smoky. Connor is right beside him, drinking a glass of water
like nothing is wrong.

I’m going to kill
them.

“Daisy!” a girl exclaims. A freckle-faced model, really
young, hugs Daisy with a big smile.

“Christina!” Daisy grins. “What are you doing here?” Her
eyes flicker to me once like
I’ll be
okay. Go to your brother.
 

So I let her catch up with her friend while I make my way to
the bar. “Hey,” I say, putting a hand on
Lo’s
shoulder. He sips his Fizz, acting like there’s no alcohol in the dark-colored
soda. “How was shopping?”

“Boring,” Lo says, eating a fry from a plate that he shares
with Connor. He glares at the shelves of liquor behind the bar, looking like a
murderous little fuck. I don’t know how else to describe my brother when he
starts drinking. He always has that
I
hate you and everyone in this fucking place
look. The difference is that now
it’s intensified by a thousand.

I nod repeatedly, my eyes flashing hot. I grab the fucking
stool beside him and drag it over to fit in between him and Connor. I’m not
going to let Connor near my brother right now, consoling him. Lo doesn’t need a
fucking safety net, so I cut it off in one move.

Connor stays quiet, not arguing with me.

I flag down the bartender, a young French girl. “What can I
get you?” She speaks English well.

“What he’s having.” I point at the glass.

Lo finishes off his drink in one swig. “I’m done. Let’s just
get out of here.” He stands.

I clamp my hand back on his shoulder. “Sit your ass down. I
want a fucking drink.” I force him back in his seat.

“You sound like Dad, you know that?” he retorts, shooting a
bullet my way to get me to stop.

That’s not good enough. I need him to tell me what he just
did. I ignore him, watching the bartender make my drink. She puts in the ice.

“
Ryke
,” Lo snaps.

I turn to him. “What?”

I think he’s going to come clean, but I realize he’s
watching the bartender out of the corner of his eye. Then he says, “Let’s go.”

“I told you. I want a fucking drink.”

He goes quiet, and the bartender squirts Fizz into the
glass. I’m guessing she’s already added the alcohol while I was looking at Lo.

He clenches his teeth and rests his forearms on the bar,
deep inside his head as he stares off. I wonder if he’s going to stop me. I
want him to admit that he drank. Instead he continues to stay silent, even as
the bartender slides the glass over to me.

“Refill?” she asks Lo.

He shakes his head. “No, I’m good.”

“Cheers.” I raise my glass at him, and he watches me with
narrowed fucking eyes. I put the rim to my lips.
Stop me, Lo.

This is a high stakes game of chicken.

And he doesn’t move a muscle or say a fucking word.

I tip the glass back, and the sweet taste of Fizz mixes with
the sharpness of
whiskey.

Scotch whiskey.

He drank alcohol.

The more I repeat it, the more irritated and concerned I
become. I drink half the glass, waiting for him to say something, to grab it
out of my hand. But no matter if regret flashes in his eyes, he watches with a
cold, dead gaze like I deserve this shit. Like this is my penance for ignoring
him for over twenty years.

I set the glass down.

And it takes me a moment to process the weight of what
happened.

I just broke my nine years of sobriety.

I stare right at him. “I hope you enjoyed that.”

“Which part? Me drinking or watching you do it?”

I am trying not to explode on him. My muscles are on fucking
fire. I grab the glass again, about to down the last of it, but he surprisingly
steals it from me, passing it to the bartender.

“He’s done,” Lo says. When he turns back on me, he adds, “If
you’re this big of an asshole sober, I can’t imagine what kind of asshole you
are drunk.”

I grab his arm before he jumps off the stool and disappears
through the tightly packed crowd. “You can’t do this shit,” I growl. “You’re
supposed to call me if you have a craving to drink. I could have talked you out
of it.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to talk to you!” Lo shouts all of
sudden. He hops off the barstool, and I follow, having only an inch height
advantage. We face each other, unresolved hate strung between us.

He doesn’t know anything about my childhood, and I don’t
expect him to ask. All I wanted was a chance to undo what I had done wrong. To
be there for him, to be his brother, and Lo makes it so fucking hard. He never
gives me a reprieve like Connor.

“Then call Lily,” I say, “your fucking fiancée, who would be
in tears if she saw you right now. Did you fucking think about her when you
drank? Did you consider what this would do to her?”

Lo’s
face twists. He won’t punch
me. “I’m done with this shit,” he says. He’s about to walk away.

I grab him by the arm, not letting him go that easily. “You
can’t run from your fucking problems. They’re there twenty-four-seven. You have
to deal.”

“Don’t talk about
dealing.
You won’t even text Dad back. You’re ignoring him like he’s not even
alive.” He shakes his head, venom pulsing in his eyes. “You’re doing the same
thing to him that you did to me. So why don’t you just do what you do best and
pretend that I don’t fucking exist.”

His words slice cleanly through me, the pain like a fucking
swift punch to the gut. Lo never needs his fists to fight. He shoves past me,
and Connor stops him before he leaves the pub, calming him down.

I hold onto the bar, training my breath to normalize. When
it does, I scan the crowds for Daisy. I spot her with Christina and another
male model, his jaw chiseled. He leans in close to Daisy, licking his lips as
he talks.

What the fuck?

Not tonight.

Seeing that—it’s enough for me to start weaving through the
fucking people to reach her. I don’t like her body language that’s angled
towards Christina, away from the guy, silently telling him to back off.

They stand by a high-table littered with beer bottles and spilt
liquor. The taste of scotch still lingers on my tongue, making me nauseous.
Some people recall the perfume their mom wore with fondness, the cigar smell on
their late father’s shirt, the cologne, the shampoo—but for me, I smell and
taste scotch and I remember my father sitting across from me in a fucking
country club. I remember his sharp gaze, his fingers tapping the glass in
annoyance, as though the world moved too slowly for him.