Hothouse Flower (19 page)

I barrel through whatever’s keeping me from her, shouting
more expletives than necessary. I worry about people trampling her body. And
then I
finally
fucking reach her, the
fastest and slowest moments of my life.

I instantly lift her unconscious body in my arms.
I have to get her out of here.
That’s my
only thought. I edge through the masses, glancing down at her once. Her face is
turned into my chest, but I feel a wetness seep through.

It’s not tears.

It’s blood.

So much fucking blood, beginning to turn my white shirt into
something red.

My heart is in my throat. I can barely breathe. I make it
into an area where people frantically try to find their friends, calling out to
them in French, German, English, Russian, pressing their phones to their ears.

I can’t even look for my brother. I just think
hospital.
She needs a fucking hospital.

I take a trained breath, cradling her in my arms. Someone
taps me on the shoulder, and I spin around on him, about to go on the
offensive, but I realize he’s older, grayed hair with glasses.

He has a phone to his ear, his features grave. He points to
Daisy and then to the street. “
L’ambulance
est
coincée
dans
les
embouteillages
.”
The ambulance is stuck in traffic.

“À
quelle
distance se
trouve
l’hôpital
le plus
proche
?” I ask.
How
far is the nearest hospital?

He points in the direction. “
Hôpital
de
l’Hotel-Dieu
, environ 5
kilomètres
.”
About 5 kilometers.

3 miles.

With Daisy in my arms, I can fucking run that in fifteen
minutes or less. I mumble thank you, and I just fucking take off.

Her head bounces against my chest only a couple of times
before I adjust her.

I have carried this girl so many times in my life.

But this time—this is the absolute worst.

I run.

One hundred and fifty miles per hour.

I don’t fucking stop.

Not for anything.

I just keep going.
It’s
what your good at
Ryke
.
It may be the only thing.

< 25 >

RYKE MEADOWS

The moment I step through the emergency room
doors, a gurney is brought out, and doctors and nurses pry her from my arms,
setting her on the white sheets. The fluorescent lights burn my eyes, and sweat
drips down my forehead. I try to follow the gurney back through these double
blue doors, but a couple nurses block me, holding up their hands.

“I can’t leave her,” I say.
I can’t fucking leave her.

It takes me a moment to realize the nurses’ lips are
moving—that they’ve been talking in French. They switch to English, thinking I
can’t understand them. My mind is all over the fucking place.

“Sir, you need to sit down. We’ll get you cleaned up and
looked at.”

“Come here,” the other says.

She leads me to a chair in the hallway, out of the waiting
room and next to a large white scale and counter.

“I can’t leave her,” I say again. “I have to go back there.”

“She’s being admitted,” the forty-something nurse tells me.
Her tawny hair chopped at her shoulders. She wears pink scrubs, and I glance at
her nametag. Janet. “They’re taking care of her right now. She’s in good
hands.”

The other nurse, in teal scrubs, is a little younger and
brunette. She dabs a piece of wet gauze on my eyebrow. I didn’t even realize it
was fucking bleeding.

I stare at the floor, holding back a scream that so badly
wants to rip through my body.
Why?
I
want to know why her. Why did this have to fucking happen? This is a nightmare.
I’m going to wake up. Any fucking second now.

But I don’t wake up. I’m here, in a foreign city, at a
hospital, covered in blood. “Arms up,” Janet orders. I mechanically do as she
says, and she pulls off my shirt. I glance down at my hands once, finally
registering how red they are, my palms stained with Daisy’s blood. My stomach
overturns.

“Margery, a bucket,” Janet says quickly.

The brunette nurse puts a cream tub underneath my chin, and
I vomit.

“What’s your name, honey?” Janet asks, rubbing my back.

I wipe my mouth with my forearm. “
Ryke
.”

She shares a look with Margery, as though recognizing me
now, from television and the news. Thankfully they don’t make a big scene. My
hands shake as I take out my phone and dial a number. I press it to my ear, and
the line doesn’t even fucking ring. My brother’s cell just shuts off.

Not him too.
I
can’t lose these two people today. I can handle a lot of fucking shit, but not
this. I don’t know how to handle this. I shoot up from the chair, and I dial
the number again, my hand on my head. Both nurses watch me with even more
concern.

“I have to find my brother,” I say aloud, my heart pounding.

“Let me show you to the bathroom,” Margery says. “You can
wash your hands—”

“I have to find my little brother,” I say with the shake of
my head. I dial again.
Nothing.

“You’re in shock,” Janet says slowly so I understand.
“Please, you need to calm down.”

I think I’m being pretty fucking calm right now considering.
Hot tears well in my eyes, and I ignore their requests. I call Connor next.

He answers on the second ring. “Where are you?” he asks, his
voice spiking with fear.
Fear
—from a
guy who’s composed at every fucking moment.

“The hospital. Where’s Lo?”

“He’s fine. He’s with me.”

I try to breathe normally. I try to accept this, but it
barely lifts the weight off my chest. “Why wasn’t he fucking answering?”

“Someone stepped on his phone. It’s trashed. We’re coming to
you. Is Daisy with you at the hospital?”

“Yeah.” My voice chokes at the word, and I pinch the bridge
of my nose to stop from breaking down and crying. I rarely ever fucking cry. I
can count on one hand the number of times I’ve shed a fucking tear.

There’s a long pause before Connor asks, “Is she alive?”

The question sends me to my fucking knees. I breathe
heavily, no amount of training preparing me for this agony. I shake my head and
I say, “I don’t…I don’t know.”

I could have been carrying a girl without a pulse for three
miles. I didn’t check.

I just ran.

< 26 >

RYKE MEADOWS

It’s been five hours. Connor has argued with the
doctors for four of those, trying to persuade them to let us see Daisy, but
it’s been “family only” visiting hours, so we have to wait until the morning
before friends can enter her room. They won’t say if she’s brain dead. All we
know is that she’s in a room and she’s breathing.

For once, Connor Cobalt can’t talk his way through a bad
situation. I really fucking wish that wasn’t the case tonight. When I tried
speaking to the doctor, I started yelling, and they called security out, so
I’ve sat my ass on a maroon leather chair in the carpeted waiting room.
Watching the clock barely move. A television is on a news channel, playing
footage of the riot that continues to destroy Paris and local stores.

I can barely watch it without feeling sick.

My brother is passed out beside me, a purpled shiner on his
right eye. He didn’t say much when he arrived, but he wore a similar haunted look
that I had. Janet gave me a clean white T-shirt, so at least he didn’t see the
blood on me.

Now I’m in a new stage of grief, my body numb, my mind
starting to slow down. And I know partly it’s from being stabbed in the fucking
ass with a sedative. I have to thank Janet for that too.

My phone buzzes for the seventh time. I read the caller ID:
DAD. I contemplated changing the name to “Jonathan” a few times, but he’s still
my father. No matter how much I wish that wasn’t the case.

He hasn’t texted at all, so I figure he’s goading me to
answer with each irritating ring. It works. I’m too emotionally exhausted to
reject him this time. I put the phone to my ear. “What do you want?”

He exhales in relief. “You’re successfully trying to give me
a fucking heart attack,
Ryke
.” He mutters a few more
curses under his breath before asking, “Is Loren okay? His phone just cuts off
every time I call.”

“He’s fine.” I glance at my brother again, his chest falling
in a heavy sleep, induced by alcohol.

This may be the worst night of my life. I failed the two
people that matter most to me.

“The news has pictures of you near the riot before it
started. I thought you might have gotten caught in it.” I hear the clink of a
glass hitting the lip of another, as if he’s pouring a drink.

“I have to go,” I say.

“Wait for a goddamn second,” he says. “I want to know how
you are.”

How am I?
Numb,
but my emotions try so hard to surface and pour through me. I could scream
until my voice leaves me. I could run until my legs buckle beneath me. I could
hit the wall until exhaustion defeats me. And my fucking
father
is asking me this. I swallow a rock in my throat. “You’re
the last person I want to talk to right now.”

“We do need to talk,
Ryke
.”

“Why? Are you going to fucking accuse me of taking Lo away
from you again?” When Lo went to rehab for the first time, our dad acted like I
brainwashed him. Like rehab was the bad fucking choice. Like Lo wasn’t even an
alcoholic.
 

“That was a long time ago,” he tells me. There’s a long
pause, and at first, I think he’s taking a sip of his drink. But he clears his
throat like he’s having trouble producing words.

“Listen, my…” I pinch my eyes. I was about to say
my girlfriend.
I take a deep breath.
“Someone I fucking care about isn’t doing well, so I don’t have time to rehash
the past with you.”

“Okay,” he says, giving up much more easily than I thought
he would. “Be careful,
Ryke
. And if I don’t talk to
you before you climb that ridiculous rock, I just want to say…” He clears his
throat again. “I love you, and if you don’t believe me, then check the name on
your license. Stay safe.” He hangs up.

He tells Lo that he loves him all the time. And all the
bastardly things our father does—that is out of fucking love too. I’m not
surprised he said I love you or that he mentioned my first name,
his
name, as evidence of his feelings.
Part of me wants to embrace that paternal affection. The other part sees him
trying to get me to speak to the media. If we become friendly, then maybe I’ll
stick up for him.

It’s all a wicked game that I never asked to play.

After a couple minutes, I shelve my father, my mom, my
brother—all of the family drama in the back of my head.

Connor appears around the corner of the waiting room,
holding two coffees in paper cups. He fucking dodged most of the flying fists
and brunt force of the riot. No bruises, just a small cut on his forehead. He
hands me a cup, and I nod at him in appreciation. His expression is still
morose, not unreadable like usual.

“When are the girls landing in Paris?” I ask him, taking a
sip. Lo was on the phone with Lily for a while, but he didn’t tell me their
conversation. I know Connor talked to Rose for an hour.

“They’re not,” Connor says tersely.

I frown, thinking I’ve heard him wrong. “What?”

“They are not coming to Paris,” he emphasizes each word.

“Their sister is in the hospital,” I say. “I don’t fucking
understand. If this was Lily, Rose would be here in a fucking
heartbeat.
” I squeeze the coffee too
hard, and the lid pops off, spilling on my jeans and burning me. “Fuck,” I
curse, standing up and drinking the coffee quickly before tossing it in the
trash.

Connor sidles next to me by the trashcan. “I’m just as angry
as you.”

I look him over. His muscles are relaxed despite the sadness
in his eyes. This is a lot of emotion for Connor to fucking show, but I highly
doubt he’s feeling what I am. “I don’t think you are, Cobalt. Not even fucking
close.”

“My wife is upset, and she’s too prideful and stubborn to
tell me why. Rose is the type of woman who would die with a secret if it scared
her to reveal it, if it contributed to any type of weakness. So my mind is
fucking reeling.”

“Then go,” I tell him. “No one is keeping you here.”

“Lo just drank alcohol,” Connor says flatly. “Daisy is in
the hospital. You’re a mess. I’m not leaving the three of you.”

“I’m not a fucking mess.”

He points at the hallway. “I watched two guys who probably
weigh two-fifty drag you to the ground. You spit in one of their faces.”

I glare. “He tried to kick me.” It was a low fucking move.
“It doesn’t matter. Stay if that’s what you want to do. Leave. If I need to,
I’ll call Lily later to ask why she’s not here—”

“Lo already tried,” he says. “Lily and Rose said they’ll
take a flight out tomorrow.”

I extend my arms. “Then why are we fucking arguing? They’re
going to be here.”

Connor shakes his head. “I already know how this plays out.
If Daisy is awake and coherent, the minute they talk to her on the phone, which
they will, she’ll convince her sisters to stay back. She won’t want to ruin their
day, week, not even over a serious event like this.”

He’s right. If Daisy liked to burden people with her pain,
she would have told her sisters about her insomnia, about her horrible fucking
prep school friends. About what happened during the ten months that she was
living with her parents—when I was at my apartment. She doesn’t think her
problems measure up to Lily’s addiction, but they do. They’re just as
important.

I stare at the ground, my eyes burning again. I just have
this mental picture of Daisy waking up in a strange place, in a foreign
country, with no familiar face in the room. It’s fucking horrifying, and I want
to save her from that. “Has anyone called her mom yet?”
 

“No,” he whispers. “Samantha doesn’t know anything, and Rose
wants to let Daisy decide whether they tell their mother now or later.
Especially since Daisy is going to miss the rest of Fashion Week, and we all
know Samantha won’t take that well.”

“Her mom loves her though,” I say. “She’d be concerned. We
should at least fucking call her.”

“
Ryke
,” he breathes. “She’d kick
you out of the hospital. I looked online, and someone already uploaded your
fight with Ian from the pub. Somehow Samantha is going to blame you for Daisy’s
injuries, then cause a scene and upset Daisy even more. It’s delicate. So we
need to ask her first.”

I nod. I just hope Daisy is coherent enough that she can
respond to anything. What if she can’t talk? What if she’s fucking blind? We
know nothing.

Connor studies my reaction for a while and then adds, “And
Celebrity Crush
posted a photo of Daisy
thrown over your shoulder.” He pauses, and his deep blue eyes narrow at me.
“Your hand is on her ass, by the way. You should care more about what her
father thinks if you want to have a real relationship with her, and if you
don’t, then I’m telling you now, as her brother-in-law, back
off.
”

This is a new side of Connor. Protective of Daisy. I do
appreciate it, more than I’m going to let on. “How do you know what I want?”

“I can read people really well. I’m almost a hundred-percent
positive you’ve kissed her, based on seeing her in Paris. Her lips were red.
She was a little flushed. You were too.”

I open my mouth, but he cuts me off.

“Lo didn’t pick up on it. He wouldn’t. I don’t think many
people can see what I can.”

“Why do you have to fucking compliment yourself when you
prove a point?”

“I’m stating truths.”

I cross my arms. “Well, here’s one for you, Cobalt. It
doesn’t matter if I grab her around the waist, if I kiss her chastely or if I
kiss her roughly. No matter what I fucking do, her father isn’t going to like
me. Her mom is going to
hate
me. Fuck
you
for thinking I need their
approval to have a real relationship. What I feel is fucking real, and I don’t
need her mom to verify that for me.”

Connor shakes his head like I’m an idiot.

I want to fucking hit something right now, so him standing
here, being a smug prick is not helping the situation. The sedative that has
kept me at ease is quickly wearing off.

“How is it real?” he asks. “If you have to hide it from your
friends and family, that makes your relationship pretend,
Ryke
.”

“Fuck you,” I say again.

“No,
fuck you
,” he
retorts, pretty uncharacteristically. So much so that my muscles tense. “I
stuck up for you. When Lo was against you and Daisy,
I
was the one who tried to convince him that you’re both mature
adults. I supported any idea of a relationship you two might have in the
future, I still do, but after this trip, I’m reconsidering how much faith I had
in you.”

I can tell this is more than just my hand on her ass in a
fucking picture. It’s the “talk” he wanted to have in her hotel room after she
woke up screaming. Why does he have to pick this moment to tear through me?

I miscalculated how pissed Connor is tonight. He was right.
He’s truly fucking angry, and he’s on the offensive. “You should have told
someone about her sleeping issues,” he says. “I thought you, out of all people,
would be more concerned about her health. I thought you would have run to her
sisters with the news. I thought you’d do
anything
to ensure Daisy’s safety and protection.”

“I fucking did!” I shout. Some people sleeping in the
waiting room begin to stir.

“Then why does no one know?”

“She didn’t want to tell a fucking soul,” I say. “Rose and
Lily had their own shit to deal with. She didn’t want to worry her mother or
you or anyone with these problems. She wanted to fucking deal with it in
private.”

Connor processes this for a second before he asks, “And how
long has she been dealing with this,
Ryke
?”

I shake my head at him. “It wasn’t one singular event. It’s
been an accumulation of things.”

“How long?”

I can’t hide it from him. “Over a year.”

His eyes begin to glass, but he nods repeatedly. “It was all
the media, wasn’t it? The paparazzi that broke into her room, the guy that
destroyed her bike and assaulted her—it all got to her more than she let on.”

“That was the start of it.”

“Rose is going to be so upset that she didn’t pay enough
attention to her.” Connor blows out a deep breath, as though he can feel his
wife’s pain from this and she still has no idea. “I can’t believe I didn’t see
it sooner, to be honest.”

I roll my eyes. “This stays between us. Daisy has to be the
one to tell her sisters.”

He nods in agreement. “Has she been to a doctor?”

“Before she left for Paris, she was seeing a therapist
regularly, and she’s been through her fair share of sleep studies.” I list out
all the information I know he’ll ask. No one has given her much of a solution
to resolve her insomnia besides medication and therapy. She just has to cross her
fucking fingers that one day she’ll grow out of this.

Connor takes out his phone and starts typing. “I need the
names of all her doctors and her therapist.”

“You sound like Rose.”

“I’m serious. I want to make sure you took her to the best—”

“Connor,” I cut him off, “she’s
my
fucking girlfriend. I’ve triple fucking checked every person
she’s been seeing. I don’t need you to do my job for me. I’m more than capable
of taking care of her.”

He hesitates before pocketing his phone, and then he stares
at me with more respect than when this conversation started. “So you put a
label on your relationship?”

I nod. “Yeah, we did.” My nose flares as I hold back
emotion.
She’s in a fucking hospital
room, maybe fighting for her life. What wrong decisions did I make to put her
there? Where did I fuck up?

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if I chose to
never meet my brother. If I chose to keep my head buried in the sand.