Hothouse Flower (23 page)

I was going to walk over and see if I could ask her on a
date, but then Lily said something that burst my fucking plans.

She said, “Oh, that’s my youngest sister.”

My face hardened. “She looks older than you.”

“I know, but she’s only fifteen.”

Fifteen.
A weird
feeling washed over me, like I did something really fucking wrong even though I
hadn’t done it yet. I closed off to Daisy instantly, burning every thought and
image I had constructed on a fucking impulse.

“You really thought I was Rose’s friend?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say.
A big
fucking mistake.

She lets this sink in with a faraway gaze.
 

My phone buzzes on the seat. I sigh with more frustration as
I check the message.

My interview with 60 Minutes
airs tonight. I hope you can watch it. I love you.
– Mom

I delete the text before I let the words affect me.

“How’s this length?” Daisy asks. The hairband lies right
above her chest. It’s a length between Rose’s long hair and Lily’s short
shoulder-length.

“If you want to go shorter, I won’t care,” I tell her
roughly, just making sure it’s not staying this long because of me.

“No, this is what feels right.” She hands the knife back to
me, and she sits on her knees. “I want you to cut it.” She inhales strongly, as
though preparing herself for the moment.

“How many times have you envisioned cutting your hair?” I
ask her seriously.

“A million.”

And she’s asking me to do it. Out of all the things we’ve done
together—ridden motorcycles, swam with sharks, snorkeled, skydived, rock
climbed—this is the most intimate. Not because we’re dating but because this
means so much to her.

She’s waited for it to happen for years.

My hand wraps around the hilt of the knife, and I hold her
pony in my hand. She watches, her palm sliding on my thigh.

I cut right above the hairband, and her smile grows as I
slice through her blonde strands quickly. In a matter of seconds, the ponytail
is in my hand, and her hair is chopped raggedly near her collarbones.

She grins as she touches it, like it was cut by a
professional and not hacked by someone with coarse hands. I slip the blade back
in my boot, sheathing it on my ankle strap.

She kisses my cheek and rushes to the window, flicking the
button. “Connor, can you unlock it? I just want to see how my hair feels in the
wind.”

Connor looks at her through the rearview mirror. “That
depends, are you going to howl again?”

She shakes her head quickly. “No. No howling, I promise.”
She flicks at the button repeatedly with the widest grin, knowing she’s going
to get what she wants this time.

“We’re on backcountry roads,” I tell Connor. “There aren’t
that many cops around.” We’re heading towards the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee,
and trees border either side of the one-lane street.

Connor gives in and unlocks the windows. As soon as Daisy
hears the
click,
she bounces on the
seat. The window is already rolling down, and she hoists half her fucking body
out of the SUV. She sits on the windowsill.

“I don’t know who’s a worse influence,” Connor says, “her
with you or you with her.”

I almost smile. I grip her ankle, letting her do her thing.
“If she falls, I’ll pull her back in,” I tell him. I have confidence in my
strength. If I didn’t spend almost all of my life building it by rock climbing
and running, I wouldn’t be able to keep up with her.
 

She raises her hands in the air and laughs, the wind
whipping her shorter blonde hair. She shuts her eyes and inhales deeply.

Freedom doesn’t come with age. It doesn’t magically appear
when you’re a legal adult.

It comes when you stand up for what you believe in. Right
now, I see a semblance of that peace for Daisy.

But she called her mom three days ago, and when Daisy told
her that she quit modeling, Samantha hung up. She just shut her out. She didn’t
listen to Daisy explain why. And then her mom called Rose, and she bitched
about the whole situation to her other daughter. My name was slung through the
fucking mud by her mom.

It’s my fault Daisy isn’t modeling.

I forced her here.

If Samantha thinks my friendship with Daisy caused her to
quit her career, then I wonder what she’s going to believe when she sees
Daisy’s face.

I have no doubt that’ll be my fault too.

< 32 >

DAISY CALLOWAY

“Don’t eat anything heavy,”
Ryke
tells me. I sit cross-legged in a booth, moose and antelope heads chopped and
mounted on the walls of John’s Backwoods Smokehouse. We stopped in the Kentucky
Mountains for dinner, and now that I’m without stitches and no longer modeling,
I can eat real
freakin
’ food.

“I don’t like that suggestion.” My eyes glaze ravenously
over the pictures on the giant menu. Juicy steaks. Baby back ribs. Barbeque
sandwiches. Greasy burgers.

My grumbling belly wants it all.

“You’re going to be fucking sick. You can’t go from eating
fruits and vegetables for months to eating red meat.”

I stare at him over the menu. “I have this theory.” I pause
for dramatic effect. “That my stomach is made of steel.”

Ryke
crumples his straw paper and
throws it at my face. It sticks in my hair. I smile, but he can’t see it behind
the menu.

Lo doesn’t notice our exchange, even if he sits next to me.
He’s busy scanning the other full tables and booths, wondering if anyone
notices us. So far we’ve stayed anonymous.

He tips my baseball cap lower on my eyes to hide me from
sight. My scar is facing the wall, so on the off chance that someone
photographs us, they won’t catch the cut. And it’s not really
my
hat.
Ryke
gave me his.

Connor sips his water across from Lo. “If you act like
you’re hiding something, generally people are going to think you are,” Connor
tells him.

Lo glares. “I just don’t want to be hounded the whole trip.”
He squeezes a lemon in his water, glaring at that too like it affronted him in
some way. I guess it has by not being whiskey.

“No one’s picked up where we are,”
Ryke
says. “We’re good.”

Lo nods, trying to believe this.

I keep looking at
Ryke
above the
menu, only my eyes visible to him. He had his stitches removed too. A cut
slices through the corner of his eyebrow, small but noticeable. It’ll turn into
a scar after it heals fully.

He catches me skimming his features, but I don’t shy from
him. We play a dangerous game of
who’s
gonna
look away first.
Not me. I eye him like I want to
crawl into his lap and lick his face. He stares at me with an intense
hardness—rugged and alpha and a tad bit
assholish
.
That’s
Ryke
Meadows. The singular look forces my heel
into the spot between my legs. The pressure is nice against the throbbing
place.

I fear that I’m going to break first. So I say, “My scar is
bigger than your scar.” I smile behind the menu again.

His dark expression never falters. “And my cock is bigger
than your cock.”

Ohhh
. Burn. I laugh, and Lo
cringes. He’s past scolding
Ryke
for feeding into my
inappropriate talk. He just shakes his head and flags down the waitress to come
take our orders.

I give
Ryke
another look like I
want to fuck him, my eyes softening but still narrowing. I can speak through my
gaze pretty well after practicing different expressions for modeling.

Even with the
fuck me
hard
,
come hither
stare, he stays
fixed on me, unwavering. It’s a game between us, but his penetrating gaze is
seriously heating my body past its normal temperature. I think it’s different
now that it can go further than just flirting. It can progress to kissing and
fondling and fucking since we’re together. Just not in front of his brother and
Connor.

The waitress stops by our booth. “Ready to order?”

“Yeah,” Lo says. I vaguely pay attention to his burger order,
along with Connor’s salmon.
Ryke
raises his brows at
me like
you have to look away sometime,
sweetheart.

Fine. I lose. Maybe next time it’ll end with us tangled
together. I mull over my food options quickly and then smile at the pretty
blonde waitress. “I’ll have the sirloin steak with a baked potato.”

Ryke
shakes his head at me, but he
doesn’t force me to switch. He looks at the waitress. “I’ll have the same
thing.” We pass her our menus and as she walks to the kitchen,
Ryke
says, “Just so you can see why I’m not sick and you
are.”

“My stomach is made of steel,” I repeat.

“That theory hasn’t been fucking proven yet.”

“True.”

Connor types on his phone and then slips it in his pocket.
He looks at me. “Now that you’re done modeling, are you going to apply to
college?”

I knew this topic was going to surface, and I’m not
surprised he’s the first one to bring it up. “Do you want me to go to college?”
I ask.

“We all want you to do what you love,” he says. “College is
a good place to figure that out, but it’s not for everyone.” He looks at Lo,
who lets out a bitter laugh.

“Sure, turn to the guy who dropped out his junior year,” Lo
snaps.

Connor shrugs easily. “You’re a good example. Don’t be
ashamed. It’s a fact.”

“Fact,” Lo says, “you’re a conceited prick.”

“Fact,” Connor retorts, “you’re a good looking asshole.”

Lo touches his heart mockingly. “A compliment and an insult.
Fuck me now, love.”

Ryke
rolls his eyes. He balls up
my straw paper while I smooth the corners of my napkin, making a rose out of
it.

“No college,” I tell them. “I don’t want to sit behind a
desk all day and be lectured.”

Connor nods understandingly.

“Maybe down the road I’ll go,” I say. “Just not anytime
soon.”

“So what are you going to do then?” Lo asks me.

“I don’t know yet,” I admit, twisting the stem on the paper
rose. “I thought this trip could help me decide.” I wish I was like
Ryke
. His job is his sport. He’s been in so many rock
climbing magazines because of successful free-solo climbs he’s done. While he
does live off his trust fund, he’s been in three commercials where he’s
climbing and they paid him
millions
because
of his celebrity status. He’s the face of some kind of men’s razor—which is
pretty funny considering he’s always unshaven. And he did a couple ads for REI
and Under
Armour
.

Basically, he’s balling. And I don’t have a talent to
capitalize on.

I guess that’s a lie.

I did have a talent: Modeling.

What happens when the thing you’re good at isn’t the thing
you love?

That’s where I am now. Stuck.

Someone’s phone vibrates on the table. I check my cell,
thinking it may be my mom. Maybe she’s ready to talk to me. I want to explain,
but she’s not giving me much of a chance.

No texts.

I look up, and
Ryke’s
jaw locks as
he stares at the screen of his phone. He presses a button. I know he’s deleted
a text from either his mom or dad. I’ve seen him do it before. He slips his
phone into his leather jacket pocket.

I can’t help but sympathize with his parents in this moment.
I know what it feels like to be ignored, and it hurts. But it’s not really my
place to say something, is it? All of that business with his mom and dad and
Lo, it’s too messy for me to jump into.

Connor starts asking Lo about Superheroes & Scones, his
duel comic book and coffee shop that he owns with Lily. I tune out at the words
taxes
and
profit margin.

Ryke
nods to me. “Where’d you
learn how to do that?” His eyes fall to the paper rose. He’s watched me make
them over the years, but this is the first time he’s asked.

Sometimes I don’t even notice that I’m playing with the
napkins. I just do it out of habit. “When I was a debutante, the instructors
made us sit at a table for hours. I was really bored.”

“You taught yourself?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I found an article online on how to make
cool shapes.” I finish the napkin flower and hold it out to him. “
Ryke
, do you accept this rose?” I tease. He knows
The Bachelor
reference. When we were
living with everyone, I made him watch taped episodes with me while I tried to
fall asleep.

“That implies that you have many fucking guys dating you.”

I mock gasp. “But you’re my number one.” I raise the
baseball cap on my head so I can see him better.

“If I’m seriously dating a girl,” he says, “I better be the
only
fucking one.”

He knows he is. I smile and pinch the stem of the rose. I
slip it behind my ear. It’s not long after that our food parades towards us.
The plates slide on the table, and the steak looks
exactly
like the picture.

“Need anything else?” the waitress asks.

“A dessert menu,” I tell her. I’m already anticipating a
piece of chocolate cake. And if that doesn’t exist, then I’ll settle for a warm
brownie.

“Sure thing, honey.” She leaves, and I cut my steak into
large slices, not wanting to waste any time. My brain is screaming
eat, eat, eat!

I take my first bite and shut my eyes. Delicious.

Magic.

I love food. After four more bites, I sip my water and say,
“Told you, steel stomach.”

He chews, and his brows rise again, not as optimistic as me.

< 33 >

DAISY CALLOWAY

Theory disproven.

One hour after we left John’s and the steak forced its way
back up in my throat, knotting my stomach. I even passed on the dessert back at
the restaurant, already feeling queasy at that point, but I didn’t want to make
a scene. I just mentioned that I was “full” from the sirloin and skipped it.

For
Ryke
, that must have been the
first sign that I was going to be sick. The second, he said was me not moving
in the back of the car. I was painfully still.

And then I puked.

On the side of the road thankfully, not in the car.

I’m less upset that
Ryke
was
right, and more bummed that I can’t gorge myself on sweets and savory foods. I
hate taking things slow. But my stomach is obviously not made of steel. More
like plastic.

Not fun.

Many hours later, my stomach has completely settled, and
we’ve crashed at a motel in the mountains, no Hilton or Holiday Inn in sight.
Just a quaint little place called Big Cove Motel with yellowed wallpaper, kind of
moldy bathroom tiles, but fox-printed quilts that look clean.

We checked into two rooms. One for me and one for them. Lo
wanted to be nice by giving me some privacy and alone-time, I guess. I’m not
used to being around Lo without Lily, and I think he’s uncomfortable by a lot
of things. Me around his brother. Me around three guys and no sisters. Me on
the road in a confined space.

But he doesn’t realize how paranoid I get when I’m alone.
Even still on pain meds, I was wide awake when
Ryke
snuck in here at 2 a.m., and his presence just shifted the temperature in the
room, lighting me on fire.

And then we kind of went at it.

We’ve been fooling around for the past twenty minutes, all
fingers and kisses. He stares down at me, his lips raw. I only wear a shirt,
Ryke’s
favorite of mine. A baggy one that says:
fuck you, you fucking fuck.

My eyes linger on his erection that stirs new feelings in
me. It’s hard to wait. Especially since I feel like we’ve been waiting for
years, not just a few weeks. If our relationship began normally—not secret from
his brother and my sisters and basically everyone—we would have had sex that
day in the stairwell. We’re both a little impulsive.

And I wonder if tonight will be the night.

I hope so.

“How big are you?” I already kind of know the answer. His
thin pants leave very little to the imagination.

He leans me back against the mattress, and I counter by
propping my body on my elbows. He towers above me on his knees, slowly lowering
his pants. I sit up again, wanting to be closer to him.

His cock springs out. Fully erect. And I unconsciously file
through all the guys I’ve been with, all the dicks I’ve seen, and my heart
thuds. He’s bigger than anything that’s been inside of me. And I have a flash
of Connor’s porn tape. Oh God.

My brain wants to fry the knowledge, but it’s here to stay.
I think they’re around the same size. I only caught a glimpse of Connor, but
yeah, it’s
kinda
weird I know this at all.

I focus on
Ryke’s
cock though. The
one in front of my face, begging for
my
attention.

Ryke
holds my jaw. “You’re going
to be insanely fucking wet before I push into you, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t want to hurt me. He cups my heat, and I think
he’s going to fuck me with his fingers. “I want to get you off,” I say bluntly.
“Or I want to watch you get off. You’ve seen me come twice. It’s only fair that
I see you.”

I really want to try and suck him—the challenge really
alluring, but I have a feeling he’s been postponing showing me his dick for
that very reason. Knowing I’d want to and knowing he may choke me.

He doesn’t say much, not that I expected him to.
Ryke
is a guy who speaks through his dark eyes. The heavy
silence tightens all of me. He takes off his pants, completely naked. I rake
his body with my gaze, every single muscle defined and cut hard. He seems
unreal. And I’ve been with models.

I tell him in a raspy, needy voice, “I want to fit you all
in my mouth.”

“
Fuck…
” He says
the word in a heavy breath, his eyes on my lips. I have good practice in blow
jobs, so I know I can pleasure him as well as he has me. I just wish he’d let
me try.

And then, suddenly, he rises to his knees, the mattress
undulating beneath us. I’m too excited to wait for him, so I scoot off the bed
myself and lower to my knees on the carpeted floor.

He gives me a look. “We can do it on the bed, Dais.”

“I know, but I like this way.” I want to be able to look up
and see his face. And it’s easier in this position. His eyes grow dark and
heady and he sits down on the edge of the bed, his legs hanging over. He
reaches out and combs my hair out of my face, and then he holds the back of my
head, guiding my mouth to his erection.

I smile before I lick the length of him. His abs sharpen,
and I rest a hand on his muscular thigh that flexes beneath my touch.

Right before I take him, he says, “Remember this isn’t a
fucking contest.”

I nod with a brighter smile. I open my mouth as wide as I
can, and he grips the base of his cock, helping me. He can’t hold back the low
groan that leaves his lips.

The deeper he slides along my tongue to the back of my
throat, the closer I am to his body.
Ryke
moves off
the bed so he can stand up, and his length immediately deepens into me. I put
both hands on his ass and tilt my head back while the last two inches of him
remain. I can’t even describe how full of him I am. I wish I had the visual
that he does, of his cock around my lips.

“
Fuck
,” he groans.
I reach the base of his shaft, all of him in my mouth. And I look up into his
eyes, and he stares down at me, engraining this image. His ass tightens beneath
my hands, and I gently ease out of him by an inch. He thrusts forward, easing
me back in. We repeat the motion, and the spot between my legs pulses again.
Especially as I watch his face break in hot pleasure.

He grabs my hand off his ass and he lowers it as much as he
can. “Touch yourself, sweetheart.”

I’ve never been successful touching myself before, but in
this position, with him naked right here—in my mouth, I’m already incredibly
sensitive
everywhere
. It doesn’t take
much to start a routine that he’s done before, the circular motion and the
interchangeable speeds from fast to slow. It immediately heats me up.

I can’t believe I’m going to come for the third time in one
night. I never thought this was possible.

I feel like I’m on the brink, and maybe he is too. Right
when I think the fireworks are about to explode in my head, I hear the door
open from the adjoining room.

And those fireworks transform into sudden hysteria, and I
react on impulse.
 

I pull away at the worst possible moment.

Because as soon my mouth leaves his dick.

He comes.

On my face.