Hothouse Flower (6 page)

< 8 >

RYKE MEADOWS

“Watch me,” I tell Daisy as I stand by her bedroom
door. I jiggle the handle. “Locked.”

She yawns, sitting on her bed, her legs tucked to her chest.
Her eyes are deceivingly at ease, but her tense shoulders say otherwise.

I do the same fucking thing every night. I head over to the
window next and pull back her green curtains, attempting to lift the window.
She watches my biceps contract, my muscles carving into defined lines, to
ensure that I’m actually
trying
.
“Locked,” I say.

I pass the foot of the bed and raise my eyebrows at her in
jest, and I catch her small smile before I disappear into the bathroom. I check
behind the shower curtain, just because I’d feel like a fucking ass if I lied
to her by not doing it. And the percentage of someone breaking into her room
again and hiding in the bathtub is higher than I can stomach. If I didn’t check
and that happened—I’d
never
fucking
forgive myself.

Clear.

I fill a glass with water from the tap and then return to
her room. Daisy holds onto her knees so tightly that her fingertips redden. Her
spine is erect as her gaze transfixes on that window.

“Dais,” I say, coming around to her side of the bed. “I just
fucking checked there.” I grab her pill bottle off the nightstand. I rest a
knee on the mattress so I’m near her, and I block her view of the window.
“Hey.” My heart starts to hammer.

“Yeah…” She blinks a few times and then gives me the weakest
fucking smile I’ve ever seen.

Aggravated, I throw the bottle at her face, and she catches
it before it hits her. “Can you check again?” she asks.

“Sure.” I hand her the water, and I go back to the window.
Her eyes widen and her chest rises as I show her it’s locked. The moment I try
to lift the window, she flinches back in fear.

I don’t know what’s going on in her fucking head right now,
but I know she has multiple reasons to be afraid. It tears my heart watching
her recoil like that.

“You’re okay,” I tell her. “See, it’s fucking locked.”

She puts her hand over her mouth, and she nods, holding back
tears. “Sorry. I’m jumpy when I haven’t slept in a while.”

“I know. You don’t have to fucking apologize to me.” I go
back to her bathroom door and lock it from her bedroom. I installed a deadbolt
on this door a week after she moved in, to give her peace of mind.

Her hands shake as she tries to uncap the pill bottle. I
slide into bed next to her, wearing drawstring pants, shirtless. She’s in a
pair of cotton yellow shorts and a tank top that says:
Shut the
Fucupcakes
.
I dissed her fucking love of cupcakes three days ago, and I was waiting for her
to bring out that shirt. I’m not surprised she chose the last night we have
together to wear it. Tomorrow afternoon, she leaves for Paris. Six days later,
I’ll be gone to California.

Maybe it’s a good thing we’ll be separated. Connor and my
brother think it’s fucking weird that we both haven’t dated in four months, and
I guess we’ll finally have the opportunity to change that.

I steal the bottle from her hands and open it with ease. I
put two in her palm.

She hesitates. “You know, I didn’t have night terrors or any
other symptoms before I started taking these.”

I run my hand through my hair. “Daisy, you’ve talked to your
fucking doctor about this.” For fuck’s sake,
I
was there when she
talked
to three different sleep disorder physicians about her condition. She’s taken
EEGs. She’s been through multiple sleep studies. They all advise her to take
the fucking pills. Because without Ambien, she won’t sleep at all. She suffers
from insomnia, post-traumatic stress, and the only thing that can really help
her is therapy, which she goes to routinely.

“It’s not really sleeping though, is it?” she says, eyeing
the pills in her palm. “I mean, it puts me in a half-sleep.”

Parasomnia
, the moments between
wakefulness and sleep—yeah, I’ve learned all about it. She hasn’t had anything
better than that in over six months. “It’s better than no fucking sleep.”

She nods, takes a deep breath, and throws the pills back in
her mouth. She chugs half the water before setting it back on her nightstand. I
watch her slip beneath the covers and set her head on the pillow, staring
straight up at the ceiling. Her eyes begin to glass.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I’m scared to sleep,” she admits in a whisper. “I don’t
want to have a nightmare.” Tears slide out of the creases of her eyes, too
tired to hold them back. “But I’ll be scared all night if I stay awake. It
sucks.”

I wish I could take away her problems. I’m not used to being
unable to fix things, and it hurts, having to watch her go through this while I
pretend that my presence is a fucking solution.

I lean over her so she’s staring right at me. “Daisy,” I say
her name forcefully, wiping her tears with my thumb. “No one is getting in this
fucking room.” I don’t normally do this every night, but she’s worse today. I
reach over to the end table near me and open the drawer. I take out a
.45-caliber handgun and show her the ammunition. “Okay?”

I watch her breathe out again, and she nods.

Then I ensure the safety is on and tuck the gun beneath my
pillow.

She shuts her eyes, and I near her under the covers so she
feels my body heat. I’ve been doing this long enough to know what calms her
down and what triggers her fear. We’re a couple inches apart, and I already see
a layer of sweat building on her forehead.

“
Shhh
,” I whisper. “You’re safe.”
I rub her arm, and she scoots closer to me. We’re no longer a fucking inch or
so apart. Her legs intertwine with mine like it’s the most natural position.
She turns, her back against my chest, my arm around her waist, my cock pressing
on her ass, but she probably doesn’t hone in on this last fact as much as me.

Do you want to know the kind of restraint it takes to be in
this fucking position with this fucking girl almost every fucking night without
doing one fucking thing?

More control than I even realized I had.

* * *

I figured tonight would be a rough one, but I just
didn’t expect it to bypass a nightmare and hit on another fucking issue she
has. Not sleepwalking. I haven’t caught her doing that yet.

Daisy kicks me awake, which is the normal part. She squirms,
her long, smooth legs moving back and forth, up and down, hitting my shins.

I don’t try to stop her. She’ll just be unresponsive until
she wakes up fully.

She grips her pillow, her face turned into it, and she
moans.

She’s still asleep. This is a fucking side effect of her
meds, and it’s happened maybe five times in the past four months. I wasn’t ever
planning on telling her that she gets aroused in the middle of the night. She
can’t remember it happening, even when her eyes snap open and she looks pretty
lucid, like a sleepwalker. I thought telling her that I’ve heard her moan in
arousal would embarrass her, so I kept quiet. But during a sleep study, she did
it anyway, and so she knows.

Daisy didn’t look mortified when she found out. I forgot
that she’s not Lily. She’s a lot less ashamed and a lot more brazen and
probably five times as crazy. She just told me that if she does it again, I
need to leave her bed immediately so she doesn’t accidentally rape me.

She read that it could happen with
sleepsex
,
and I told her that she’s out of her fucking mind if she thinks she’s going to
rape me, asleep or awake.

Daisy tosses and turns restlessly, and then she stays still
when her back faces me, one of her knees bent towards her body. She shudders,
and then she moans again, the noise high-pitched and full of unbridled
pleasure.

I sit up on my elbow and pause to watch her for a second. I
start to harden, especially as she clenches the sheet by her waist. Her tank
top has bunched to her chest, the bottom of her breasts peeking out.

Fuck.
I have to go
to the bathroom.

I’m about to tug her shirt down and leave, but her voice
freezes me. “I can’t,” she moans softly, and then her noises turn into a series
of breathless cries. “
Ahh
…
ahhh
…
ahh
…”

Fucking Christ.
I
wish I was so deep inside of her right now.

Her back arches. “
Ryke
!”

At least she thinks I am.

Frustrated, I toss the comforter off my body.
Fuck her shirt.
I glance back. Her
breasts, even small, are killing me. I climb off the bed, my erection trying to
burst through my fucking pants. Her body is skinnier than it’s ever been. I
want to fucking feed her first, and then I want to fuck her hard. Both of which
seem improbable, and the latter can’t happen.

“I…can’t…” she moans. See, even in her fucking sleep, she
knows it’s wrong. So there we go. “
Ryke
…
Ryke
…” She cries again, feminine, high-pitched, and I lose
it for a second time. “
Ryke
,
ahhh
!”
I have to enter the fucking bathroom before I come right here.

It takes me a minute to unlock the deadbolt, and then I slip
inside. I gently shut the door and tug down my drawstring pants to my thighs.
Fuck.
I find the lotion on the ground,
along with hair spray (not fucking needed) and a tube of half-empty toothpaste
(same). I didn’t even realize it was fucking messy in here, but I guess it is.
We both rarely clean up.

I used to make fun of Connor for masturbating like crazy
when Rose wouldn’t give up her virginity, and here I am, going through the same
thing. The difference: there’s no endgame for me. I don’t have the girl at the
finish. I’m not chasing after her. I’m just helping her, and when that’s done,
we’re both supposed to move on.

I stand over the toilet and place one hand on the wall. I
shut my eyes and stroke my hard cock that fucking begs to be inside a woman,
but I’ve been saying
no
to that
demand for months. Images start filling my head to increase my arousal, and the
most prevalent is a girl with blonde hair, with that high-pitched cry and those
long fucking legs.

I immediately stop rubbing.

I lick my lips and glare at the wall.
Why the fuck do you have to picture her?
Anyone else. Goddammit,
anyone fucking else. I try thinking about a girl I’ve already fucked before,
completely different from Daisy. She’s big breasted, big assed, and big hipped.
I like curvy. I like athletic. I honestly like everything. I don’t think Daisy
knows this either. I told her I had a type when she was fifteen—describing the
complete opposite of her build, just so she wouldn’t get any ideas.

And look where I am now, fucking imagining
her
.
Stop thinking.
I’m trying. I want to come, so I start again, and I
keep picturing that other girl, my cock pounding between her legs.
Fuck…me.
I speed up my strokes,
welcoming the friction with heavy breaths.

My hand on the wall turns into a fist.

And then the image of those big tits and large ass morph as
soon as my brain remembers those cries again.
Ahhh
…
ahhh
…
ahhhhh
…
Ryke
,
Ryke
!
They turn into
that delicate face, the one that bursts into a breathtaking smile, the one that
can light up a city. Her lips part as she moans, and she smiles with each one.

Stop imagining her.
I
pause, my hand freezing in place. I can’t fucking do this. I grab a magazine
from the tile floor, some of the pages crinkled from being wet with shower
water. It’s a fashion magazine, and I have a hard time finding a girl without a
ton of makeup on. I keep flipping, and then I land on a seven-page spread.

Of Daisy.

In black-laced lingerie.

Her small breasts look bigger, pushed up by the cups of her
bra. She wears a thong that shows off her round ass, her shape slender. Her
smoky-shadowed eyes only say
come fuck me
,
which isn’t helping. “Fucking A.” Is the world against me tonight or what?

 
I toss the magazine
aside, and I shut my eyes again, exhaling loudly.
Fuck this.
It’s not like imagining her is a sin I can’t live with.
It’s a line I’ve crossed before but not often, and it may force me a step closer
to crossing another one.
 

I convince myself enough, and my hand resumes its natural
course.
Ahh
..
ahhhh
…
Ryke
!
A groan catches in my throat.
Fuck me.
I pulse my hips with the
movement of my hand, picturing myself thrusting in between Daisy’s thighs, her
back permanently arched, in a constant state of pleasure that she can’t
contain.

It’s an image that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to let go.
I am so wound up, needing this release fucking hours prior to now. I hear her
cries in my ears. I see her climax wash over her face. And her body is all
mine, protected within my fucking hands, my long cock fitting entirely inside
of her. All of it drives me to a new, intense place, giving me the biggest head
rush of my life.

I come. If a simple fucking image is this good, it makes me
wonder what the real fucking thing would be like.
Can’t happen.

Yeah, I know.

< 9 >

DAISY CALLOWAY

It takes a full minute to orient myself. I touch
my temple, a little confused about where I am. I reach out and feel my comforter.
My bed. Okay, I must be waking up, but I’m already in a sitting position. My
limbs hurt like I thrashed all night. I rub my scratchy eyes and pat the
mattress beside me. The sheets are tangled and twisted, no
Ryke
on the bed. Or even in the room.

Panic sets in, my heart shooting to my throat. My head whips
towards the window, and I imagine a man crawling through with a bat or a camera
or a combination of the two. My curtains stay still, not blowing, which means
the window is firmly closed.

You’re okay, Daisy.
Stop
freaking out. I repeat the mantra over and over as I stiffly turn towards the
bathroom.

The door is ajar. The door is
ajar.
No.
It’s just
Ryke
. It’s okay.

I glance at the other wall. The bedroom door…it’s cracked
open too.
It’s just
Ryke
.
You’re okay.

But what if it’s not him? What if someone broke in and did
something to
Ryke
? What if they hurt him and are
setting a trap for me? It’s a wild, crazed thought, but in the back of my head,
I believe it’s so true. I quietly sit on my knees, holding my breath as this
cold adrenaline floods me. I lift
Ryke’s
pillow and
find the black handgun underneath.

With trembling fingers, I pick up the gun and point the
barrel at the door. A clattering sound reverberates from my living room. I
jump, a noise breaching my lips.
Shut up,
Daisy. What if they hear you?

And then the door slowly swings open.

Ryke
stops short at the sight of
me, his eyes filling with concern. “Daisy?”

What am I doing? The gun slides out of my unsteady hands and
lands safely on my comforter. I can’t breathe. Of course it’s just
Ryke
. He’s at my side the moment I blink. He rests a knee
on the mattress and cups my face between two large hands. “Daisy, look at me.”

I can’t breathe. I gasp, trying to capture air for my
distressed lungs. “Where…what…” I try to glance at the window. Why am I scaring
myself? No one’s there. It’s all in my head.

“
Shhh
.” He rubs my back. “Fucking
breathe, Daisy.” He towers over me, staring down as he studies my paranoid,
anxious state.

I inhale deeply, and my body accepts it this time.
You’re okay.
I can’t stop shaking. He
suddenly lifts me up beneath my arms, and before I exhale, he’s on the bed,
leaning against my headboard, and he’s placed me on his lap. He peels off his
clean gray Penn shirt, and I frown, but I’m too hot and exhausted to make sense
of it or protest. His hair is wet, and he wears black jeans.

And then he wipes my forehead with his shirt. I’m caked in a
layer of sweat. My tank top suctions to my stomach and chest. “I’m sorry,” I
whisper with a heavy breath. All the energy drains from me in a single instant.
It’s like I used everything I had in that moment of panic.

“What did I fucking say about apologizing?”

I hold onto his forearm, and he keeps me upright with his
body and his other hand. “I was about to shoot you.”

“No you weren’t.”

My eyes flicker up to his, and I only see that hardness in
them. “You can’t know that.”

“The safety was fucking on,” he tells me.

Oh. Good.
A knot
starts to loosen in my stomach.

He combs my damp hair out of my face and runs his cotton
shirt across my neck. “I didn’t think you’d wake up until later,” he confesses.
“I shouldn’t have fucking left.” Usually he nudges me awake before he goes on a
run with Lo or to the gym early, so I know he was expecting to return to my
bedroom.

“It’s okay,” I say, eyeing his wet hair again. “Did you take
a shower?”

“I ran out of clean clothes in your room, so I went upstairs
to my apartment.” He shakes his head. “I took a shower up there. I thought I
had time.” He pauses. “Are you sure you can handle being in Paris alone for an
entire fucking month?”

“I don’t know…but I have to try. I don’t want to be afraid
at night anymore.” I sit up a little straighter. “It’ll be different,” I tell
him. “There’ll be less paparazzi in France, less cameras, and none of my old
friends will be there.”

“I fucking hope you’re right.”

Me too.

After a couple minutes, finally catching my breath,
Ryke
slides me off his lap and gently leans me against the
headboard. He climbs off the bed and snatches the handgun. I watch his fingers
move quickly, checking the safety and ammunition in skilled routine. Then he
bends down and opens the cupboard to his end table, revealing a safe. He types
in a code, and the heavy metal door opens.

I really want him to leave the gun out, but I don’t want to
sound that frightened, so I let him lock the handgun out of sight. I stand and
search my room for clean clothes. Shower. Energy drink. Check flight departure.
Call my sisters to say goodbye. Have
Mikey
take me to
the airport. Then I’m gone.

I can do this.

* * *

I hate that my panties were wet. The only time
I’ve
ever
orgasmed
has been in my sleep. My
sleep.
And I
remember nada. Not one little itty bitty moment. It’s cruel.

At least the shower rejuvenated me. I feel like a new
person, or at least, the kind of person I like to be. Fearless, ready for any
new adventure. I draw open the blinds, sunlight streaming in, no longer dark
and dreary in my room. After double-fisting two energy drinks, I’m wired enough
to do anything and everything.

Ryke
hands me another
lime-flavored Lightning Bolt! after I asked for it. “Last one,” he tells me.
“Let’s see if you can fucking beat me, Calloway.” He sits at the edge of my bed
beside me. These energy drinks are made by Fizzle, my dad’s billion-dollar soda
company, so it’s my booster of choice.

“One,” I say. “Two…” The lip of his can nears his mouth, as
does mine. “Three.” We both chug at the same time. The carbonated liquid slides
down my throat, and from the corner of my eye, I watch
Ryke’s
Adam’s apple bob twice before he waves his empty can in victory.

Three seconds later, I finish my own.

“You’re too fucking slow for me,” he says.

“Is that a
Ryke
Meadows test?” I
ask. “You only like the ones who can swallow quickly?” I break into a grin, and
his brows rise.

“What do you know about swallowing?”

I shrug. “I know I don’t mind it.”

His muscles flex, and he drops his gaze from mine. He
crushes his can in his hand and then tosses it into a faraway trash bin by my
dresser. It lands perfectly. I sense the switch in his lighthearted demeanor,
serious all of a sudden.

I crossed a line, maybe.
Good
job, Daisy.
I try to recover by adding, “We don’t have to talk about
swallowing.”
Shut up.
I bolt from the
bed, preoccupying myself with cleaning. I start picking up sweaters and jeans
and jackets from chairs and the floor, stuffing them back in drawers.

Ryke
stays seated on the edge of
my bed, his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped together as he hunches a
little. His eyes fix on the ground in thought. “Can we talk?”

This isn’t good.
Can
we talk
never leads to righteous places. Before he speaks, I blurt out,
“You don’t have to do the whole awkward goodbye thing. We’ll see each other
again.” I’ll only be in Paris for a month. I’m not losing him as a friend.
Right?

“I think we should both start dating again,” he suddenly
says.

I move a little faster, collecting a pile of clothes and
trying to shove them into a drawer at the same time.
I think we should both start dating again.
What did I expect to
happen? This wasn’t going to end with us holding hands. He’s just here to help
me get on my feet. Still, we haven’t expressed an interest in dating other
people for four months. It’s been just us, criticizing our previous
relationships, no matter how brief or how long.

“Stop fucking moving for a second,” he says roughly.

I slow down and concentrate on folding a sweater with block
letters that reads:
Forever Young.
“If
that’s what you want.” I shrug. “I can start dating again, I guess.”

He runs his hand through his hair. “You can be single. I’m
not saying that you have to get a boyfriend. I just…” he trails off in thought,
and his jaw locks tight.

“No, I get it,” I say with a nod. “We both used to date a
lot, and you’ve stopped because of me. It’s not fair to you.” All because I’ve
been an emotional train wreck at night. Now that he has a month apart from
me—no longer sleeping in my bed—it makes sense that he’d want to have sex. He
finally has the chance to do it.

“I’m going to be fucking honest with you,” he says. I lean
against the dresser and meet his dark gaze. “I’m not used to abstaining from
sex for this long, and I think it’s in both of our best interests if we start
opening ourselves up to other people again.”

His words shouldn’t hurt me that much, but they feel like
sharp knives sliding into my belly. “So I should find a number seven then?” I
ask him. “Maybe he’ll last longer than five minutes.” I try to put on a smile,
but it disappears pretty quickly.

I can’t tell what
Ryke
is
thinking. His features are hard as a rock. Brooding like normal. He stands up
and takes a couple steps towards me.

I eye the ridges in his abs and the complex tattoo on his
shoulder. I shouldn’t suggest it—I shouldn’t say it, but it leaves my lips
before I can take back the words, “You could be my number seven.”

“Daisy…” He shoots me a look.

My stomach twists. “You’re really okay with me fucking
another guy?” I imagine him with someone else, and it makes me physically ill.
I don’t want him to date another girl, and I know it’s wrong of me to feel that
way, but how do I change these emotions? How do I let them go? Maybe he’s
right. Maybe we do have to date other people to get over
this.

“It doesn’t matter what I fucking feel,” he says. “I’m seven
years older than you.”

“You
just
turned
twenty-five a week and a half ago.” He has literally only been seven years
older for four months. But once my birthday arrives in February, he’s going to
be all,
I’m six years older than you
with
the same
I’m a fucking man and you’re a
little girl
tone that he likes to put on when he’s making a point.

“I’m still seven fucking years older than you right now.”

“Really? I should file a complaint to the woman who made me
seven years younger than you. What a horrible, horrible thing.”

He almost smiles.

“You know,” I tell him, more serious, “I started modeling
when I was fourteen, and right when I entered the industry, no one ever treated
me like I was a teenager. I was doing things that people in their twenties
would do.”

I feel like I’ve already been to college, partying, drinking
too much, experimenting, and I’m only eighteen. It’s one reason why I don’t
want to go to a university. I had my fill when I was fifteen, sixteen and
seventeen. And I can’t picture myself sitting behind a desk all day either.

“I hear you,” he says. “I do, but disregard our ages
completely—you’re still my brother’s girlfriend’s little sister. And there’s no
changing that.”

I set the sweater on top of the dresser. When I look up,
he’s beside me. “So what happens when we’re both back in Philly a month from
now?” I ask. “Do we just pick up where we left off or are we going our separate
ways from here on out?”

He rests an elbow on the dresser. “I don’t want to lead you
on, Dais. We can’t fucking happen. I’m just here to help you until you can
sleep better.”

Maybe I should stop torturing myself then and just try to
move on too. “I can find someone in Paris, and if not, I’ll just fly solo. I’ve
done that a lot. Maybe I’ll make a lasting friend from New York,” I say. “I can
move out there when I come back, and I’ll start over—”

“You would move out to New York?” He frowns.

“I don’t know…maybe,” I say softly.

He abruptly reaches out and draws me to his chest. He’s
hugging
me.
Willingly. But this feels
more like a goodbye than anything else. A pain ripples through my body.

And then that cracked door to my bedroom—it whips open.

I turn my head with
Ryke
, and we
both see my mother standing at the threshold of the doorway with her phone in
hand. Her eyes grow to saucers, horrified at the sight of my embrace with a guy
she finds unworthy of my time and affection.

Ryke
and I slowly break apart, but
he doesn’t look guilty, only angry at her appearance.

“What is this?” my mom asks sharply.

“
Ryke
came over to say goodbye,” I
tell her, trying to shrug off the tension that builds with her presence. “I’m
all packed, so
Mikey
should be here in a bit.” I
didn’t think she’d stop by. I hugged my mom and dad yesterday at their house.

My mom scrutinizes
Ryke’s
bare
chest. “Why is your shirt off?” she snaps.

“Because I took it off,” he says with narrowed eyes. He
finds his T-shirt on my comforter and he pulls it over his head. But he makes
no attempt to leave me alone with my mom, too worried about me to do so.

My mom walks over to my bed in her high heels. She fingers
the pearls at her neck as she inspects the sheets, twisted like two people
possibly fucked beneath them.