Hothouse Flower (9 page)

< 13 >

DAISY CALLOWAY

By the time I enter my room, the clock strikes 2
a.m., and I only have enough time to wash my face and run a brush through my
hair before Ian knocks on the door.

I peek through the peephole, ensuring that it’s just him. I
can smell his strong cologne through the door, but he looks casual, wearing
jeans and a blue tee. I keep staring, hesitating for so many reasons. He knocks
again. I flinch at the violent noise.
You
can do this.

I turn the knob, and when Ian appraises my jean shorts and
baggy sweater, he smiles. “Nice,” he says, motioning to the words across my
chest:
Bulimia’s so ’87.

He even understands a
Heathers
reference. Maybe he is perfect for me. “Welcome to my abode.” I wave him
inside. I haven’t unpacked, so I had no time to be messy. My rolling suitcase
rests by the television hutch, all zipped up. The hotel room has gold walls and
red bedspreads, looking cleaner and more harmonious with the colors than any
part of my apartment in Philly.

“Nice room too,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.”

He heads deeper inside, going to the balcony door that I’ve
spent a great deal of time locking and shrouding with the gold curtains. He
pulls them back, and my pulse speeds. I hear the
click
of the single lock, and then he slides open the glass door,
stepping outside to see the view of the city.

“Holy shit,” he says, his voice louder so I can hear. “My
room overlooks a parking garage. This is…”

I tune him out as I shut the front door, using every lock to
ensure my safety and his. I even look through the peephole one extra time. The
hallway is empty.
Good.

And then I walk to the bed, waiting for him to come back
inside. I don’t want to attract any paparazzi, if they’re here. On the chance
that they spot me from the balcony, they’ll count the floor I’m on and figure
out which room I’m in.

“Yeah, the view is really pretty,” I say.
 

Ian slips back inside, but he leaves the sliding door all
the way open.

“Can you close it?” I ask, trying not to seem paranoid. I
give him a small smile. “It’s
kinda
cold tonight.”

“Sure.” He shuts the door and then closes the curtains back.
No lock. But I’ll just have to do that after he leaves.
What if he doesn’t leave? What if you have sex with him?
Then I’ll
lock it when he falls asleep. No worries.

I sit on the foot of the bed and cross my legs, wondering
where his head is at, what he wants to do right now. He eyes me a little more
hungrily than before. His gaze travels across my legs, stopping at the place
between my thighs.

He stuffs his hand into his pocket.
Condom
, I think. But he pulls out a baggy of white powder. “I
thought you looked tired this morning. Want a boost?” He heads over to my
dresser and begins to separate the powder into two lines.

“No,” I say. “I’ve been chugging Lightning Bolts! and taking
Ripped Fuel. I don’t think coke will mix well with them.”

I uncross my legs and then stand up, pacing anxiously before
I reach his side.

“Yeah, I could tell you were on something,” he says. “You
were fidgeting all morning.”

“Ripped Fuel only makes me fidgety when I drink caffeine
with it. Otherwise they’re just normal diet pills.” But they’re like a shot of
endorphins, possibly the biggest boost I can get without heading towards
cocaine and other illegal substances.

“Well, I’ll help calm you down,” he says, one of his hands
reaching out and rubbing my shoulders. That’s exactly what I wanted. Despite
the coke, maybe my choices in men are improving.

With his free hand, he takes his rolled dollar bill and
snorts both lines. He wipes his nose, and then when he turns to me, his glazed
eyes trace my lips. He guides me to the bed, the back of my legs hitting the
mattress, and my heart races.

“You’re really beautiful, Daisy,” he says. And then he
plants his lips right on mine, waiting not even two seconds before his tongue
chokes me.
It’s not that bad.
I try
not to gag for air, but his mouth overtakes my face, slobbering on my chin.

I hate kissing.

So very much.

I distract him by pulling off his shirt, forcing his lips to
break from mine. He wears a crooked grin, his pupils like little pinpoints. I
wait for Ian to hike me up on the bed, to set me by the pillow and press his
body weight against me. The image flushes my skin.

But instead, he climbs onto the bed and pulls me down on top
of his chest so that I’m in a perfect position to ride him.

And then he puts his hands underneath his head in
relaxation. Maybe we should just skip all the awkward foreplay anyway. I did that
with numbers three and four, and I saved myself an uncomfortable hour. But
what’s the point of all of this if we have a quickie and then he just leaves? I
want him to spend the night, don’t I?

So I begin to kiss his broad shoulders and suck on his hard
abs and his muscular chest. He watches me and lets out a groan every so often.

“Lower, baby,” he urges. One of his hands has come out of
hiding behind his head, but his fingers grip his hair, his mouth open as he
gets off on what I’m doing. “
Uhh
,
yes
.”

I unbutton his jeans and unzip. His erection is visible
through his red briefs. I stop touching him so I can yank off my sweater, no
bra since my boobs are pretty small. I stand up on the bed, my body off of his,
and I unzip my own shorts. He watches me with a heady expression, and I know
he’s feeling the effects of the drugs.

He sits and runs his hands up my legs, his palms coarse on
my smooth skin. He brings me back down on his lap the moment I step out of the
jeans. Everything seems more mechanical than sensual.
 

“I want you here,” he says to me. He grabs my hand and
brings it to his crotch, helping me find his penis. Not that I needed any help
doing that. My head buzzes with erratic energy, the kind that has my skin all
tingly and my heart pounding a little too hard. It’s making it difficult to
discern how I feel about this current situation, me on top, gripping his dick.

He plunges his tongue into my mouth again while he moves my
hand up and down his shaft. Thankfully he breaks this kiss to groan. He stares
down between our bodies, at the place where my small hand is underneath his
large, where I’m touching his erection, warm to my fingers.

I rest my forehead on his chest. I think I just want
something more than this. I don’t even know what that
more
is. I keep searching and searching with guys. Is this really
it? Maybe something’s still off. I have no sense of attraction, no true
nerve-spindling sensations yet. The only electrifying feelings are coming from
my caffeinated concoction.

He forces my head back so that he can stare at my breasts
while I give him a hand job. I don’t think I’m being attentive or doing very
good work, but I don’t think that matters to him. I think the idea of me, a
young blonde girl (famous), on top of him is all the stimulation he needs.

He kisses my neck now. But before he even sucks on my nape,
his lips descend to my chest. His tongue flicks over my nipple, and then he
bites it,
hard.
I wince, a
high-pitched noise leaving my mouth, the sound so audible.
Ow
.
Ow
.
Ow
.

He must take my noise as approval or pleasure because he
bites
harder.

I shove him off with a push on his abs. But he grabs my
wrist and brings my hand back to his dick. He guides my face into his shoulder,
as though consoling me, but not really because his other hand travels to my
backside.

“Have you taken it in the ass before?” he asks with a heavy
grunt. He moves my hand lower on his dick.

“Once,” I tell him. My boob throbs. I should end this.
But maybe it’ll be better if I just wait a
little longer.
Maybe I dislike sex because I don’t try hard enough or I
don’t give enough effort. I convince myself to wait it out.

He grabs my ass, and then his finger slips into a hole that
has
never
been penetrated by a finger
before. I go rigid, my eyes wide and horrified. Okay, I don’t like this at all.
Is this normal? For once, I feel my
age, and I’m more aware that I’m in bed with a twenty-five-year-old.

A guy as old as
Ryke
.

Everything about this feels weird. Physically, emotionally,
mentally—I shift and find a way to adjust so he can’t touch me
there
anymore. I don’t even finish him
off. I slide down to his ankles, crouching. “I’m pretty tired,” I lie. “Maybe
we can do this another night.”

He gives me a long once-over. “Is it your first time? I
didn’t mean to scare you. I’ll be more careful.”

“I’m not a virgin,” I say. “I told you, I—”

“You don’t have to lie. I don’t mind that you haven’t been
with anyone before. In fact, it’s kind of sexy.” He grins. “I’ll go easy, I
promise.” He clasps my hand and pulls me back on his lap.

He’s still hard, and he touches my panties, about to move
them aside and then lift me up on his dick. I don’t want to be on top. I don’t
want to have sex with him anymore.

“I’m dry,” I tell him. “You’ll hurt me.” My first time,
that’s what happened. It was short and really, really painful.

“You’ll get wet once I’m inside of you.” He combs my hair
out of my face.

A long time ago,
Ryke
once said, “What
kind of asshole enters a girl on her first time without getting her aroused
first?”
This asshole.

Ryke’s
advice: “You should stay
away from any guy who doesn’t make you come at least twice before he fucks you.
Keep that in mind.”

Two and a half years later, I have kept it in mind, but I
haven’t followed it through. Not all guys are willing to take the time to get
me off before the big show.

And maybe that’s what he was saying back then. I shouldn’t
be with a guy who focuses on himself first and a woman last.

“I can’t,” I tell Ian. I climb off his lap quickly before he
can grab me, and then I collect my sweater, tugging it over my head. When I
look back, Ian still lies on the mattress, as though I’ll return any second and
straddle him. “I think you should go.”

He licks his lips and then hides his erection in his briefs.
He pulls his jeans back over his hips and slides off the bed. “I get it,” he
says. “You’re not ready. Maybe tomorrow night?”

“I don’t think I’ll be ready by then. I’m sorry,” I say,
meeting his blue eyes.

He nears me a little more, and I try to appear more
confident, like Rose. I pull back my shoulders and stand taller. I also paint
on a face that I use when I have to look angry during photo shoots. Narrowed
eyes. Tightened lips. A dark scowl.

He’s not intimidated by me in the least. “You don’t even
want to finish?” he asks.

“I have a boyfriend,” I immediately blurt, hoping that’ll
push him out. Maybe if he has morals…

He lets out a short laugh. “If you had a boyfriend, it’d be
all over the news, especially if you were caught cheating on him.”

“We’re taking a break,” I say.
What are you doing, Daisy?
“I just don’t feel comfortable sleeping
with someone so quickly.”

“I can take a hint,” he says, grabbing his little plastic
baggy off the dresser. “If you change your mind, you have my number. Maybe I’ll
see you around.” With this, I escort him to the door. He glances back at me and
kisses me lightly on the cheek.

I give him a small smile.

And then he departs without another word.

< 14 >

DAISY CALLOWAY

Lock. Lock.
Lock. Lock.
I speed through the room, checking behind the shower curtain in
the bathroom, and then I prop a chair underneath that doorknob. When I finish
securing the sliding balcony door, I head to the mirror and inspect my breast
that keeps throbbing

I lift my sweater up. I’m
bleeding.
He bit me so hard that my nipple is not only red and raw,
but it’s trickling with blood. Why,
why
do
things like this happen to me? He also sucked so hard that a yellowish tint of
a bruise forms on the outside of my breast.

I’ll have to cover it with makeup. Hopefully no one will
notice tomorrow. Hopefully the clothes are modest, not too revealing or else
the designer may be upset.

Good job, Daisy.

My room is quiet. No one talks. No one makes a sound. I am
alone. I replace my sweater with a baggy night-shirt, and I climb onto bed,
wearing boy-short panties. I don’t want to take Ambien and experience another
nightmare. So I lie awake, flinching at the
whoosh
of wind blowing into the window, as the ceiling creaks, as voices escalate in
the hallway. Every little thing snaps my eyes open the moment they drowsily
begin to close.

Okay. New plan. I snatch my laptop out of my rucksack, and I
lean against the headboard. No, I will not open social media. But maybe…maybe
porn will help. Maybe I haven’t tried masturbating enough to find a climax.
Surely I can do this right.

And the task is taking my mind off the possibilities of an
intruder. That’s the most important thing.

I pop open my computer…but I have no idea where to even
begin. I check the clock. 3 a.m. in Paris. 9 a.m. in Princeton, New Jersey.
She’ll be up. I find my cell and make a quick call, putting it on speaker so I
can search the internet too.

“Hey,” Lily says with a yawn. “How’s Paris…” Her voice
softens, and I hear her whisper to someone in the background, “It’s Daisy.” Lo
must be with her.

“Paris is pretty. So I have a question.”

“For me?” she says in a little bit of surprise but also
excitement. Rose is the knower-of-all-things, so I usually go to her with
questions, but Lily is easier to talk to. When she has time to talk to me, that
is.

“Yeah,” I say easily. “So what’s a good porn site that won’t
crash my computer?”

There’s a long pause over the phone. She hesitates. “I don’t
know if…”

“Please.” I hear the desperation in my voice. I glance at
the clock, at each entrance to my room, and my heart accelerates. “I won’t tell
anyone that you told me.” I think she just doesn’t want me to turn out like
her, especially since the media keeps saying I’m a little mini-Lily, with no
other proof than dissecting my brief relationships with guys. I am young and
more promiscuous than the average eighteen-year-old, but I don’t enjoy sex like
Lily. I’ve slept with a lot of guys because I’m trying to figure out how to do
it right and to find the right one to do it with.

Now that doesn’t seem as important in my life. Well, it
wasn’t until
Ryke
said we both needed to date more. I
honestly just want a good night’s sleep.

 
“I’ll text it to
you,” she whispers a little dramatically. I can imagine her glancing back at Lo
and reddening. I instantly smile.

“Thanks. Talk to you later?”

“Yeah. I’ll try to call more, but the time difference…”

“I know, it sucks.”

“Love you, bye,” she tells me quickly before hanging up,
probably distracted by
Lo’s
presence. In only a
second, a text pings on my phone.

Kinkyme.net
– Lily

I log into the porn site, and I click on the most popular
video. It takes a couple seconds to load. The screen is black at first, only
heavy breathing, both male and female. I click the “play” button, hoping an
image will reveal itself soon because this isn’t doing anything for me.

Finally a picture surfaces.

Oh my God.
A girl
with silky brown hair is tied to a headboard by her wrists, her head tilted
back in pleasure while a guy dominates her from the top.

But it’s not the position that’s freaking me out or the fact
that it’s
porn
.

I know this girl. I know this guy.

It’s Rose and Connor.

Oh my God.
Click out.
Click out!!
I try to press escape and leave these images behind, but it
won’t disappear. A popup keeps flashing
SUBSCRIBE!
I don’t want to subscribe to my sister’s kinky sex videos with her husband!

They never even meant for these to hit the internet, so I
highly
doubt they’d be comfortable with
what’s happening right now. Last year, they were screwed over by a producer who
filmed their intimate bedroom sessions without their knowledge and put their
videos online. Legal issues ensued, and what it boils down to is this: the
videos are here to stay.

And now I have accidentally stumbled upon one of them.
 

I try not to look at the screen. I shut my eyes, close the
computer, open it, and the video is still playing, the breathing is still
heavy. I can hear and see everything. I fill in the subscription box, which
seems to be the only solution right now.

As I type in a fake name and email address, I catch Connor
slipping his fingers beneath Rose’s diamond studded collar. He lifts her head
to meet his lips, and she lets out a sharp cry as he keeps thrusting between
her legs with rough force. Then she comes. He pulls out to switch positions.

OH MY GOD! I have just seen Connor’s ginormous penis.

I am scarred forever.

Please, someone
burn
my
eyes. I fill out the rest of my info, and I click and click.

It’s gone.

Thank you baby Jesus. It’s disappeared. I let out a breath.
As if my world couldn’t be stranger—I have just seen my sister have sex with
her husband. And she was tied to a headboard. I will
never, ever
look at Connor Cobalt the same way again. I think…I
think I need rehab for this.

As I collect my sanity, a noise chimes from my laptop—a Skype
call. Someone’s calling
me?

The Caller Username: RYKE_MEADOWS

Not very creative, but it’s still very
Ryke
.
Mine is flowerchild20, which seems almost obnoxiously colorful compared to his.
I wonder if that’s how we are together—mismatched, uneven. Or maybe he’s the
ying
to my yang. Lame but maybe perfect for us.
 

The longer I stare at the incoming call, with his name, the
more my stomach somersaults. I nearly had sex with another model tonight. I
gave him a pretty horrible hand job. Should I really be talking to
Ryke
after that?
It’s
not like you’re together. He told you to date another guy.
My conscience
gives a good argument.

So I click, and before the screen pops up, the guilt
replaces with this nervous excitement. He called
me.
That means he’s thinking about me, right? I try to hide my
smile that begins to hurt my cheeks.
Stop
smiling. Be cool.

I take a deep breath.

A new screen pops up, and my lips slowly fall.

A raspy feminine voice blares through my speakers, “Yes,
yes, right there! God, yes. Holy…!” Even in the darkened room, I can
distinguish limbs. The girl’s tanned legs are split apart by the edge of the
bed, her back curved upward. She clenches
Ryke’s
hair, his head between her thighs as he kneels on the ground, his body hidden
by the bed frame.

He didn’t mean to call me. It was a mistake. She must have
hit the laptop with her flailing arms, too overcome with pleasure to notice
that she
Skyped
someone.

In the span of five minutes, I have witnessed three of the
closest people in my life having sex. Although,
Ryke’s
just going down on her…but it’s morning in Philly. This is probably just round
two after going at it all night.

The disappointment, the uneasiness and hurt tries to sink my
mood.

Before I close the computer, I become distracted by the
girl’s build. She looks so much older than me—full breasts, probably close to
Ds, defined hips (an hourglass shape) and wavy brown hair. I wish they looked
odd together, like an ill-fit match, but they go together better than I do with
him. Even though she’s most likely twenty-eight or twenty-nine, he pleases her
so easily.

She is practically melting on the bed.

Jealousy assaults me, and my face is frozen in a permanent
cringe.

My joints won’t unhinge to close the computer. I am
torturing myself watching this, but somewhere in my head, I want to see it,
maybe to solidify the fact that I need to move on too.
You should have just fucked Ian.

My conscience is mean.

She lets out a pleasured scream as she reaches her climax,
gripping the sheets. She must hit the computer again because a text box
flickers that says
MUTE.
I can’t hear
anything. She smacks it again.
UNMUTE.
There
we go.

She breathes heavily, coming down from a high that
I
long
for.

“Oh my God,” she says to him with the shake of her head.
“That was…”

He lifts his head, and I see him for the first time as he
kisses her knee. My insides twist. The look he’s giving her—it’s filled with
I want you
and
you’re
beautiful
.

If that’s not a sign that he’s moved on, I don’t know what
is.