Hothouse Flower (13 page)

“Call me back or text me that you’re okay,” I say tersely
before I hang up.

I’m about to return to Sully, but my phone rings again.
She’s being fucking weird. “Hey, what’s going on?”

She sniffs and tries to speak, but her voice falters.

She’s been crying.

My chest tightens. “Fuck. Daisy, what’s wrong?”

She lets out a breath that shakes the sound from her lips,
and then she inhales sharply and chokes like she’s unable to exhale.

Fuck. Fuck.
I rest
my hand on my head. “Dais…”

“I…I can’t…”

She cannot have a fucking panic attack while I’m here and
she’s there.

“
Shh
,
shh
,”
I tell her in the gentlest voice I can. Calming someone—that’s not a skill I
possess. I jump after girls who dive off of cliffs. I accompany crazy chicks on
their illogical adventures. I teach them how to stand back up. I hold them
while they fucking cry.

But I’m not there to do any of these things. I’m thousands
of miles away with no room for error.

“Take deep fucking breaths. Relax,” I say roughly, dropping
my hand and clenching and unclenching my fist.

“I…feel sick…” She coughs, dry heaving until I hear her
really fucking vomit.

Fuck.

Sully is by my side with concern. He looks at me like
what’s going on?

I just shake my head at him. “Daisy,” I say, running my hand
through my damp hair. “Hey, you need to talk to me right fucking now. Take deep
breaths. You’re not dying, so stop acting like it.” Being a jackass is the only
way I can think to get her to calm down. It’s the only fucking tool I have to
work with.

She pukes, but it turns back into a violent cough. Then she
begins to breathe
somewhat
fucking
normally.

“Good girl,” I say.

She exhales shortly. “They took pictures…of me…and no one
cared…”

What the fuck is she talking about? She’s a model; of course
they take photographs. “You’re not making any fucking sense.” I can’t just
stand on top of this fucking cliff. I can’t just fucking
talk
. I head over to Sully’s backpack, and he keeps up with my
hurried stride.

“I was naked,” she says, a tremor in her voice. “The
designer…she threw me out of her show, and she stripped me…”

You’ve got to be
fucking kidding me.
I freeze, gripping my hair with one hand. “And no one
did anything?”

She chokes on another cry.

I almost kick the fucking cake off the edge. I almost lose
my shit. I bend down to a crouch to stop myself from screaming. I fucking hate
people. I hate that the ones I care about most are the ones that get shit on.

“Hey, fucking talk to me,” I say, realizing she’s completely
silent now. “Daisy?” Nothing. “Daisy?!” I check my phone.
Signal lost.
The call dropped. I try again, but I have no more
range. I look to Sully with panic.

“No signal,” he says, tapping at his iPhone screen.

I stand up quickly and switch into a new gear called
Get the fuck off this rock.
“We need to
go down now.” I pick up his backpack and find the extra harness that I use when
I descend with him. I put each leg through the fucking straps while Sully
collects rope, repel devices and locking carabineers, his hands moving in a
flash.

“Is she hurt?” he asks, his eyes flickering to me.

I tighten the straps on my legs. It’s not a physical hurt.
It’s not like she crashed her motorcycle, but it fucking feels like she got
into a head-on collision. “I don’t know,” I tell him. Truth is, I think she’s
always been hurting. It’s just different when I’m not there to take care of
her. “I need to get her back on the fucking phone.”

“Double your rope so you can get down faster.” He tosses me
extra rope for my descent, and I tie two together with a Double Figure-8
Fisherman’s knot. Then I tie an extra knot at the end of the rope in case I
fucking fall. It’s the last safety I have to catch me.

“Ready,” Sully says. “I only have one anchor. You take it.
I’ll go after you since I have to pick up my gear.”

I nod and hook into the anchor. I take a breath to relieve
the pressure that bears down on my chest. As I stare at the 200 foot drop,
everything fucking clicks.

I am so emotionally involved with that girl. If someone told
me she was crying two years ago, I would have called Lily or Rose to deal with
it. But I want to be the one to protect Daisy. I
want to be the one to hold her in my arms. I
want to comfort her until she reanimates in pure fucking
happiness.

I don’t want to miss a day with her. I don’t want to be here
while she’s there.

And I can’t take back these feelings.

I can’t go in reverse.

I just drive forward at a hundred and fifty miles per hour.
I’m racing towards her when I should be slamming on the fucking brakes.

I know how to stop.

But I’m not going to.

I don’t want to.

That’s the fucking truth.

< 19 >

DAISY CALLOWAY

The paparazzi found my hotel.

I peek out of the balcony door once, just to confirm that
the SUVs lined on the curb are in fact cameramen and not kickass secret
service. The flashes blind me.
Click,
click, click
in a wave. I shut the door instantly, my heart beating wildly.

I tried to lose them every time I exited my hotel for work,
but with
Mikey
riding a moped next to me at a
leisurely pace, we couldn’t exactly dodge all of them. Now he’s back in his
hotel room, and I’m in mine.

It’s been one day after being thrown out of the runway—which
has made headlines—which is why I’ve now become bigger news than before. One
day after
Ryke
talked to me—calming me down by
recounting his time at the quarry.

It almost felt like he was here.

But he’s not.

And now I have my mom rapidly texting me:
You need to go talk to the designer right
now and make it up to her. Apologize. Buy her something…
And she goes on and
on. As though I can march to the designer and
bribe
my way back into her good graces, demanding her to like me.
That’s not how this works.

The rejection is harder to accept when my mom won’t let it
go.

And I can’t even think about the pictures of me undressed
backstage. If they surface…they haven’t so far, but it makes me sick. The
thought caused me to cling to the porcelain toilet yesterday night.

 
I twist my hair into
a high bun, pacing anxiously in my room, peeking through the curtains again. My
stomach tosses, and a layer of sweat gathers across my forehead. It’s midnight,
and I can’t do anything. I can’t go outside without being swarmed, but I can’t
stay here and be a prisoner in this hotel room, suffocating in my extreme
paranoia.

I have to get out. I have to breathe.

I pocket my wallet in my jean shorts, change my tank top
into a long-sleeve sweater that says
keep
it surreal
and hightail it out of the room on impulse. I can ride my moped
as fast as it’ll go without
Mikey
and lose the
paparazzi. I can go somewhere. A lake, a river, whatever, and take a freezing
cold dip. Something. Anything.

I settle with this spontaneous plan, and I open the door to
the stairwell. I dislike riding in elevators without someone I trust beside me.
Like
Ryke
or
Mikey
. Without
them, I’ll rock back and forth on my heels, staring with bugged eyes at the lit
numbers, praying that the elevator doesn’t stop to let anyone on.

Stairs are better. It’s more private, less chance of running
into someone I know, like an old friend. In Paris, that possibility is slim to
none, but the fear still propels me towards the staircase.

My heart never slows from its quick panicked pace. Because
even though stairs are better—it’s not by much. I haven’t been attacked in a
stairwell, but in movies, it’s the first place villains go, right? It’s the
place where the bad guy chases the hero.

But the hero usually escapes up the stairs. I think I could
too.

I’m on the fifth floor, so I hop skip some steps as I head
down to the lobby, fluorescent lights blinding in some corners and dim in
others. The levels are painted on the walls.

4.

I pause for a second, listening. A door bangs above me.
Oh God.
Someone followed me here? From
my floor. They sound close.

I sprint.

3.

The extra footsteps echo loudly, and they start to quicken,
matching my stride. My breathing is so off-kilter. I exhale deeply just to
ensure that I’m not holding it in.

2.

My hand glides along the railing, my feet moving in a blur.

“Daisy!”

I freeze. I go cold. It can’t be…

I turn around and my mouth falls. I’m losing my mind.

“You can’t be real.” I pause. “You’re in Philadelphia.”

< 20 >

DAISY CALLOWAY

Ryke
stands four stairs
above me, wearing a leather bike jacket and dark jeans. “I flew in after you
called me. I just fucking got here.” He scrutinizes me from head to toe, a long
once-over with stone-hard eyes that heats my body, snuffing out the cold. He
looks real. “When I got off the elevator on your floor, I saw you going into
the stairwell. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Relief tries to surface. He’s here. For me? “I’m not
scared,” I tell him.

“You look petrified,” he says flatly. I watch his eyes dance
over my features again, his chest falling and rising in a deep rhythm. He
bridges the gap between us, descending the four stairs. He still has height on
me, staring down to meet my eyes.

“I’m not anymore,” I say softly.

He nods a few times, processing this, and then he asks,
“Were you going to meet up with that weird fucking guy?” His eyes darken.

I sense a hint of jealousy. Or maybe he’s just trying to
protect me from Ian. Not jealous at all. “Didn’t you hear? He was a very
uncomfortable pillow.”

“I thought I was your fucking pillow.”

I stiffen. “You didn’t want to be my pillow, remember? In
fact, you told me to find a replacement.”

“How’s that going for you?” he asks roughly. I can feel him
tapping into his asshole side pretty fast.

“Amazing,” I say. “Sleep has never been better.”

“Must be why you have dark circles under your eyes.”

“You caught me,” I say with a shrug. “I haven’t found a
decent pillow replacement, but I’m still on the hunt, per your request.”

With a deep inhale, his muscles flex, and anger shrouds his
gaze.

I add, “You replaced me too.” A lump rises in my throat “It
looked like you enjoyed going down on her.” He stares unflinchingly, that rage
brewing. When he doesn’t reply, I just shrug and add more, “Which is good, you
know. You’re dating other people, I’m dating other people—”

And then his lips meet mine, kissing me with abrupt,
forceful passion that explodes my chest. A breathless moan leaves me before I
can catch it.

Our bodies connect like they’ve been dying for this
affection for years. He hikes
both
of
my legs around his waist, pinning me to the wall, to this place, to
him.
His tongue effortlessly slides into
my mouth, wrestling with mine in the most natural way possible. My fingers
slide into his thick, soft hair, gripping and exploring in ways I’ve only
dreamed of.

He breaks away once, his hand above my head as his whole
body weight melds against me. He says in a low masculine voice, “You don’t need
to replace me. You can have me, sweetheart.”

I pant for air. “Say that again.”

His lips brush my ear, hot breath warming me. “How about I
just fucking kiss you?” He finds my mouth again, and we attack like we’re
thirsty for each other. I drink him in with every kiss, my body curving towards
his chest and his hardening against mine.

I cross my ankles around his waist, dying in this heat, in
this insane pleasure. I don’t stop to think about what all of this means. I
just focus on the feelings, some I’ve never even met before.

He breaks away again, this time to suck on my neck, his lips
soft but the pressure hard and aggressive like him. My next moan sounds like a
piercing cry. The spot between my legs has found his cock, only the fabric of
our clothes separating us. The more he sucks, trailing a line to my breasts,
the more my back arches, bucking against him. And in turn, his crotch drives a
little harder into me.

I barely notice that he’s untied my hair, the band around
his wrist. The long blonde strands stick out wildly. The intensity between us
stirs our need, and I thrust forward while he grips my ass, lifting me off the
wall. He suddenly spins me around, and my back digs into the stair railing.

He kisses me again. I cry out as he hoists me higher, my
bottom resting on the railing now. I sense the forty-foot drop behind me in the
stairwell, the danger present, the risk quickening my heart.

He holds me securely, his arms firmly on my hips. And then
he grinds forward, his dick right up against the spot that begins to ache and
pulse. I have never been so wrapped up in a single person, in a single moment.

Ryke
Meadows has invigorated my
body and soul.

He is more than just my pillow.

My wolf.

My bodyguard.

He’s my everything.

Every time our lips meet, it’s like a new burst of energy
between us. Our hands find new tantalizing places, mine slipping below his
jeans, resting on the top of his toned ass. He skims my bare, sensitive skin
along my ribs. His incredibly high stamina surpasses mine, and he has to stop
kissing to let me catch my breath.

He runs his finger over my tingly lip. “Every theory you’ve
ever fucking had about men, I’m going to prove wrong,” he tells me.

My chest collapses. I may pass out from this moment. I truly
thought it would never come. “I had a theory that not kissing is sexier than
kissing.” I was so stupid. I could do this forever with
Ryke
.

“I know,” he says. “And now?” His eyes fall to my lips.

I smile bright. “Just fucking kiss me.”

And he does, a grin lifting his lips. But the embrace turns
just as sensual, just as intoxicating as the last. His hand rises up my shorts,
underneath my panties, landing on my ass. He squeezes and I cry into his
shoulder.

I dig into him and clench his hair harder, and then I kiss
the corner of his mouth, denying him my lips for a second. He tries to go
forward to kiss me fully, and I resist, drawing back an inch. He stares at my
mouth, his lips parted as he watches me with a lustful gaze. When I close the
gap between us, my tongue runs against his, and his muscles harden. A groan
catches in his throat.

He’s heated every ice cold crevice. Nothing about being with
him is uncomfortable.

It feels right.

I toy with him again. And I lean back, subconsciously
thinking a wall will brace me. There’s nothing. Air rushes out of me as I fall
backwards, but
Ryke
supports me with his hands on my
bottom. He lets me hang upside down, the blood rushing to my head.

These electric sensations heighten by ten more notches. I
laugh, and he lifts me back up. My hair drapes messily in my face like I
forcefully came to a stop on a roller coaster.

My voice reverberates off the cavernous stairwell. “I have a
theory that skipping foreplay makes sex better, remember that?”

We’ve crossed one boundary, and I know we’re both the type
of people to never slow down, to run around the bases at high speed. I want
that with him. To
freakin
’ make a home run like we’re
track stars on a baseball field.

He kisses my cheek, which almost restarts us all over again,
but we restrain ourselves from attacking full force. “Not now,” he says. His
eyes flicker to my canvas watch.

“I’m not tired,” I tell him. “If anything, I’m…” I can’t
even say it.

“Wet?” He takes his hand off my ass and slips it down the
front of my shorts. Holy shit. His fingers don’t go beneath my panties. He cups
my heat, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’re not nearly soaked enough for me,
sweetheart.”

Ahh
.
I breathe heavily and I wrap my arms
around his neck.
Take me there.
Right
when I think he’s going to brush my panties to the side and slip his fingers
into me, he retracts his hand from my shorts.

“Why stop?” I frown. “Is it because we’re in a stairwell?”

His hard gaze soaks in all of me. “Calloway, I’d fuck you in
every corner of every hallway and then do it over again for good measure.”

My jaw unhinges.
 

“And I’d be more likely to fuck you in a stairwell than on a
bed.”

“Why?”

He combs his fingers through my hair and holds the back of
my head. “It’s more fucking fun.” He kisses me strongly again, my whole body
pulling towards him. My hips roll into his pelvis. He turns his head from me
and grips my waist hard. “Fuck,” he groans. His eyes fall to the way we’re
pressed together, his cock rubbing along a throbbing place of mine.

“How big are you?” I ask with heavy breath. I can feel him
through his jeans. I know he’s big. I know he’s hard. I know he’s everything
that I want.
 

“You’re not finding out today.”

I stick out my bottom lip.

“Don’t flash those green doe eyes at me.”

“They don’t melt your heart of stone?” I banter.

“Stone can’t fucking melt,” he retorts. “It just grows hot.”

“Are you hot now?”

His brows rise. “What do you think?”

I smile again. “So…” And then my lips slowly downturn as I
realize something. He never answered me about his “girlfriend”—not really. “Are
you going back to that girl when we return to Philly?” Is this some Paris
hookup while we’re both away from our families?

He glares. “Fuck no.”

“Would you be upset if I dated the model from the other
night again?”

His reaction says it all. He sets me on my feet with firm
hands, and he clenches the railing on either side of me. Anger laces his dark
eyes. “Do you want to date the other model?” His words sound stilted like he
tried pretty hard not to swear.

“Wow, you managed to say that without cursing.”

“You’re killing me.”

I poke his chest with my finger. “You
crushed
my heart when you told me to go sleep with another guy.”

“I didn’t fucking—” He growls in frustration and runs his
hand through his hair. I love, love when he does that, even when he’s upset. It
lights my core on fire. “I never wanted you to screw someone else! For fuck’s
sake, it broke my heart telling you to even pursue another guy.” He glances at
his jacket pocket and groans with more irritation. He takes out his vibrating
phone and ignores the call, putting it back. “Look at me,” he says.

My eyes meet his. He cages me back against the railing. “I
can’t watch you flirt with another fucking guy.”

I shouldn’t bring it up again, but I do. “I watched you go
down on another girl.” Pain wells inside me again, my stomach tightening at the
image. “You kissed her knee. You looked at her like she was beautiful—”

He covers my mouth with his large hand. “Fucking stop.” He
breathes heavily, a guy that runs marathons, a guy that scales mountains in
minutes. “I never slept with her, but I can’t take back what you saw. I wish to
God I fucking could.”

He never slept with
her.
This almost brings tears to my eyes. I see how much this moment is
tearing him up, and the torture that I feel reflects equally in his rigid
posture and cinched brows.

He keeps his hand over my mouth. “I’ve ignored a lot of bad
shit in my life, but I don’t want to ignore this one good thing anymore. It’s
too painful.” He stares at me deeply, my chest rising with something pure and
warm. “I kissed you tonight because I want your lips to only touch mine. From
now until forever. That’s the fucking truth.” He drops his hand.

My heart can’t stop slamming into my chest.
From now until forever.
I skim my hands
down his arms. He doesn’t withdraw. He’s serious. He wants to be together, no
more dating other people. “What about your brother?” I ask the million dollar
question, the crux. “And my mom…my dad?” They’re the biggest roadblocks.

“It’s up to you,” he says. “We can tell them, or we can do
this in private and wait until the age gap isn’t a big deal to them anymore.”

“When will that be?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Maybe when you’re
twenty.”

A year and a half.
I think I can wait that long. If we tell everyone now, I see my mom tearing him
away from me. I see too many headaches and more heartbreaks. I just want
something good. Something right without anything abysmal attached. So I say, “I
don’t want to tell anyone.”

He nods and looks relieved by my answer. I don’t think he
was ready to confront his brother. He backs up a little, but as he watches me,
he grimaces. It’s the same expression he had when I brought up Ian. “I’m going
to spell it out for you,” he says, “because I’m still fucking worried you don’t
understand what I want.”

I smile. “Okay.”

“We’re together,” he says pointblank. “I’m not going to be
with anyone but you, even if no one else fucking knows that. We don’t date
other people for show. They just think we’re single.”

I nod. “I like it.”

I hear his phone buzz. He takes out his cell again, annoyed.
He ignores the second call. “We need to go upstairs to your room.”

I tilt my head with a playful smile. “How forward of you.”

“Cute,” he says. “But we’re not fucking. We’re meeting two
people there.”

I frown. “What?”

“I didn’t fly alone.”

The bottom of my stomach drops and my eyes grow to saucers.

“You think I could leave Philly to check on you without
worrying anyone else? They read the tabloids too.” They learned that I was
thrown out of the
Havindal
collection.

“Who?” I ask. “Who came?”

He touches the small of my back and guides me up the stairs.
“Surprise.”

I do like surprises.

But this one will be bad no matter what. Being alone with
Ryke
sounded like a hot, steamy vacation. Add in one of my
sisters or his
brother
, and it turns
awkward and uncomfortable…but definitely more dangerous.

Danger.
That is
alluring. And it’s what partially drew us together in the first place.

I realize, right now, that this is the beginning of
something new.