Hothouse Flower (8 page)

< 11 >

RYKE MEADOWS

Emergency!
SOS!
– Lily

I eat one bite of my fucking sub at
Lucky’s
before Lily sends me an SOS. It seems too comical to be serious. I set the sub
on the wrapper, tomatoes and lettuce falling from the bread. “Did you guys get
a text from Lily?” I ask Connor and Lo across from me.

Lo freezes, clutching his Fizz Life can. “No, what does she
want?”

It’s unusual for Lily to text me before Lo. “I don’t know
yet.” I text back:
What’s wrong?

Connor scrolls through his phone, more agitation passing
across his features than I think he’d want to show.

“Your shipment of handcuffs not come in, sweetheart?” I ask
him before picking my sub back up in two hands.

“Hoping I’ll cuff you to my bed?” he banters, his face
returning to that impassive, unreadable state. “I’d make good on your
fantasies, but Rose would be pissed at the claw marks on the headboard.”

“Now I have claws?” I say with raised eyebrows.

He combats me by arching
one.
That fucker. “You’re lucky, I don’t usually let dogs sleep in my bed, but
I’m willing to make an exception.”

I flip him off, and
Lo’s
leg
bounces nervously beneath the table. He holds his hand up at me like
what the fuck?
“What’s going on with my
girlfriend?”

Right on time, Lily calls me. I answer, and before I even
ask, she explains. “Rose got a flat tire, and she refuses to call a tow truck.”

“I can fix it myself.” Rose’s icy voice bleeds through the
speaker. She grunts a little, as though trying to lift the fucking spare tire.

“She’s in five-inch heels,” Lily notes. “I am impressed. I
really am, but it’d be even more impressive if she knew what she was doing.”

“I can read,” Rose says. “I have the manual right here. I
don’t need a man to show me how to fix a fucking tire.”

I scratch my jaw. Both Connor and Lo are glaring the hell
out of me, hearing bits and pieces of both the girls’ voices without
understanding what’s going on. I think Cobalt may snatch the fucking phone from
my hand.

Off my gaze, he says, “Rose isn’t answering my texts.”
That’s where his agitation stemmed from—he can sense when things aren’t right
better than anyone.

“You want me to come out there?” I ask Lily. I’m going to
anyway, but I figured that’s why she called. I motion to Lo to ask for the
bill. Guess I’ll have to take my sub to-go. He flags down the waitress.

“Just in case Rose can’t fix it,” Lily says

“Doesn’t she have a husband for these situations?” Even
though Connor wears suits and rides around in a limo, I’m fairly certain he’s
smart enough to fix a fucking tire.

“She doesn’t want him to rub this in her face.”

I roll my eyes again.

“I can do this better than him,” Rose insists in the
background. “I don’t need his help.”

Lily sighs. “I’m afraid she’s going to take an hour and then
strangers are going to stop and try to help.”

“That’s why I handed you the pepper spray,” Rose tells her.
She lets out an irritated scream. “Why is this so fucking heavy?”

“Maybe because it’s a fucking tire,” I deadpan.

Lily says, “You’re lucky she can’t hear you.” So I’m not on
speaker then. She must turn to Rose because she adds, “And I’m not pepper
spraying a nice person who tries to help us.”

“You would if they tried to rape you,” Rose retorts.

They’re so fucking dramatic. “No one is going to rape the
two of you.”

Just like that, both Connor and Lo reach over the table to
try and steal the phone from my hand. I hold it high above my head and lean
further back.

“
Bro
,” Lo sneers,
“I’m not messing around. Let me talk to her.”

“Is that Lo?” Lily says. “You have to come alone,
Ryke
. Lo will bicker with Rose and cause more problems.
She’s already in a bad mood.” Anxiety pitches her voice, and I imagine her
nervously biting her nails.

“I’ll come help you. Just text me the address,” I tell Lily
before I hang up.
Lo’s
eyes flash murderously at me,
and even Connor looks pissed. Rose has been putting a serious fucking wall up
between them lately. But they have a strange relationship already, filled with
mind games that I can’t keep up with.

“The girls have a flat tire,” I explain. “Lily said Rose
didn’t want you there.” I nod to Connor. “And since you get on Rose’s last
fucking nerve…” I nod to Lo. “She doesn’t want you there either.” I stand and
open my wallet, throwing a hundred dollar bill down. “I’ll drive.”

There’s no way I wouldn’t bring Connor and Lo with me.

That’s his wife and his fiancée.

I’m just the manual fucking labor.
 

* * *

When we arrive, Rose is crouched down beside the
back right tire, the treads unraveled and the rubber flat, like they popped it
somehow. She inspects the tire from a distance, careful not to grease her
hands. Not because she’s a fucking girl but because Rose is OCD. She freaks
when a layer of dirt crusts beneath her nails.

She’s also treating her black dress like it’s a living creature
she hopes to protect. That’s not entirely right. If she had to pick between
nurturing a stranded cat or saving a purse from the rain, she’d choose the
fucking purse. She rests her ass on her ankles, supported by heels, very aware
not to touch the ground and ruin her clothes.

I park the car behind her Escalade. The back road is quiet,
no houses around, just one lane towards a hill, trees and grass. Lo climbs out
first, heading towards Lily who unsurprisingly bites her nails and flips
through an instruction manual, a canister of pepper spray in her back pocket.

The minute she sees him, her whole body lifts, and my
brother—he wears a smile that’s rare in anyone else’s presence but hers. I’ve
never really seen love until I saw them together, truly.

They kiss, and I go to help Rose just as Connor shuts his
car door.

Lo has to say something. “This is the progress you made?” he
asks Rose. “I thought you were supposed to be Wonder Woman.”

She huffs, her cheeks reddening with anger. “Not now,
Loren.”

“How many geniuses does it take to change a tire?” Lo taunts
with a smile. Lily punches him in the shoulder, and he mock winces. He rubs his
arm. “That hurt, love.”

“Be nice.”

He kisses her temple. “I’m just happy you’re okay.”

This causes her to smile again. It’s cute. All of it. But
it’s also annoying the hell out of me because I think of Daisy. Normally she’d
be here too. Normally she’d be standing over my shoulder, peering at the car
and helping me out.

Instead, I know I’m going to have to jack the Escalade by my
fucking self and put in the spare. The couples are paired off, and I’m left
alone this time.

Maybe a year ago, I would have been used to being the fifth
wheel.

Not anymore.

Now it’s frustrating.

I don’t take Rose away from inspecting the underbelly of the
car from afar. I let Connor do that.

He towers over her, six-foot-four, his hands in his pockets.
“If you’re trying to prove a point that you’re better than me, you do realize
that I wouldn’t have tried to change the tire myself,” he tells her. “I would
have been smart enough to call a tow truck.”

She shoots him a withering glare. “Don’t make this about
you, Richard.”

“You made it about me the moment you didn’t want me here.”
He grabs her wrist and pulls her to her feet with strong force.

She straightens out her dress, fire still in her eyes. I
bend down and start working on replacing the flat, but they’re close enough
that I hear their whole conversation.

“What are you scared of?” Connor asks her with a frown.

“Je
n’ai
pas
peur
,”
Rose replies in fluent French. I translate easily:
I’m not scared.

I act like I can’t understand them. They think I’m just as
clueless about the foreign language as Lily and Lo, but I’ve been fluent since
I was a little kid. I just don’t feel like explaining why I know French to
anyone. It’s easier to ignore it.

“
Alors
,
dites-moi
ce
qui ne
va
pas,” he says.
Then tell me what’s wrong.

Rose jerks her hand away from him and raises her chin. “I
wanted to do it myself.”

“It’s more than that,” he says. “You and I both know this
isn’t about a tire. You’ve been shutting me out for weeks.”

“If you’re so smart, shouldn’t you be able to figure out
why?” She crosses her arms in challenge.

His eyes narrow. “Ne
jouez
pas
ce
jeu
avec
moi
,
chérie
.
Vous
perdrez
.”
Don’t play
this game with me, darling. You will lose.

I glance over my shoulder, and Rose looks a little nervous,
inhaling a sharp breath. She is scared. But like Connor, I just have no fucking
clue what it’s about.

“Hey,” I call to Rose. She looks at me and the tire like I’m
not moving fast enough. I restrain the urge to flip her off. “Where were you
and Lily going anyway?”

“Shopping,” Rose says, way too fast.

I know a fucking lie when I hear it. “Glad I fucking asked.”
I shake my head and grab the spare tire.

Connor studies Rose’s features, realizing she’s not being
honest either.

Rose says, “You knew what you were getting into when you
married me.”

“A lifetime of challenges.” His lips rise. “Il
n'y
a
rien
de
mieux
.”
There is nothing better.

She almost softens at his words. He strokes her glossy hair
and then kisses her forehead. Before I attach the spare, I spot Lo and Lily by
my Infinity.

He has her pinned against the car. They aren’t kissing, but
he whispers in her ear with a smile that dimples his sharp cheeks. She’s a
giant fucking red tomato, so whatever he’s telling her—it’s dirty. I’ve never
seen sex embarrass someone as much as it does Lily—and I know it’s because
she’s an addict, more ashamed. But she’s clearly turned on by my brother,
giving him big bedroom eyes.
 

I shake my head.

I feel like the only normal one.

But that’s a load of crap. None of us are really normal.
We’re all just strange pieces in the world. And the half that usually connects
with me is thousands of miles away, in Paris.

I just hope she’s sleeping.

If I picture her in a peaceful fucking slumber, I stop
worrying. It’s the only thing keeping me grounded, keeping me right fucking
here. Without that image, I’d lose my shit.

< 12 >

DAISY CALLOWAY

4:30 a.m.

Since I arrived in Paris three days ago, I’ve slept five
hours, and I’m not really sure if it can be considered sleep. I woke up
screaming and thrashing at an “invisible enemy” as
Ryke
calls it. I can barely even remember what was grabbing me in my nightmare, but
that kind of sleep is something I don’t want to return to.

Right now I am pumped full of caffeinated drinks and diet
pills. I used to smoke cigarettes, the nicotine high fairly decent to keep me
awake during long shoots. But when
Ryke
started
teaching me how to ride a motorcycle, he convinced me to stop smoking. I
haven’t touched a cigarette since. I don’t crave the nicotine at all. I just
ache for sleep or at least a shot of adrenaline.

On the runway yesterday, I literally thought I was floating
across the glassy surface in five-inch heels. I wore a peacock headpiece. I was
so
close to flapping my arms, and in
my mind, I had already raced off the stage, down the street and jumped into an
ice cold lake. I have no idea why that sounds so appealing, but it does.
Anything but standing around, waiting. Sitting in chairs, waiting. So much
waiting. I can’t decide if I’m more bored or more tired.

I cup a steaming coffee while a stylist pulls every small
strand of my hair into a braid. I look like Medusa or possibly a dreaded girl
on Venice Beach. I’d think it was cool if it didn’t take so long. I shift so
much in the seat that the stylist threatens to take my coffee away.

This job would suit a million other people better than it
does me.
 

People buzz around us, constantly moving, but it’s usually
not the models who are doing the buzzing. It’s production assistants wearing
microphone headsets, holding clipboards, and makeup artists and designers. I am
stationary. Basically no more human than an article of clothing that a PA
carries on a hanger.

A brunette model with a splattering of freckles across her
cheeks sits in a makeup chair next to me. She’s getting the same braid
treatment. I met her about a month ago when she signed with Revolution
Modeling, Inc. The same agency as mine. Our hotel rooms are across from each
other. Christina is only fifteen and thin as a rail. She reminds me a little of
how I was when I first began my career. Quiet, reserved, observant—just taking
it all in.

She lets out her fourth big yawn.

“Here,” I say, passing her my coffee.

“Thanks.” She smiles. “My parents don’t usually let me drink
caffeine, but I don’t think they’d mind if they saw how much I’m working.”

“They didn’t come?” I frown. My mom always supervised my
time at Fashion Week. At first, I thought it was because she was protecting me,
but later, I wondered if it was because she wanted to be a part of this world
and was afraid of missing out. Now that seems more likely.

“No. They couldn’t afford to fly here.”

She’s from Kansas, and she said it almost bankrupt her
parents just to go to New York at the chance of landing an agent. Now she’s the
sole breadwinner for her family. I can’t imagine that, and I think having
Christina around has humbled me a little more.

“If someone offers you coke,” I tell her, “I’d just say no,
okay?”

Her eyes grow as she looks between both of our stylists, who
don’t even flinch, and then back to me. Cocaine is a lot of people’s upper of
choice. When I was fifteen, I tried it during Fashion Week. A guy shook a
little plastic packet at me and said, “This’ll help you stay awake.”

Two lines later, I’d officially jumped into the deep end of
adulthood—or what felt like grown up experiences.

Christina realizes that no one really cares that I admitted
to cocaine circulating around, and she nods. “Yeah, okay.”

I lean back in the chair as soon as a makeup artist decides
to work on me. I’m getting double duty, two stylists at once. She pinches my
chin to turn my head towards her, and she stares disapprovingly at the bags
underneath my eyes.

My stomach makes an audible noise, gurgling. The stylist
hands me a granola bar.

“Just eat a couple bites,” she says. “You can throw it up
later.”

“I’m not into the whole bulimic thing,” I say. “Or the
anorexic thing.” I sense the makeup artist listening a little too closely.
Sometimes I forget that they can sell anything I say to a gossip magazine.
They’ll be identified as an “inside source” when they’re quoted. “Thanks for
the bar,” I tell her. I’ll taste it. I’m too hungry not to.

My body is already slowly eating itself. It’s the main
reason why I want to quit modeling. My health has been tanking from the sleep
stuff—add this and I know I may do some damage.

I chew on the gritty bar that tastes more like tree bark
than peanut butter and almonds. Christina is finished before me since she has
less hair to braid. I’m going to be here for another two hours, I swear. At
least the makeup artist has joined the other girl in the braiding. I tried to
do a strand by my face, but the stylist slapped my hand away.

The chair fills quickly beside me. A male model slouches
down, holding a whole bowl of fruit. He notices the granola bar in my hand.
“Where’d you get that?” he asks enviously.

“The tree people,” I tell him, taking another bite and
passing him the granola. “What’s wrong with the fruit?”

He bites the bar and sinks back in his chair like he’s in
food heaven. It makes me smile, one of the first times I’ve done so since
arriving in Paris.

“Carbs,” he says, answering my question. “Craft service only
has fruit and raw vegetables.” He takes a swig from his water bottle. “They
told us we can eat whatever we want, but either all the waifs scarfed down the
crackers and sandwiches or someone tricked me.”

“They don’t want anyone to overeat,” I say. “Some years the
selection is better.”

“Last year,” he says with a nod. “Last year was better. They
had muffins.”

I groan. “Don’t talk about muffins.”
 

“Blueberry
and
banana
nut.”

“You are a cruel, cruel person…” I trail off and get a good
look at him, realizing I’ve never met this model before.

“Ian,” he says, taking another bite of my bar. He has
muscles, not a “waif” as he called the naturally skinny guys. His face is
classically beautiful like a Greek statue. I’ve seen him in a cologne ad, I
think. He holds out the granola to me.

“You finish it,” I say.

“I’ll trade you.” He raises the fruit. “It’s no muffin,
but…” He smiles. And of course, it’s gorgeous, full white teeth, bright and
welcoming.

I like this guy. He speaks my food language. “I’ll take it.”
We swap. “I’m Daisy, by the way.”

“I know. I think I sat on your face at a bus stop today.”

I mock gasp. “You sat on my face? Impossible. I don’t let
strangers do that.”

He laughs. A stylist sprays
blue
dye in his hair. Fashion designers are crazy. I should know,
Rose is one. Though she didn’t get invited here. She’s still back in Philly.

“So,” he says, “I’m six-two, blue eyes, brown hair,
twenty-five…” He tilts his head towards me as his stylist pauses to reach for
hair spray. “I can list off my measurements, but something tells me you won’t
care about the size of my chest.” This reminds me of a similar conversation
that I had with
Ryke
once upon a time. He was trying
to convince me to eat cake.

“Your hips also don’t
have to be measured in the morning,” I told him.

“They can be,”
Ryke
said. “Will you eat the fucking cake if I measure my
hips?”

“And your ass.”

“You want to know the
size of my ass?” His brows rose.

“Yep.”

“Eat the cake.”

I smile more out of remembrance from that moment than out of
attraction towards Ian.

I shake my head at Ian. “Only your ass.”

He grins. “I only give that to girls I really like.”

“Damn,” I say. A pit sinks to my stomach. We’re flirting. I
don’t want to taint that memory I had with
Ryke
by
continuing this banter with Ian. It’s starting to make me a little nauseous.
Maybe that’s the fruit or the one bite of tree bark.
But this could be a good thing.
He could be my number seven. This
is what
Ryke
wanted, right?
Stop hanging onto what could be, Daisy. Let
Ryke
and the past go.
 

Ian wears an easygoing smile as he checks me out. “You want
to meet up later?” he asks.

Maybe commenting on his ass was a bigger signal than I
thought.
Ryke
never acted on the flirty nature of our
conversations. Sometimes I forget that not everyone is like him. Most guys will
prod further, not stop at a point. They want the sex. All of it. Not just the
dirty talk.
Maybe this is a good thing.
It
doesn’t feel that way.

But I think about going back to my room late tonight after
runways. The balcony doors don’t have deadbolts, so it’d be really easy for
someone to punch through the glass and just unlock the door from the inside. I
couldn’t sleep the first night because I kept glancing at that door. Maybe
having Ian around will help me calm down…and maybe sex will help me sleep
without Ambien. I haven’t tried it before, but I also never wanted to medicate
with sex.

I didn’t want to have Lily’s problem.

These new possibilities sound better than my current
situation. So I give Ian my cell number. I also didn’t want anyone to know my
hotel room, but I don’t think it’ll hurt to just tell Ian.

I feel like there’s no perfect choice here. There are a lot
of negatives, a few positives, and so I just have to pick.

“Know where I can find these tree people?” he asks, waving an
empty granola wrapper.

I smile. He’s not too bad.

I think I just made my decision.