Текст книги "Kiss the Sky"

Автор книги: Becca Ritchie

Соавторы: Krista Ritchie
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Daredevil .

And then Ryke pushes her legs from behind, and she falls over with a laugh. On his chest, the caption scrolls the word: Jackass.

So they’re labeling us.

The thought is silenced as the promo moves quickly. Next in line are Lo and Lily. He has her tangled in his arms, and his mouth meshes against hers as they kiss hungrily, passionately, a desire so intense that it’s almost hard to watch. It seems too intimate and too personal.

At the same time, the words Sex Addict and Alcoholic float across their bodies.

And then here comes me, Rose, and Scott. Rose looks mildly pissed off, her eyes ablaze—which is normal. But she’s turned towards me, our bodies pulled together by something magnetically strong, and as I lean in to whisper in her ear, her face ignites.

I can’t even remember what I said. I could have easily disagreed with one of her favorite feminists or I could have told her that her hair was pretty.

In the video, she shoves my arm. Twice. Waiting for me to get angry like her. Wanting to provoke me.

I just grin.

The word Smartass quickly hits my body onscreen.

On the couch, right here, I hold in a laugh that no one will appreciate. But I find this so fucking amusing. And what are they going to call Scott—a womanizer? No, that’s far too kind. Maybe something like—Scumbag Motherfucking Producer (see also: Liar).

Beside her, in the commercial, Scott’s eyes fall to her breasts.

I didn’t notice that before, and any sort of amusement I felt suddenly flits away. How could I have missed that? I also didn’t notice Rose…

She glances at Scott, ever so briefly. The attention is enough for him to tilt his head and sigh.

Please, this is a load of—

And then his caption appears. Heartthrob.

I choke on a laugh. That’s five levels of ridiculous. So he’s the white knight knocking on her tower. The hero. And I’m what the one who locked her there. It’s wrong. But it’s not necessarily backwards—I’m not the hero.

I’m the king to Rose’s queen.

And then the camera begins to slowly zoom in on Rose while both Scott and I stare down at her, painting the love triangle he so desperately wanted.

Her caption pops up in big bold letters on her body.

Virgin .

I frown. Why would this upset her? Since we were fourteen, she’s never been ashamed of being a virgin. She’s never wanted other women to feel as though they have to lose it in their twenties—that holding onto your virginity post-college makes you unwanted. She’s been proud of the fact that she’s waited. Being ashamed of this now makes no sense to me. Unless she’s more pissed by being labeled something at all.

That seems right.

The promo ends with the title logo for Princesses of Philly, and below, a tagline scrolls:

Get inside the Calloway sisters this February .

It was short. Only thirty-seconds. And it’s enough to resurface hostile emotions. So I stand calmly before anyone starts screaming.

Lily shifts on Loren’s lap and says, “I wasn’t the only one who thought the tagline was dirty, right?”

She’s completely serious. And it almost lightens the mood.

Lo nods to Rose. “Good thing you don’t give two shits about being a twenty-three-year-old virgin.”

“That’s not the problem,” she says. I know her well. She meets my gaze while I stand in front of the television that’s mounted above the fireplace. “He stereotyped all of us with one word, as though we’re caricatures.” She’s afraid of being made to look like a fool. But people have been stereotyping the Calloway girls on gossip blogs for months. This isn’t any different.

“So?” I say to her.

Her mouth falls. She thought I’d be on her side. When she’s wrong, I’m not afraid to disagree.

“People label you the moment they meet you,” I tell her. “You’re an ice cold bitch. You’re a man-hating prude, a rich stuck-up brat. They only tell a fraction of the truth, and if you let them hurt you, you let them win.”

Everyone settles down. No one wants to feed their stereotype either, and I think they’re beginning to understand that if they throw tantrums, they’re each going to look as two-dimensional as Scott wants them to be. They’d each fill the “rich kid snobbery” part well. That image would hurt many of them.

Rose’s lips tighten at the “man-hating” line. That one did sting her. I almost regret adding it in my explanation. “You’re a conceited asshole,” she tells me.

“You love me.”

She shakes her head but her lips lift. “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Being right.” She groans and leans back against the couch in a huff. “I hate that we’re all so worked up over it and you say a few words, and now everything makes sense again.”

Lo rises with Lily in his arms. “He has a gift.”

“Given by me,” I say. I forget the cameras are even in the room until I hear the zoom of Savannah’s Canon as she focuses on me while Brett’s camera is on Scott. The blond-haired producer remains by the wall, glaring.

I came in and did exactly what he didn’t want.

I calmed every single fucking person.

I flicked over his rook, his bishop, and protected my queen.

I mouth, Don’t fuck with me. These five people mean more to me than words can express. I’ve never once felt like I had a real family.

But with them—I know I do.

[ 17 ]
ROSE CALLOWAY

My parents have rented out the loft to a ritzy hotel in New York City, complete with thirty sprawling flat screens, hors d'oeuvres and two hundred of their closest friends. They call it a screening party for the first episode.

I call it a nightmare.

Let’s be clear. This is a reality show. We’re not going to look like proper, upstanding ladies of Philadelphia. I reiterated these sentiments to my mother and she waved me off. “I know what a reality show is, Rose,” she said. “But this way, we’ll be laughing with you and not at you.”

I’m not sure that’s much better.

4 months and 25 days until the wedding – Mom

I slip my phone into my clutch and snatch a champagne glass from the nearest server, who wears a signature-fitted Calloway Couture black pleated dress. Another reason why a hundred plus people are here to watch our antics: they have big checkbooks. Ones that may want to invest or buy some of the clothes that Lily, Daisy, and I wear on the show.

I scroll through my phone, checking for the millionth time that the CC website is still online. God forbid it crashes during the show. That would be my luck.

The largest flat screen at the front of the room has a countdown before the show begins. 10 minutes. 10 fucking minutes.

Where the hell is Connor?

My nerves have spiked to new degrees, and I restrain myself from pulling out my phone and checking the website again.

I scan the crowd quickly, and I spot Loren and Lily standing off to the side, nearest a large potted plant. This is their first Calloway hosted event since Lily’s sex addiction became public. Half the people in the room stare at them with curious, admonishing gazes. The other half gossip in whispers.

Lily and Loren look about as uncomfortable as they can be, shifting and avoiding eye-contact. Lo has his arm around Lily’s shoulder, touching her in comfort and rotating her body every time a camera edges too close.

There are twelve cameramen here. Just to ensure that every moment is captured for the show.

I’m about to walk over to Lily for moral support, but I barely take a step before Ryke approaches the couple. He hands Loren a can of Fizz Life and Lily his plate of Swedish meatballs. Whatever Ryke says, it has Lo smiling for the first time all night.

Two years ago, Lo and Lily would be standing miserable in a corner. Addicted and enabling. A few months ago, no one could persuade my sister to leave the house because of the gossip and ridicule.

Now they’re here.

Smiling.

I’m usually not so sentimental. But watching my sister go from lying to broken to halfway-okay has moved me in immeasurable ways.

It’s easier to be born strong than to find a strength that you never thought existed. For that, I believe she has more courage and prowess than I could ever possess.

My eyes linger on them before I start searching for Connor again. I find Daisy first, entertaining my mom with a few head nods. While Loren steals one of Lily’s meatballs off her plate, Ryke watches Daisy from across the room, his smile fading and his features hardening in concern.

None of the guys like when we surround ourselves with our mother for long. I really don’t want Daisy around her for more than an hour or two. Mom sucks our energy dry, but that’s just her abrasive, all-consuming personality. Even if you never get used to it, you just have to deal.

When I finally spot Connor, all the built-up fuzzy, warm (generally foreign) feelings I had are replaced by annoyance.

I watch as my boyfriend greets a younger guy by hugging him and slapping him on the back in a typical bro-hug. It is so out of Connor Cobalt’s nature—his true self that I know and love.

My heels clap loudly on the marble floor as I strut towards him. I tip the rest of my champagne in my mouth and set the empty glass on a tray before I land by his side.

“Richard,” I say with heated eyes. I don’t care if I look like a bitch. That’s the point. I am who I am. Why can’t he just let people see the real him? Who cares if people don’t like him?

“There you are, babe,” Connor says, hooking his arm around my waist. He nods to his friend. “Patrick, you know Rose, right?”

“We’ve never been formally introduced,” Patrick says. He holds out his hand. “Patrick Nubell.”

I don’t shake it. “As in Nubell Cookies?” It makes sense. Connor doesn’t schmooze anyone. He has to have a reason to give you his time. Money and prestige are two important factors. Nubell sits just below Kraft (Oreos) and Keebler on the marketplace. Though Nubell cookies are more natural and less appetizing.

 Patrick laughs and drops his hand, realizing I’m not going to shake it. He doesn’t seem affronted. Maybe he’s heard of my reputation. In these social circles, I am frequently called an ice queen.

“Yeah, it’s my great-great-grandfather’s company,” he explains. “You probably know how that is. People always asking you which flavor of Fizz you like the best. Well, I get do you prefer nugget or cinnamon.”

I stay quiet, which leaves Connor the opportunity to say, “Definitely, man.” He nods like he is entranced with this nugget/cinnamon conversation.

Sure, I could probably relate to Patrick on some level, but now is not the time for bonding. I have—I check my watch—four minutes until the show airs. And I need a pep talk. Preferably from Connor Cobalt and not the twat he has impersonated.

“Could you give us a minute, Patrick?” I ask now.

“Yeah, of course.” He leaves, probably searching for someone as young as him in the middle-aged crowd.

When I turn to Connor his eyes drop to mine. “That hurt me just as much as you,” he says immediately. “Trust me, I had to use the word killer and dude in the same fucking sentence.”

“You didn’t have to do anything,” I retort. “And babe, really?” I smack his arm. “And you gave him a bro-hug, Connor. Who are you?” I don’t give him time to answer because I know it will be something profoundly aggravating. “And what were you doing with Nubell Cookies? Are you trying to partner with them? That sounds like a fantastic idea. Put magnets in the tins and make everyone sick.”

I finish my rant and he full-on grins. But it’s different this time.

He smiles at me like every word I said was special. Like they belonged to him and me.

“What?” I snap, but my voice softens when I see the look in his eye that says I mean everything to him.

He intertwines his fingers with mine and draws me to his chest, “Nothing, darling.” His breath warms my ear as he leans down. “You look gorgeous in that dress. Is it yours?”

Is it yours? He’s asking if I designed it. I nod.

He brushes my hair off my shoulder as I inhale strongly. His fingers run across the black fabric with studs on the collar, and he skims my neck with an even lighter touch.

“As gorgeous as it is,” he says, “I’m going to love taking it off you tonight.” He kisses my cheek, and I have to look around the room at all the faces to remember we’re in public.

With hundreds of people.

My emotions have suddenly calmed, and as Connor squeezes my hand, I realize why.

Lo is right. He has a gift.

The countdown on the screen ticks down from ten.

Ten seconds.

That’s all it takes to decide whether this show will fail.

Ten stupid seconds.

* * *

Thirty minutes in, and it’s not looking so good.

Beside me at the screening party, Lily shields her eyes with her hand, peeking beneath as we watch the train wreck that is our lives. The six of us have congregated in solidarity by the fucking potted plant as the show continues playing. Scott chooses to stand beside my parents, whispering things to my mother, and she laughs with sincerity.

Connor’s eyes flicker from the television screens to Scott and my parents every so often. I can tell he’d like to go interject and break up Scott’s ploy to make nice with my mother and father, but he stays here. With me. And I appreciate that more than he knows.

We already watched the psychic disaster, and then I endured a five-minute clip where Daisy popped wheelies on her Ducati. She revved the bike too hard, and she slid off the back of the seat and ate it. Instead of crying, she picked up her motorcycle that rode off without her, and she tried again.

After watching that, our mother looked ready to storm over to us and scold her in front of everyone. The only thing that stopped her was the two-hundred onlookers.

I finish my second glass of champagne and snatch another one before the server darts away. The interview segments are the most interesting part of Princesses of Philly. None of us have seen each other’s tapes. Scott would stand behind Savannah’s camera, conducting the interviews in our study, the walls lined with books. And he’d dictate questions to her to ask us—just so his voice wouldn’t be recorded. God forbid anyone knows he’s orchestrating the show.

“Lily and Lo f**k a lot,” Ryke says, each f-bomb bleeped accordingly. He sits on a brown leather chair. “If we had to rank who’s getting the most, it’d be my brother, his girlfriend, then maybe Connor Cobalt and his hand.”

Beside me, Connor grins and sips his wine, finding Ryke’s comment more amusing than I would.

Ryke’s eyes float towards the door that opens.

Daisy peeks her head through, walking straight in. “I need you out front for a second,” she says. “What was the last question? If it’s important, I can come back later.”

Ryke stands. “No it’s fine.”

I don’t like where this is headed. Why would this be shown?

We hear Savannah’s voice but can’t see her. “He was ranking who has the most sex in the house. How would you rank everyone?” Savannah asks.

Daisy’s face lights up with a smile.

“Don’t answer her,” Ryke says.

“Lily and Lo,” Daisy ignores him with a playful grin. She bounces on her feet like she drank way too much caffeine. “They f**k a lot.”

Ryke rolls his eyes.

By the potted plant, Daisy apologies to Lily, “I’m so sorry.” And then her eyes flicker between Ryke and Lo. “Please don’t get upset.” She directs that mainly to Lo.

Lo turns to his brother and just gives him a deep glare. “How many shades of inappropriate are we about to see?”

“Fifty,” Ryke quips, his lips slowly rise and we all burst into laughter, despite the show still playing. People stare at us like they missed something on screen. They didn’t. But finding the humor in our lives is much better than reliving the bad parts.

“And then who?” Savannah asks Daisy.

Ryke stares down at Daisy with a hard glare. “Don’t answer her.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t get that far.”

Daisy grins like she’s excited to be the first to divulge the information. She spins around and stares right at the viewers [the camera] and Ryke grabs her around the waist to stop her from speaking. But she says, “I’m totally getting more ass than Ryke Meadows.”

She laughs as she squirms in his hold.

“She’s not getting more ass than me,” he says. He tries to pull her into his arms and turn her away from the camera. But she spins around quickly again and plants her hands on his chest.

“Oh yeah? I have a boyfriend. What do you have?”

“A six-pack and big f**king c*ck.”

The crowd breaks into loud talk at that. Loren’s eyes flash murderously at his brother. And Ryke just shakes his head at himself.

Connor can’t stop laughing.

Daisy tries to wrestle with him again, and her shirt rises on her waist, revealing a purplish bruise on her hip. Ryke goes incredibly still, and Daisy stops moving as her face falls.

“It’s nothing,” she says quickly. “Come on, I need you out front.”

We all turn on Daisy who has taken a seat on the floor, texting in solitude. She’s ignoring us on purpose. And I wonder…

When I gave Daisy pepper spray, it seemed like she was keeping a secret with Ryke. I completely forgot about that, and so I never badgered them for the information. I think I’m finally going to get some answers, and they’re just going to be handed to me. No work involved. Look, the show has another perk. Who would have thought?

“Hey.” Lo nudges Daisy’s back with his foot. “What the fuck is going on?”

“It’s taken care of,” she says noncommittally, fixed to her phone.

Lo glances at Ryke. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Just fucking watch,” Ryke says. “It doesn’t matter now. They’re airing it.”

Connor sips his wine. “Clearly you hoped they wouldn’t.”

“A part of me did, actually. But I was protecting that one…” He leans behind his brother and points to Lily who has her head on Lo’s shoulder. “So give me a fucking break.”

“What? Me?” Lily points to her chest sheepishly. “I’m okay.” But her voice is small. She’s had to see herself make out with Lo, and all of us had a three-minute heated debate whether this was considered soft-core porn—which she’s not allowed to watch.

Then Daisy off-handedly admitted to being a porn-watcher—more to keep Lily from shrinking into herself in shame. And Lo made a face like someone stabbed ice picks in his ears.

I’m immediately brought back into the show after hearing one particular line from my sister:

“He threw something at me.”

Ryke breathes heavily. “It looks like he f**king grabbed you.”

She pauses. “Can you please come outside and I’ll explain.”

With locked shoulders, Ryke follows Daisy downstairs, into the living room, and out the front door. When they reach the street, she leads him to her parked Ducati on the curb. The taillights and headlights are busted. And the handlebars are bent out of shape.

“What the f**k? Mother ****ing, piece of sh*t **** **** ******* kidding me.” He glares. “Who f**king did this?”

“Some douchebag downtown. I came out of Lucky’s, and he was smashing my bike with his boot. He told me, and I quote, ‘Get out of here, you spoiled c*nt of Philly.’”

Ryke cringes at the one swear word I’ve never heard him use. “It wasn’t your boyfriend?”

“No,” she says. “He wouldn’t hurt me. I just…I was trying to get my bike back, and we had a bit of a confrontation, hence the bruise. It’s nothing really. I was just glad the paparazzi didn’t show up.”

Lily gapes. “They’re that angry at us for filming?” The fear blinks in her eyes. If Philly locals did this to Daisy—then what the hell are they going to do to my little sister whose sex addiction has been plastered on national news?

The heckling—it’s not something I really thought about before.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Daisy tells both of us.

But Ryke’s hardened jaw says differently. On screen and off.

Ryke inspects the damage on her bike, shaking his head more and more. “We need to press charges.”

“I didn’t get his name.”

“But you can describe him to the police.”

She stays quiet.

“He f**king assaulted you, Daisy. He’s not getting away with this sh*t.”

“I don’t want to cause more trouble, really. Let’s just forget about it.”

“You want me to f**king forget about it?” His eyes fall to her waist where he saw the bruise. And then he stands and tries to pull her shirt up.

Connor chokes on his wine. I rub his back with a mechanical hand. I really want to smack Ryke’s head, but I’m restraining myself—something Ryke clearly cannot do.

“I gave you way too much credit,” Connor tells him. “I thought you were smart enough not to do that on camera.”

“On camera?” Lo interjects. “How about not at all.”

Daisy waves her hand from the ground, still texting. “Right here, guys.”

Ryke extends his arms. “What do you want from me? She just told me she got mauled by some fucking angry idiot on the street, and she wouldn’t tell me how bad it was.”

“For the record, it wasn’t that bad.”

“It was fucking bad.” Ryke glares at her. “Your whole side was fucked up.”

“What is fucked up?” I say in worry. “Do you need to go to the doctor, Daisy?”

“I already went,” she says. “I’m fine. No internal bleeding—”

“I’m going to strangle you,” I tell Ryke. I step towards him, and Connor clutches my arm, pulling me back to his chest. My sister was that hurt and no one thought to inform me?!

“Why are you fucking yelling at me?” Ryke shouts. “I’m not the one who tossed her to the ground.”

“You should have told me!”

“Daisy didn’t want you to know,” Ryke retorts. “Is it that hard of a concept? You freak the fuck out, Rose. You’re about to hyperventilate right now.”

I’m not.

And then I realize that my chest rises and falls in a strange, uneven rhythm. Okay, maybe I’m not all there. But I hate that Daisy was hurt and I was purposefully left out of the secret. I should have remembered they were keeping something from me. I should have been by her side while she was at the doctor’s. This is my fault. If we didn’t have the reality show, she wouldn’t have met such a hostile pedestrian without a bodyguard.

“Were you alone at the doctor’s?” I ask Daisy.

“Ryke went with me.”

At least she wasn’t alone. But Lo glares at him, hardly thinking he’s a good replacement. He’s better than no one.

I glance back at the big screen. Ryke and Daisy stop fighting each other. He holds her arms while she stares up into his brown eyes.

“I’m fine,” she says.

“The more you keep saying that, Calloway, the less I believe you. What’d he do, body slam a hundred-twenty-pound girl on the f**king ground?”

“No, we wrestled. In the mud. There were cheerleaders in attendance too.”

“Shut the f**k up.”

She grins. “It’s funny.”

“You being hurt is the least funny thing in the entire f**king world.”

“And that’s the biggest exaggeration I’ve heard all day.”

They just stare at each other for three long seconds. Ryke tries to cut the tension by looking away first. He says, “I’ll take your bike to the shop. You can ride mine if you need to go to a modeling gig.”

People mutter again, and my mother’s bony collar juts out as she inhales, her frame too skinny. With the scandal, she’s eaten less and less. And it’s not long before her hateful gaze finds her target, landing on Ryke. Direct hit.

“Momma Calloway is going to ream your ass,” Lo tells him. He slaps his back and squeezes his shoulder hard. “Good luck, bro.” He smiles.

“You’re enjoying my distress way too fucking much.”

“It keeps my life bright.”

The commercial break airs, and I’m surprised my mother has the balls to stay here. She could cave in embarrassment at her daughters’ impropriety and bluntness and their boyfriends’ habit to tell it like it is. But she smiles and waves at her stereotypical WASP friends without carrying a morsel of shame. Either she’s a terrific actress or she’s grown to look past our unbecoming natures.

I’d love to think better of my mother, but people don’t change that quickly, especially not stubborn middle-aged women who’ve been rooted in their beliefs for so long.

But maybe this reality show could help her forgive and accept rather than hate.

By the time the show starts again, my head spins with a decent buzz. I grab another glass of champagne, and Connor stands behind me, his hands on my waist. He gathers my hair onto one shoulder, and the cold nips my bare neck.

We’re both suddenly distracted by the montage that plays—moments at the house when only Lily was home.

Lily squirms on the leather couch. She adjusts her feet underneath, her forehead wrinkled in distress. Her hand starts to descend towards her jeans. She retracts almost instantly, her cheeks heating. She looks around the room to see if anyone saw. And when her eyes hit the camera, looking directly at us, the viewers, she presses a pillow to her face in humiliation.

It doesn’t end there. Her internet privileges have been restored only because she’s taking online classes. And we’ve all trusted her to stay off dirty sites.

She lies on the couch, her laptop on her legs. She glances over her shoulder and then she immediately shuts her computer, fighting a dangerous compulsion. Her hand descends towards her jeans, but she stays above the fabric and touches the spot between her legs.

“How can they air this?” I ask angrily.

“The PTC will bitch tomorrow,” Connor says calmly. “Just let it play out.” The Parent’s Television Council—I’m sure they’ll wave pitchforks at the network and producers, but it’ll be all over entertainment news and blogs, just stoking the fire and causing more people to watch the footage.

Lily covers her eyes with her hands, and Lo has his lips to her ear, whispering to her rapidly while silent tears start to fall.

The clips keep coming in quick succession.

Lily rubs against a kitchen chair, unconsciously. When she catches herself, she reddens.

Lily rubs against the corner of the kitchen counter.

Lily’s hand descends—three different times. But she always stops before she gets too far.

I don’t get embarrassed about many things, but I sense the judgment, the weird stares pinning on Lily in the party room. I can practically feel my sister crumpling before I even look at her.

Lily turns into Lo’s chest and she grabs at his black crew-neck. She stuffs her head underneath, literally hiding inside his shirt while he’s still wearing it. “I’m not coming out,” she says. “Don’t make me come out, Lo.”

Loren touches her head. “Stay there as long as you want, love.” When he looks up, he sends shriveling glares to anyone who so much as glances at him. His glares aren’t necessarily like mine or like Ryke’s. They’re the kind that make you feel like he’s about to go get a chainsaw and murder your whole fucking family. It’s a sadistic, I have nothing to lose, type of look that his father taught him well.

And it’s enough to cause everyone to face the big screens again.

The footage has changed to a compilation of interviews with Daisy, Lily, and me. I remember the questions being focused on sex. No surprise. Lily’s addiction is what’s drawing the viewers to Princesses of Philly in the first place.

Since we shot everything separately, they cut to each of our answers.

“Who’s your celebrity crush?” Savannah asks.

Daisy smiles wide. “James Dean.”

My eyes pierce the camera. “Audrey Hepburn.”

Lily stares off in thought. “Uhhh…” She flushes. “Loren Hale.”

Lo laughs and stares down at Lily who’s still hidden in his shirt. “Right answer, love.”

She sniffs, and her arms wrap around his waist underneath his clothes.

“Have you read Fifty Shades of Grey?”

“Yep,” Daisy says, “one handed.” She wags her eyebrows deviously.

I say, “Any patriarchal c*cks*cker who makes a woman ashamed to read it should be slapped across the face with his—”

Lily blushes. “Uhhh…”

“Top or bottom?”

“My mother’s going to kill me,” Daisy says. “Both. Sorry Mom!”

The people in the party room laugh, and my mother even cracks a smile. I think we all forget how young Daisy is because she looks older than Lily…and she’s incredibly endearing.

But every time we cut to my answer, I look like a royal bitch compared to her, cursing the entire audience to hell.

“I’m a virgin,” I say. “Why ask me that inane question?”

“Uhhh…” Lily’s eyes widen.

“Back door or front door?”

“No c*cks have been near my a**h*le, sorry.” Daisy shrugs after answering crudely.

Lo gives her a look. “You’re spending too much time with my brother.”

She just laughs.

I tilt my head to the side. “Really?”

“Uhhh…” Lily’s eyes grow bigger with each question.

“What do you wear to bed?”

“I sleep in the nude,” Daisy answers.

“A nightgown,” I retort, not elaborating whether it’s silk or ankle-length cotton.

“Uhhh…” Lily turns her head to look at the door. “Lo!”

“Whips or handcuffs?”

“Oooh,” Daisy grins. “I like the idea of whips. But you know, me dodging the whips. Make it into a game.” She laughs.

I swear the men in this room grunt in audible desire.

I must wear a look of pure disgust because Connor squeezes my hip and whispers, “We’re not all pigs, Rose.”

He’s right. I know I shouldn’t generalize the entire male species as vile, gross things that’ll get off to my sixteen-year-old sister’s image.

And just when I’m feeling apologetic, I spot a guy with a clear bulge in his suit pants. “What do you call that?” I whisper in detest.

“A boner.”

I shake my head. “You’re such a…” I trail off and then smile. “Smartass.”

He touches his chest mockingly. “Ça fait mal.” That hurts.

“Je suis content.” I’m glad.

His grin only grows. “They could have chosen anything else to label me, you know. Genius would have been my number one pick.”

“Pretentious,” I argue.

“Or popular…”

“Conceited,” I continue.

He flashes another smile. “Handsome.”

My eyes flit from his white button-down that fits him perfectly to his deep blue eyes. “Maybe.”

He takes a sip of his wine and waves me to keep going. “I have you almost giving me a compliment, why stop now?”

 Our banter sets a fire underneath my heart. I could kiss him. But I regretfully turn towards the big screen. I realize I missed my response to the whips or handcuffs question, which was evasive anyway. And Lily most likely gave her perfunctory uhhhh.

Now the guys are being asked a series of questions, cut together like our interviews.

Loren glares, waiting impatiently for Savannah to ask him something.

“Blondes or brunettes?”

Lo stares harshly. “Brunettes.”

“I don’t give a sh*t about hair color,” Ryke says, his forearms on his thighs as he sits on the leather chair.

Connor is seated with his ankle on his knee, leaning back like a CEO of a multi-billion dollar company. He has his fingers to his jaw in mock contemplation. “What happened to redheads?”