Текст книги "Kiss the Sky"

Автор книги: Becca Ritchie

Соавторы: Krista Ritchie
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

“What’s going on at school, Dais?” Ryke asks.

I glance over my shoulder to make sure Lily and Lo aren’t here. At least they’re still sleeping.

Daisy chokes on a sporadic breath. “I…I’m fine…really.”

I exchange a worried look with Ryke.

He mouths, It’s not fucking good.

I know, I mouth back.

But what can we do? She has to finish prep school, and I can only guess the kind of ridicule kids are casting on her. She’s famous now. Her sister is a sex addict, and she’s been painted as a sex-addict-to-be. Her photographs are everywhere—sometimes deliberately from modeling, other times not consented from paparazzi. It’s an abrupt change from her old life, and none of us can relate to her current situation. We’re all in our twenties, out of prep school by now. We don’t have to worry about bullying like that.

“We’re going to take care of this,” I tell her. I’m going to surround the fucking townhouse with security. We had iron fences and a guarded gate at our home in Princeton. We should have had better things in place here. “How’d he break through the front door?” I ask Ryke.

He glares. “I didn’t have time to fucking ask.”

My lips tighten. “Did he touch her?”

Ryke stares back down at Daisy. “Did he fucking touch you, Daisy?”

She shakes her head repeatedly. “No…I’m sorry…” She wipes her eyes quickly and tries to bottle her emotions.

“Don’t you ever fucking apologize for another guy’s offense,” he growls. He layers on a few more curse words as he glares at the ceiling.

Wow. Ryke jumped up twenty points in my book. Not for the swearing, to be clear. “When did you become such a feminist?” I ask him.

“Since I learned my alcoholic father cheated on my mother. Then he fucking left her so he could raise his bastard son.” The bitterness and resentment pours from his harsh words.

“I shouldn’t have asked.” His family tree is fucked up. I smooth Daisy’s hair.

Connor pads over to us, pocketing his phone. He no longer has the guy by the shirt. In fact, the man is gone. “Your father’s security came and took him,” he tells me. “He broke through the front door with a bump key.”

“We need—”

“Your father already hired extra security to stand outside. He’s taking care of the incident quietly. No one will know about this unless Scott decides to air it. He has footage of the man coming up the stairs and through the hallway.”

I look for Scott, but he’s gone too.

“Lily and Lo…” Daisy murmurs, rubbing her eyes.

“They won’t ever find out,” Ryke says. “This stays between the four of us.”

And Scott. But no one adds him or my father’s name to the mix.

And we don’t ask why Lily and Lo can’t know. It’s what Connor had told my father on the phone. The guilt would hurt them so much. The crazed media was spawned from Lily’s addiction being publicized. But I bear some of the guilt myself—for putting my sisters through a reality show with awful security, for ditching their bodyguards. But I can withstand that guilt and come out strong.

Lily and Lo can’t. They’re addicts. This is naturally going to tear them apart, and they could turn to their vices to numb the feelings. And none of us want that. We’ll be the walls that shield these terrible events from them. We can endure the pain for however long they need to heal.

It’s what the four of us agreed to the moment Lily was afraid to step out of the house and meet the world. The moment Lo looked sick each time he tried to convince her to go outside and face the coldhearted media.

There was a very dark point where we all believed they’d die together. Where they’d call it quits. There were moments where I wondered how any girl could endure what she was going through. And I think the only reason they both didn’t leave the world was because they refused to leave it together.

Leaving separately—causing the other to suffer that horrific loss—I doubt that was even an option in their minds.

[ 22 ]
CONNOR COBALT

“What is it?” I ask Rose while I pay for the check at the crowded restaurant. The seven of us—Scott included, who feels more and more like a tagalong as Rose and I grow closer—ate out at Valentino’s for dinner.

The more popular Princesses of Philly becomes, the more press has latched onto us. Besides the drones of photographers outside, families in booths snap pictures of us with their phones as we sit at a long table.

But that’s not why Rose’s brows have pinched together. She cups her cell on her lap and concentrates on the blue-lit screen.

I hook my ankle to her chair and drag her closer to me.

“She’s relentless,” Rose says stiffly.

I read the text.

3 months and 24 days – Mom

“Should I even ask about wedding dress shopping?” Last time I questioned about the cake, Rose almost went manic, spouting off things that her mother told her in a discordant mess. I couldn’t understand anything she was saying, not even as she spoke in French. She kept pacing in our bedroom and breathing abnormally. It took me an entire hour to calm her down.

“Lily said she didn’t want to go,” she says. “I can get Daisy and Poppy to be fitted for bridesmaids’ dresses without Lily there, but I can’t just go pick out a wedding gown for her.” She stays relatively at ease, so she must have thought of a solution.

“And?”

“I’m going to sew her one,” she tells me. “I’ve been designing it for the past week. I think I can finish it in the amount of time I have left.”

I don’t want to reiterate what Frederick has been telling me, even though I know it’s true. She’s taken on too much. She’s not only planning Lily’s wedding and her bachelorette party, but she’s been working tirelessly on reviving Calloway Couture. She refuses to hire employees until her profit margin increases, so she’s tasked with all of the social media and inventory, not to mention calls from hopeful investors and department stores.

It’s a lot for one person to handle. I can’t see how designing a wedding dress will alleviate any of her anxiety, but I’d rather not be a hypocrite in this situation. My body is being fueled by Adderall. It’s not the noble solution, and I wouldn’t want Rose to take it.

“I’m sure you’ll find time,” I say, trying to believe the words so they don’t feel like such a lie.

“So do you really have a boyfriend or are you just fucking with us?” Ryke asks Daisy as he tosses his napkin on the table, servers clearing away the last of our dirty plates.

“Yeah, how come he’s never been in an episode?” Lo asks.

Daisy leans back on two legs of her chair and shrugs. “I don’t know. Ask Scott.”

“Let’s not talk about production,” Scott says casually. Maybe he has trouble not being a complete and utter dipshit because his eyes do a number on Daisy—staring at her makeup-less face, her natural beauty enough for him to stare longer and harder. His eyes even fall to her breasts, the sides exposed in a Calloway Couture gold sparkling top, the neckline plunged.

“Eyes up here,” Ryke forces, waving his knife towards his own face in a threatening gesture.

Scott doesn’t peel his gaze from Daisy, which is starting to aggravate the fuck out of me. The public has been clear that they’re overwhelmingly Team Scott in this fake love triangle. I think the last blog comment I read said something like: Connor is getting on my mf-ing nerves!! What the hell does Rose see in HIM?! Scott loves her soooooo much. – LadyBug345

I’ve also learned that many people want to fight me. I get “I want to punch Connor Cobalt!” all the time. I almost choked on my coffee this morning, laughing hard as I went through comments. Behave, Connor. If you were my son, I’d wash your mouth out with soap. – DeeDeeJohnes

DeeDee, I admire your fervor, even if you’re not on my side. That’s what I feel with each disdainful remark. At least these people care about something so deeply that they’re willing to shout about it online.

An impassioned spirit truly paints the gray world with color.

What the public hasn’t realized is that Scott has been shying away from Rose more and more. He’s refocused his attention. Two days ago, he showed Lily a photoshopped picture of her head cut and pasted on a humping bunny. Some guy made it online, and it spread through Tumblr. Even Celebrity Crush reposted the image on their website.

And Lily has been purposefully avoiding any criticism about her or the show. Scott took it upon himself to change that.

Lo almost went postal when he came home to find Lily bawling in Rose’s arms. Literally, I had to cover my hand over his mouth so he’d stopped threatening to cut Scott into tiny indistinguishable pieces.

There was one benefit from this. Our mutual hate for Scott has trumped any sort of disagreement we’ve had since the screening party. I’ve seen only a small change in my relationship with Lo. When we joke around, his features sometimes sharpen more quickly, as though remembering that I don’t love him the way he probably believed I did. That I don’t even love Rose. He questions what’s real and what’s fake between us now.

I wish he wouldn’t, but I can’t change what’s happened. I just have to move on.

“Do you like dares, Daisy?” Scott asks, his eyes flitting from her breasts to her face.

“Sure,” she says.

Daisy is considered a weak link in our group. But Lily is definitely the most fragile. Scott is redirecting his attention on them. Rose and I worry about how far he’s going to go to break her sisters and fracture our group of six.

“I dare you,” Scott says with a creeping smile, “to go flash the paparazzi when we leave.”

Ryke tosses his knife onto the table nearest Scott. It clatters in his lap. “I dare you to go fuck yourself,” he sneers.

Scott just tauntingly keeps his gaze on Rose’s little sister.

Daisy stands up and everyone goes rigid. “I dare all of you to chill out. My top is staying on, thank you very much.”

I wrap my arm around Rose’s waist as we all rise to leave. Savannah, Brett, and Ben are already on their feet, filming us.

But Rose points a finger at Scott. “You’re disgusting.”

“She had strippers at her seventeenth birthday party. Taking off her top for a few cameras is nothing in comparison.”

“They were dancers, and they stayed fully-clothed,” Rose retorts with a deadly glare.

“Let’s go,” Lily says in a soft voice. “Please, everyone…”

People in the restaurant are beginning to stare. Lo rubs her shoulders.

I toss Ryke the car keys to Rose’s Escalade since I’ve been drinking and she had a glass of wine with me. He catches them easily and heads out first with Daisy. When Scott tries to stand by her side, Ryke literally puts a hand on his chest and forces him back.

“No,” he says. “You’re not allowed to fucking talk to her for the rest of the show.”

Ahead of them, Daisy glances over her shoulder, and her lips lift in appreciation. Scott must be annoying her as much as he is the rest of us.

“I can do what I want,” Scott says, lowering his voice so others can’t hear. “I own you and her. And these three behind me. Don’t ever forget that.”

I don’t restrain Ryke. Neither does Lo. But surprisingly, he restrains himself, pocketing his fists in his jeans. He passes Scott, shoving him hard, shoulder-to-shoulder, before reaching Daisy’s side and leading her out.

Scott stumbles back, but I’m more concentrated on what happens as soon as the tinted restaurant doors open. The blinding flashes of cameras are as bad as a flickering black-light in a club. And the shouts of the paparazzi, screaming questions for us to answer, blare into Valentino’s candle-lit, serene atmosphere.

Lily shrinks into Lo’s chest. “I wish my invisibility superpower would kick in,” she mutters to him.

“Don’t ever wish that,” he says and kisses her cheek. “Then I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“Teleportation then.”

“Yeah, I’m still fucking praying for that one.” He squeezes her shoulder.

Rose and I watch them closely, waiting for them to safely exit the restaurant and grow the strength to move forward. Scott has already followed Ryke and Daisy outside.

I study Rose for a second. Her neck is rigid, her shoulders locked back, and she looks ready to enter a fiery ring of hell. But she’s not breathing.

“Tout va bien se passer,” I whisper. Everything will be fine.

“Comment sais-tu ?” How do you know?

“Because I’m here,” I say with all of my confidence, willing it in my voice, my posture, my being.

Her lips rise, but she doesn’t mention how arrogant I am today. Her hand drops to mine, and she holds it tightly. And we watch as Lo finally encourages Lily to take her first steps outside.

[ 23 ]
CONNOR COBALT

One hour. That’s how long I slept. My mother called me in to file paperwork at midnight. It wasn’t a job a CEO would ever have to do, but she likes to test my tenacity—how badly I want the position.

Well, I want it badly enough that I need a second prescription of Adderall. How’s that?

I took a nap on the couch, but I had to get up to finish a research project, so here I am. Sipping my sixth cup of coffee and submitting a paper via email. My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter as I refill the coffee pot for Rose.

I glance at the screen and read the caller’s name: FREDERICK. I collect the phone, making my way onto the back patio before I answer it. “I’m heading to your office in fifteen minutes,” I tell him, resting an elbow on the edge of the large hot tub. My breath smokes the chilly air.

I hear the click click of a camera, and I spot paparazzi on the street, their arms and lenses sticking out of car windows. I don’t spin around, not caring whether they have a photo of me or not.

“That’s why I’m calling,” Frederick says. “You’re not seeing me anymore.”

I know this is about the Adderall. I texted him last night to sign-off on a refill of my prescription. He never replied back.

I take a long sip of my coffee, ignoring his comment and the firmness in his voice.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you try to predict the future. You failed by the way.”

“That prescription was supposed to last you six months, Connor. You weren’t supposed to take those pills every day. And I don’t want you coming to sessions anymore, not when you can use that time to sleep.”

“I sleep just fine.”

“Then you’ll be fine if I don’t sign-off on your refill.” He’s not bluffing, and my silence prods him to continue. “Get some sleep. I don’t want to talk or see you until you’re in a healthy routine.”

“You would desert your patient just like that?” I say calmly. I have to sit down on the steps of the hot tub, the rejection like a slap to the face, even if I don’t show it in my voice, even if Frederick’s actions come from a place of sympathy. It hurts that he’d be so quick to dismiss me when he’s been my counsel for twelve years.

“If I believe it’s in your best interest, yes, I would.”

“What’s in my best interest,” I say, “is to talk to my therapist, not to sleep my day away.”

“We can talk in three weeks when you’re back on your feet.”

“I’m always on my feet.” I glance at my position right now. I am literally and figuratively sitting down. Wonderful.

“Connor,” he says, drawing out my name so I listen closely, “you’re not inhuman. You don’t need me to remind you of what you’re feeling. It’s there inside your head.”

 I rub my dry, scratchy eyes as I process his words. After a couple seconds, I say, “You’re not expendable to me, Frederick. You’re necessary to my life.”

“I know. This is only temporary.”

“Okay,” I give in. I lose this fight. Only with Frederick do I concede so easily. I trust his advice more than I do my own at times. That’s the highest praise you can get from me, by the way. “I’ll sleep and see you in three weeks.” No more Adderall. I already know that Wharton is going to be the first to suffer from this choice. And yet, I don’t care as much as I would have months ago. My priorities keep shifting. “I have a lot to talk about,” I add.

“Category?”

“Rose. Sex.” I only say this as bait. I have no real desire to share the details of my sex life with anyone but Rose, but maybe it’ll entice him, to change his mind about today.

“Have you—”

“Not yet. But she’s comfortable enough to do it. We just haven’t found the time.” I can almost feel Frederick smiling over the phone. My sex life is the most intriguing topic we discuss, especially since my beliefs would be considered sideways from society’s norms.

For me sexuality is about attraction.

Whether it’s men, women—it doesn’t really matter. The human race is filled with passion and lust. And to coin terms like heterosexuality, homosexuality or even bisexuality makes no sense to me. You are human. You love who you love. You fuck who you fuck. That should be enough—no labels. No stigmas. Nothing. Just be to be. But life isn’t that kind. People will always find things to hate.

“I look forward to it,” Frederick says, “in three weeks.”

“Right.” We both say our goodbyes before we hang up. I return to the house and place my empty coffee cup in the dishwasher, trying not to feel weird by Frederick’s dismissal. I’m going to take his advice and sleep. But I don’t want to wake Rose by crawling into bed, so I head downstairs to sleep on the lower level—the room that Daisy used to share with a few rats. It’s clean now, but we’ve been using it for storage.

As I climb down the stairs and walk along the short, narrow hallway, something bangs against the wall. I face the door and listen closely before I enter, focusing on the sounds. Maybe…groaning and grunting.

The noises grow louder, and I distinguish an unfamiliar male voice from the heavy panting.

“Ahhh…yeah…baby, right there. Good girl.”

 I feel justified in opening the door because whoever’s having sex shouldn’t be having sex down here. So I turn the knob, but it clicks. Locked.

I hear some muffled cursing from the guy. “Someone’s trying to come in,” he says.

I don’t want to jump to irrational conclusions. Like it’s Rose on the other side. There’s no reason it would be her. Logic says it’s not. But I begin to stupidly imagine Rose on her knees with some other fucking guy.

I pound my fist against the wood. “Open up.” A lump lodges in my throat at this unnatural, senseless fear. She’s not in there, Connor.

The door swings open within seconds of my request, and I stare down at Daisy. I try to shelve whatever sudden concern I have and look at the situation a little more analytically.

She just barely cracks the door, and she blocks the inside of the room with her body, consequently hiding her boyfriend (I hope) from view.

I study her form. She’s fully dressed in sweat pants and a tank top. Not flushed. Not sweaty. Not glowing or happy. But she doesn’t look pissed either. Just disappointed. Unsatisfied. And maybe even a little glad that I interrupted.

“What do you need?” She gives me a congenial smile, and it’s rather convincing. If I wasn’t so brilliant at reading people, I’d think she was having the best day of her life.

“Who’s your friend?” I ask, choosing to be direct.

“Oh…you heard him…” She taps her fingers against the door frame and cranes her head over her shoulder. “I told you, you were being loud.”

“That happens when a girl gives good—”

“Breakfast,” Daisy says, her smile brightening. “I think I should make breakfast for everyone.”

“Do that,” I tell her, “and I’ll talk to your friend while you cook.”

She waves me off casually. “There’s no need for that. You’ll see him in the Alps.” She clears her throat. “Production is making him go on the trip.” She rocks on her heels nervously, her only giveaway right now.

So this is her new boyfriend. “And you don’t want him to come?”

She shrugs. “I’m happy that we’re going to get away from the paparazzi for a week, but I’m not too excited at the idea of Lo and Ryke giving him the third degree.”

“He should start with me then, ease him in,” I say, manipulating her a little. But it’s for a good cause. “I just want to have a civil conversation.”

“Sure. That sounds good.” But I see the worry behind the façade she’s created. Daisy has a talent at hiding her true feelings, something I’m an expert in.

Before she leaves, she turns around in the hall and talks while she walks backwards. “Could you…maybe do me a solid and not mention to Rose that Julian was making those noises?”

That’s strange.

Rose knows Daisy is sexually active. She’s also a proponent for women exploring their sexuality, even if she’s been too timid to explore her own. Based on the lack of sweat and flush, I assume Daisy wasn’t having sex.

“Rose won’t care,” I end up saying. But Daisy knows this, so what’s the real problem?

 Daisy clasps her hands together. “Right. Good.” She jabs her thumb towards the stairs. “Breakfast then.” She disappears, leaving a sinking feeling in my stomach.

Something’s not right about Julian.

I push open the bedroom door to find a tanned guy with tousled brown hair and an unshaven face. Most likely Italian.

My first reaction: He’s definitely a model. I can tell by his striking features alone, and I’m sure he’s someone she met at work. And then the minute he stands in front of the mirror and combs his fingers through his hair to style it, I see the real problem.

This guy isn’t a teenager. Not even close.

“Hey, man,” he nods at me. “You wouldn’t be her brother, would you?” He grimaces, already expecting harsh words. He doesn’t even know that she only has sisters.

“So you’re Daisy’s new boyfriend?” I ask, intentionally not answering his previous question.

He shifts uncomfortably on his heels. “Kiiind of…”

“Well the term boyfriend doesn’t have more than one implication.” I lean my shoulder against the door frame. “You’re either dating or you aren’t.”

He narrows his eyes like he’s confused.

“Well, we’re not fucking at all. She’s underage.” He grabs his coat off the chair. “What do you call that?”

A lie.

“You can still be convicted of sodomy for a blow job,” I refute. “So I call it fucking.”

His face goes pale. “Look, I’m a model. I’ve known Daisy for almost a year. We’re just good friends.”

“You’re about…twenty-two?” I ask.

“Twenty-three.”

Fuck. Ryke is twenty-three. He’s going to kill him.

I shake my head.

Daisy is confused. I read it across her face almost every time I see her. She has a career and has been treated like an adult from the fashion industry, from agents, photographers and models like Julian, since she was fourteen. But there are people, like Lo and Lily, who see her as a little sister. Who treat her like she’s sixteen going on seventeen and not her maturity level.

Age is a number that doesn’t reflect circumstance, environment or psychology. Age matters very little to me when some thirty-year-olds act like children and some teenagers take on the responsibility of households.

I don’t judge people based on two numbers. I judge them from the inside-out.

I’ve contemplated talking to Daisy about her situation. Letting her know that as confusing as it seems, it’s merely the construct of society that’s causing her to feel lost. That, no matter how many boxes people try to put you in, as long as you know yourself, you’ll be fine in the end.

And you may have to play by their rules, put up with their labels and use their terms—I’ve done so all my life—but it’s what you believe that matters most.

But I’ll never have this conversation with her. Frederick often reminds me that I am not the world’s psychiatrist. I can see through people, but I have to choose who and what I want to fix. Daisy is smart enough to get there on her own. She just needs some time.

Forbidding her friendships and relationships won’t solve her problems. It will just be another confusing reminder that two numbers matter more than her level of maturity. So I have to suffer being pleasant to her boyfriend.

“Word of advice,” I say casually. “If you’re going to have sleepovers in this house with your good friend, keep your orgasms to a minimum. I may not be the one to catch you next time, and it sounds like you enjoy your balls.”

“So…who exactly should I avoid?” He laughs.

“Everyone but me,” I tell him.

He laughs again as if this is a joke. I don’t break my even gaze and his smile falters. “Oh…” he mumbles. “Shit, that bad huh?”

“Yeah, man, that bad.” I inwardly cringe at my vocabulary, but he seems to respond better to it. His shoulders have slackened and he puts on an easy smile again. It’s almost like we’re friends.

Another one to add to my collection.

How fucking sick is that? Frederick—oh wait, I can’t call him. The annoyance builds and builds. I just need a fucking nap apparently.

“Julian, you think I could get your number? You’re coming to the Alps with us, right?”

“Yeah.” He recites his number for me and I categorize it in my phone. I have no intention of ever calling him, but if something happens to Daisy and she’s with him—it would be important information to have. “You think you can call Daisy back down here when you go upstairs? We were kind of in the middle of something, you know.” He gives me one of those looks that would accompany an elbow nudge to the hip.

He really is an idiot. “No,” I say flatly. “You can use your hand to finish up. She needs to make breakfast.” And something tells me she doesn’t want to touch you. I can’t look at him without wanting to slam his face in the crease of the door.

So I leave after I secure his number. I’ll just go upstairs and try not to wake Rose as I crawl into bed.

Thanks to Frederick, I can now sleep this day away.