Текст книги "Kiss the Sky"

Автор книги: Becca Ritchie

Соавторы: Krista Ritchie
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

[ 12 ]
ROSE CALLOWAY

5 months and 10 days – Mom

I slip my cell in my purse, about to head to the Calloway Couture offices. Savannah stays close by my side with the camera hovering. As soon as I head towards the door, it whips open and Daisy walks in with her white motorcycle helmet beneath her arm.

“Hey, Rose.” She sets the helmet on the leather couch and twists her long blonde hair in a loose bun atop her head.

But she’s not alone. Brett enters with his steadicam, and Ryke shuts the door behind them, his black helmet dangling in his hand. Ryke slumps down on the couch and runs his fingers through his thick tousled hair.

“Good, I caught you,” I tell Daisy, deserting my plans for a second. “I want to give you something before I forget.” I should really get Lily in the living room too. But she’s much harder to wrangle. “Stay here.” I head to the hall closet and return with a shopping bag.

Before I pass her the bag, I notice the way Ryke and Daisy share furtive glances. She shakes her head at him, and he grits his teeth, his jaw locking into hard-cut lines.

“Is everything okay?” I ask with a little edge. I don’t like being out of the loop. If it involves my sisters, I want to be in the center fucking circle.

“Perfect,” Daisy says with a bright smile. I don’t believe her, and I have a suspicion Ryke wants to come clean since he shakes his head now. She grabs the bag out of my hand to distract me.

I let the issue go, only because I can’t prod today. I need to get work done at my office, and if I dwell on my little sister, I’ll worry until someone spills the truth. It’s probably not that bad anyway. I’m sure she just sped down the highway on her Ducati and almost got herself killed. In Daisy Calloway’s adrenaline-fueled world, that situation is like the sun rising and setting.

“Ooh,” she says. “Which one is mine, the tie-dye or the leopard-print?”

Ryke frowns. “What the fuck did you get her?”

I shoot him a glare. “Not whatever you’re thinking.”

“Panties,” Daisy tells him.

“That’s exactly what I was fucking thinking.”

She smiles. “I know.” And she pulls out a plastic package that does not contain panties. “Pepper spray.” She glances at me. “I think I’ll take this one.” She holds the tie-dye package.

“Since you and Lily have given up your bodyguards for the show, I thought it would be a good idea to have some sort of protection.” In order to film, Scott had a proviso that Daisy and Lily ditch their bodyguards, who had been keeping them safe from paparazzi after we went from anonymity to celebrity. “I also signed us up for a self-defense class.”

“Didn’t you used to take those classes all the time in Princeton? Why would you want to go to another one?”

“Because you girls should learn.”

“I don’t know if I have the time,” Daisy says honestly. “I’m booked for shoots a lot this week.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Ryke chimes in from the couch.

My brows jump. “Really?”

“Sure,” he says, his eyes not softening like mine. “And if Daisy doesn’t have the fucking time, then Lo, Connor and I can help out here. We can push the furniture to the walls for space.” I would love to beat the shit out of Loren. But what’s more appealing is trying to pin Connor to the floor. I’d revel in that win for months.

“You want to help?” I ask Ryke.

“Why does everyone find that so fucking hard to believe?”

“I don’t,” I say. “I’m just wondering why you’re so concerned all of a sudden.”

“I’m always concerned. I just don’t voice my opinion every five seconds like you.”

“You’re a jackass,” I tell him casually.

“You’re a bitch.”

“Thank you.” I grab my phone out of my purse. “And I accept your help by the way. Lily really needs to learn how to protect herself without running behind Lo’s back.”

“Yeah,” Ryke says, “but you girls need to fucking admit that you can’t protect yourself against a hoard of angry guys with a mini-bottle of pepper spray and a kick to the nuts. It’s better if we’re there too.”

I dial Lily’s number. “I disagree,” I say. “The tip of my heel to your ball sac would cripple you.”

“A hoard of fucking guys,” Ryke emphasizes. He purposefully rests his dirty boots on my coffee table.

I choose not to break his neck. This time.

Daisy pries the plastic open and pops out the canister from the packaging.

I press my phone to my ear, the ringing incessant.

Daisy shakes the pepper spray. “Should I test it out?” She grins and points the nozzle at Ryke. “Stay away, you pervert!”

Ryke’s face darkens, not amused.

She drops her hand and walks over to the couch, plopping down beside him. They have an intense whisper-conversation that Brett tries to catch by edging close to Daisy. Ryke physically plants his hand on the camera lens and drives Brett back, putting space between them.

Brett glares. “You can’t touch the cameras, Ryke. How many times do we have to tell you that?”

“Back up and I won’t.”

Brett shakes his head, but he shuffles backwards.

I concentrate on my phone call, and the dial tone sounds after the last ring. I groan and click the “off” button. “LILY!” I shout. I know she’s upstairs, and I want to give her a bottle of pepper spray before I leave.

When I glance back at my little sister, I scrutinize the way she leans into Ryke as she whispers something to him. Her eyes drift over his features in a curious, impulsive manner, and my heart quickens.

She’s going to kiss him.

And then when her lips stop moving, Ryke puts a hand to Daisy’s cheek. And he forces her face away from his. It’s a gentle push that has her trying to tackle him on the couch with a laugh. They’re verging on flirting, even when his brooding features say that he’s pissed at her.

He struggles to hold her still as she slides beneath his arm and snatches his helmet. She swiftly fits it over her head, and he tries to pull it off her, his lips slowly upturning. But she wiggles out of his hold, and in seconds, she’s suddenly straddling his lap. He flips up the visor to his helmet and stares harshly at her, hiding his partial smile.

I worry that the cameras will pick up any chemistry between them. My mother will not approve of a Ryke Meadows and Daisy Calloway coupling. For multiple reasons.

“Both of you, stop it.”

Ryke snaps awake, and he shoves her completely off his body. Her back hits the cushions.

His eyes flit from me to the staircase. “Lo!” he yells. “Lily! Get your asses down here!” His voice is a lot louder than mine.

From upstairs, feet patter but then they stop and go quiet, hesitating to join the land of people and real, adult things. Lo and Lily keep to themselves, living in their own hazy, addicted world. Here, it’s a bit scary.

“Loren fucking Hale!” Ryke calls.

Nothing.

Daisy rises to her knees and grips the back of the couch. She peers up at the staircase behind me. “Lo! Lily! A comic book came in the mail for you!” She pulls off the motorcycle helmet.

Enticing Lo with something that’s not here will put him in a worse mood.

But it works.

Lo and Lily stampede down the stairs. “It’s mine!” Lily shouts at him. “I ordered the new X-Men comic.” She tries to shove him into the wall, and they block each other mid-stair.

“And I ordered the last issue of New Mutants.” He steps forward and she jumps in front of him, gaping.

“You’ve already read that! Mine is more important.” She spins to race to the door.

Daisy crouches behind the couch.

Before Lily reaches the bottom stair, Lo snatches her by the waist and throws her across his shoulder.

“Not fair!” she retorts, trying to squirm from his strong grasp.

He carries her to the door without so much as glancing at us in the living room. When it comes to comics, sex and booze, they have a one-track mind.

Ben creeps down the stairs, the camera positioned under his arm. He looks slightly petrified from being alone with them, his eyes bugged and his legs shaking.

They must have been in the study room and not a bedroom, or else he wouldn’t have been able to film them. And I’m sure they were making out with more heat than a horny cat—just to say fuck you to the cameras. They’ve been at it all week. It’s only getting worse the longer Lo has to put up with Scott.

Lily said she’s been purposefully trying to distance Lo from the producer and finding ways to keep them apart for as long as possible. I think it’s a brilliant idea.

Ben almost drops his camera.

“Steady hands,” Savannah says to him.

Brett rolls his eyes. (I’m not a big Brett fan.)

Ben lets out a nervous laugh. Documenting Lily and Loren is like being an extreme voyeur, peeping in on their intimate affairs. I bet he feels a bit gross and wrong afterwards. Even reading about Lily’s sex life online leaves me feeling violated. I imagine it’s ten times worse for Lily.

“Wait…” Lily says from the door. “There’s nothing here.”

I grab the shopping bag and head over to the two of them. “This is for you,” I tell Lily. She brightens when she thinks it’s the comic. But as she sifts through the bag’s contents, her face falls for the second time. “Pepper spray?”

“For protection.”

“No, she thought it was for greasing pans,” Loren retorts.

I glare.

“You’re going to treat us like idiots,” he says, “you’re going to get an idiot response back.”

Touché. “I’ll be leaving.”

“Look at that, Lil. The queen has announced her departure. Should we bow?”

“Lo,” Lily warns and gives him a sharp look, and for Lily, those don’t come often.

He shuts his mouth, which must take a great, great deal of effort.

“Go sit with your jackass brother on the couch,” I tell him. “And just so you know, I like that jackass better than you, and I’ve known him fifteen years less.” I flash Loren a dry smile. “See you tomorrow.”

Loren usually has the last word, but I slam the door behind me before he gets it. Bickering with Lo solidifies my day as a normal one. The bad days are the ones where everything is a little off. So far, so good.

* * *

I jinxed myself.

I know Connor does not believe in such things, but I know I fucking did something wrong. I said, so far, so good. And OF COURSE something decided to blow back in my face.

Scott is here.

At my office.

He just showed up while I was in the middle of rearranging my inventory into plastic tubs.  I was separating them according to seasons, trying to unearth the spring and summer collections that we’ll need to wear soon for the show. I’ve been letting my sisters wear their own clothes at certain times, just because I don’t have enough pieces for six full months, even if we wear an outfit twice. Hopefully Scott airs the footage where we’re all dressed in Calloway Couture and not Old Navy, which Lily gravitates towards.

“You work too hard,” Scott tells me, setting down a plastic bag on my white desk. Boxes and tubs line the large loft space. Besides that and my desk and a pig, there’s not much else in here. Oh, wait, there is Brett who films us.

Scott’s kindness must be a result of the camera in his face, trying to capture some footage of him being nice. Must be painful for him.

“I don’t,” I say. “The people who work hard are the ones dedicated to protecting our country, who do better by it. I just design clothes.” I snap the lid onto one of the tubs and wipe my hands on my black pleated dress, the seam touching my thighs (not good) and my collarbones (thank God). At least I have on sheer black tights.

“I brought you dinner.”

I watch him pull out two Styrofoam to-go containers, vaguely interested. I ignore my stomach that threatens to grumble on spot.

He opens the containers, and I see the lines of sushi, the little dab of wasabi and bundle of ginger. I barely hear him say the name of my favorite sushi restaurant in New York. I’m too slack-jawed that he got something right. Maybe I’ve been too harsh, too bitchy and judgmental just because he’s from California and says a few sleazy things.

I grimace as I try to come to terms with being nice too. I clear my throat and straighten my spine. “I only have one chair.” I near my desk and peer into the plastic bag, taking out chopsticks and soy sauce.

“That’s okay. You can sit on my lap.”

I glare.

“Just kidding,” he laughs. “I’ll sit on your desk.”

Fine. I settle in my rolling chair and pick the to-go box with the rainbow roll, also my favorite. Connor usually brings me dinner in the city, and the fact that he’s been replaced by Scott agitates me. “So who told you I liked sushi?” I ask him.

 As promised, he sits on half of my desk, his legs hanging close to me. “I’ve always known it’s your favorite, babe.”

I pause, my chopsticks frozen above the ginger. So he’s definitely playing into our fake old relationship. Two can play this game. “I never ate sushi with you,” I retort. “You said you hated it, and you always made me eat alone.”

His lips twitch in a cringe, which he hides very well. He sets his to-go box on his lap. “Things have changed.”

“You like sushi now?”

He eats a piece, chews and swallows. “I love sushi now.” He smiles, and I absorb his features, the dishwater blond hair that’s styled in a messy, dysfunctional way. And the light layer of scruff along his jaw that makes him look a little older than his age.

I hate that he’s not ugly. I wish he had a thousand warts and a hairy nose. Instead, he could be an actor on a daytime soap, not a producer.

“You miss me,” he suddenly says.

My eyes tighten. “Not for a second.” My phone buzzes on the desk.

Scott snatches it before I can.

“That’s incredibly rude,” I tell him as he opens my text.

He lets out a laugh. “Marilyn Monroe, Paul Newman, James Dean. Your boyfriend is so fucking weird.” He tosses the phone back to me, and I just barely catch it without dropping my chopsticks.

“Sometimes weird is better than normal,” I say. “Normal can be boring.”

He touches his chest. “I’m not boring, honey.”

Why does he have to say everything so condescendingly? “I fell asleep every time you wanted to have sex. What do you call that?”

“A personal problem.”

I roll my eyes and quickly text Connor back. Fuck. Marry. Kill. I’m more comfortable with the idea of having sex with a woman than I am with a man, as strange as that may seem. Connor will most likely pick up on this, but I don’t care. I hit send and set my phone back safely on the desk, away from Scott’s grabby fucking hands.

“I saw your mother yesterday,” he says.

“You did?” I try not to act surprised, but my heart has lodged in my throat for a second. Why would he visit my mother?

“We ate lunch and caught up. It was like old times.” He passes me a water bottle and then takes a swig of his Cherry Fizz. “She said she wished Daisy was around, that the house was too quiet without all of you girls there.”

“Stop,” I tell him, standing up and setting the sushi on the desk. It feels like fool’s food, a trap, something you give a three-headed dog before sneaking into a treasure cove.

He frowns. And I can’t tell whether it’s real or fake. Honest or deceitful. “What’s wrong?”

“You don’t know me,” I refute. I return to my tubs of clothes, but I don’t want to squat down in front of him.

“I do know you,” he lies.

I spin around and realize he’s casually leaning against the front of my desk. “Can you please leave?”

“I don’t get it. I say one thing about your mother and you throw a tantrum.”

I glance at the camera. I don’t want to vilify my mother to the nation. I don’t want to cause her that pain. She’s a good woman even if she does bad things sometimes. But the more he pokes me, the more these thoughts and feelings resurface, the more I can’t bite my tongue. That’s Connor’s specialty. He’s the river that idly passes between mountains. I’m the volcano that destroys a village.

“What is it?” he taunts, his voice anything but kind. He wears an antagonistic smile. “She didn’t buy you a diamond necklace? She forgot your eighteenth birthday?”

“My mother would never forget my birthday,” I tell him. “She’s always been there for me.”

Scott shrugs like I’m insane. Maybe I am. Maybe my feelings are irrational. Maybe I’m losing my mind with all the stresses in my life. “She was upset that she was an empty-nester. It’s normal, Rose.”

“I don’t want her to take Daisy back,” I suddenly blurt out.

Scott frowns again. “Why not? Do you have some perverse fantasy about raising her, becoming a mother because Connor won’t have kids with you?”

“Fuck you,” I curse. I grab my handbag and lift one of the tubs awkwardly in my arms. Scott doesn’t offer to carry it for me (not that I would let him). “You can see yourself out.”

“My pleasure.”

I struggle to open the door with one hand. This time, I don’t have Connor behind me to scoop up the box and help. I manage fine at first. I breeze through the door and head down the hall, breathing sporadic breaths that slide down my throat like brittle knives.

The tub drops out of my hands by the elevator. The lid cracks, and I hurriedly fold each article of clothing before placing them back inside.

I don’t want to float inside my head, but the longer I take, the more I feel the past whisper against my neck like a cold, familiar ghost. I see my oldest sister, Poppy, who grew tall before the rest of us, who was out the door, married and pregnant in practically no time at all.

When she left, my mother focused her excess attention on me, pressuring me to continue ballet, attending every practice and recital, filling my schedule with dinner dates and functions. And I wanted to make her proud. How else can you give thanks to someone who gives you everything you desire? Who showers you with things that glitter? You become someone they can gloat over; you become their greatest prize.

Connor is right. He talks of monetary values. Of benefits. Opportunity cost. There is a price that you pay growing up in luxury. You feel so undeserving of everything around you. So you find a way to be deserving of it—by being smart, by being talented and successful.

By building your own company.

With Calloway Couture, I could make my father proud—to show him that I could follow his entrepreneurial footsteps. The failure of my company feels not only like a failure of my dream, but a failure of my place in the family. Of my right to have these beautiful things.

But I have to remember what else my company means to me. What it has been. How it’s saved me. It was an outlet where I could be creative despite my mother’s constant nagging. I used to come home, rub my abused toes from pointe shoes, and sketch on my bed, in private. I was twelve. I was thirteen. Fourteen. I found solace in fashion. I found peace and happiness.

It was something for me. My mother couldn’t take my designs. She couldn’t make them hers. I created each dress, each blouse and skirt. They were the clay that I could mold, even if she continued to try and mold me.

And then I left for Princeton when I turned eighteen. My mother lost me, the daughter who she fought the most with, but only because I was the daughter she turned to, the one she talked to, the one who spent nights listening to her prattle, who heard her advice, even if I chose not to take it. I love that she loves me. I just wish she let me breathe for a moment in my life.

My mother still had Lily after I left. But she brushed over her, believing she was set for life with Loren Hale, the heir of a multi-billion dollar company almost as lucrative as Fizzle.

So that left Daisy.

I knew exactly what would happen to her the moment I went to college. I knew she’d take my place as consummate daughter, ready to say yes to my mother the moment I shut the door. But as a teenager, I fought my mom each step of the way. I was bitchy and obstinate.

My sister is none of those things.

I cried when I finished unpacking my dorm room. I was smart enough to see what would happen. And I couldn’t do anything about it. Daisy would bend to my mother’s desires, to her selfish ways. She would sign Daisy up for so many classes to where she couldn’t see straight. She would make her date whoever she chose. She would dress her in fancy ball gowns with too much frill and lace. And she’d parade her around like a toy doll with no voice and no brain. No matter how much I called Daisy to check in, to listen to her words crack before she layered on the false optimism, I couldn’t change the course of things.

I thought for sure Daisy would turn to drugs.

I thought for sure she’d party too hard to try to reach the air that my mother always sucked dry.

I coped by scribbling in a sketch book at that house. I couldn’t see that as a path for Daisy. I only saw blackness. And I’ll never forgive myself for what happened, how blind I was.

I was focusing on the wrong sister.

Lily was heading down that dark road, feeding an addiction that not many people understand.

Daisy wasn’t even close to that yet.

But I fear making the same mistake—not helping Daisy like I was too late for Lily. I don’t want my mom to exploit Daisy with her modeling career just so she can brag to her tennis club friends. I want my sister to watch late night movie marathons, have slumber parties and eat too much ice cream. But her childhood already consists of stumbling home with tired eyes from a midnight photo shoot, from going on go-see after go-see where people pinch her waist and call her fat.

This is my price I pay for my wealth.

I’m sure of it.

No matter how much I want to save my sisters and just keep them close, I feel as if I’m destined to watch them fall.