Текст книги "Hothouse Flower"

Автор книги: Becca Ritchie

Соавторы: Krista Ritchie
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

< 4 >

RYKE MEADOWS

I’m so fucking sick of taking cold showers, which is why I said fuck that yesterday. I need to start going to my apartment where I have the freedom to jerk off.

Every morning is about the same. Wake up in Daisy’s bed. Try to suppress a horrible fucking boner. Take a shower. Run with my brother. Take another shower. Try my absolute fucking best to stroke my cock without thinking of her long legs and that gorgeous fucking smile.

Usually I succeed. Sometimes I don’t.

I’m only fucking human.

I enter a gated street and slow my Ducati down as I pass each fucking mammoth colonial house. Four sedans trail my ass. They’ve been following me since I left my apartment in Philly. Two cross the double yellow lines to ride beside me, their windows rolled down, cameras snapping and flashing.

I should be used to this shit by now, but I’m not. I don’t think I can ever be, not after I watched a fearless girl go from being completely fucking fine to scared of the dark to traumatized. It’s not just the cameras and invasive media. It’s everything that comes with it—her fucked up old prep school friends being one of those.

I flip off an entire sedan. At least my helmet is tinted and they can’t capture a picture of my face. I speed up and weave in front of them. The four cars attempt to block me in, wedging me between their vehicles. I rev the throttle, switch gears, and fucking take off.

I lose sight of them as I approach a gated house, hedges concealing most of it. I punch in the code, and the iron grinds open.

Daisy probably had a harder fucking time getting to her sisters’ place than me. I should have left with her. She lives two floors below me in the same apartment complex. I could have distracted the paparazzi while she rode off in another direction, but I didn’t. I left late because I was researching about Ambien, cognitive fucking therapy, other sleeping medication—anything to solve Daisy’s problem.

And I’m still at a loss of how to help her sleep without medication.

I park my Ducati on its kickstand and look up at the white house with black shutters, a wraparound porch, rocking chairs, a flag pole on a newly mowed lawn. It’s cute—all of them living together. My brother, his girlfriend, Rose and her husband. I’ve shared a house with them before, and it’s not something I’d repeat. For however much I love my brother, I fucking need space from him sometimes. He likes to test my tolerance. I have a ton, but I worry that if I lived with him for a long time, he’d break me down and I’d rip him apart.

I never want to hit Lo.

It’s a line that I fear crossing on a weekly basis.

I open the front door with my key. A yellow banner hangs low and crooked over the archway that connects the living room to the kitchen. It reads: BON VOYAGE, DAISY. The messy scrawl looks like Lily’s handwriting. I have to duck underneath it to enter the kitchen.

My brother stands by the oven, cracking eggs into a large bowl. Connor watches him, cupping a glass of water. Normally he’d have red wine, but since Lo relapsed, he won’t drink alcohol in front of him.

“Hey, Betty Crocker,” I say, setting my helmet on the breakfast table. “Where’s your apron?”

Lo flashes a dry smile. “Wherever your watch is.” His eyes flicker back to the eggs. “You’re an hour late.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “Everyone left me nasty fucking text messages.”

I highly doubt you have the capability to read a clock, but you’re verging on forty-six minutes late. And here, I was going to reward you with a treat. – Connor

If you disappoint my little sister, I will personally snip off your balls and feed them to Connor’s cat. – Rose

Can you be here on time? Please?? – Lily

The girls are getting pissed. And I’m not too happy with you either. – Lo

“My text was the best, wasn’t it?” Connor asks as he smiles into his sip of water.

I restrain the urge to roll my fucking eyes. “Your wife’s was better.”

“Impossible.”

“She said she was going to feed my balls to Sadie.” I come up beside Lo and inspect the bacon frying in a pan and a tray of biscuits.

“She’s overused that threat,” Connor tells us.

I peek underneath a towel, a spinach quiche steaming. “I may not own a fucking watch,” I say, “but I do know it’s nighttime and I’m pretty sure none of us are nursing a fucking hangover. So what’s with the…” I tilt a bowl towards me. “Grits?”

“Daisy wanted breakfast for dinner,” Lo explains. “So we’re cooking.”

I look around the kitchen, the living room just as quiet. “Yeah? Where are the fucking girls anyway?”

“Daisy’s in the garage. Rose and Lily are in the bathroom,” Connor says casually.

“Why the fuck are they in the bathroom together?”

Lo shakes his head at me. “I tried to ask and Rose rebutted with female menstruation. And then she slammed the door in my face.”

Connor says, “I was smart enough not to question it.” He leans against the cupboards, wearing black slacks and a white button-down. He looks like how much he’s worth—over a billion fucking dollars from inheriting his mother’s Fortune 500 Company.

“You too much of a princess to help Lo?” I ask, stealing a slice of apple from a fruit tray.

“I offered to break the eggs, but Lo said I should beat them into submission,” Connor tells me.

Now I do roll my eyes.

“Might as well put your best skill to use,” Lo says, passing the bowl of eggs and whisk to Connor.

I go to the fridge and grab a jug of orange juice, and when I turn back, I catch Lo whispering quietly to Connor. They shut up when they see me watching.

“What?” I ask, unscrewing the cap to the juice. It’s not the first time they’ve gossiped like fucking girls. We all selectively choose who to share information with.

“We were talking,” Lo says, motioning from his chest to Connor.

Connor innocently beats the eggs.

“You were talking?” I repeat, staring between them. “Well fuck me then. I didn’t know either of you could talk.”

Lo ignores my sarcasm and cocks his head. “We just think it’s weird.”

I glare. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific, Lo. I can’t grasp what you’re saying with two words.”

“Sorry,” Lo says dryly. “I forgot you aren’t Connor.”

Connor smiles.

“Why compliment his intelligence?” I ask my brother. “Isn’t it enough that everyone has to stare at his framed Mensa certificate in the living room?” It’s also next to his wife’s. Both of them are annoyingly intelligent.

Connor interjects, “I don’t need validation that I’m smarter than all of you. I know it’s true.”

“Then why hang the certificate?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It matched the walls.”

I shake my head. “It’s a fucking miracle that I haven’t punched you yet, Cobalt.”

“Back to the situation,” Lo says, eyes locked on me.

I grab a glass from the cabinet. Fuck, he can’t know, can he? My heart starts pounding. How would he find out that I’m sleeping in Daisy’s bed? He wouldn’t. I’m being fucking paranoid. This is information that I never want to share with him. “What is it?” I pour orange juice and listen.

“We think it’s weird that you haven’t brought a girl around in a long time.”

I frown. That’s what this is about? “So?”

Lo shifts his weight, confusion blanketing him. “So…you used to date someone new every week.”

“You know,” I tell my brother, “there are reasons why I don’t fucking live with all of you anymore.” I hold up a finger. “One, I like my privacy, and that means not showing off the couple of women I date every month.” I raise another finger. “Two, you all like to blow shit out of proportion. And three…” I lower my first two fingers and hold up my middle one.

And then I turn my back to them and cap the orange juice slowly.

I’m lying to my brother right now.

It feels like I’m walking over burning coals. I hate lying to him, and I’ve done it before. Each time never gets easier. I can see the thick fog I’ve created, the one that clouds my relationship with Lo. But I’m not my father, hurting his sons to protect his own reputation.

I lie to protect Daisy.

To protect Lo.

I lie because it’s going to hurt less than the truth. And when the truth does come out, I want to make sure that Lo is strong enough to bear it. Right now, he’s not even fucking close.

So I can’t say, Yeah, man, I’ve stopped dating for four fucking months because I’ve been busy taking care of your girlfriend’s little sister, spending nights at her place, even sleeping in her bed just so she can stop being so fucking scared. And I don’t miss those other girls, but I do miss being laid.

I’m not used to jerking off every fucking day.

“Ryke,” Connor says, and I spin around to meet a face that studies mine with too much fucking knowledge and suspicion. “It’s just odd. You’re what I would call a serial dater, as is Daisy, and since she graduated and moved into your apartment complex, no one has seen either of you with someone else.”

“What is this?” I say, looking between Connor and Lo. “Watson and Holmes? I hate to break it to both of you, but there’s no fucking mystery to be solved.”

“Cut the shit,” Lo says. “It’s weird, and you know—”

“I’m not with her,” I interject. “I’m not fucking Daisy. I’m not touching her. I told you, Lo, I wouldn’t.” We’ve been through this for over two years. And he still looks at me like I’m one second from betraying him, like I’m going to choose a girl over him, like I’m going to cross a big fucking line that will destroy the relationships that matter to me.

I wouldn’t. I fucking won’t. Because at the end of the day, if Daisy and I got together, if something happened and we broke up, I’d lose my brother. She’s like his little sister. He grew up with the Calloway girls. Daisy has known him her whole fucking life. I’ve known Lo for three years. For fuck’s sake, I am the thing that can be tossed aside. Everything’s confusing. Nothing makes complete sense. My dick says one thing. My head says another. I have morals. I have Lo’s constant warnings. I have five kinds of wrong and no kinds of right.

What the fuck am I supposed to do?

“Okay,” Lo says, watching me closely, seeing the anger pulse in my eyes.

I’m so fucking screwed. If he ever finds out that I sleep in Daisy’s bed, that I’m practically her fucking roommate, he’s going to kill me. Really, murder could be a fucking option in Loren Hale’s twisted mind, and I think I’d let him do it.

“Look,” I tell Lo and Connor, “I date girls for a week, sometimes a couple of fucking days if they don’t pan out. I’m not going to bring one of them to Princeton so you guys can meet her. It’s never serious. The strings that I tie down are the ones that mean something to me.” My eyes flicker to each of them. “I haven’t found a girl that I want to tie myself to, and I don’t know if I ever will.”

“You will,” Lo says certainly, nodding like he’s trying to convince himself of it.

“It’s okay if I don’t.” I’m surrounded by people I care about. That can be enough for me.

Lo’s sharp gaze meets mine. “You’re not going to be alone forever.”

He says it like a declaration. I think he wants the best for me, but I also think that side battles with his selfish feelings. The ones that say: I need one-hundred percent of you or else I’m going to drown.

“So what if I am?” I say. “Lo, I didn’t grow up with a Lily Calloway. I didn’t have a best friend turned girlfriend.” Lily was literally the girl next door, a family friend that he trusted with everything. Now they’re engaged. I’m not envious of their co-dependent relationship that has thankfully grown a little healthier throughout the years.

I just recognize that he’s different from me, even if we are alike in some ways.

“I’m fucking used to relying on myself,” I add.

Lo just shakes his head like I’m an idiot—to be satisfied with something less. But maybe I don’t deserve something more. Maybe the point of my fucking life is to help my brother get on his feet.

Connor passes Lo the bowl of whisked eggs, and my brother hesitates to pour them in the pan. “Let’s wait for the girls to come out.”

“How’s Lily doing?” I ask him.

He sets the bowl on the counter. “Better than me.” He rubs the back of his neck. “She tries to bring up my dad and alcohol, but honestly, it’s just fucking hard sometimes.” His amber eyes meet mine. “His lawyers said they can’t reach you for questioning. I told them that you don’t want to go on record.”

“Thanks,” I say.

Lo shrugs. “Yeah, whatever.”

I run my hand through my hair, feeling Connor watching us like a psychiatrist fucking would. There’s a lot there, okay? I don’t want to see our dad, and Lo is complying with that for now.

“I’m going to go check on Daisy in the garage,” I tell them, avoiding any plans they have to convince me to see Jonathan Hale. And plus, I want to know what she’s fucking doing alone in there.

“Tell her the food is almost ready,” Lo says.

I nod, heading to the back door.

We each have our roles, and I know mine is to keep an eye on this girl and that guy.

I just don’t ever want to be faced with the decision of having to choose between them.

If that day comes, then fuck me.

< 5 >

RYKE MEADOWS

I shut the door behind me, finding Daisy almost immediately. She sits backwards on her parked Ducati, the same brand as mine, only red to my black. She leans back against the gas can near the handles and props a map on her legs, a Sharpie cap between her teeth.

Her carefree nature always fucking draws me to her—even when I wish I could stay fifteen feet away. It doesn’t help that her legs are spread apart. I’m so fucking thankful she’s single right now. I hate her ex-boyfriends, and I hate how men look at her and all they see is a girl they believe they can mount. They can’t. She’s out of their fucking league, and yet, she entertains them, too nice not to.

It pisses me off.

“There’s a party inside, you know,” I tell her roughly, “and it’s for you.” I walk across the concrete floor to reach her side.

“I know,” she mumbles and then spits the cap out. “Rose and Lily shut the door on me when I tried to go to the bathroom with them. And Connor and Lo looked like they wanted to talk about something private too, so I figured I’d let them discuss what they needed to.”

I frown. “Why would your sisters do that?”

“Lily is five years older than me and Rose is seven,” she says with a shrug. “I’m used to being left out. It’s the younger child syndrome.” She sits up and hands me the map.

I scan it quickly.

“It’s for your road trip to California,” she explains. “I marked some places that are supposed to be cool.”

“You also drew a fucking smiley face over North Dakota.”

“That’s because North Dakota is the happiest state. Everyone knows that.” She grins, brightness in her eyes that I haven’t seen in a while. It’s gorgeous beyond fucking words. But at night, that light starts to slowly wane. It’s like Daisy Calloway is powered by the sun.

“Says who?” I ask, folding the map and tucking it into my back pocket.

“I read it somewhere,” she says. “I’ve forgotten the source, but I’m sure it was credible.”

“Yeah, says the girl who reads her horoscope every day.”

She mock gasps. “How did you know that? Have you been reading my diary?”

“No, I’ve just been sleeping in your bed.”

“I thought that was some other guy,” she says.

I scrutinize her position on the bike, her legs on either side of the seat, clutched tightly, still backwards. I’ve ridden on the same motorcycle with her before. She does this thing where she rests her hands on my thighs instead of wrapping them around my chest. I always have to grab her wrist when she purposefully nears my cock.

She likes to tease, to see how far she can push me, and I’ve never had a girl play with me like that, with confidence that radiates. It drives me fucking nuts, and I find myself wanting to be around her even more, seeking those give-and-take moments and her fucking joy.

But there’s a silent understanding between us. We both know we can’t cross a certain line.

“You’ve let other guys in your bed?” I question with the rise of my brows. Anger burns my muscles as I imagine the losers she’s been with, all fucking her, all older. Don’t think about it.

“Not lately.” Her oversized sweater snags on the handle behind her, almost flashing me. “Oops.”

My body heats, and the only thing that stops any kind of arousal is the idea of another strange guy getting hard at the sight of her. I don’t want to be one of them.

She adjusts her shirt, and I read the words stitched on her chest: Ooh la la.

I think it’s been about a year since she started choosing clothes with sayings—kind of like her way of talking back to the paparazzi without speaking. It’s cute.

“Have you ridden like this before?” she asks with a playful smile.

“Backwards?”

She nods.

“No. I didn’t want to kill myself the billions of times it’s crossed my mind,” I say dryly.

“I think I could do it,” she says, ignoring my sarcasm. “But you’d have to be on the bike too, steering.” Her green eyes grow big. “Can we try?”

I don’t dismiss her wild fantasies. Last week, we took the wheels off a skateboard and tried to balance on a sideways trashcan. It was more fun than it fucking sounds. But this—me on a motorcycle with her facing me—it’s an image that’s too fucking intimate. I don’t even know if she realizes this.

“My head will knock into yours,” I tell her. “It’s impossible for me to reach the throttle and the brake.”

“You can wrap your arms around me to grab onto the handlebars,” she says. “I can prove that it’ll work.” She scoots up towards the gas can, giving me plenty of room on the seat. “Unless you’re scared.”

My eyes narrow. “You can call me a fucking coward all you want, sweetheart. I’m not falling for it.” And neither is my dick.

“Then I’ll just try to ride backwards without you present. How’s that?” She’s about to turn her fucking key in the ignition. I have no doubt she’ll try.

She’s done wilder things in her free time, learning how to whitewater raft and how to fly a plane. I’ve watched her fall off the back of this fucking motorcycle. I’ve seen her crash into a tree on a black diamond ski slope. And with every daring event, I’ve been there, by her side, carrying her almost every time she’s fallen.

“Fine,” I tell her easily. I near her Ducati, and she stops fiddling with the keys. I swing my leg over and straddle the fucking seat like I normally would, facing the handlebars. She’s the one who’s all turned around.

Our knees knock together, and I’m satisfied with the fact that I can’t near the handlebars. But she’s not ready to give up. She lifts her legs on top of mine and scoots down towards me. Fuck.

She’s straddling me, her back against the gas can, lying on the motorcycle. I touch the fucking throttle and brake easily, extending my arms over her, and her chest rises and falls in a shallow rhythm, acting like I’m about to push into her. Like this is about to go somewhere it is definitely fucking not.

“You’re a wicked girl, Calloway,” I tell her. My cock is pleading with me to thrust forward, and in this moment, I visualize the one thing that keeps me down. My brother beating the shit out of me. And if that doesn’t work, I imagine Lily’s whiny voice in my ear. She’s admitted to thinking about me to stop her sexual cravings, so I don’t feel fucking bad about it.

It works. I don’t move. And my face remains dark, never letting on anything past pissed—and I kind of am. This doesn’t feel fucking good. And yet, I always end up back at this place with her because I love her company so fucking much.

“You’re right. It’s kind of uncomfortable in this position,” she teases. “We don’t fit well at all.” Her lips lift in a mischievous grin again. “I know how we could fit better—”

Fuck me. “Don’t,” I say, sitting up before her head nears mine and subsequently her lips. We’ve never kissed. I don’t plan to start now. Her feet are hiked on the back of the bike, her legs still split open to allow us room.

I fucking swear if she rocks her hips against mine one more time, I’m going to throw her off the bike. And it won’t be nice.

She smiles even wider at the risk that’s clear in my eyes. “I was just going to suggest taking off my boots. What were you thinking?”

My tongue in your mouth. My cock so far inside of you.

My gaze darkens, and I try to ignore her silly smile and roaming hands that grip the bike seat and then drift to her thighs. Some part of her is always moving.

I say, “Something that’s too fucking dirty for your virginal ears.”

She sits up like me, and her chest is only an inch or so from mine. I set my hand on her knee to keep her from scooting any closer.

She says in a more serious voice, “I lost my virginity when I was fifteen.”

“I meant that you haven’t popped your cherry on a motorcycle. I know you aren’t a virgin.” She asked her sister for sex advice on her sweet sixteen trip, and I was there to help Lily chaperone. I was filling in for my brother who was in rehab, and Daisy pretty much said that she already had sex. I just wish her first time wasn’t so fucking awful.

And I kind of wish she stopped at the first guy and waited for someone better. Like…no one. I don’t think anyone is good enough for her. Yeah, it’s fucking selfish. I don’t care.

I add, “I’m not surprised that you lost it that young either.”

She nods. “Because my older sister is a sex addict.” As if that fucking makes her one?

“No, because you try a lot of stuff, and I’m sure you felt like you were missing out on something.”

Her lips rise a little. “When did you lose it?”

“I was fifteen too,” I say. “I was with an eighteen-year-old girl.” My first time was on a fucking golf course at three in the morning.

Daisy digests this. “So you like older women then?”

“I like all women, sweetheart.”

She wears a crooked smile. “You like me?”

Fuck me. “Daisy—”

She holds up her hands, her palms touching my chest because there’s no fucking room. I go rigid beneath them. “I know, sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.” She drops her hands quickly, her breath heavy.

I try not to look at her as anything more than she can be. But she’s gorgeous, not because she has this natural fucking beauty—no makeup and bold green eyes, smooth skin and a delicate face.

She’s beautiful because she can make the saddest person in the world grin. And she can make the loneliest guy feel something more. She’s youthful and wild. Primal and really fucking innocent. She’s all these things that scream big fucking risk.

“You know, I’ve only had sex with six guys in my entire life,” she announces.

I stiffen. “Yeah?” I don’t really want these details, even though a part of me masochistically craves them. “For some, six guys would be a lot at eighteen.”

She shrugs. “I was testing out the waters.”

“And how were those fucking waters?” I snap. I shouldn’t have asked. But I do. And I’m not going to take it back.

I wait for her to answer because I know she will.