Текст книги "Hothouse Flower"

Автор книги: Becca Ritchie

Соавторы: Krista Ritchie
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

< 12 >

DAISY CALLOWAY

4:30 a.m.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She lets out her fourth big yawn.

“Here,” I say, passing her my coffee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I groan. “Don’t talk about muffins.”

“Blueberry and banana nut.”

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

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

“You finish it,” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And your ass.”

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

“Yep.”

“Eat the cake.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I didn’t want to have Lily’s problem.

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

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

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

I smile. He’s not too bad.

I think I just made my decision.

< 13 >

DAISY CALLOWAY

By the time I enter my room, the clock strikes 2 a.m., and I only have enough time to wash my face and run a brush through my hair before Ian knocks on the door.

I peek through the peephole, ensuring that it’s just him. I can smell his strong cologne through the door, but he looks casual, wearing jeans and a blue tee. I keep staring, hesitating for so many reasons. He knocks again. I flinch at the violent noise. You can do this.

I turn the knob, and when Ian appraises my jean shorts and baggy sweater, he smiles. “Nice,” he says, motioning to the words across my chest: Bulimia’s so ’87.

He even understands a Heathers reference. Maybe he is perfect for me. “Welcome to my abode.” I wave him inside. I haven’t unpacked, so I had no time to be messy. My rolling suitcase rests by the television hutch, all zipped up. The hotel room has gold walls and red bedspreads, looking cleaner and more harmonious with the colors than any part of my apartment in Philly.

“Nice room too,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.”

He heads deeper inside, going to the balcony door that I’ve spent a great deal of time locking and shrouding with the gold curtains. He pulls them back, and my pulse speeds. I hear the click of the single lock, and then he slides open the glass door, stepping outside to see the view of the city.

“Holy shit,” he says, his voice louder so I can hear. “My room overlooks a parking garage. This is…”

I tune him out as I shut the front door, using every lock to ensure my safety and his. I even look through the peephole one extra time. The hallway is empty. Good.

And then I walk to the bed, waiting for him to come back inside. I don’t want to attract any paparazzi, if they’re here. On the chance that they spot me from the balcony, they’ll count the floor I’m on and figure out which room I’m in.

“Yeah, the view is really pretty,” I say.

Ian slips back inside, but he leaves the sliding door all the way open.

“Can you close it?” I ask, trying not to seem paranoid. I give him a small smile. “It’s kinda cold tonight.”

“Sure.” He shuts the door and then closes the curtains back. No lock. But I’ll just have to do that after he leaves. What if he doesn’t leave? What if you have sex with him? Then I’ll lock it when he falls asleep. No worries.

I sit on the foot of the bed and cross my legs, wondering where his head is at, what he wants to do right now. He eyes me a little more hungrily than before. His gaze travels across my legs, stopping at the place between my thighs.

He stuffs his hand into his pocket. Condom, I think. But he pulls out a baggy of white powder. “I thought you looked tired this morning. Want a boost?” He heads over to my dresser and begins to separate the powder into two lines.

“No,” I say. “I’ve been chugging Lightning Bolts! and taking Ripped Fuel. I don’t think coke will mix well with them.”

I uncross my legs and then stand up, pacing anxiously before I reach his side.

“Yeah, I could tell you were on something,” he says. “You were fidgeting all morning.”

“Ripped Fuel only makes me fidgety when I drink caffeine with it. Otherwise they’re just normal diet pills.” But they’re like a shot of endorphins, possibly the biggest boost I can get without heading towards cocaine and other illegal substances.

“Well, I’ll help calm you down,” he says, one of his hands reaching out and rubbing my shoulders. That’s exactly what I wanted. Despite the coke, maybe my choices in men are improving.

With his free hand, he takes his rolled dollar bill and snorts both lines. He wipes his nose, and then when he turns to me, his glazed eyes trace my lips. He guides me to the bed, the back of my legs hitting the mattress, and my heart races.

“You’re really beautiful, Daisy,” he says. And then he plants his lips right on mine, waiting not even two seconds before his tongue chokes me. It’s not that bad. I try not to gag for air, but his mouth overtakes my face, slobbering on my chin.

I hate kissing.

So very much.

I distract him by pulling off his shirt, forcing his lips to break from mine. He wears a crooked grin, his pupils like little pinpoints. I wait for Ian to hike me up on the bed, to set me by the pillow and press his body weight against me. The image flushes my skin.

But instead, he climbs onto the bed and pulls me down on top of his chest so that I’m in a perfect position to ride him.

And then he puts his hands underneath his head in relaxation. Maybe we should just skip all the awkward foreplay anyway. I did that with numbers three and four, and I saved myself an uncomfortable hour. But what’s the point of all of this if we have a quickie and then he just leaves? I want him to spend the night, don’t I?

So I begin to kiss his broad shoulders and suck on his hard abs and his muscular chest. He watches me and lets out a groan every so often.

“Lower, baby,” he urges. One of his hands has come out of hiding behind his head, but his fingers grip his hair, his mouth open as he gets off on what I’m doing. “Uhh, yes.”

I unbutton his jeans and unzip. His erection is visible through his red briefs. I stop touching him so I can yank off my sweater, no bra since my boobs are pretty small. I stand up on the bed, my body off of his, and I unzip my own shorts. He watches me with a heady expression, and I know he’s feeling the effects of the drugs.

He sits and runs his hands up my legs, his palms coarse on my smooth skin. He brings me back down on his lap the moment I step out of the jeans. Everything seems more mechanical than sensual.

“I want you here,” he says to me. He grabs my hand and brings it to his crotch, helping me find his penis. Not that I needed any help doing that. My head buzzes with erratic energy, the kind that has my skin all tingly and my heart pounding a little too hard. It’s making it difficult to discern how I feel about this current situation, me on top, gripping his dick.

He plunges his tongue into my mouth again while he moves my hand up and down his shaft. Thankfully he breaks this kiss to groan. He stares down between our bodies, at the place where my small hand is underneath his large, where I’m touching his erection, warm to my fingers.

I rest my forehead on his chest. I think I just want something more than this. I don’t even know what that more is. I keep searching and searching with guys. Is this really it? Maybe something’s still off. I have no sense of attraction, no true nerve-spindling sensations yet. The only electrifying feelings are coming from my caffeinated concoction.

He forces my head back so that he can stare at my breasts while I give him a hand job. I don’t think I’m being attentive or doing very good work, but I don’t think that matters to him. I think the idea of me, a young blonde girl (famous), on top of him is all the stimulation he needs.

He kisses my neck now. But before he even sucks on my nape, his lips descend to my chest. His tongue flicks over my nipple, and then he bites it, hard. I wince, a high-pitched noise leaving my mouth, the sound so audible. Ow. Ow. Ow.

He must take my noise as approval or pleasure because he bites harder.

I shove him off with a push on his abs. But he grabs my wrist and brings my hand back to his dick. He guides my face into his shoulder, as though consoling me, but not really because his other hand travels to my backside.

“Have you taken it in the ass before?” he asks with a heavy grunt. He moves my hand lower on his dick.

“Once,” I tell him. My boob throbs. I should end this. But maybe it’ll be better if I just wait a little longer. Maybe I dislike sex because I don’t try hard enough or I don’t give enough effort. I convince myself to wait it out.

He grabs my ass, and then his finger slips into a hole that has never been penetrated by a finger before. I go rigid, my eyes wide and horrified. Okay, I don’t like this at all. Is this normal? For once, I feel my age, and I’m more aware that I’m in bed with a twenty-five-year-old.

A guy as old as Ryke.

Everything about this feels weird. Physically, emotionally, mentally—I shift and find a way to adjust so he can’t touch me there anymore. I don’t even finish him off. I slide down to his ankles, crouching. “I’m pretty tired,” I lie. “Maybe we can do this another night.”

He gives me a long once-over. “Is it your first time? I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ll be more careful.”

“I’m not a virgin,” I say. “I told you, I—”

“You don’t have to lie. I don’t mind that you haven’t been with anyone before. In fact, it’s kind of sexy.” He grins. “I’ll go easy, I promise.” He clasps my hand and pulls me back on his lap.

He’s still hard, and he touches my panties, about to move them aside and then lift me up on his dick. I don’t want to be on top. I don’t want to have sex with him anymore.

“I’m dry,” I tell him. “You’ll hurt me.” My first time, that’s what happened. It was short and really, really painful.

“You’ll get wet once I’m inside of you.” He combs my hair out of my face.

A long time ago, Ryke once said, “What kind of asshole enters a girl on her first time without getting her aroused first?” This asshole.

Ryke’s advice: “You should stay away from any guy who doesn’t make you come at least twice before he fucks you. Keep that in mind.”

Two and a half years later, I have kept it in mind, but I haven’t followed it through. Not all guys are willing to take the time to get me off before the big show.

And maybe that’s what he was saying back then. I shouldn’t be with a guy who focuses on himself first and a woman last.

“I can’t,” I tell Ian. I climb off his lap quickly before he can grab me, and then I collect my sweater, tugging it over my head. When I look back, Ian still lies on the mattress, as though I’ll return any second and straddle him. “I think you should go.”

He licks his lips and then hides his erection in his briefs. He pulls his jeans back over his hips and slides off the bed. “I get it,” he says. “You’re not ready. Maybe tomorrow night?”

“I don’t think I’ll be ready by then. I’m sorry,” I say, meeting his blue eyes.

He nears me a little more, and I try to appear more confident, like Rose. I pull back my shoulders and stand taller. I also paint on a face that I use when I have to look angry during photo shoots. Narrowed eyes. Tightened lips. A dark scowl.

He’s not intimidated by me in the least. “You don’t even want to finish?” he asks.

“I have a boyfriend,” I immediately blurt, hoping that’ll push him out. Maybe if he has morals…

He lets out a short laugh. “If you had a boyfriend, it’d be all over the news, especially if you were caught cheating on him.”

“We’re taking a break,” I say. What are you doing, Daisy? “I just don’t feel comfortable sleeping with someone so quickly.”

“I can take a hint,” he says, grabbing his little plastic baggy off the dresser. “If you change your mind, you have my number. Maybe I’ll see you around.” With this, I escort him to the door. He glances back at me and kisses me lightly on the cheek.

I give him a small smile.

And then he departs without another word.