“The wind in your hair,” Connor adds, smiling as he sips his water.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say lightly.
Lo’s face sharpens as he thinks about this. He glances at Connor, then at me before he says, “If I go with you, I think Connor should come too.”
I glare because I can feel Connor gloating beside me. “Why?”
“Why?” Connor says like it’s the stupidest question ever. I feel like he’s about to say Because I’m me.
I have to stop him before I choke on his fucking arrogance. “Seriously,” I say to Lo. “He has a wife that’ll castrate you if you bring him back broken. What if he chips a nail?”
“Then I’ll get a manicure,” Connor quips. “There are solutions to everything. You just have to think to find them. Such hard work.”
“Are we fucking friends?” I ask Connor, glowering. Lo just watches in slight amusement, but really, I think he’s processing my proposal.
“I’m not sure what a ‘fucking’ friend is, so I can’t answer you.”
“Look at that, I know something that Connor Cobalt doesn’t.”
“When it comes to slang, made up words, and the best fire hydrants to piss on, yes, you do.”
“Fuck you.”
“You keep saying it, but you still haven’t done it.” His lips curve upward.
Lo cuts us off, “If you’re both going to be this annoying the whole trip, then I’m choosing rehab.”
“So you’re coming with me?” I ask, internally letting out a deep fucking breath. I feel like I helped him dodge a bullet, and I’m waiting for the gun to reload.
“Yeah, but like I said, only if Connor comes. No offense, Ryke, but I’m afraid we’re going to kill each other if we’re together for that long.” If we bring up our family issues, we just may.
Connor’s a big peacemaker in our circle of friends. He may like to irritate me on purpose, but when everyone starts fighting, he’s the one who calms people down. So I can understand Lo wanting him to come along.
“Fine with me,” I tell him.
My phone buzzes in my shorts. I think it’s Daisy. 1 p.m. in Paris. I check the message.
I’d like to see you before you go kill yourself on a goddamn mountain. – Jonathan
I glare and delete the message.
“Who was that?” Lo asks. “You look pissed.”
“My mom,” I lie. Although, she did text me five times last night. I never answer her, even though it’s the same plea: Come see me. I’m sorry. Ryke, please. I need to see you. I love you.
I’ll always love my mom because she’s my mother. But I can’t ever forgive her for what she’s done to me, to Lily, to the Calloway girls, my brother and inadvertently Connor.
She read my personal texts to Lo, where we talked about Lily’s sex addiction. And she sold the information to the media with the headline: Daughter of Fizzle Creator and CEO is Confirmed Sex Addict. Selling Lily out wasn’t just for money. It was to hurt Lo, and that way, she’d hurt Jonathan.
But she also fucking hurt me.
Now, all six of us are famous because of Sara Hale.
Thanks Mom.
< 11 >
RYKE MEADOWS
Emergency! SOS! – Lily
I eat one bite of my fucking sub at Lucky’s before Lily sends me an SOS. It seems too comical to be serious. I set the sub on the wrapper, tomatoes and lettuce falling from the bread. “Did you guys get a text from Lily?” I ask Connor and Lo across from me.
Lo freezes, clutching his Fizz Life can. “No, what does she want?”
It’s unusual for Lily to text me before Lo. “I don’t know yet.” I text back: What’s wrong?
Connor scrolls through his phone, more agitation passing across his features than I think he’d want to show.
“Your shipment of handcuffs not come in, sweetheart?” I ask him before picking my sub back up in two hands.
“Hoping I’ll cuff you to my bed?” he banters, his face returning to that impassive, unreadable state. “I’d make good on your fantasies, but Rose would be pissed at the claw marks on the headboard.”
“Now I have claws?” I say with raised eyebrows.
He combats me by arching one. That fucker. “You’re lucky, I don’t usually let dogs sleep in my bed, but I’m willing to make an exception.”
I flip him off, and Lo’s leg bounces nervously beneath the table. He holds his hand up at me like what the fuck? “What’s going on with my girlfriend?”
Right on time, Lily calls me. I answer, and before I even ask, she explains. “Rose got a flat tire, and she refuses to call a tow truck.”
“I can fix it myself.” Rose’s icy voice bleeds through the speaker. She grunts a little, as though trying to lift the fucking spare tire.
“She’s in five-inch heels,” Lily notes. “I am impressed. I really am, but it’d be even more impressive if she knew what she was doing.”
“I can read,” Rose says. “I have the manual right here. I don’t need a man to show me how to fix a fucking tire.”
I scratch my jaw. Both Connor and Lo are glaring the hell out of me, hearing bits and pieces of both the girls’ voices without understanding what’s going on. I think Cobalt may snatch the fucking phone from my hand.
Off my gaze, he says, “Rose isn’t answering my texts.” That’s where his agitation stemmed from—he can sense when things aren’t right better than anyone.
“You want me to come out there?” I ask Lily. I’m going to anyway, but I figured that’s why she called. I motion to Lo to ask for the bill. Guess I’ll have to take my sub to-go. He flags down the waitress.
“Just in case Rose can’t fix it,” Lily says
“Doesn’t she have a husband for these situations?” Even though Connor wears suits and rides around in a limo, I’m fairly certain he’s smart enough to fix a fucking tire.
“She doesn’t want him to rub this in her face.”
I roll my eyes again.
“I can do this better than him,” Rose insists in the background. “I don’t need his help.”
Lily sighs. “I’m afraid she’s going to take an hour and then strangers are going to stop and try to help.”
“That’s why I handed you the pepper spray,” Rose tells her. She lets out an irritated scream. “Why is this so fucking heavy?”
“Maybe because it’s a fucking tire,” I deadpan.
Lily says, “You’re lucky she can’t hear you.” So I’m not on speaker then. She must turn to Rose because she adds, “And I’m not pepper spraying a nice person who tries to help us.”
“You would if they tried to rape you,” Rose retorts.
They’re so fucking dramatic. “No one is going to rape the two of you.”
Just like that, both Connor and Lo reach over the table to try and steal the phone from my hand. I hold it high above my head and lean further back.
“Bro,” Lo sneers, “I’m not messing around. Let me talk to her.”
“Is that Lo?” Lily says. “You have to come alone, Ryke. Lo will bicker with Rose and cause more problems. She’s already in a bad mood.” Anxiety pitches her voice, and I imagine her nervously biting her nails.
“I’ll come help you. Just text me the address,” I tell Lily before I hang up. Lo’s eyes flash murderously at me, and even Connor looks pissed. Rose has been putting a serious fucking wall up between them lately. But they have a strange relationship already, filled with mind games that I can’t keep up with.
“The girls have a flat tire,” I explain. “Lily said Rose didn’t want you there.” I nod to Connor. “And since you get on Rose’s last fucking nerve…” I nod to Lo. “She doesn’t want you there either.” I stand and open my wallet, throwing a hundred dollar bill down. “I’ll drive.”
There’s no way I wouldn’t bring Connor and Lo with me.
That’s his wife and his fiancée.
I’m just the manual fucking labor.
* * *
When we arrive, Rose
is crouched down beside the back right tire, the treads unraveled and the rubber flat, like they popped it somehow. She inspects the tire from a distance, careful not to grease her hands. Not because she’s a fucking girl but because Rose is OCD. She freaks when a layer of dirt crusts beneath her nails.
She’s also treating her black dress like it’s a living creature she hopes to protect. That’s not entirely right. If she had to pick between nurturing a stranded cat or saving a purse from the rain, she’d choose the fucking purse. She rests her ass on her ankles, supported by heels, very aware not to touch the ground and ruin her clothes.
I park the car behind her Escalade. The back road is quiet, no houses around, just one lane towards a hill, trees and grass. Lo climbs out first, heading towards Lily who unsurprisingly bites her nails and flips through an instruction manual, a canister of pepper spray in her back pocket.
The minute she sees him, her whole body lifts, and my brother—he wears a smile that’s rare in anyone else’s presence but hers. I’ve never really seen love until I saw them together, truly.
They kiss, and I go to help Rose just as Connor shuts his car door.
Lo has to say something. “This is the progress you made?” he asks Rose. “I thought you were supposed to be Wonder Woman.”
She huffs, her cheeks reddening with anger. “Not now, Loren.”
“How many geniuses does it take to change a tire?” Lo taunts with a smile. Lily punches him in the shoulder, and he mock winces. He rubs his arm. “That hurt, love.”
“Be nice.”
He kisses her temple. “I’m just happy you’re okay.”
This causes her to smile again. It’s cute. All of it. But it’s also annoying the hell out of me because I think of Daisy. Normally she’d be here too. Normally she’d be standing over my shoulder, peering at the car and helping me out.
Instead, I know I’m going to have to jack the Escalade by my fucking self and put in the spare. The couples are paired off, and I’m left alone this time.
Maybe a year ago, I would have been used to being the fifth wheel.
Not anymore.
Now it’s frustrating.
I don’t take Rose away from inspecting the underbelly of the car from afar. I let Connor do that.
He towers over her, six-foot-four, his hands in his pockets. “If you’re trying to prove a point that you’re better than me, you do realize that I wouldn’t have tried to change the tire myself,” he tells her. “I would have been smart enough to call a tow truck.”
She shoots him a withering glare. “Don’t make this about you, Richard.”
“You made it about me the moment you didn’t want me here.” He grabs her wrist and pulls her to her feet with strong force.
She straightens out her dress, fire still in her eyes. I bend down and start working on replacing the flat, but they’re close enough that I hear their whole conversation.
“What are you scared of?” Connor asks her with a frown.
“Je n’ai pas peur,” Rose replies in fluent French. I translate easily: I’m not scared.
I act like I can’t understand them. They think I’m just as clueless about the foreign language as Lily and Lo, but I’ve been fluent since I was a little kid. I just don’t feel like explaining why I know French to anyone. It’s easier to ignore it.
“Alors, dites-moi ce qui ne va pas,” he says. Then tell me what’s wrong.
Rose jerks her hand away from him and raises her chin. “I wanted to do it myself.”
“It’s more than that,” he says. “You and I both know this isn’t about a tire. You’ve been shutting me out for weeks.”
“If you’re so smart, shouldn’t you be able to figure out why?” She crosses her arms in challenge.
His eyes narrow. “Ne jouez pas ce jeu avec moi, chérie. Vous perdrez.” Don’t play this game with me, darling. You will lose.
I glance over my shoulder, and Rose looks a little nervous, inhaling a sharp breath. She is scared. But like Connor, I just have no fucking clue what it’s about.
“Hey,” I call to Rose. She looks at me and the tire like I’m not moving fast enough. I restrain the urge to flip her off. “Where were you and Lily going anyway?”
“Shopping,” Rose says, way too fast.
I know a fucking lie when I hear it. “Glad I fucking asked.” I shake my head and grab the spare tire.
Connor studies Rose’s features, realizing she’s not being honest either.
Rose says, “You knew what you were getting into when you married me.”
“A lifetime of challenges.” His lips rise. “Il n'y a rien de mieux.” There is nothing better.
She almost softens at his words. He strokes her glossy hair and then kisses her forehead. Before I attach the spare, I spot Lo and Lily by my Infinity.
He has her pinned against the car. They aren’t kissing, but he whispers in her ear with a smile that dimples his sharp cheeks. She’s a giant fucking red tomato, so whatever he’s telling her—it’s dirty. I’ve never seen sex embarrass someone as much as it does Lily—and I know it’s because she’s an addict, more ashamed. But she’s clearly turned on by my brother, giving him big bedroom eyes.
I shake my head.
I feel like the only normal one.
But that’s a load of crap. None of us are really normal. We’re all just strange pieces in the world. And the half that usually connects with me is thousands of miles away, in Paris.
I just hope she’s sleeping.
If I picture her in a peaceful fucking slumber, I stop worrying. It’s the only thing keeping me grounded, keeping me right fucking here. Without that image, I’d lose my shit.
< 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.
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