Hothouse Flower (Calloway Sisters)

by Ritchie, Krista

  “He’s upset,” Connor says. “We were bombarded by paparazzi all day, asking questions about your father. He couldn’t handle it.”

  They were just supposed to be shopping along Rue St-Honoré. Lo texted me earlier that Connor bought out Hermes for Rose, having to ship most of the items back to his house. My brother seemed fine, but I should have fucking called him and asked.

  “Don’t fucking try to rationalize my brother’s addiction,” I growl. “He’s sick, Connor.”

  Daisy watches me with concern, putting on a maroon turtleneck over her tank top. It’s stitched with three gold Quidditch hoops and the words: I’m a Keeper. She mouths, You okay?

  I can’t answer her. I just glare at the carpet. “Connor, I’m being fucking serious. Grab the fucking drink from him right now.”

  “We’re at the pub beside the hotel.”

  It clicks. Lo has no idea that Connor knows he’s drinking. “You want me to be the bad fucking cop?”

  “He has to have someone on his side, Ryke,” Connor says. “He can’t feel like everyone’s ganging up on him.”

  “He’s a fucking alcoholic!” I yell. “He’s not even supposed to be in a bar. You’re telling me you’re the smartest guy in the fucking world, and you can’t even pry a drink from his hand.”

  “I’m smart enough to know that it won’t do any good coming from me. You’ve already proven to be the hard ass. I’m not taking that role.”

  “I sincerely hate you right now.” I’m shaking I’m so fucking mad, and I don’t know if it’s because Connor accidentally turned his back on my brother or because I did. “You want to be his best fucking friend while I get shit on, fine. I don’t care anymore.”

  I hang up, breathing heavily. “We have to go.” I look up at Daisy, and she has a purse across her body.

  “Ready,” she says.

  I grab my jacket, and we’re fucking out of there.

  * * *

  I have my hand on Daisy’s lower back while we try to navigate through the crowded streets, filled with cameramen and sports fanatics, wearing red and white rugby jerseys.

  “Go England!” a drunk guy shouts with a British accent, pumping his fucking fist into the air. That fist also has a beer in it. His friends chant a victory song, even though they lost to their South American rivals.

  Daisy watches the sports fans in curiosity, her eyes lighting up at all the chaos. If there weren’t cameras flocking her, I think she’d go up to one of them and start a conversation just for the hell of it.

  I try calling my little brother for the third time, but he’s not answering his phone. I’m going to kill him. No, I’m going to kill Connor and then I’m going to fucking kill him.

  “Are you two dating?” a cameraman asks us.

  “How long have you been a couple?”

  “Kiss her, Ryke.” That picture would be worth so much fucking money.

  Daisy and I are always spotted out together, so that rumor mill has been churning for a while. It just makes her mom hate me more, and it makes my brother more cautious of us. But there’s never been proof beyond my hand on her shoulder, my hand on her back, hugging—nothing serious.

  Daisy locks eyes with one of the cameramen, her lips curving. “I don’t kiss boys who ride motorcycles.”

  I almost smile, but her one quote shoots off ten more questions from each cameraman. We walk forward, and people keep congregating around us.

  “Daisy, someone weird is behind you,” a cameraman suddenly says.

  “Yeah, there’s a creeper. You better watch out, Daisy!”

  I turn my head and find a leering guy who edges too close to her. No camera in his hand, but he’s touching her fucking hair. And a scissors sticks out of his pocket. I immediately push back his fucking arm, giving him a warning glare. I’ve been to court three times for smashing cameras. I even punched a “pedestrian” and was charged with assault. Even if that fucking pedestrian was peering into Daisy’s apartment window with binoculars. I couldn’t prove it. He said he was bird watching. And he was on the street, public property.

  Such bullshit.

  He throws up his hands like I’ve infected him or something. Fucking A.

  I stand behind Daisy and usher her forward, gripping her shoulders. “What was it?” she asks me, trying to catch a peek.

  “Just a fucking guy.”

  She puts on a good front when we’re outside. She’s not alarmed or scared like Lily usually is. She’s just energetic and lively. At night, when she’s alone, that’s a different story.

  She spins around and walks backwards so she’s facing me. Her eyes start at my hair and descend to my feet in the slowest fucking once-over known to man. If that doesn’t fuck with my head and my dick…

  The camera flashes are blinding at this point.

  There’s something hypnotic about the light going in and out on a beautiful girl. One second I can see her fully, the playful smile and bold green eyes. The next second, she hides in the dark of the night completely.

  It also scares the fuck out of me. There’s three feet in between us. For every step I take forward, she takes one back. And in those dark moments, I wonder if she’ll be gone for good. I imagine the light flashing and she’s no longer smiling. And then with the next burst of light, I picture fear in her eyes.

  That one possibility pushes me to Daisy like a soul-crushing force. And I grab her by the waist, about to spin her around, but she suddenly stops. Our bodies knock into each other. Everyone is watching. The tension is enough to choke us.

  “Move,” I tell her roughly. “Or I’m going to throw you over my fucking shoulder.”

  She stays put, her smile growing. And I’m fucking glad I now have an excuse to carry her. Daisy annoying the fuck out of me—that’s a common back and forth we have in front of the paparazzi.

  I swiftly pick her up, my hands on her hips, and I toss her over my shoulder. She lets out a laugh, and I rest my palm on her ass.

  Yeah, her father doesn’t really fucking like me.

  This won’t help.

  Connor thinks I’m an idiot to do things that put me in a bad light—especially since I don’t bother to clarify my intentions. But in the end, they’re going to think what they want to think. I can’t empty my soul to every person who thinks I’m an asshole. I can’t even empty it to the people who matter.

  When we reach the doors to the bar, I gently set her down, and the cameramen are shoved back by some bouncers. We’re let in almost immediately, passing a long line of people who’ve probably been waiting for thirty minutes to enter.

  The moment the door closes behind us, the noise only intensifies. Boisterous drunk people—not my favorite fucking setting. Some of them are models, beautiful features, thin girls.

  And there’s my brother. He actually looks like a model, easily fitting among them with his sharp cheekbones.

  His ass is on a fucking barstool, the pub smoky. Connor is right beside him, drinking a glass of water like nothing is wrong.

  I’m going to kill them.

  “Daisy!” a girl exclaims. A freckle-faced model, really young, hugs Daisy with a big smile.

  “Christina!” Daisy grins. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes flicker to me once like I’ll be okay. Go to your brother.

  So I let her catch up with her friend while I make my way to the bar. “Hey,” I say, putting a hand on Lo’s shoulder. He sips his Fizz, acting like there’s no alcohol in the dark-colored soda. “How was shopping?”

  “Boring,” Lo says, eating a fry from a plate that he shares with Connor. He glares at the shelves of liquor behind the bar, looking like a murderous little fuck. I don’t know how else to describe my brother when he starts drinking. He always has that I hate you and everyone in this fucking place look. The difference is that now it’s intensified by a thousand.

  I nod repeatedly, my eyes flashing hot. I grab the fucking stool beside him and drag it over to fit in between him and Connor. I’m not going to let Conno
r near my brother right now, consoling him. Lo doesn’t need a fucking safety net, so I cut it off in one move.

  Connor stays quiet, not arguing with me.

  I flag down the bartender, a young French girl. “What can I get you?” She speaks English well.

  “What he’s having.” I point at the glass.

  Lo finishes off his drink in one swig. “I’m done. Let’s just get out of here.” He stands.

  I clamp my hand back on his shoulder. “Sit your ass down. I want a fucking drink.” I force him back in his seat.

  “You sound like Dad, you know that?” he retorts, shooting a bullet my way to get me to stop.

  That’s not good enough. I need him to tell me what he just did. I ignore him, watching the bartender make my drink. She puts in the ice.

  “Ryke,” Lo snaps.

  I turn to him. “What?”

  I think he’s going to come clean, but I realize he’s watching the bartender out of the corner of his eye. Then he says, “Let’s go.”

  “I told you. I want a fucking drink.”

  He goes quiet, and the bartender squirts Fizz into the glass. I’m guessing she’s already added the alcohol while I was looking at Lo.

  He clenches his teeth and rests his forearms on the bar, deep inside his head as he stares off. I wonder if he’s going to stop me. I want him to admit that he drank. Instead he continues to stay silent, even as the bartender slides the glass over to me.

  “Refill?” she asks Lo.

  He shakes his head. “No, I’m good.”

  “Cheers.” I raise my glass at him, and he watches me with narrowed fucking eyes. I put the rim to my lips. Stop me, Lo.

  This is a high stakes game of chicken.

  And he doesn’t move a muscle or say a fucking word.

  I tip the glass back, and the sweet taste of Fizz mixes with the sharpness of whiskey.

  Scotch whiskey.

  He drank alcohol.

  The more I repeat it, the more irritated and concerned I become. I drink half the glass, waiting for him to say something, to grab it out of my hand. But no matter if regret flashes in his eyes, he watches with a cold, dead gaze like I deserve this shit. Like this is my penance for ignoring him for over twenty years.

  I set the glass down.

  And it takes me a moment to process the weight of what happened.

  I just broke my nine years of sobriety.

  I stare right at him. “I hope you enjoyed that.”

  “Which part? Me drinking or watching you do it?”

  I am trying not to explode on him. My muscles are on fucking fire. I grab the glass again, about to down the last of it, but he surprisingly steals it from me, passing it to the bartender.

  “He’s done,” Lo says. When he turns back on me, he adds, “If you’re this big of an asshole sober, I can’t imagine what kind of asshole you are drunk.”

  I grab his arm before he jumps off the stool and disappears through the tightly packed crowd. “You can’t do this shit,” I growl. “You’re supposed to call me if you have a craving to drink. I could have talked you out of it.”

  “Maybe I didn’t want to talk to you!” Lo shouts all of sudden. He hops off the barstool, and I follow, having only an inch height advantage. We face each other, unresolved hate strung between us.

  He doesn’t know anything about my childhood, and I don’t expect him to ask. All I wanted was a chance to undo what I had done wrong. To be there for him, to be his brother, and Lo makes it so fucking hard. He never gives me a reprieve like Connor.

  “Then call Lily,” I say, “your fucking fiancée, who would be in tears if she saw you right now. Did you fucking think about her when you drank? Did you consider what this would do to her?”

  Lo’s face twists. He won’t punch me. “I’m done with this shit,” he says. He’s about to walk away.

  I grab him by the arm, not letting him go that easily. “You can’t run from your fucking problems. They’re there twenty-four-seven. You have to deal.”

  “Don’t talk about dealing. You won’t even text Dad back. You’re ignoring him like he’s not even alive.” He shakes his head, venom pulsing in his eyes. “You’re doing the same thing to him that you did to me. So why don’t you just do what you do best and pretend that I don’t fucking exist.”

  His words slice cleanly through me, the pain like a fucking swift punch to the gut. Lo never needs his fists to fight. He shoves past me, and Connor stops him before he leaves the pub, calming him down.

  I hold onto the bar, training my breath to normalize. When it does, I scan the crowds for Daisy. I spot her with Christina and another male model, his jaw chiseled. He leans in close to Daisy, licking his lips as he talks.

  What the fuck?

  Not tonight.

  Seeing that—it’s enough for me to start weaving through the fucking people to reach her. I don’t like her body language that’s angled towards Christina, away from the guy, silently telling him to back off.

  They stand by a high-table littered with beer bottles and spilt liquor. The taste of scotch still lingers on my tongue, making me nauseous. Some people recall the perfume their mom wore with fondness, the cigar smell on their late father’s shirt, the cologne, the shampoo—but for me, I smell and taste scotch and I remember my father sitting across from me in a fucking country club. I remember his sharp gaze, his fingers tapping the glass in annoyance, as though the world moved too slowly for him.

  I feel like I ingested my past, full of bad memories. It’s a sickening nostalgia.

  I try to ignore it as I approach Daisy. The moment she sees me, her face brightens, but it dies down when she absorbs my features. “Do we need to leave?”

  “Not yet,” I tell her, my hand finding the small of her back. “Who’s your friend?” He’s been sizing me up this whole fucking time, a beer clutched in his hand. His pupils are also dilated.

  “This is Christina,” Daisy says, her arm hooking with that young model. She sheepishly meets my eyes, her cheeks already reddening. “She’s in the same agency as me.”

  “You’re Ryke Meadows,” she says with a nervous laugh.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “Cool necklace.” She wears a sapphire on a chain, shaped like a dolphin. She bites her lip to hide her full smile. I raise my brows at her, and she has to look away from me, too giddy. Daisy has never been like that around me. I thought she would be flustered by me when she was fifteen, but instead, she had no trouble holding a conversation. It always felt like we were meant to be friends.

  “This is Ian,” Daisy introduces. “He’s a—”

  “Ford model.” Ian extends his hand. I shake it, both of our grips firm. He’s slept with her. I can see it in his eyes. And if not that, they’ve fooled around. A territorial rage consumes me for a minute. I want to wrap my arm around Daisy, but we can’t exactly do that in public.

  He nods to her. “I was just telling Daisy that we should go to a salsa club after this.”

  She looks up at me. “And I was telling him that I’m rhythmically challenged. Lily is the good dancer.” Daisy is right. She’s not good at dancing, but that has never stopped her from doing it. And I fucking love that she doesn’t give a shit.

  Ian laughs. “I don’t believe that at all.” His eyes graze over her hips, as though imagining them shaking side to side against his dick. Fuck you, you fucking fuck.

  I glare at him, and he smiles as he sips his beer like Yeah, I’ve got the fucking girl. Be jealous, asshole.

  “I’d try to salsa,” Christina says, raising her hand.

  “See,” Ian says to Daisy, “you have to at least try like Christina. I’ll teach you.” Over my dead fucking body. He reaches out to wrap an arm around her shoulder, to bring her in for a fucking hug, and I step between them.

  “Sorry,” I say, “you’re not teaching her how to grind on your fucking ass.”

  Ian lets out a short laugh. “I don’t think she needs you to tell her what she can and cannot do. She’s a big
girl.”

  “Yeah,” I tell Ian. “She’s also my fucking girlfriend.” I don’t break his gaze, but I can feel Daisy’s smile fill her whole face beside me. She grabs my hand, restlessly bouncing up and down on her toes like she wants to kiss me but realizes she can’t. Even though I said the fucking words, it’s different than someone having photographic proof.

  That evidence is enough to overturn our world.

  Ian stares between us. “I thought you said you were on a break?” he asks Daisy.

  I’m not that surprised she lied to him—before we were together—telling him that she had a boyfriend. She’s done more impulsive things than that.

  “We got back together,” she declares.

  Ian begins to smile again as he stares at me.

  Don’t bring up your night with her, you fucker.

  But he does. “Did she tell you that we hooked up during your break?”

  “Do you want me to rip your head off?” I ask. “Because I’m close to breaking your fucking neck.”

  Ian licks his lips again. “I’m just laying it out there. You deserve to know the truth. She even moaned when I stuck my finger in her asshole. Did you know she liked that?”

  I fucking punch him, my knuckles socking his jaw hard. He knocks into the high-table, beer bottles shattering on the floor. He raises his hands in surrender really quickly.

  “Whoa, whoa,” he stammers.

  “I don’t know where you fucking come from,” I tell him. “But where I grew up, a guy would get more than a sucker-punch to the fucking face for what you’ve said to me.”

  “I didn’t think you were seriously together,” Ian says, touching his reddened jaw like I’ve damaged his career.

  My body is begging my mind to go and claim Daisy with more than just words. Fucking kiss her.

  But people have whipped out their camera phones, recording our confrontation for the internet.

  I can’t do a fucking thing. I can’t solidify this relationship in front of the whole fucking world. Not without huge consequences.

  “Let’s go,” Daisy says, tugging me towards the door. “Christina, come on.”