Hothouse Flower (Calloway Sisters)

by Ritchie, Krista

  “Daisy, look at me,” Ryke says, his hand sliding on my thigh, holding me tightly.

  I meet his concerned gaze just as the last memory hits me. I picked myself off the concrete. “I saw you,” I whisper. “You were right there.” I remember meeting his eyes. And they were full of anger, full of desperation, full of gut-wrenching pain.

  He screamed my name. I heard it only once before something hard met my face.

  My face.

  For the first time, I raise my hand to touch my cheek. All I feel is tape, gauze, maybe. But whatever lies underneath it—that’s what hurts each time I begin to smile.

  BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP!

  “Take deep fucking breaths,” he tells me, rubbing my arm.

  Someone knocks twice, and then the hospital doors open. A nurse in pink scrubs sticks her head in. “Daisy, you’re awake.” She smiles, and then she turns slightly to whisper to someone else. “Can you go let her friends know?” She shuts the door behind her and pads closer to me. “My name is Janet. How are you feeling?”

  She pours a cup of water and passes it to me. I take a sip and hand it immediately to Ryke. “Can I have a mirror?” I ask her.

  Beepbeepbeepbeep.

  I can’t articulate my feelings beyond panic. I just need to see my face first to understand these emotions that blow through me.

  “Do you want me to call the hospital psychologist first?”

  What? “Ryke.” I turn to him with widened eyes.

  “Can you just give her a mirror?” he asks Janet with a hard gaze.

  She nods. “Okay.” Janet tentatively picks up a handheld mirror from a drawer, and I take it from her.

  I raise it up to my face. BeepbeeepBEEPBEEP.

  Bandages cover my left cheek down to my jaw. But my lip is swollen, and dark purpled bruises sit beneath both eyes. I look…so much worse than Ryke, no wonder he stared at me like stop fucking talking about my injuries.

  I start picking at the tape, to uncover the bandage, and Janet swats my hand away. “Don’t touch.”

  “I need to see it.” I don’t even know what it is.

  And then another nurse in blue scrubs waltzes in with Connor and Lo.

  “Hey,” Lo says with a weak smile. “How are you doing?” He touches my feet above the blanket. I want to return the smile, but it hurts too much to do so.

  “Okay,” I say.

  Connor just nods. “Has anyone told you what’s happened?”

  “Sort of,” I murmur. “I want to see what’s wrong with my face.”

  “She doesn’t know?” Lo frowns and glares at Ryke like it’s his fault.

  “We’re fucking getting there.”

  “Let me help,” the other nurse says, sidling to the bed. “We have to put new dressings on the wound anyway.”

  Ryke stands up while both the nurses hover over me. He joins Lo and Connor at the foot of the bed, and my heart rate stays at the same beepbeepbeepbeep pace.

  Janet slowly removes the tape, peeling back the bandage that clings to a few stitches…no wait, a lot of stitches.

  “It was a deep gash,” Janet explains in the kindest way possible. “You’ve had an MRI. Everything came back normal. The doctors said you may have a slight concussion, but otherwise, you’ll be fine in about two weeks, no more stitches. Just a—”

  “Scar,” I finish for her. They free my face of gauze and tape, and there it is: a reddened gash that runs from my temple, across my cheek, to my jaw. I move my tongue in my mouth, along my gum, feeling the backs of the stitches, as though my cheek was cut open at one point.

  “How…” BEEPBEEPBEEP. I look up at Ryke, my eyes like saucers.

  “You were hit with a fucking two-by-four. The doctors think there was something sharp on the board that sliced you.”

  “You were given a tetanus shot,” the blue-scrub nurse assures me.

  Janet says, “We can get the psychologist in here.”

  Because I’ll have this scar forever. Because I’ll never be the pretty Daisy Calloway in magazine spreads or down runways. I am no longer a model.

  I am no longer the person my mom aspired me to be.

  But I am more me now than I was before.

  I shut my eyes and lean my head back. And my heart rate—it slows. I take a deep breath. What feels like my very first one ever, and silent tears fall. A pressure so heavy begins to rise off my chest.

  “It’s okay to be upset,” Janet tells me.

  I open my eyes and shake my head, a weak laugh escaping. “I’m not upset.” My chin quivers. I wipe the tears and I say, “I’m relieved.” My gaze meets Ryke’s. “How sick is that?” And then I burst into tears because I know I shouldn’t feel this way.

  He’s by my side in seconds, and I wrap my arms around his chest.

  I didn’t realize how trapped I was until this very moment. Until something so horrifying could actually feel good.

  And I know I’m partly to blame. If this doesn’t tell me that I need to stand up for myself, then I don’t think anything could.

  < 28 >

  DAISY CALLOWAY

  Pain medication conks me out. It’s been a new type of sleep. Not exactly better. I always feel lethargic, drowsy, and I still ache for that perfect sleep that I used to have before the media. Luckily Ryke supplies me with an energy drink on my last day in the hospital.

  I sip the Lightning Bolt! while I dig through my suitcase that he brought. The guys have already checked out of the hotel for me and gathered our stuff.

  “Did you call your agency?” Ryke asks.

  “Yeah, I quit last night.” The final day of Fashion Week, I called Revolution Modeling Inc. and said, “I don’t want to model anymore. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find someone else for the runway tonight. And I won’t be working for the next three weeks or in the future.” My voice wasn’t as confident or ballsy as maybe Rose’s would have been. But I look at it as a trial run for the phone call to my mom.

  They asked why.

  I said the biggest truth of all: “I don’t love modeling.”

  No cop outs. I’ve had two days in the hospital—of quiet nights left with my endless thoughts—to come to this conclusion. My career has ended because of my face, but it should have ended so much sooner because of my health, my emotions, my happiness. It has taken a near-death experience and the end-all of modeling for me to realize this. Blaming it on the scar—it seems like the easy way to deal. I know I won’t feel better unless I do it the way I was always meant to.

  I find a pair of jean shorts and a shirt that says: I’m a fucking mermaid. “How’s this?” I ask Ryke, flashing the V-neck at him.

  He almost smiles, which sells it for me.

  I zip up my bag. “Can you close the curtains while I change?” I give him a single look like you don’t have to leave.

  His features are hard to gauge. I can’t read much behind his brooding eyes. I’ve tried not to question if he’s going to break up with me over my face. He did say, We’re going to get through this. I just wonder if he’ll be helping me as a friend or as something more.

  These thoughts tear holes inside my stomach.

  I guess I’m about to find out where his head is at. Connor and Lo are waiting in the rental car for us. So we’re alone for the first time since I initially woke up. I don’t think Lo is worried about leaving us together. I can tell he’s trying to trust his brother, especially after screwing up and drinking.

  I also talked to Rose and Lily, stopping them before they flew out to Paris. I don’t want Lily to miss college or Rose to cancel meetings for her fashion business just to see me. It took some convincing and a two-hour argument, but I won out this time. Although, Rose made me Skype her, but I refused to show the wound beneath my bandage. I told her that she’d have a good look at it every time she saw me for the rest of my life. So she can wait a few more weeks.

  I watch Ryke whip the curtain around the ceiling track, enclosing us in the room for extra privacy. I set my jeans and shirt on the
end of the bed, the hospital gown hanging on my body like a thin sack. The silence speeds my heart. Luckily I’m no longer hooked to any machines, but my shallow breath replaces the beep beep beep.

  I can’t tell what he’s going to do, and that mystery instantly draws me to him. I take a couple steps forward and then stop halfway, a few feet separating us. He stands tall, his masculinity so apparent in his build and hard jawline. I think I could live underneath Ryke Meadows, under his weight and protection, and be satisfied for life.

  The thought pulls my lips upward. I ignore the pinch in my cheek, the slight pain of the motion. I want to smile, dammit. So I’m gonna smile.

  He watches me closely, all my small movements under scrutiny, and then he steps forward. One foot near. I inhale strongly, smelling his woodsy scent, like water and earth. I’m too curious about his thoughts and actions to touch him first.

  His eyes meet mine and then fall to the collar of my hospital gown. He never looks at me like I’m half of myself, too beaten to love, too fragile to handle. Instead, his gaze rakes me like it’s our first time being this close again.

  One more step and his chest brushes against mine with each deep breath. He leans forward, and I go rigid. His lips tickle my ear. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

  I smile wide. Those words mean so much more now than they ever did before. “Say that again.”

  “How about I just fucking show you?” His hot breath warms my neck, and then he kisses that very spot, deeply right away. Just like that, my body responds by curving towards him. He holds the back of my head, sucking the nape of my neck with such diligence that every nerve lights.

  “Ryke,” I breathe softly, a high-pitched moan following.

  My arms slip underneath his, holding his back like he belongs to me. I can’t believe I’m turned on after being cooped up in a hospital. But my sore limbs loosen like jelly at his possessive touch.

  He unties my hair, slipping the band on his wrist. Then he messes the long locks with a rough hand, as he’s done so many times before. It dizzies me, and my heart palpitates.

  His lips return, trailing my collar. He fingers the ties on the back of my gown. I only wear panties, having put them on as I started dressing earlier. The hospital fabric slips off me, the cool air nipping my skin. Goose bumps run along my bruised arms and legs. I stiffen, thinking he’s going to pull away at the sight of all the purple blemishes, but he only gently kisses around them, being careful with me but not so much that he’d let me go.

  I wish I could kiss him back. Even if it didn’t hurt, Ryke would never allow my lips to near him, not wanting to cause me pain. But his kind of TLC is the best kind. His hands slide along my hips, edging towards my yellow cotton panties, daises printed on the backside.

  My mouth opens as I watch his kisses descend to my boobs, already exposed for him, no bra to unclip or fling off. His head lowers to the top of my right breast, and as he nears my nipple, I have a flash of what happened with Ian. The sharp pain. Biting. Blood.

  I jerk back in fright, and Ryke says nothing about the panicked flinch. He just lifts me up to his waist, my legs wrapping around him, and then he brings me to the bed. I lie on the soft blue blanket, and Ryke hardly misses a beat. He splits my legs open, kneeling between them before he kisses the same spot beside my nipple.

  Only this time, he watches my expression as he sucks the sensitive skin, his eyes on me the whole time, studying my response. So that’s why he moved me. I like this position better. His pelvis is right up against my pelvis, and I hook my ankle around his to secure me to him.

  I hold my breath as he kisses my nipple, his tongue skimming the hard bud with only a desire to light my body. It works as soon as his other hand kneads my left breast, and a sharp cry entangles with my gasp.

  He sucks a little harder, and I tense, so he slows, which feels… “Ahh,” I cry again. Wow. His forceful passion stays, pulsing the spot between my legs with new need and want. I ache for something harder. An ache I’ve never experienced to this degree.

  “I want you so badly,” I say with another gasp. I claw at his back, his shirt riding up. My hips are thrust upwards against him with so much pressure that he groans, the noise deep in his throat.

  He strokes the sweaty hair off my forehead, and then he sits up, his hands running along my long slender legs. He stares at the length of them with a newfound hot and heavy lust. “I love so many fucking parts of you,” he says huskily.

  I clutch the blanket on either side of my hips, grinding harder into him. “Take off your jeans,” I practically whimper. Usually I want the guy to keep them on, for the uncomfortable moment to end faster. This is so foreign. And I adore every single second.

  “We’re not having sex yet, so store that fantasy for later, sweetheart.” Sweetheart.

  I smile. No pain. It’s drowned beneath my arousal.

  Ryke says sweetheart with so much force that it conflicts with the mildness of the word. I wonder if that’s us. Soft to his hard. Sweet to his rough. Wild to his stone.

  I like it.

  He grabs my ankles, unhooking them from him, and he bends my legs. He pauses once, listening for the silence, hearing my breath, and I think he’s discerning how much time we have before someone catches us. We are in a hospital. A public place. But he has a way of making it feel like the most private, safe place on Earth. Thankfully he looks satisfied to continue.

  He kisses the top of my knee, and then his intense gaze meets mine. He takes two of his fingers and slips them in his mouth for a short moment. Just watching that—my hands dig harder into the bed. With my head on the pillow, he’s too far away to clutch.

  His hand glides underneath my panties, and his two warm fingers enter the pulsing spot, I clench around him almost immediately. I moan, my mouth permanently open. The corners of his lips rise, and he unlatches one of my hands from the bed.

  “Have you been this wet before?” he asks me. He presses my fingers to the same spot that he’s inside, and my cold touch feels worse than his warm. I am not just wet. I am soaked. And I feel so swollen with need.

  I shake my head. “You’ve done what I have trouble doing to myself.”

  “It’s time for that to fucking change, don’t you think?”

  I smile wider.

  “Don’t smile,” he says. “I don’t want to fucking hurt you.”

  “There’s no way you can.” He’s only ever been the opposite in my life. The most positive force there ever was. He’s like that to everyone he meets. I’m sure of it.

  “Still,” he retorts.

  I bite my lip to keep from grinning, and he lets my hand go as soon as he begins moving his two fingers inside me, finding a sensitive place that I’ve been searching for, for years. I wish I could see his hand beneath my panties, his fingers so deep in me. That’s a visual I’d keep planted near the front of my brain.

  I don’t want him so far away. I slowly sit up while he fucks me with his fingers, and he gives me a stern look like you can’t fucking kiss me.

  I rest my forehead on his chest and stare down at the way his hand moves beneath the cotton. He has to adjust a little inside me, but he finds the right place again. He holds the back of my head with his other hand. Out of need and instinct, I rock my hips, driving him deeper. I cry at the new sensations.

  “Easy,” he whispers, but now that I’m so close, he pulls my panties down to my thighs, showing me what he’s doing.

  Just seeing Ryke, his hand, right between my legs, his fingers all the way inside me, it nearly sends me over. “Ryke,” I gasp. “RykeRykeRyke.” I clutch onto his back and keep rocking my hips in sync with the movement of his fingers. I am climbing a gorgeous mountain that I have never even neared before. And he’s the one taking me there.

  He leans my back on the blanket again, but he doesn’t pry me off him, so in result, I’ve taken Ryke with me. He hovers over my body, so close to me. Even if he’s fully clothed and I lie naked, I feel safe in his possession.


  “Don’t stop,” I cry. “Ryke.” I grab his bicep for support.

  I meet his wanting gaze once before my toes curl, my spine arches, and my eyes roll back. Every part of me explodes like a thousand fireworks inside my head and body.

  I go off.

  And I come for the very first time.

  Finally.

  He keeps me full while my breath slows and I clench a few more times.

  I laugh because that was one of the best things I’ve ever felt. Period. And he hasn’t even pushed his cock inside of me yet.

  “Better than chocolate?” he asks, wiping my lips that stay parted. His forearm rests beside my head, propping up his body as he stares down at me.

  “I don’t know,” I pant. “I think I need to test this out five or six more times to make a definitive answer.” I smile playfully.

  “I have a strong fucking feeling that we’ll hear your answer quickly.”

  “I love your strong feelings,” I tell him.

  “I love watching you come,” he says like it’s a simple fact. But it’s not simple at all.

  “How much?”

  He kisses my good cheek and then whispers, “More than you’ll ever fucking know.”

  Damn. He slips his fingers out of me, wiping them on the blanket, and then he slides my soaked panties off my legs at an extremely slow rate. So slow that my body clenches all over again. When they’re off my feet, I turn on my stomach and moan into the covers. “Just take me now,” I say into the muffled blankets.

  He’s on his knees, and he lifts me by the hips so I’m on mine too. “That’s not how I take women,” he says, squeezing my ass.

  “You torture them,” I say, turning my head. “I can’t come twice before we have sex.”

  “Want to fucking bet?” he says with narrowed eyes.

  I grin. “Yes, I do. Let’s test it out now.”

  “We don’t have time,” he says, shutting it down. It was worth a shot. He wipes between my legs with the blanket, and then he swiftly grabs me around the waist and sets my feet on the floor. Completely naked. I watch as he grabs a clean pair of panties from my bag.