Hothouse Flower

< 24 >

RYKE MEADOWS

I press the phone harder to my ear, thinking I’ve heard Connor wrong. “Excuse me?”

“I stepped out for maybe ten minutes to talk to Rose. I didn’t think he would order anything but a Fizz and some fries.”

“You’re telling me you turned your back for ten fucking minutes and my brother downed what?”

“I don’t know. But I can tell he’s had something. He won’t look at me, so I think he’s drinking a Fizz and rum.”

“Take the fucking glass from him.” I pace across the hotel room, running my hand quickly through my hair.

“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 Connor 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.”

“She wants to stay with me,” Ian speaks up. “Right, Christina?”

Daisy wraps her arm around Christina’s shoulder. “We’re partying together, sorry.”

“She has a voice,” he tells Daisy, waiting for Christina to make a decision.

She timidly points towards the door. “I’m going to stick with Daisy.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, and Daisy squeezes her shoulder.

“Girl power,” Daisy exclaims with a bright smile that carries so much energy. It lights up the whole room. “Come on.” She lets go of my hand and clasps Christina’s, swinging her arm as they reach the door. Christina immediately looks relieved and smiles with this newfound happiness.

Ian takes a step forward, and I put my hand on his chest.

“Don’t even fucking try.” That girl has to be fourteen or fifteen, and from what Daisy has told me about her weird night with him, I doubt he cares about that girl’s age.

He stays put, and then I follow the girls out, spotting my brother and Connor on the congested street already.

“Everyone is a giant!” Daisy howls into the night sky. Literally, like a wolf. “We’re in the land of tall people!”

Christina can’t stop laughing, and Daisy turns her head to see me watching.

I raise my brows at her like what the fuck are you doing? And she howls again and points at the full moon. “Like my mating call?” she asks me.

“I don’t see any fucking guys responding to it.”

“I do,” she says with a smile, staring right at me.

“Right. If that’s true, then I’ll be humping you later, sweetheart.” My eyes lighten a little more because this time—there is fucking truth to our banter.

“Doggy-style or are you just going to be grinding on my leg?”

“Not your leg.”

“Higher?”

“Well what’s the other alternative? I’m not going to fuck your ankles.”

She raises her hands in defense. “There are some people into feet.”

“I’m into pussy. Now you know.” My unfiltered response causes her to flush.

She grins. “I should howl more often then.” She’s cute. She always is. I’d kiss her if I could, but I need to check on my brother.

I glance over at Lo. He’s staring at the sky like he wishes he could settle among the stars for fucking eternity and never have to live this life. I hate that look. It’s one that I used to wear when I was fifteen, kicking shit over and screaming at the top of my lungs. I’d end up exhausted, collapsed on the grass of my yard, and I’d look up at the fucking sky and think what am I doing here? Why the fuck am I in this world? Living shouldn’t be this painful.

My life had no meaning until I decided to turn around and meet my brother.

I can’t lose him to this disease…or because of the choices I’ve made.

Connor has his hand on Lo’s shoulder, his lips moving like he’s talking him down from a fucking cliff. I feel like I put him there.

The traffic is gridlocked, taxis barely budging. We have a short walk back to the hotel, and most of the paparazzi have dispersed. Instead, the streets are full of sports fans, those red and white jerseys everywhere.

In the distance, the Eiffel Tower glows green. The screen on the front of the fucking mammoth structure plays footage from the Rugby World Cup.

When I glance back at Daisy, her smile is gone. She shrugs at me and then turns to Christina, whispering in her ear. I wish she had no affiliation to my brother. I wish they never knew each other—then all of this would be so fucking simple.

The girls start watching a couple guys bicker by the curb, fighting about women or maybe the rugby game. I can’t tell from here, but they’re drunk, spitting out their insults and puffing out their chests.

The construction nearby forces people to draw closer than they normally would. Scaffolding juts out from the pub next door, losing space, and plywood and other materials are thrown around the cement, covering divots and potholes.

“Hey, let’s head back,” I tell Daisy.

She nods to me but doesn’t take her eyes off the growing fight. More and more people push onto the sidewalk, separating me from my little brother. I weave in between guys to reach him. Most are models and beefy fans. I even spot a portly guy doing a keg stand, his feet held up by his friends. His jersey falls to his neck, and his large stomach lolls over his jeans. His friend jiggles his fat while they all laugh.

When I near Lo, Connor steps aside a little, but my brother looks pained as he meets my eyes. “You shouldn’t have had that whiskey,” he says, his eyes glassing with remorse. Not I’m sorry. Those two words barely exist in his vocabulary, so I wasn’t fucking expecting them.

“One glass isn’t going to make me fucking addicted, Lo.”

He rubs his lips and lets out a bitter, dry laugh. “Lucky you.” He cringes at his sharp words and just shakes his head.

“We should go back to the hotel—” An elbow digs into my fucking back, the force pushing me into someone else. I look up and realize a new fight has broken out behind me, between two blue-collar looking guys with beards.

Screaming pierces the fucking air, and I’m being pushed in every fucking direction. Fights break by the curb, shoving people into the slow traffic, ramming bodies into the hoods of cars. Stumbling between vehicles. I hear the smash of glass as people start shattering car windows.

People are yelling about the rugby game, about England’s loss. Angry fucking drunk fans are storming some of the bars, thrusting people aside. I’m trying to grab ahold of my brother. My heart runs wild as my mind catches up with me.

They’re rioting.

And we’re stuck in the middle of it.

I turn my head, and a taller guy decks Lo in the face. Lo snatches his shirt and hits him back in the stomach. The guy doubles over, and someone is pulling at my fucking leather bike jacket, trying to drag me to the ground. I spin around and shove him off me.

Daisy. Where the fuck is, Daisy?! My head whips from side to side. I don’t see where I left her. Christina is gone too.

There are too many people running around, screaming. Fire. Someone started a fire in the pub we were just at. Flames licking the windows.

Fuck. Connor ducks as someone swings at him, and he catches a terrified girl around the waist before she face plants on the cement.

“Daisy!” I yell. Where the fuck is she?! I push people away from me with hostile aggression. Why did I leave her alone? “DAISY!”

Everyone is fucking screaming. Like she said, it’s the land of the fucking giant people. With models taller than her, she doesn’t stick out like she usually does. I start looking at the ground, at fallen people, and I lift up a young girl who cries in pain, her leg bent in the wrong direction. I carry her towards a street lamp and set her beside it, out of harm’s way.

And then just as I go back in, I spot Christina clutching onto the same iron lamp, flinching as a guy punches another man right in front of her, their bodies starting to drift this way.

“Christina,” I call. Tears streak her cheeks.

She meets my gaze and cries harder.

“You okay? Where’s Daisy?”

Christina shakes her head over and over. “She pushed me out, and then she got swept in it. I couldn’t find her…” She sobs into her hand and then points at the center of the riot, where so many men are brawling.

I don’t think twice. I just go back in, another elbow ramming my back. A head knocking into my jaw. I shove and push and dig my fucking way through the people.

And then I see her.

She shakily stands. Blood trickles down her forehead, the source by her hairline, like someone ripped the strands, like they could’ve been caught in something. She teeters, disoriented. I try to reach her, but a couple guys shove me back and punch me in the face. I’m too fucking concentrated on her to feel the pain.

I tear through them, hitting them back with as much force.

Daisy touches her forehead, blinking a couple times to clear her vision. And then she meets my gaze, and relief floods her eyes.

“Ryke,” I barely hear her say over the noise, but I see her lips form my name. Sirens blare in the distance, but no cop or ambulance will make it here anytime soon, not with this fucking traffic. Not with this madness.

She stands on the curb. And out of nowhere, some guy comes up from behind her. I watch in slow fucking motion, and I scream as loud as I can. “DAISY!!” I shove against so many fucking people, but it’s like a current draws me back, pulling me under. “DAISY!!!”

He holds a two-by-four, part of the construction waste on the sidewalk and street, bracing the piece of wood like a bat.

I can’t see his face. It’s shadowed by the blur of bodies. But I do see him swing. Just as she turns her head to the side, the board smacks hard into her cheek.

Her body thuds to the cement with the force—limp and motionless.

I fucking lose it.

I barrel through whatever’s keeping me from her, shouting more expletives than necessary. I worry about people trampling her body. And then I finally fucking reach her, the fastest and slowest moments of my life.

I instantly lift her unconscious body in my arms. I have to get her out of here. That’s my only thought. I edge through the masses, glancing down at her once. Her face is turned into my chest, but I feel a wetness seep through.

It’s not tears.

It’s blood.

So much fucking blood, beginning to turn my white shirt into something red.

My heart is in my throat. I can barely breathe. I make it into an area where people frantically try to find their friends, calling out to them in French, German, English, Russian, pressing their phones to their ears.

I can’t even look for my brother. I just think hospital. She needs a fucking hospital.

I take a trained breath, cradling her in my arms. Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I spin around on him, about to go on the offensive, but I realize he’s older, grayed hair with glasses.

He has a phone to his ear, his features grave. He points to Daisy and then to the street. “L’ambulance est coincée dans les embouteillages.” The ambulance is stuck in traffic.

“À quelle distance se trouve l’hôpital le plus proche?” I ask. How far is the nearest hospital?

He points in the direction. “Hôpital de l’Hotel-Dieu, environ 5 kilomètres.” About 5 kilometers.

3 miles.

With Daisy in my arms, I can fucking run that in fifteen minutes or less. I mumble thank you, and I just fucking take off.

Her head bounces against my chest only a couple of times before I adjust her.

I have carried this girl so many times in my life.

But this time—this is the absolute worst.

I run.

One hundred and fifty miles per hour.

I don’t fucking stop.

Not for anything.

I just keep going. It’s what your good at Ryke. It may be the only thing.