Hothouse Flower

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DAISY CALLOWAY

“Don’t eat anything heavy,” Ryke tells me. I sit cross-legged in a booth, moose and antelope heads chopped and mounted on the walls of John’s Backwoods Smokehouse. We stopped in the Kentucky Mountains for dinner, and now that I’m without stitches and no longer modeling, I can eat real freakin’ food.

“I don’t like that suggestion.” My eyes glaze ravenously over the pictures on the giant menu. Juicy steaks. Baby back ribs. Barbeque sandwiches. Greasy burgers.

My grumbling belly wants it all.

“You’re going to be fucking sick. You can’t go from eating fruits and vegetables for months to eating red meat.”

I stare at him over the menu. “I have this theory.” I pause for dramatic effect. “That my stomach is made of steel.”

Ryke crumples his straw paper and throws it at my face. It sticks in my hair. I smile, but he can’t see it behind the menu.

Lo doesn’t notice our exchange, even if he sits next to me. He’s busy scanning the other full tables and booths, wondering if anyone notices us. So far we’ve stayed anonymous.

He tips my baseball cap lower on my eyes to hide me from sight. My scar is facing the wall, so on the off chance that someone photographs us, they won’t catch the cut. And it’s not really my hat. Ryke gave me his.

Connor sips his water across from Lo. “If you act like you’re hiding something, generally people are going to think you are,” Connor tells him.

Lo glares. “I just don’t want to be hounded the whole trip.” He squeezes a lemon in his water, glaring at that too like it affronted him in some way. I guess it has by not being whiskey.

“No one’s picked up where we are,” Ryke says. “We’re good.”

Lo nods, trying to believe this.

I keep looking at Ryke above the menu, only my eyes visible to him. He had his stitches removed too. A cut slices through the corner of his eyebrow, small but noticeable. It’ll turn into a scar after it heals fully.

He catches me skimming his features, but I don’t shy from him. We play a dangerous game of who’s gonna look away first. Not me. I eye him like I want to crawl into his lap and lick his face. He stares at me with an intense hardness—rugged and alpha and a tad bit assholish. That’s Ryke Meadows. The singular look forces my heel into the spot between my legs. The pressure is nice against the throbbing place.

I fear that I’m going to break first. So I say, “My scar is bigger than your scar.” I smile behind the menu again.

His dark expression never falters. “And my cock is bigger than your cock.”

Ohhh. Burn. I laugh, and Lo cringes. He’s past scolding Ryke for feeding into my inappropriate talk. He just shakes his head and flags down the waitress to come take our orders.

I give Ryke another look like I want to fuck him, my eyes softening but still narrowing. I can speak through my gaze pretty well after practicing different expressions for modeling.

Even with the fuck me hard, come hither stare, he stays fixed on me, unwavering. It’s a game between us, but his penetrating gaze is seriously heating my body past its normal temperature. I think it’s different now that it can go further than just flirting. It can progress to kissing and fondling and fucking since we’re together. Just not in front of his brother and Connor.

The waitress stops by our booth. “Ready to order?”

“Yeah,” Lo says. I vaguely pay attention to his burger order, along with Connor’s salmon. Ryke raises his brows at me like you have to look away sometime, sweetheart.

Fine. I lose. Maybe next time it’ll end with us tangled together. I mull over my food options quickly and then smile at the pretty blonde waitress. “I’ll have the sirloin steak with a baked potato.”

Ryke shakes his head at me, but he doesn’t force me to switch. He looks at the waitress. “I’ll have the same thing.” We pass her our menus and as she walks to the kitchen, Ryke says, “Just so you can see why I’m not sick and you are.”

“My stomach is made of steel,” I repeat.

“That theory hasn’t been fucking proven yet.”

“True.”

Connor types on his phone and then slips it in his pocket. He looks at me. “Now that you’re done modeling, are you going to apply to college?”

I knew this topic was going to surface, and I’m not surprised he’s the first one to bring it up. “Do you want me to go to college?” I ask.

“We all want you to do what you love,” he says. “College is a good place to figure that out, but it’s not for everyone.” He looks at Lo, who lets out a bitter laugh.

“Sure, turn to the guy who dropped out his junior year,” Lo snaps.

Connor shrugs easily. “You’re a good example. Don’t be ashamed. It’s a fact.”

“Fact,” Lo says, “you’re a conceited prick.”

“Fact,” Connor retorts, “you’re a good looking asshole.”

Lo touches his heart mockingly. “A compliment and an insult. Fuck me now, love.”

Ryke rolls his eyes. He balls up my straw paper while I smooth the corners of my napkin, making a rose out of it.

“No college,” I tell them. “I don’t want to sit behind a desk all day and be lectured.”

Connor nods understandingly.

“Maybe down the road I’ll go,” I say. “Just not anytime soon.”

“So what are you going to do then?” Lo asks me.

“I don’t know yet,” I admit, twisting the stem on the paper rose. “I thought this trip could help me decide.” I wish I was like Ryke. His job is his sport. He’s been in so many rock climbing magazines because of successful free-solo climbs he’s done. While he does live off his trust fund, he’s been in three commercials where he’s climbing and they paid him millions because of his celebrity status. He’s the face of some kind of men’s razor—which is pretty funny considering he’s always unshaven. And he did a couple ads for REI and Under Armour.

Basically, he’s balling. And I don’t have a talent to capitalize on.

I guess that’s a lie.

I did have a talent: Modeling.

What happens when the thing you’re good at isn’t the thing you love?

That’s where I am now. Stuck.

Someone’s phone vibrates on the table. I check my cell, thinking it may be my mom. Maybe she’s ready to talk to me. I want to explain, but she’s not giving me much of a chance.

No texts.

I look up, and Ryke’s jaw locks as he stares at the screen of his phone. He presses a button. I know he’s deleted a text from either his mom or dad. I’ve seen him do it before. He slips his phone into his leather jacket pocket.

I can’t help but sympathize with his parents in this moment. I know what it feels like to be ignored, and it hurts. But it’s not really my place to say something, is it? All of that business with his mom and dad and Lo, it’s too messy for me to jump into.

Connor starts asking Lo about Superheroes & Scones, his duel comic book and coffee shop that he owns with Lily. I tune out at the words taxes and profit margin.

Ryke nods to me. “Where’d you learn how to do that?” His eyes fall to the paper rose. He’s watched me make them over the years, but this is the first time he’s asked.

Sometimes I don’t even notice that I’m playing with the napkins. I just do it out of habit. “When I was a debutante, the instructors made us sit at a table for hours. I was really bored.”

“You taught yourself?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I found an article online on how to make cool shapes.” I finish the napkin flower and hold it out to him. “Ryke, do you accept this rose?” I tease. He knows The Bachelor reference. When we were living with everyone, I made him watch taped episodes with me while I tried to fall asleep.

“That implies that you have many fucking guys dating you.”

I mock gasp. “But you’re my number one.” I raise the baseball cap on my head so I can see him better.

“If I’m seriously dating a girl,” he says, “I better be the only fucking one.”

He knows he is. I smile and pinch the stem of the rose. I slip it behind my ear. It’s not long after that our food parades towards us. The plates slide on the table, and the steak looks exactly like the picture.

“Need anything else?” the waitress asks.

“A dessert menu,” I tell her. I’m already anticipating a piece of chocolate cake. And if that doesn’t exist, then I’ll settle for a warm brownie.

“Sure thing, honey.” She leaves, and I cut my steak into large slices, not wanting to waste any time. My brain is screaming eat, eat, eat!

I take my first bite and shut my eyes. Delicious.

Magic.

I love food. After four more bites, I sip my water and say, “Told you, steel stomach.”

He chews, and his brows rise again, not as optimistic as me.