Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4)

Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4) - Krista Ritchie


A NOTE FROM THE AUTHORS



Hothouse Flower is a spin-off of the Addicted series. It follows Ryke and Daisy, secondary characters in the Addicted series, who meet in Ricochet (Addicted #1.5). It is recommended, but not necessary, to read the Addicted books beforehand. However, it is necessary to read the first Addicted series spin-off book— Kiss the Sky —before reading Hothouse Flower. The full recommended reading order is on our Tumblr and in the back of the book.




A NOTE FROM RYKE



My life is full of unconventionalities, abnormalities and awkward f*cking situations.

If you’re easily offended by crude language and inappropriate talks, you’ve taken a wrong f*cking turn somewhere. You won’t understand me if you can’t handle me, and I’m not going to try to explain myself.

I’m raw.

I’m hard.

I’m the thing you shy away from.

So I’m warning you now. Back away.

Because once you enter my life, I won’t ever let you leave.





< Prologue >

RYKE MEADOWS

Every Monday was f*cking identical to the last. No matter if I was ten or twelve. Fifteen or seventeen. A driver named Anderson came to my house in a suburb of Philly at noon. He dropped me off at a country club ten minutes later, and my father sat in that same f*cking table in the back corner, by that same f*cking window that overlooked two red and green tennis courts. He ordered the same f*cking food (filet mignon with hundred-year-old scotch) and he asked the same f*cking questions.

“How has school been treating you?”

“Fine,” I said. I had a 4.0 GPA. I was only seventeen, and college recruiters were scouting me for track and field. I rock climbed with any spare time I had, and I juggled both sports. I built this plan in my head since high school. I’d go to college to run. I wouldn’t touch a dime of his f*cking money. I’d let my trust fund rot. I’d get as far away from my father and my mother as I possibly could. I’d finally find peace and forget about all the lies that clung to me.

My dad sipped his scotch. “Your mom isn’t going to tell me how you are, and you won’t open your goddamn mouth to say more than monosyllabic words. So what am I going to have to do? Call strangers to ask about you? Your teacher? They’re going to think I’m a terrible f*cking parent.”

I glared at the table, not touching my chicken sandwich. I accepted the food when I was ten. I always ate the burgers when I was eleven. But when I was fifteen, I woke up, and I finally accepted that I was eating with a f*cking monster. “I have nothing to say,” I told him.

“Are you suddenly deaf now? How was your week? What’d you f*cking do? It’s not that hard of a question.” He downed his scotch. “Ridiculous,” he muttered and pointed at me, a finger extending off his glass. “You’re supposed to be the intelligent son.” Then he motioned to a waiter for another round.

My muscles flexed at the mention of Loren, unresolved hate flooding me and heating my whole body.

I had no control over this anger. It just consumed me like a f*cking forest fire.

“Can we cut this short?” I asked. “I have f*cking places to be.”

The waiter arrived, filling my father’s glass a quarter. He urged him to continue, and he poured more, three-quarters full. “He’ll take one,” my dad said.

Jonathan Hale was swimming in billions of dollars from Hale Co., a baby supply company. He paid the country club staff to stay quiet about the underage drinking. It was f*cking normal by now.

My stomach clenched at the sight of the alcohol. I decided only four days ago to stop drinking for good. I knew every Monday I’d be tested by my father. And I wouldn’t tell him that I quit. I didn’t want to talk about it. I would just avoid the f*cking drink. I’d ignore it.

The waiter poured me a glass and corked the crystal bottle.

He left us without another word.

“Drink,” my dad insisted.

“I don’t like scotch.”

My father cocked his head. “Since when?”

“Since it became your favorite f*cking drink.”

He shook his head. “You and your brother love to rebel like little punks.”

I glared. “I’m nothing like that prick.”

“And how would you know?” he retorted easily. “You’ve never met him.”

“I just f*cking know.” I gripped my knee that started to bounce. I wanted to get out of there. I couldn’t stand talking about Loren. I always knew I had a half-brother. It wasn’t f*cking hard to deduce that the kid of Jonathan Hale would also be related to me. We shared a f*cking father. But my dad and mom never said it outright until I was fifteen. After my mom bitched about that “bastard” kid, I asked my dad to elaborate. He finally gave me three facts that cleared up a picture I’d already started to construct.

One: Jonathan cheated on Sara, my mom, with some other woman when I was a few months old.

Two: The “other” woman got pregnant. Loren was born a year after me, and she left her son with Jonathan. Bolted. No longer in the picture.

Three: I lived with Sara. My half-brother lived with our dad. And the whole f*cking world believed Sara’s kid was Loren Hale. Not me. I was Meadows. I shared the last name with my mom’s deadbeat family in New Jersey, all of which wanted nothing to do with her.