Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4)(10)

“Hey, I stuck up for you then and before that, and before that.”

“No offense,” he says, “but your mom really doesn’t f*cking care about your opinions on anything.”

I can’t really take offense to his words. I know it’s true. Only two times have I ever confronted my mother with the truth. That I’d rather be doing something—anything—other than modeling. And she told me that I was being childish and ungrateful, so I shut up on the spot. If I bailed on a photo shoot at the last minute, her face would morph with an expression like that’s my daughter? That rude little snob?

Disappointing my mother is like stabbing her in the womb—the very place I used to be. There’s a metaphor in there, I think.

Ryke suddenly shuts off the shower and yanks the yellow towel from a hook. I’ve been around too many half-dressed, nearly-naked male models to be that alarmed. But it’s different when you know the person. It’s different when you have a crush on a guy beyond just his body, when you like all of him.

And I like all of Ryke Meadows.

The shower curtain whips to the side, and Ryke steps out with the towel tied low around his waist, beads of water still dripping down his toned chest and abs. I’m about to leave, to give him privacy, but he says, “Come here.”

He’s by the sink. And I watch as he opens his toothpaste and squirts a line on his toothbrush and then a line on mine. He holds out my green Oral B. I take it gratefully, and we both brush our teeth at the same time, pretending not to look at each other through the mirror, even when we do.

It’s like we’re a couple.

But we’re not. And we never can be.

Some things are too complicated to ever come to pass. I know this is one of those things.





< 4 >

RYKE MEADOWS



I’m so f*cking sick of taking cold showers, which is why I said f*ck that yesterday. I need to start going to my apartment where I have the freedom to jerk off.

Every morning is about the same. Wake up in Daisy’s bed. Try to suppress a horrible f*cking boner. Take a shower. Run with my brother. Take another shower. Try my absolute f*cking best to stroke my cock without thinking of her long legs and that gorgeous f*cking smile.

Usually I succeed. Sometimes I don’t.

I’m only f*cking human.

I enter a gated street and slow my Ducati down as I pass each f*cking mammoth colonial house. Four sedans trail my ass. They’ve been following me since I left my apartment in Philly. Two cross the double yellow lines to ride beside me, their windows rolled down, cameras snapping and flashing.

I should be used to this shit by now, but I’m not. I don’t think I can ever be, not after I watched a fearless girl go from being completely f*cking fine to scared of the dark to traumatized. It’s not just the cameras and invasive media. It’s everything that comes with it—her f*cked up old prep school friends being one of those.

I flip off an entire sedan. At least my helmet is tinted and they can’t capture a picture of my face. I speed up and weave in front of them. The four cars attempt to block me in, wedging me between their vehicles. I rev the throttle, switch gears, and f*cking take off.

I lose sight of them as I approach a gated house, hedges concealing most of it. I punch in the code, and the iron grinds open.

Daisy probably had a harder f*cking time getting to her sisters’ place than me. I should have left with her. She lives two floors below me in the same apartment complex. I could have distracted the paparazzi while she rode off in another direction, but I didn’t. I left late because I was researching about Ambien, cognitive f*cking therapy, other sleeping medication—anything to solve Daisy’s problem.

And I’m still at a loss of how to help her sleep without medication.

I park my Ducati on its kickstand and look up at the white house with black shutters, a wraparound porch, rocking chairs, a flag pole on a newly mowed lawn. It’s cute—all of them living together. My brother, his girlfriend, Rose and her husband. I’ve shared a house with them before, and it’s not something I’d repeat. For however much I love my brother, I f*cking need space from him sometimes. He likes to test my tolerance. I have a ton, but I worry that if I lived with him for a long time, he’d break me down and I’d rip him apart.

I never want to hit Lo.

It’s a line that I fear crossing on a weekly basis.

I open the front door with my key. A yellow banner hangs low and crooked over the archway that connects the living room to the kitchen. It reads: BON VOYAGE, DAISY. The messy scrawl looks like Lily’s handwriting. I have to duck underneath it to enter the kitchen.

My brother stands by the oven, cracking eggs into a large bowl. Connor watches him, cupping a glass of water. Normally he’d have red wine, but since Lo relapsed, he won’t drink alcohol in front of him.

“Hey, Betty Crocker,” I say, setting my helmet on the breakfast table. “Where’s your apron?”

Lo flashes a dry smile. “Wherever your watch is.” His eyes flicker back to the eggs. “You’re an hour late.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “Everyone left me nasty f*cking text messages.”

I highly doubt you have the capability to read a clock, but you’re verging on forty-six minutes late. And here, I was going to reward you with a treat. – Connor