Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4)(105)

I lean down and kiss her, cementing my decision.





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DAISY CALLOWAY



The woods have been replaced by desert. Red rock and endless roads with no one around. Much different than the congested streets in Wyoming, where cars slow at the sight of a deer, snapping pictures as though it’s the most fascinating creature in the wild.

That would be the buffalo.

Or the black bears.

Ooh, and the wolves. I saw two gray ones, out grazing or maybe playing by the antelopes, but Ryke didn’t believe me.

The closer to Utah, the closer we are to California, a destination that I haven’t forgotten. Ryke will ascend El Capitan and two other rock faces in Yosemite, the summit much higher than Devils Tower. I love that I have the opportunity to watch him at his best, but I’ve Googled the statistics before.

A good majority of people who free-solo die while climbing.

I mean, there is a tab at the top of Rock Climbing Nation Information’s website with the word DEATHS. They catalogue all of the climbers who fall and meet their end. I’ve always tried not to think about the risk, even when I tagged along with him to Yosemite while he practiced with a harness and rope.

I saw the rock.

I saw his climb.

I just didn’t let myself believe that he could fall. With no harness, no support, no gears, just himself—it’s a huge possibility.

But I would never tell him not to do something he loves.

I’m just going to pray that no freak accidents happen, no bad weather rolls in—that he goes up and comes back down without problem.

I wrap my arms tighter around his back, loving the feeling of the wind whipping around us on the motorcycle. I try to shelve my concern for Ryke. He doesn’t need my worry while he’s halfway up El Capitan. He just needs his strength and confidence.

All of this talk has clenched my stomach, and I make an impulsive, rash decision. Albeit one that’s not even remotely safe. One that’s probably dangerous like free-soloing, but definitely not as dangerous. One of my feet already lifts and rests on the seat cushion. I hold onto Ryke’s back as I lift the other, crouching while he hunches over the bike, speeding down a flat road.

I can’t see his expression behind his black helmet. He sits up, causing my hands to rise to his shoulders, and I stand up fully. Oh…wow. I am standing on the back of the motorcycle. Behind him. He taps my leg three times, which is our signal to “sit the f*ck down.”

I tap his shoulder twice, which doesn’t mean anything. But we’ve never come up with a gesture for: I want to fly.

He squeezes my leg. Hold on, he’s telling me.

I’m not going to let go of him.

He puts his hand on the brake, and the motorcycle begins to slow. I tap his arm once. Faster.

He looks back at me a few times, hesitating. I drape one arm over his shoulder, on his chest to show him that I’m not going anywhere. And he holds onto that hand while he switches gears, pumping his foot, and then we’re off. Returning to a high speed.

The force almost propels me back, but he clutches so tightly that I stay upright. And my legs have solidified to stone, not going anywhere. I laugh, the noise only in my helmet, but it exists.

I am flying.

Second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning.

It lasts for a glorious five minutes. And then the bike decelerates again, and it rumbles to the emergency lane. I sit back on the seat as Ryke goes off-roading towards a looming red rock with more rocks stacked on top. Rocks on top of rocks. It’s really cool even if it sounds lame. We’ve seen rams—like with giant horns—along with mountain lions on our way here, so I wonder if he’s spotted an animal.

That doesn’t sound right though.

Ryke wouldn’t drive towards wild animals on the side of the road.

That’s too crazy for him.

That’s something I’d do.

The moment the bike stops, I take off my helmet. “Are you mad?” I ask. Maybe I misread his signals. I mean, he definitely said “sit the f*ck down.” But “hold on” could have been something else entirely.

He turns off the engine and kicks out the stand. The sportbike has a slight lean, but not bad. I don’t climb off yet, even as he does.

“Turn around,” he demands after removing his helmet. He runs his hand through his hair, his eyes narrowed at me. But he’s not angry exactly.

“What do you mean?” I barely register what he said, too busy trying to make sense of his emotions.

“Turn around.” He motions to the front of the bike. He…he wants me to… I smile. He wants me to ride backwards like I tried to practice in the garage.

I excitedly switch legs over the seat, my back facing the handlebars as I lean against the gas can. I remember the first day he taught me how to ride a motorcycle. After heading to a grocery store parking lot, I killed the engine and rolled to a stop with a big smile. Only, I was dragging my boots the whole way, messing around.

He told me, “Pick up your f*cking feet, Calloway, unless you want to lose them.” He wanted to teach me the right way first, and then months later, the next time I killed the engine and dragged my feet, he just shook his head. He trusted me enough not to scold me. He didn’t think the bike would fall on me or I’d run over my foot by that time.

But I haven’t really earned any trust to ride backwards yet. So I doubt those are his true intentions. The mystery intrigues me more and more, and I study his features to solve it. He straddles the bike, facing me, tossing his helmet aside.