Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4)(3)

I opened my mouth, but he cut me off.

“Before you say no, hear me out. He’s had it much different than you—”

“I’m f*cking over it.” I didn’t want to waste my energy on Loren anymore. I was done.

“It’s not easy growing up with the Hale name. Our money comes from baby products. He endures a lot of teasing—”

“I don’t give a shit,” I sneered. We were both living a lie, but mine was worse. “I was never allowed to tell people who you were. Did he have to do that? Mom used to say that people would treat me differently if they knew my dad was a billion-dollar CEO, but really, you both were trying to f*cking hide me.” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. For f*ck’s sake, she had to keep Hale as her surname, a stipulation in the divorce settlement, while I remained a Meadows.

“Not exactly,” he said. “We were trying to cover the fact that Loren wasn’t Sara’s child. She was only pregnant once. We couldn’t justify both of you without ruining my reputation.”

That was why my mom had to keep her mouth shut about the cheating, to protect Jonathan. And every day she had to help this soulless prick, it f*cking ate her up again. But she did it for the money. I didn’t think any amount of cash was worth the f*cking pain of these lies.

Everything was to save face.

“Why choose him?” I asked. “Why isn’t Loren the one being hidden?” You love him more.

His face remained blank, all the hard edges not revealing anything to me. He wore a dapper suit that made him look as expensive as he was. “It’s just how things worked out. It was easier for you to take your mother’s maiden name. Loren only had one option. And that was me.”

I ground my teeth. “You know, I just tell all my friends that my dad died. Sometimes, I even find clever ways to kill you off. Oh yeah, my dad, he drowned on a f*cking boat accident; perished in his golden f*cking yacht while he was shitting on the toilet.”

He became a ghost or demon I’d meet on Mondays. Nothing more.

He licked his lips and swished his scotch, not meeting my gaze. He almost laughed. He found that f*cking funny. “Listen, Jonathan,” he said.

“It’s Ryke,” I shot back. “How many f*cking times do I have to tell you that?” I didn’t want his name any more than I wanted his genes. I planned to use my middle name forever.

He rolled his eyes again and then sighed. “Loren isn’t like you. He’s not good at sports. I don’t think he’s ever aced a test in his life. He’s wasting his potential by going to parties. If you’d meet him, you could help—”

“No,” I forced. I put my forearms on the table and leaned close. “I don’t want anything to do with your son. So stop f*cking asking.”

He took out his wallet and passed me a picture, one he’d shown me a couple times before. Loren was sitting on the stairs of our father’s mansion, where he grew up. I always looked for similarities in our features and felt sickened by them.

We had the same eye color, only his were more amber than my brown. My face was harder cut, but our builds were more alike, lean not bulky. He wore a navy blue tie and a white button-down, the Dalton Academy uniform. He wasn’t staring at the camera, but his jaw was so sharp, unlike anything I’d seen before. He looked like a f*cking douchebag, like he’d much rather be popping open beers with his buddies than sitting there.

“He’s your brother—”

I slid the picture back to him. “He’s no one to me.”

Jonathan downed the second glass of scotch, pocketing the photo. And he grumbled under his breath about my “bitch” of a mother. She never wanted me to meet Loren, just the same way that she refused to come into contact with him. As far as I knew, Loren thought Sara was his mom like the rest of the world. Or maybe someone finally told him the truth. That he’s the f*cking bastard.

I wouldn’t know.

And frankly, I didn’t f*cking care.

What difference would it have made anyway?





NINE YEARS LATER





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RYKE MEADOWS



I run. Not away from anything. I have a f*cking destination: the end of a long suburban street lined with four colonial houses and acres of dewy grass. It’s as secluded as it can be. Six in the morning. The sky is barely light enough to see my feet pound the asphalt.

I f*cking love early mornings.

I love watching the sun rise more than watching it set.

I keep running. My breathing steadies in a trained pattern. Thanks to a collegiate track scholarship, and thanks to climbing rocks—a sport that I sincerely f*cking crave—I don’t have to think about inhaling and exhaling. I just do. I just focus on the end of the street, and I go after it. I don’t f*cking slow down. I don’t stop. I see what I have to do, and I f*cking make it happen.

I hear my brother’s shoes hit the cement behind me, his legs pumping as quickly as mine. He tries to keep up with my pace. He’s not running towards shit. My brother—he’s always running away. I listen to the heaviness of his soles, and I want to f*cking grab his wrist and pull him ahead of me. I want him to be unburdened and light, to feel that runner’s high.

But he’s weighed down by too much to reach anything good. I don’t slow to let him catch me. I want him to push himself as far as he can go. I know he can get here.