Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4)(30)

Maybe a year ago, I would have been used to being the fifth wheel.

Not anymore.

Now it’s frustrating.

I don’t take Rose away from inspecting the underbelly of the car from afar. I let Connor do that.

He towers over her, six-foot-four, his hands in his pockets. “If you’re trying to prove a point that you’re better than me, you do realize that I wouldn’t have tried to change the tire myself,” he tells her. “I would have been smart enough to call a tow truck.”

She shoots him a withering glare. “Don’t make this about you, Richard.”

“You made it about me the moment you didn’t want me here.” He grabs her wrist and pulls her to her feet with strong force.

She straightens out her dress, fire still in her eyes. I bend down and start working on replacing the flat, but they’re close enough that I hear their whole conversation.

“What are you scared of?” Connor asks her with a frown.

“Je n’ai pas peur,” Rose replies in fluent French. I translate easily: I’m not scared.

I act like I can’t understand them. They think I’m just as clueless about the foreign language as Lily and Lo, but I’ve been fluent since I was a little kid. I just don’t feel like explaining why I know French to anyone. It’s easier to ignore it.

“Alors, dites-moi ce qui ne va pas,” he says. Then tell me what’s wrong.

Rose jerks her hand away from him and raises her chin. “I wanted to do it myself.”

“It’s more than that,” he says. “You and I both know this isn’t about a tire. You’ve been shutting me out for weeks.”

“If you’re so smart, shouldn’t you be able to figure out why?” She crosses her arms in challenge.

His eyes narrow. “Ne jouez pas ce jeu avec moi, chérie. Vous perdrez.” Don’t play this game with me, darling. You will lose.

I glance over my shoulder, and Rose looks a little nervous, inhaling a sharp breath. She is scared. But like Connor, I just have no f*cking clue what it’s about.

“Hey,” I call to Rose. She looks at me and the tire like I’m not moving fast enough. I restrain the urge to flip her off. “Where were you and Lily going anyway?”

“Shopping,” Rose says, way too fast.

I know a f*cking lie when I hear it. “Glad I f*cking asked.” I shake my head and grab the spare tire.

Connor studies Rose’s features, realizing she’s not being honest either.

Rose says, “You knew what you were getting into when you married me.”

“A lifetime of challenges.” His lips rise. “Il n'y a rien de mieux.” There is nothing better.

She almost softens at his words. He strokes her glossy hair and then kisses her forehead. Before I attach the spare, I spot Lo and Lily by my Infinity.

He has her pinned against the car. They aren’t kissing, but he whispers in her ear with a smile that dimples his sharp cheeks. She’s a giant f*cking red tomato, so whatever he’s telling her—it’s dirty. I’ve never seen sex embarrass someone as much as it does Lily—and I know it’s because she’s an addict, more ashamed. But she’s clearly turned on by my brother, giving him big bedroom eyes.

I shake my head.

I feel like the only normal one.

But that’s a load of crap. None of us are really normal. We’re all just strange pieces in the world. And the half that usually connects with me is thousands of miles away, in Paris.

I just hope she’s sleeping.

If I picture her in a peaceful f*cking slumber, I stop worrying. It’s the only thing keeping me grounded, keeping me right f*cking here. Without that image, I’d lose my shit.





< 12 >

DAISY CALLOWAY



4:30 a.m.

Since I arrived in Paris three days ago, I’ve slept five hours, and I’m not really sure if it can be considered sleep. I woke up screaming and thrashing at an “invisible enemy” as Ryke calls it. I can barely even remember what was grabbing me in my nightmare, but that kind of sleep is something I don’t want to return to.

Right now I am pumped full of caffeinated drinks and diet pills. I used to smoke cigarettes, the nicotine high fairly decent to keep me awake during long shoots. But when Ryke started teaching me how to ride a motorcycle, he convinced me to stop smoking. I haven’t touched a cigarette since. I don’t crave the nicotine at all. I just ache for sleep or at least a shot of adrenaline.

On the runway yesterday, I literally thought I was floating across the glassy surface in five-inch heels. I wore a peacock headpiece. I was so close to flapping my arms, and in my mind, I had already raced off the stage, down the street and jumped into an ice cold lake. I have no idea why that sounds so appealing, but it does. Anything but standing around, waiting. Sitting in chairs, waiting. So much waiting. I can’t decide if I’m more bored or more tired.

I cup a steaming coffee while a stylist pulls every small strand of my hair into a braid. I look like Medusa or possibly a dreaded girl on Venice Beach. I’d think it was cool if it didn’t take so long. I shift so much in the seat that the stylist threatens to take my coffee away.

This job would suit a million other people better than it does me.

People buzz around us, constantly moving, but it’s usually not the models who are doing the buzzing. It’s production assistants wearing microphone headsets, holding clipboards, and makeup artists and designers. I am stationary. Basically no more human than an article of clothing that a PA carries on a hanger.