Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4)(47)

I don’t want to miss a day with her. I don’t want to be here while she’s there.

And I can’t take back these feelings.

I can’t go in reverse.

I just drive forward at a hundred and fifty miles per hour. I’m racing towards her when I should be slamming on the f*cking brakes.

I know how to stop.

But I’m not going to.

I don’t want to.

That’s the f*cking truth.





< 19 >

DAISY CALLOWAY



The paparazzi found my hotel.

I peek out of the balcony door once, just to confirm that the SUVs lined on the curb are in fact cameramen and not kickass secret service. The flashes blind me. Click, click, click in a wave. I shut the door instantly, my heart beating wildly.

I tried to lose them every time I exited my hotel for work, but with Mikey riding a moped next to me at a leisurely pace, we couldn’t exactly dodge all of them. Now he’s back in his hotel room, and I’m in mine.

It’s been one day after being thrown out of the runway—which has made headlines—which is why I’ve now become bigger news than before. One day after Ryke talked to me—calming me down by recounting his time at the quarry.

It almost felt like he was here.

But he’s not.

And now I have my mom rapidly texting me: You need to go talk to the designer right now and make it up to her. Apologize. Buy her something… And she goes on and on. As though I can march to the designer and bribe my way back into her good graces, demanding her to like me. That’s not how this works.

The rejection is harder to accept when my mom won’t let it go.

And I can’t even think about the pictures of me undressed backstage. If they surface…they haven’t so far, but it makes me sick. The thought caused me to cling to the porcelain toilet yesterday night.

I twist my hair into a high bun, pacing anxiously in my room, peeking through the curtains again. My stomach tosses, and a layer of sweat gathers across my forehead. It’s midnight, and I can’t do anything. I can’t go outside without being swarmed, but I can’t stay here and be a prisoner in this hotel room, suffocating in my extreme paranoia.

I have to get out. I have to breathe.

I pocket my wallet in my jean shorts, change my tank top into a long-sleeve sweater that says keep it surreal and hightail it out of the room on impulse. I can ride my moped as fast as it’ll go without Mikey and lose the paparazzi. I can go somewhere. A lake, a river, whatever, and take a freezing cold dip. Something. Anything.

I settle with this spontaneous plan, and I open the door to the stairwell. I dislike riding in elevators without someone I trust beside me. Like Ryke or Mikey. Without them, I’ll rock back and forth on my heels, staring with bugged eyes at the lit numbers, praying that the elevator doesn’t stop to let anyone on.

Stairs are better. It’s more private, less chance of running into someone I know, like an old friend. In Paris, that possibility is slim to none, but the fear still propels me towards the staircase.

My heart never slows from its quick panicked pace. Because even though stairs are better—it’s not by much. I haven’t been attacked in a stairwell, but in movies, it’s the first place villains go, right? It’s the place where the bad guy chases the hero.

But the hero usually escapes up the stairs. I think I could too.

I’m on the fifth floor, so I hop skip some steps as I head down to the lobby, fluorescent lights blinding in some corners and dim in others. The levels are painted on the walls.

4.

I pause for a second, listening. A door bangs above me. Oh God. Someone followed me here? From my floor. They sound close.

I sprint.

3.

The extra footsteps echo loudly, and they start to quicken, matching my stride. My breathing is so off-kilter. I exhale deeply just to ensure that I’m not holding it in.

2.

My hand glides along the railing, my feet moving in a blur.

“Daisy!”

I freeze. I go cold. It can’t be…

I turn around and my mouth falls. I’m losing my mind.

“You can’t be real.” I pause. “You’re in Philadelphia.”





< 20 >

DAISY CALLOWAY



Ryke stands four stairs above me, wearing a leather bike jacket and dark jeans. “I flew in after you called me. I just f*cking got here.” He scrutinizes me from head to toe, a long once-over with stone-hard eyes that heats my body, snuffing out the cold. He looks real. “When I got off the elevator on your floor, I saw you going into the stairwell. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Relief tries to surface. He’s here. For me? “I’m not scared,” I tell him.

“You look petrified,” he says flatly. I watch his eyes dance over my features again, his chest falling and rising in a deep rhythm. He bridges the gap between us, descending the four stairs. He still has height on me, staring down to meet my eyes.

“I’m not anymore,” I say softly.

He nods a few times, processing this, and then he asks, “Were you going to meet up with that weird f*cking guy?” His eyes darken.

I sense a hint of jealousy. Or maybe he’s just trying to protect me from Ian. Not jealous at all. “Didn’t you hear? He was a very uncomfortable pillow.”