Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4)(65)

I could have been carrying a girl without a pulse for three miles. I didn’t check.

I just ran.





< 26 >

RYKE MEADOWS



It’s been five hours. Connor has argued with the doctors for four of those, trying to persuade them to let us see Daisy, but it’s been “family only” visiting hours, so we have to wait until the morning before friends can enter her room. They won’t say if she’s brain dead. All we know is that she’s in a room and she’s breathing.

For once, Connor Cobalt can’t talk his way through a bad situation. I really f*cking wish that wasn’t the case tonight. When I tried speaking to the doctor, I started yelling, and they called security out, so I’ve sat my ass on a maroon leather chair in the carpeted waiting room. Watching the clock barely move. A television is on a news channel, playing footage of the riot that continues to destroy Paris and local stores.

I can barely watch it without feeling sick.

My brother is passed out beside me, a purpled shiner on his right eye. He didn’t say much when he arrived, but he wore a similar haunted look that I had. Janet gave me a clean white T-shirt, so at least he didn’t see the blood on me.

Now I’m in a new stage of grief, my body numb, my mind starting to slow down. And I know partly it’s from being stabbed in the f*cking ass with a sedative. I have to thank Janet for that too.

My phone buzzes for the seventh time. I read the caller ID: DAD. I contemplated changing the name to “Jonathan” a few times, but he’s still my father. No matter how much I wish that wasn’t the case.

He hasn’t texted at all, so I figure he’s goading me to answer with each irritating ring. It works. I’m too emotionally exhausted to reject him this time. I put the phone to my ear. “What do you want?”

He exhales in relief. “You’re successfully trying to give me a f*cking heart attack, Ryke.” He mutters a few more curses under his breath before asking, “Is Loren okay? His phone just cuts off every time I call.”

“He’s fine.” I glance at my brother again, his chest falling in a heavy sleep, induced by alcohol.

This may be the worst night of my life. I failed the two people that matter most to me.

“The news has pictures of you near the riot before it started. I thought you might have gotten caught in it.” I hear the clink of a glass hitting the lip of another, as if he’s pouring a drink.

“I have to go,” I say.

“Wait for a goddamn second,” he says. “I want to know how you are.”

How am I? Numb, but my emotions try so hard to surface and pour through me. I could scream until my voice leaves me. I could run until my legs buckle beneath me. I could hit the wall until exhaustion defeats me. And my f*cking father is asking me this. I swallow a rock in my throat. “You’re the last person I want to talk to right now.”

“We do need to talk, Ryke.”

“Why? Are you going to f*cking accuse me of taking Lo away from you again?” When Lo went to rehab for the first time, our dad acted like I brainwashed him. Like rehab was the bad f*cking choice. Like Lo wasn’t even an alcoholic.

“That was a long time ago,” he tells me. There’s a long pause, and at first, I think he’s taking a sip of his drink. But he clears his throat like he’s having trouble producing words.

“Listen, my…” I pinch my eyes. I was about to say my girlfriend. I take a deep breath. “Someone I f*cking care about isn’t doing well, so I don’t have time to rehash the past with you.”

“Okay,” he says, giving up much more easily than I thought he would. “Be careful, Ryke. And if I don’t talk to you before you climb that ridiculous rock, I just want to say…” He clears his throat again. “I love you, and if you don’t believe me, then check the name on your license. Stay safe.” He hangs up.

He tells Lo that he loves him all the time. And all the bastardly things our father does—that is out of f*cking love too. I’m not surprised he said I love you or that he mentioned my first name, his name, as evidence of his feelings. Part of me wants to embrace that paternal affection. The other part sees him trying to get me to speak to the media. If we become friendly, then maybe I’ll stick up for him.

It’s all a wicked game that I never asked to play.

After a couple minutes, I shelve my father, my mom, my brother—all of the family drama in the back of my head.

Connor appears around the corner of the waiting room, holding two coffees in paper cups. He f*cking dodged most of the flying fists and brunt force of the riot. No bruises, just a small cut on his forehead. He hands me a cup, and I nod at him in appreciation. His expression is still morose, not unreadable like usual.

“When are the girls landing in Paris?” I ask him, taking a sip. Lo was on the phone with Lily for a while, but he didn’t tell me their conversation. I know Connor talked to Rose for an hour.

“They’re not,” Connor says tersely.

I frown, thinking I’ve heard him wrong. “What?”

“They are not coming to Paris,” he emphasizes each word.

“Their sister is in the hospital,” I say. “I don’t f*cking understand. If this was Lily, Rose would be here in a f*cking heartbeat.” I squeeze the coffee too hard, and the lid pops off, spilling on my jeans and burning me. “Fuck,” I curse, standing up and drinking the coffee quickly before tossing it in the trash.