Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4)(83)

“Fuck off, Cobalt.” I push him out the door, aggressively, wanting so bad to remove that f*cking smile on the edge of his lips. I settle with closing the door on his face. When I spin around, Daisy stands to her feet.

“Has this happened to you before?” she asks, her eyes rising to mine. My cum on a girl’s face. No. Never. And I never even thought about it until now.

I’m so f*cking sorry, Dais. I know she didn’t like it. I know it’s not something that should have happened tonight.

“You’re the f*cking first,” I tell her.

“Me too,” she says, trying hard not to smile. Now that Connor is gone, there’s a lightness in her eyes, a laughter that bubbles up and tears away the tension from the situation. I walk over and cup the back of her head, my fingers running through her hair. She lets out a breath. She likes this.

“I’m sorry, Calloway.”

“I like you on me.”

I give her a look. “Not like that.”

“Not like that, but…it was an experience.” She grins.

Connor may not believe we’re in a real relationship, but I’m glad we’re starting out like this, to relish in all these little f*cking moments before we get to the one she’s waiting for—the one I crave. But despite what anyone says, this f*cking works for us right now.





< 35 >

DAISY CALLOWAY



I exit the motel shower, basking in the warm water before we start camping-camping. With real tents and campfires and everything that makes my heart flutter in excitement. As I pull on a shirt that says this ain’t paris, I glance up once and meet the television. My smile fades, and my whole body goes rigid.

Sara Hale is on the screen.

Ryke’s mom.

A news segment shows clips of the 60 Minutes interview that aired last night. Ryke’s mom faces a reporter, her golden-brown hair straightened. I strain my ears to pick up her words. “What I did was not a malicious attack on the Calloway family.”

“But you sold the information about Lily Calloway’s sex addiction to magazines, did you not?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t trying to hurt that girl. I was just tired of hiding the truth. You have to understand that I spent years protecting Jonathan Hale’s infidelity. The only way to expose him was to put Jonathan under a spotlight. I only saw one way to achieve that, and I apologize for whatever emotional hurt I caused Lily. But she was linked to Loren, his son. She was tangled in a very complicated family dispute.”

“You sound as though she was cannon fodder.”

“Again, I apologize if it seems that way.” Sara pauses and stares at her hands with solemnity, but she has a hardness behind her eyes, a toughness that combats the softness. “As a mother, I was torn daily. I had to hide my real son, and I was forced to act like Loren was my child. I just wanted to be free of Jonathan, and I wanted my son to be free too.”

“But were you really forced?” the reporter asks. “You signed the divorce agreement. You knew what you were complying to.”

“At the time, I was a single mother, young and confused. I was scared, and I did what I thought was best for my son.”

“Ryke.”

“Yes, Ryke.”

Someone shifts in the open doorway that connects the adjoining motel rooms. I look over.

Ryke. His eyes are dark and set on the screen like he’s been watching for a little bit. His hair is wet from taking a shower in the other bathroom. After Connor’s warning last night, he went back to their bedroom. And I didn’t even make him check the locks before he left. I’m trying my best to overcome that fear.

It must be almost time to hit the road again, and I’m sure he came to fetch me, but his gaze stays on the television screen.

Sara straightens up in her chair. “I realize now that I only hurt him through the divorce agreement.”

Ryke runs a hand through his wet hair and walks further into the room, his eyes falling to the ground as he searches the floor for the remote.

“Don’t you want to listen to what she has to say?” I ask him, packing my comb in my duffel.

“It’s a f*cking media ploy to make herself look better.”

“How can you be so sure?” I ask.

Ryke turns to face me. I’m not scared of him at all, and I don’t think he wants me to be. But his eyes flash hot, with anger so deep-seated that it’s hard to look at. “She sounds like she rehearsed her answers. She doesn’t f*cking talk that formal.”

I frown. “Really? My mom sounds like that.”

“Mine doesn’t. She’s emotional. If she was real, she’d be crying or yelling. She wouldn’t hold back and be stone-faced.” He gestures to the television. “The only time I’ve seen her like that is when she’s trying to impress her wealthy f*cking friends.”

This is the most he’s ever talked about his mom with me. I watch as he searches for the remote, but it’s with less diligence, his gaze faraway as his thoughts spin.

“Do you miss her?” I ask him.

He finds one of my shirts on the ground and tosses it to me. “Sometimes, but it doesn’t f*cking matter, Dais.”

I stuff the shirt in my duffel pocket. “But she’s your mom…” I can’t imagine never talking to mine again. Even if there are times I’d like to run away from her, running away forever sounds painful.