Thrive (Addicted, #4)(53)
“Lily,” Lo says, grabbing my hand.
What’d I do? My heart lurches to my throat. He caught my fingers sneaking to his zipper. Oh my God. Cameras click, click, this time, some of the lenses pointed more towards me than the models.
Lo tries to distract me with more talk and less silence. The quiet lets my mind wander, especially if it’s fueled with upbeat music and fantasy-inducing backdrops (aka Loren Hale).
“Say she really does have a boyfriend,” Lo whispers between us, “how the hell is he going to feel about the reality show?” He pats Ryke’s back. “You’re in every scene with Daisy, you realize that?” I wonder if her boyfriend already feels threatened by Ryke.
“The asshole couldn’t even show up to her seventeenth birthday party,” Ryke retorts. “You really think he cares about Princesses of Philly? At this point, I don’t even think he fucking cares about her.”
Sadly, I think I agree.
The men’s collection ends with the designer walking halfway and bowing. He clasps his hands together in thanks, his polka-dot bowtie preppy and eccentric like the rest of his clothes. Once he leaves, the whole room softens, the music dying down.
Some women and men flip open notebooks and click pens to jot down their thoughts. Most likely press for magazines or department store owners. My importance as “Daisy’s sister” shrinks, and the intensity of this fashion show dawns on me.
The lights dim on either side of the runway, the audience cloaked in blackness while the long, wide lane glows white. Every lamp and flash is directed to the middle of the modest-sized room. Black fabric rises against the glass windows, encasing us, even darker and more intimate.
Rose has never had a fashion show of this caliber for Calloway Couture.
This is the major leagues.
I recognize the song that starts the show: “Sacrilege” by Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
The first model starts strutting down the runway in black platform heels. How is she not face planting? She wears a thigh-length khaki dress with a salmon-colored belt. Her brunette hair is perfectly straightened and delicately curled at the ends.
Before the model reaches the end, another girl is sent out onto the runway, keeping pace with the tempo of the music. I count one, two, three, four models before my sister emerges.
Daisy. I smile—the kind of smile that I can’t restrain, that hurts my cheeks a little bit. She’s outfitted in a gray dress with expensive, elegant fabric and a yellow belt, more high fashion than commercial. Her long, long blonde hair hangs to her waist, the ends wavy.
At seventeen, she walks like a mature, powerful woman with poise beyond my capabilities. Her hips sway; each towering high heel steps in front of the other.
Her gaze is dead-locked ahead of her, seduction blazing in her red lips and focused eyes. The flashbulbs don’t cause her to blink or to falter. My young sister moves like the world is being created beneath her feet.
The moment just steals my breath away. I’m filled with pride for her.
She possesses the audience, even as she passes the other model and briefly poses at the edge. On her way back, she’s closer to our seats. I take a peek at Ryke beside me, and his tense muscles never loosen, his hard jaw stays put like usual. But his breathing is heavier than it should be.
He watches her head down the runway, the song near its end.
And the corners of Daisy’s lips just subtly rise, as though she can feel him, right there. When she moves along, I elbow Ryke in the side.
He glares at me. “What?” he whispers defensively.
“She has a boyfriend.” My sister deserves romance, the red roses kind with chocolates and epic orgasms. Ryke will give her the best one-night stand of her life and leave her with a broken heart. It’s one thing that Lo and I mutually fear.
We’re around Ryke more than Connor and Rose. We know his habits better, and screwing in the bathroom of the Lincoln Field isn’t that romantic. I’ve done it four times, I should know.
“Lily,” he whispers, “she’s seventeen.”
We shouldn’t be talking, not during this particular show. Everyone pays attention to the clothes the models wear, and I should too. I just nod and let it go.
Only fifteen minutes later, the girls disappear off the runway, gearing up for the final walk. And then the first body emerges.
Daisy leads the models, a coveted position. Her pale pink baby doll dress blows with each sway of her hips, practically gliding in her silver gladiator heels. About twenty women behind Daisy wear the same garment in a different hue.
The audience begins to clap. I happily join in, but even as we do, I start to see this normally-contained sadness eke out of Daisy’s eyes. A numbness that padlocks her bright, erratic personality.
Lo whispers in my ear, “She seems upset.”
Clapping should cheer someone up. It’s basically like shouting I do believe in fairies! but it does the opposite for Daisy, her light flickering out like a withering Tinker Bell.
When she turns, heading back down the runway and looping the models to create two lanes of bodies, she passes us again.
This time, Ryke speaks.
“Just run, Calloway,” he tells her as she walks past.
She almost falters, nearly stopping dead in her tracks. I swear it was like Ryke chiseled at something deep in her core, something hurting her. I can’t make sense of it, and the fact that he can…everything just becomes more complicated.