Long Way Down (Calloway Sisters 4)

Paparazzi left us at the country club’s gates. I never thought I’d care, but I’m honestly tired of the “do you have sex in cars often?!” questions. I could say yeah, so fucking what and they’d still repeat the question over and over. Not to mention the fucking peanut gallery called Loren Hale and Connor Cobalt.

The same day the media posted Ryke Meadows & Daisy Calloway Parking Lot Sex Scandal! (no pictures included)—Connor told me, “If you needed my advice on how to have sex in a parking lot, without getting a ticket, all you had to do was ask.”

He went down on his wife in a parking lot. I really didn’t need to be fucking reminded of that, not even in an effort to boost his own ego.

No one bothers us on our way to the club’s double doors.

The staff must recognize us as celebrities because I thought we would’ve been kicked out for our casual attire. Lo’s black V-neck and dark jeans are not up to par with Polo shirts and sport coats. My green muscle tee and track shorts are even fucking worse.

It’s fucking hot. In the afternoon. In May.

“Just don’t be a dick,” Lo tells me.

I scowl. “I’m not a dick.” But I know in the face of our father, I can be a fucking dick. In some instances, I’m the one with the shorter fuse.

A club employee opens the door for us. Memory brings me towards the five-star restaurant, fine dining with tablecloths and empty wine glasses already set. I waft my muscle tee off my chest, sweating.

“You’re a little bit of a dick,” Lo tells me. A line formed at the hostess podium bars us from entering the restaurant. While we wait, he shakes out the longer parts of his hair, the sides short.

He finally catches me fucking glaring at him.

Lo points at his chest. “Hey, I’m the bastard. I can call you a fucking dick.” He frowns and takes a long pause. “I guess our sister is a bastard too. Can girls be bastards?”

“How about you don’t be a dick,” I suggest.

“Good call,” Lo says dryly, “let’s both not be dicks.”

I roll my eyes at his tone. This isn’t going to go well. I remind myself that we’re here for Willow. To support her and protect her. That’s it.

We reach the hostess podium and recognition floods her face. She grabs a couple menus, and we follow her to the back corner of the restaurant.

There’s my father.

At the same fucking table. By that same fucking window. Overlooking the same fucking red and green tennis courts.

He’s not alone.

I see Willow. In the chair that I always used to sit in, right across from our dad. And a chill snakes down my spine.

This was the fucking plan. We were supposed to meet her here after a half hour. So she could have time to talk alone with him.

As we come closer, I expect to see hundred-year-old scotch in front of my father. What he always drank. But only a coffee mug sits there.

He’s still sober.

Yet I keep waiting for that to reverse too. For him to make a third mistake. A fourth and fifth. For the cycle to continue, and maybe I need to just stop for fucking once. Stop expecting the worst out of him. Even when it happens.

Lo heads out in front of me to greet our dad.

I fall in like a shadow.

“You made it,” our father exclaims, seeming surprised that we showed up but his lips rise. Happy that we did. He stands to shake Lo’s hand and pat him on the back.

I slide past and just take a seat next to Willow.

Her hair is tied in a neat braid, and she borrowed a blue, anchor-printed dress from Daisy. She sips ice water from her wine glass, her hand trembling. Color is lost in her face.

“You okay?” I ask under my breath.

I strain my ears to pick up her whispered response. “He’s really intimidating.” She shakily sets the water down. “I’m glad you’re both here.”

It almost takes me aback—that she’d be glad I arrived with Lo too, that she’s more comfortable around me. At least enough to talk to me again. I whisper, “Don’t feel pressured to say a fucking word. We can talk if you don’t want to anymore.”

She nods and cups her hands on her lap.

“Nice to see you too, Ryke.” My dad’s rough voice reroutes my attention, just as he takes a seat next to Lo, opposite Willow and me.

Don’t be a dick, Ryke. I don’t know what to fucking say.

“Although I’ve seen a lot more of you lately than you’ve seen of me. You know, Greg was upset by the parking lot ‘sex scandal’ but come on”—my father actually uses air quotes—“they didn’t even have pictures. It was goddamn tame.”

I’m not discussing this with him. I already spent an hour on the phone with Greg. First, it was about my reputation as the face of Fizzle’s sports drinks. (He didn’t fire me.) Then it quickly became a lecture on “being responsible for my daughter” and “you’re about to marry her” and “you need to protect her”—that fucking blew my head off.

I love Daisy more than he will ever come to fucking know. Sometimes to be happy in our skins, we can’t play within restrictions. We have to be a little fucking daring and climb outside of them.

I slouch in my chair, not responding to anything my dad has to say about the police thing.

Lo motions between Jonathan and Willow. “How’d this go?” He diverts the conversation. Thanks, Lo. “I’m guessing good. I don’t see any tears.”

Willow gives him a weak smile.

Our dad opens a sugar packet. “Hales are stronger than that.”

Lo leans back in his chair. “Oh yeah, we’re indestructible.” He looks to our father. “You know what I think, Dad?”

“What?” Wariness grips his darkened eyes, waiting for Lo’s punchline with the rest of us.

“Hales are made of glass. We’re sharp, but we break easily.”

He’s not describing me. It’s not the first time I’ve settled with the fucking fact that I’m not a Hale. I’ll never be one. Not to that extent.

I expect our dad to curse, call his son a pussy, and wear a face of iron. Instead…he smiles. And laughs. He almost looks younger, less tired. Still, my pulse races like I’m waiting for a fucking curtain to fall.

“I’m glad you’re here today, Loren.” He pats Lo on the shoulder. It’s friendly and fucking warm. His hardened eyes meet mine. “You too, Ryke.” Then he looks to Willow, observing all of us here like he’s painting a family portrait in his head.

We’re his children. All together.

It reminds me that he fought for all of us to know each other. He wanted this, even if he was out of the picture. It’s easy seeing the worst parts of my dad, and acknowledging the good parts that do exist—it’s fucking hard for me. There was a time where I only saw the bad, but I do recognize the better man inside of Jonathan Hale.

I’m just not sure how long he’ll stick around.

The waiter slices through the tension and takes our orders.

Lo waivers, staring at the menu for a longer second. “…I’ll take a Fizz.” He twists his wedding band.

I chug nearly all of my water and try to relax. Willow’s phone starts buzzing in her purse near my chair.

“You going to fucking answer that?” I ask her with a frown.

She shakes her head once, her eyes flitting quickly to our dad, then back to me. “No phones at the table,” she whispers.

Fucking A.

“Why can’t she answer her fucking phone?” I ask him since he obviously jumped down her throat about it. “You take business calls all the time while we’re fucking eating.” He’s also not the kind of person to enforce manners unless our behavior embarrasses him.

The waiter brings a hot breadbasket and our drinks.

He says, “I thought she’d call you two to come pick her up early and leave. I’ve never been on a path to fucking morality, but you all deserve my honesty. So there it is.”

My jaw unhinges like he just fucking confessed to holding her hostage for a half hour. While Lo

butters a piece of bread with a look like thank you for your honesty. Fuck that.

Her phone buzzes again and again, and she touches the end of her braid nervously. I’d normally grab the cell myself or push her to answer it, but I don’t want to force her to do anything or overstep my fucking boundaries.

It’s killing me not to.

“Who is it?” I ask.

“I think just Garrison, but I’m not sure.”

Lo groans. “Jesus, does he text you a thousand times a fucking day?”

She shrugs. “We send each other Tumblr links a lot.”

“Links to what?” His bread freezes near his mouth.

“Gif sets.”

Lo drops the bread on his plate, grimacing and glaring. “He sends you sex gifs?”

“What?” Her eyes widen in horror.

Fucking fantastic.

Our dad drinks his coffee like it’s wine, entertained by our close relationships.

“No, no, why would you think that?” Willow asks.

I flip a knife back and forth on the table. “Yeah, Lo, why would you fucking think that?” I’m fully aware of why he jumped to this conclusion. Lily used to scroll through Tumblr just for dirty gifs.

Lo points his fork at me. “What’d we say about being a dick?”

I’m just in a pissed off mood.

“I’m a virgin,” Willow says and then adds quickly, “I mean…the links aren’t sex gifs. We don’t…do that. It’s cool if other people want to, but it’s not my thing. They’re just gif sets from TV shows, you know those ones?”