Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters 5)

“Then what?”

“Like I said, I’d rather talk in person. She’ll be waiting in the office until you arrive.” She hangs up on me.

She hangs up on me.

“That fucking—”

We step outside, and my voice dies at the sudden cacophony by the curb: honking traffic, paparazzi screaming our names.

“RYKE! ROSE!”

I’m swarmed by cameras. Ryke checks on me with a glance over his shoulder. I motion for him to leave me be. My bodyguard is already flanking my side. Ryke nods and sprints to his Land Cruiser straight ahead.

“WHERE’S DAISY AND CONNOR?”

“HOW’S THE BABY?”

“WHAT DID YOU EAT IN THE CAFÉ?”

So predictable. They always ask about our meals.

By the time I climb into the passenger seat, Ryke slams the driver’s door closed. He twists the key in the ignition, and his car rumbles to life.

“Let’s go.” I physically snap my finger, as though willing him to miraculously send me there. “Dalton Elementary.”

“I’m fucking trying.” He cranes his neck over the seat, paparazzi blocking the Land Cruiser and caging us in. “Unless you’d like me to run one of these motherfuckers over.”

“That will do.”

Ryke rolls down the window, about to yell at the cameramen, but a gaggle of young fans rush to him and stick their hands into the car. I stiffen as they grab at his arm and squeal like they touched some form of royalty.

Personally, I’d crown Connor before Ryke—and I can already picture his smugness. You think of me as a king, Rose.

I want to put my hand over his face, and he’s not even here.

“Rose! Rose!” they begin to shriek and reach for me.

I stay still and wear a curt smile. I’m not the warm one or the nice one—I’m just me, and I almost feel sorry that these girls aren’t graced with a Lily or Daisy or Poppy type.

“Hey, girls,” Ryke says, and a girl with a blue streak in her hair starts crying, overwhelmed by him. “We’re in a fucking rush, and the last thing I want to do is hurt any of you by pulling out.”

“You can pull out of me!” a brazen girl blurts.

“You can pull out of me too!” another one pipes in.

“Fuck,” Ryke grumbles under his breath.

I could laugh, but I’d rather coach Ryke through this moment out of solidarity. Before I can direct the girls to the sidewalk, Ryke is clarifying himself.

“Pulling out onto the fucking street.” He tenses. “Please back up.”

“Okay, we will.”

“I love you so much!”

“Have my babies!!”

All these exclamations blend together as the girls retreat to a safe place on the sidewalk. The paparazzi continue to bombard our car.

“Hey!” Ryke yells at the nearest cameraman, the lens directed at Ryke. His exchange with the girls will most likely be on GBA Entertainment News tonight. “Move the fuck out of my way! Unless you want a tire on your motherfucking foot!”

They shrink backwards, probably just thankful Ryke gave them more “newsworthy” footage. He drives into a line of traffic, deserting the paparazzi and café.

While he rolls up his window, I ask, “When you’re alone with my sister, do fans grab Daisy like they grab you?”

“No.” Ryke runs a hand through his thick hair. “At least not since she described what her friends and paparazzi did to her on We Are Calloway.”

“Good.” I pause. “But if you need to talk to someone about being touched without permission—”

“I have a fucking therapist and his name isn’t Rose Calloway.”

My eyes flash hot. “That’s assuming I would’ve offered myself, which I wouldn’t have. I’m not a professional.” I twist my hair on my shoulder, remembering that Ryke started seeing a therapist after Adam Sully died.

I lean over to check his speedometer. “Can you not drive faster?”

“Yeah, let me play bumper cars with the line of fucking traffic.”

“Let’s.”

“No,” he says like I’m “fucking” crazy.

His grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Is Janie okay?” Worry darkens his features.

“The vice-principal said she was fine, but she wouldn’t offer me anymore details.” I hold my purse close to my chest and cast a heated glare out the windshield. “If she’s doing this to trick Connor and me into taking photographs in her office, I’m going to raise hell.”

“I will lose my fucking shit before you.”

Unlikely.

I raise my phone to my lips. “Call Richard,” I say into the speaker. If I put my cell to my ear, I may just throw it out the window—for no good reason other than the enjoyment of throwing something.

When the line clicks, I start speaking before he can. “Jane’s school called. We need to go in and have a conversation with the vice-principal. I don’t know why. All they said was that she’s okay, but the administration would rather ‘talk in person’—as if seeing my face will be better. The only thing they’ll be seeing is literal fire coming out of my eyes and burning them to ash.”

“Are you driving?” he asks.

I gape. “That’s the first thing you’re asking, Richard?” My voice escalates. “Our daughter’s second month in kindergarten and she’s being called to the office—an office that’s withholding information from us—and you’re asking if I’m driving?”

“Yes because I’d prefer to have my wife in one piece.”

I hear the sound of shuffling papers like he’s preparing to leave our house. “You can’t leave the other kids alone.”

“Clearly I wouldn’t,” he says. “I’m calling Diana and Adalene.” Our nannies. After an extensive interview process and background check, we hired these two women, both with a great deal of previous infant care experience

. We only call them when we need them.

He’ll most likely leave once the nannies arrive to our house.

“Are you driving?” Connor asks again.

Ryke says, “I am.”

“Wonderful.” His dry tone is noted. “Don’t speed. I’ll be there as soon as I can, Rose. Try not to overreact. It shouldn’t be too serious or else they’d let us know.” His even-tempered voice does soothe part of my worry, but I don’t like how he’s more focused on me than on Jane.

“Where are your loyalties, Richard?” I test.

“With my family.”

I see what he did there. “Fine.” Before I hang up, I snap, “And I’m hardly overreacting.” I hit the end call button before he rebuts.

“Why did I have children with him?” I slip my phone into my purse. “He’s insufferable.”

Ryke rakes his hand through his hair again.

I glare. “What are you doing? Keep both hands on the wheel.”

“Fucking A.” He grabs the steering wheel. “It pains me to say this, but he’s right. You need to calm down.”

I scoff. “He never told me to calm down. He said not to overreact.”

“Same fucking thing.”

I flip him off.

He shoots me the finger in reply.

Maybe his presence is frustrating me more—or maybe I’m just naturally overwhelmed with the unknown. I want answers. I like answers. I pride myself on finding them, but the vice-principal has given me a worksheet with censored and redacted questions. How am I supposed to fill this thing out without information?

Patience, I hear Connor.

I roll my eyes. Patience. It’s clearly not my forte.

Now I’m relying on Ryke Meadows to take me from point A to point B. He turns on the stereo and switches on a song. I can’t name the artist, but the string instruments sound like an indie or folk band.

We bump along the road, and I count the dreadful seconds that pass agonizingly slow.

The city landscape morphs into a more pastoral setting: robust trees, greenery, and lush land. Dalton Elementary comes into view, with its historic, steeple clock tower jutting from the shingled roof. The faded red brick building has two white columns by the entrance and a flagpole in the green turf.

I hastily jump out of the car before Ryke slows into the parking spot.