Hothouse Flower (Calloway Sisters 2)

He hesitates before pocketing his phone, and then he stares at me with more respect than when this conversation started. “So you put a label on your relationship?”

I nod. “Yeah, we did.” My nose flares as I hold back emotion. She’s in a fucking hospital room, maybe fighting for her life. What wrong decisions did I make to put her there? Where did I fuck up?

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if I chose to never meet my brother. If I chose to keep my head buried in the sand.

My mom would have never known about Lily’s sex addiction.

She would have never shouted it to the fucking world.

No media.

Daisy would sleep peacefully.

Lily wouldn’t feel so fucking ashamed.

Connor and Rose wouldn’t have their sex life distributed online.

And my brother—I think he’d still be drinking.

I take a deep breath, the night saddling me with more regret than I’m used to bearing. “I haven’t always done the right thing, Connor,” I say. “I’m not perfect. But I’m trying so hard to look after my brother and her. But if I’m hurting them, then you need to tell me right now.” I meet his gaze—no pretenses. No jokes. The severity in our postures makes it hard to breathe. And I tell him something from my fucking soul. “I don’t want to ruin anyone’s life by being in it. That was never my intention.”

Connor lets out an exhausted laugh, and tears actually brim his eyes. “Ryke…” He shakes his head and rubs his lips. He drops his hand. “You ran with her in your arms for over three miles. Your brother’s existence caused your parent’s divorce, and yet, you gave up most of your time and energy to help him through his sobriety. How can you possibly think you’re a pain in their life? What you’ve done for them, it’s nothing short of heroic, and if you can’t see that, then you’re blind, my friend.”

A hot tear rolls down my cheek.

I’m so fucking tired of being alone. I was scared that he’d tell me to fucking leave. Because that means going back to a life I can’t see for myself anymore. Daisy has changed that for me. She made me comfortable to share my life with someone else, to live for happiness in the company of others. My solitary future looks bleak. But my future filled with my brother, my friends, her—there’s nothing fucking brighter.

She’s the sun. I’m the dark.

If she’s gone, I can kiss that fucking light away.

Without her, I know I’ll never see it again.

DAISY CALLOWAY

I open my eyes, disoriented. My vision blurs, everything out of focus. I blink sluggishly, my arms and legs heavy. My mind hasn’t processed anything beyond my physical abnormalities—the lightness of my head, the numbness along my face, the tingling in my fingers.

I make out shadows, dark and light, first. A figure rises from a chair, standing closer to me.

I’m not waking up after a night terror.

This feels so different.

I try to recall my last memory, the last picture I had before this—before lying down.

It’s not coming as quickly as I’d hoped. It’s just fuzzy.

Thankfully my ears are working. “Daisy,” the deep familiar voice says, still rough but full of unbridled concern. “Can you hear me?”

I try to nod. I think I’m nodding. I blink two more times, and then my vision clears. Ryke towers beside a hospital bed. My hospital bed. But I focus on his features, the scratches along his cheeks, the bruises that blemish his eyes and jaw. The stitches on his eyebrow.

“Ryke,” I whisper, raspy.

Tears build in my eyes. I’ve never seen Ryke so battered before. My hand instinctively goes to my mouth to hide my emotions, but the movement tugs an IV stand. I glance down to inspect the source. Tubes are stuck in the top of my hand, running across my lap.

Ryke takes a seat on the edge of the bed, by my legs. He rubs them, even though they’re underneath a light blue blanket. “Do you need water?” He’s just as overwhelmed as me, his features hardening to hide that burgeoning emotion.

I shake my head. “Can you…come closer?” I reach for his hand, but I grasp air. I try to sit up in the bed so I can see more of him, but my whole body is sore like I was hit by a truck. Was I? Did I accidentally run into traffic? Please tell me I didn’t do something stupid that got him hurt too.

I burst into tears because I’m terrified that’s what happened.

“Daisy, don’t cry,” he says. “We’re going to get through this.” We. I focus on this one pronoun while he presses a button on a remote. The bed groans as it rises to a sitting position. Then he scoots forward so he’s beside my thigh.

I let out a breath to stop the waterworks, and then I reach out, my fingers skimming his cheek. He watches me inspect the damage with a trembling hand, and I zoom in on the stitches. “Your eyebrow…”

“It’s fine.” He clasps my wrist to stop me from poking at it.

“It’s going to scar,” I murmur.

His face almost breaks. He shakes his head repeatedly. “I don’t fucking care.”

I smile weakly, but the motion stings. Why does that hurt? My lips fall. “What happened?” I ask.

His Adam’s apple bobs. “You can’t remember?”

“No,” I breathe. “Did I…did I do something stupid? You didn’t…you didn’t follow me into traffic, did you?” The fact that this could be a possibility, I realize that reflects poorly upon me. I can be unthinking and selfish when I try to live fully. But I’ve always loved that Ryke never stops me.

Whatever wild thing I do, Ryke Meadows does too.

Down a ski slope.

In an ocean, caged with sharks.

Off a cliff.

Off a cliff. I was fifteen. I dove into the water. He jumped in after me. I couldn’t imagine any other guy willing to do that for someone they hardly knew. In that moment, I had fallen for Ryke. Literally, figuratively—

I knew, if we couldn’t be together, he would be my friend.

Here we are now.

In a hospital. “Maybe I should have left you alone,” I whisper.

“What are you talking about?”

“You wouldn’t be hurt…” I scrutinize the way his muscles tense, sitting rigidly. I grip the bottom of his white T-shirt—that doesn’t look like one of his.

He holds my hands, stopping me. “Daisy,” he says with force. “I’m fine.”

“Take off your shirt.”

“No.”

I smile again. Ow. “I must be the only girl you’ve rejected.”

“That’s so fucking not true,” he growls. He glances at the hospital bed, me in it, and then he sighs heavily, giving in. He lifts the shirt off, and my mouth plummets.

My hands zip across the yellowish purple bruises that mar his abs and chest, some bleeding into his phoenix tattoo. “Turn around, please,” I say softly.

He rotates only halfway, and I see even worse ones, deeper yellow, deeper purple. I want to kiss the wounds, but as soon as I lean forward, he puts a hand on my collar and leans me back against a fluffy pillow.

“What’s the last thing you remember, Dais?” he asks me seriously.

I strain my mind. “The bar.” We went to the pub next to the hotel. “Lo…” He drank alcohol. “Christina—I saw her in the pub and…” Ian. “You didn’t…did you guys…” Did they fight? “Ian…” I blink a few times, the picture starting to form. No, that fight ended early. That’s not what happened. “I was outside with Christina. We were about to go to the hotel.”

Flashes of the next events ripple through my mind. I was watching these two big guys screaming on the sidewalk, pushing each other in the chest. One punch flew, and then I was swept in a hurricane of drunken men and violent acts. I immediately shoved Christina back, and someone’s jacket zipper caught in my long hair. I was dragged backwards.

“Ryke…” The fear as I fell on the pavement returns, and the heart monitor’s steady beep, beep, beep picks up pace. Feet clobbered around me, on my stomach, my legs, and finally I yanked my hair free, only for it to snag in something else. This time, it pulled hard near my forehead. The pain seared beneath adrenaline. Beepbeepbeepbeep.