Hothouse Flower (Calloway Sisters 2)

I care less about being an international icon and more that the coverage may help Daisy accept this new, jarring change in her features. She has barely looked in any mirrors since the hospital, and I think confronting the permanent reality of what’s happened may be hard on her. She’s been avoiding those feelings like she usually does.

“Is she around?” Sul asks. “Let me talk to the girl. She probably misses me.”

“She’s right here.” I pass the phone to Daisy. “Sully wants to talk your fucking ear off.”

She brightens, taking my cell.

“Fucking cut him off if he starts any story with when we were twelve.” He loves to talk about how I streaked at night during summer camp and did a backflip into the lake off a rock. I don’t find the story as entertaining because I snuck in a flask of cheap vodka that year. I was wasted. And a fucking idiot.

But I’d still do all of that stuff now, minus the booze.

Daisy puts the phone to her ear. “Hey, Sully.” She smiles wider. “I did massage his ass, thanks for asking.”

I snatch the phone back from her, and Sully is cracking up laughing on the other end. “Please have children,” he tells me, not able to stop cackling. “I have to see if they’d be as fun as her or as moody as you.”

“Fuck off,” I tell him lightly.

“Hugs and kisses from Venezuela. See you in a few months? Keep in touch.”

“Yeah,” I say. We hang up at the same time, and I watch Lo carry Lily on his back. It’s early this morning, so I’m not surprised, but she has been more tired recently. She presses her head on his shoulder, sleeping.

“What happened when you were twelve?” Daisy asks, lacing her fingers with mine.

Rose and Connor lead the pack with a flight attendant, opening the door to our gate. They walk down the stairs to the runway, where the private plane waits for us. Daisy and I let Lo catch up so we’ll be last out.

“I fucking streaked around my summer camp at night,” I tell her.

She laughs. “No way. I did the same thing when I was fourteen.” She gasps. “It’s like we were always meant to be.”

I run my hand through her hair and then kiss her forehead. If we are supposed to be together, then why does going home seem like returning to a black fucking storm?

Lo passes us and whispers, so as not to wake Lily, “Hey, you two, your PDA is scaring the little children.”

“You mean you?” I retort, following him close behind as he heads down the stairs to outside.

“I mean anyone who was once a child,” Lo says like a smartass. He smiles bitterly, and then I almost bump into Connor’s back who’s standing still on the cement.

“What’s the fucking hold up?” I ask. The plane is here, but it’s not Connor’s private jet parked ahead of us, a thick layer of smog clouding the sky.

My face falls.

I recognize the massive white Boeing 787, ostentatious, in your fucking face.

Just like my father.

He emerges down the stairs of the plane, buttoning his black suit jacket, his dark brown hair starting to gray on the sides.

The flight attendant says, “Mr. Hale’s plane arrived an hour ago. Once the gas tanks are filled, we’ll be off.”

Rose is texting like crazy, and Connor has his hand on the small of her back. He gives the flight attendant a genial smile. “Will Mr. Hale be flying to Philadelphia with us then?”

She nods. “They came to pick you up.”

They?

And right behind Jonathan, another man descends the stairs, tall and confident and entitled. It’s my father’s best friend, his hair lighter brown, in his fifties, a less hard and severe face than my dad’s.

It’s Daisy’s father. My stomach sinks. Fuck me. I’ve never seen Greg Calloway do anything other than smile and shake hands, but worry blankets his face, looking more paternal and more protective than I’ve known him to be. It’s the look that Connor says he wears frequently. I just haven’t been around him long enough to see it.

Greg’s gaze lands on Daisy immediately, but he stays beside the plane, waiting for us to approach like my dad.

I didn’t think it could get worse, but one more fucking person appears through the doorway, heading down the stairs in heels, a strand of pearls around her neck, her brown hair in a bun.

Samantha Calloway.

Her eyes are tight with concern like Greg’s, and her gaze fixes to her youngest daughter. Samantha places one palm to her chest, as though swept up in emotion upon seeing Daisy. Knowing she’s safe. But then her eyes focus on me.

And she glares.

“Shit,” Lo says under his breath.

We’re about to be stuck on a plane for five hours with our father and the girls’ parents.

With no way to escape.

This is going to be a fucking nightmare.

DAISY CALLOWAY

My mom holds my hands while I sit with her on the long cream couch that spans the back cabin, another leather couch on the other wall, a glass coffee table in between. It’s like we’re in a compact presidential living room, not flying above the clouds.

“You should have called me the moment you woke up in the hospital,” she says, throttling my hands for the fourth time with worry. And then her eyes pin to Rose on the other couch, who looks irritable. “And don’t get me started on you.”

“Mother, I—”

“You knew Daisy was in the riot, and you didn’t tell me.”

“There was a lot going on,” Rose says. She hasn’t announced the pregnancy to our parents yet, and I know Connor wants to do it soon. “She was in good hands.”

“I’m her mother. When you have kids, you’ll realize what it feels like—hearing that one of your children is hurt weeks after it happens…” She shakes her head.

Rose purses her lips. “That must be why you were so concerned about Lily when you heard she was sick.”

Our mom inhales, and I think she’s going to say: Lily brought that upon herself. An addiction isn’t a disease. But instead she goes with, “Let’s not get into that, Rose.”

Lily is sleeping in one of the bedrooms. I think she’s hiding from our mom, who likes to ignore Lily when she’s in close vicinity. Lo is with her, so it’s not like she’s all alone in there.

I glance back at the door to the front cabin. It’s the cigar club area with chairs and a flat-screen television. I smelled the cigar smoke the moment I walked into the plane, embedded in the cream leather.

Ryke is in there.

Right through those doors.

With my father. And his father. And Connor. Though I’m not sure Connor can be much of a peacemaker in that situation.

It sounds fairly awkward and uncomfortable. I want to go save him from my dad, but something tells me that he’d find a way to talk to Ryke no matter what.

My mom rotates back to me, and her eyes fall to my graphic T-shirt that says: Sorry, I only date boys with tattoos. I’m not sorry about the shirt. I like it. And so I’m wearing it, regardless if she finds it distasteful or not.

Her fingers circle her pearls unconsciously, but she doesn’t ask me about Ryke. “I’ve scheduled a doctor’s appointment for you when we arrive home. The plastic surgeon is going to take a look at your cheek.” Her fingers fall from her pearls, and she rubs my hand again. “What pain medication are you on?”

I shake my head. “I’m out.”

“We’ll get you more.”

“No, it doesn’t hurt. It’s fine.” If I touch my cheek, I can feel the raised wound, slightly puffy, descending from my temple, across my cheek, to my jaw. Everyone sees it but me. So it’s hard to confront the issue head-on when I’m not staring at it.

“You were so lucky,” my mom says. “You could have lost your eye. It could have cut through your lip.” She shakes her head at those brutal images. “The doctor will smooth out the scar, and then I’ll talk to your agency—”

“What?” I cut her off. I w

as willing to go to a doctor and get the scar looked at, but I can’t stomach going back to modeling. No one will hire me anyway.

“You’re beautiful, Daisy,” she says, squeezing my hands. “They’ll take you back.”

“No they won’t, Mom.” I need her to accept this failure and move on, so I can too.

“How is this any different than having a uni-brow or gap-teeth?”

“It just is. I already told you. I don’t want to model, and it has nothing to do with my face.” I tried to explain my decision on the phone, right after I left the hospital. And she hung up on me. Now she has no phone to cut me off with. She has nowhere to go.

I am so resolute and adamant about my choices. I’m no longer scared to express myself. She can’t stifle my voice or take my opinions away. I matter.

My mom just keeps shaking her head. “We’ll talk about this later. You’ve been through a lot.” She pats my leg.