Long Way Down (Calloway Sisters 4)

I listen to the shower running while I lie in bed, tucked beneath our white quilt and a gray cable-knit sweater blanket. Coconut has occupied Ryke’s pillow since he’s been in the bathroom, and she hardly stirs.

If I strain my ears enough, I can distinguish the sounds of low, pleasured groans among water hitting tiles.

On a normal day, I’d slip into the shower with him, but trying that now, he’d be extremely upset. Ryke wheeled me out of the hospital yesterday—one less ovary and one less tube after surgery. I’m sore from hip-to-hip and can barely turn on my side without feeling an ache, but pain medication has helped some.

I’m in no condition to receive pleasure, and he wouldn’t want me to give it after I just came home.

Lying here. In the quiet without Ryke beside me. I try not to think about the bad news from yesterday. It keeps flaring up. No matter how hard I close the curtains on my thoughts.

Dr. Yoshida couldn’t remove the entire right cyst.

At least not without potentially scarring my last remaining ovary in the process. He said he took out as much as possible, but I can’t stop imagining this monstrous thing attached to my reproductive organ, slowly mushrooming to destroy all that’s left.

I’m not the only one with medical maladies recently. Maximoff had a crazy rash and after a few tests, they’ve determined it was hives. Allergy related. The doctors narrowed it down to ants, which has caused Lily to be extremely paranoid about the insect. I don’t blame her though. Hearing that baby cry in discomfort is enough to break your heart.

The shower shuts off, tearing into my thoughts. I stretch my arm towards the light switch. The movement pulls at the skin on my belly, so I end up sitting on my knees to reach for it. I flick the switch, and hanging green paper lanterns illuminate, casting a warm glow throughout our messy room.

There are clothes everywhere.

Along with Nerf guns, tennis balls, Frisbees, and an actual bicycle. I can’t even remember how or why that ended up in the basement with us.

The bathroom door swings open. Beads of water roll down Ryke’s shoulders and abs, a white cotton towel tied very, very low on his waist. My body may not sing right now, but my mind is definitely enjoying the view.

Ryke immediately catches me kneeling on our bed. “What’s wrong?” he asks, pushing his wet hair out of his face. You are so attractive. “Do you need more pain meds?”

Coconut perks her head, looking between us.

“Not right now.” I gently ease my body against the headboard and extend my legs. I wear one of his gray cotton shirts, the hem reaching my thighs, naked beneath the fabric.

He nears his side of the bed, setting a knee on the mattress to be even closer. I hone in on what’s behind his towel while he scrutinizes my body with a long sweep. “Do you need anything? I can get you a glass of fucking water or—”

“You could masturbate in front of me.” I wag my eyebrows playfully.

His brows scrunch, like he’s trying to make sense of whether I’m serious or just joking. I thought I was kidding, but I wonder if a part of me wishes he’d just openly rub one out rather than hide from me.

While he scrutinizes my expression, my eyes skim his intricate tattoo that’s a reminder to overcome self-constraints. An inked phoenix covers his right ribs and chest, a gray chain tethered around the bird’s ankles, and the start of an anchor rests by his hip, the end concealed by his towel. I don’t even think he realizes how sexy the placement is.

I also notice his L-shape scar from his transplant surgery, a little reddened after his shower. It trails between both ribcages and veers off beneath one.

“Or,” I say, “you could spread my legs open and take me so, so hard.” I collapse on the bed, my head falling onto my pillow, and I theatrically put my hand to my forehead. “Take me now, Ryke Meadows. Ah!” I mock cry out for him with a heavy breath.

He’s staring intently. I have no idea where his head lies—probably as much as he has no idea where mine rests right now.

“You okay with me masturbating?” he finally asks.

That’s not what I thought he’d conclude. I prop myself on my arms. “I don’t care. I never have.” I’m not naïve to think he can go two months without sex and without jacking off.

“Something’s eating at you, Dais. I can fucking see it all over you.” Because I deflected with humor from the get-go.

He pushes his wet hair back again. Ryke…I wish I felt better.

Maybe that’s it.

“I just don’t like this,” I whisper.

His brows knot as he listens closely.

“And I’m afraid of missing out on experiences with you…” I trail off because I know this is just a taste of what it may be like if I’m pregnant. Bed rest if it’s a hard pregnancy. Lying down. Staying still. I want to believe I have it in me, and I don’t want him to worry that I might not. “I’m just overthinking.”

His jaw hardens, and he removes his knee from the mattress, standing six-foot-three-inches tall and towering. “What are you missing out on? Watching me masturbate?”

“So literal,” I mutter with a weak smile.

“Then help me out, Dais.”

“I’m trying,” I whisper, unsure of how to express what I feel. I’m not good with words and neither is he, and my body is out of commission so I can’t use that to say what I mean. “I don’t like this,” I repeat what’s beating at me.

He suddenly climbs onto the bed, and I realize I’m crying, hot trails slick on my cheeks.

“Why am I crying?” I say through an avalanche of tears, my chest heaving. I hate this. “I hate this.” He pulls me into his arms, and I cover my face with my hands.

“It’s okay,” he whispers in my ear and strokes my hair.

“I hate this,” I say again, trying to wipe these involuntary tears. He holds me tightly, and I’m so thankful for his warm embrace, calming my flood of emotions. “I hate…being out of commission. Not even sexually. Just physically…broken.”

It’s everything.

It’s the stupid cyst. The two months of waiting to try for a baby. The fact that my reproductive organs could fail me all over again. It’s feeling like I’ve let him down somehow. Like I’m not pulling my weight.

Like he could do better with someone a little more whole.

“Hey.” He tears my hands from my face and lifts my head up. My chin trembles, trying to keep it together. And he says so strongly, “You’re not fucking broken.”

My eyes burn. It takes me a moment to respond. I’m so quiet and still. I breathe, “Say that again.”

He cups my cheek, his thumb brushing the tears beneath my wet lashes. “You’re not fucking broken, sweetheart. And you’re not missing out on anything with me.”

I nod, rubbing my eyes. “You’ll masturbate in front of me then?” I say lightly, attempting to lift the mood.

His brows rise. “You want me to?”

“I don’t know…” My reddened eyes flit up to his darkened features that also hold a great deal of concern for me. I kiss him, and he instantly reciprocates earnestly, his fingers lost in my hair. I bite his lip, teasingly pulling back. He closes the distance, drawing me in, his tongue parting my lips until a noise tickles my throat.

Oxygen cages inside my lungs, but he’s not even close to being out of breath.

Ryke Meadows endures all things like he was born to last forever.

His perseverance may deceive me some days. Because what he faces when he rock climbs could end him. Every time. I just don’t want to look at it that way. I’d rather see the man who lives every second his fingers clasp rock, not the man who may die.

He breaks the kiss. To let me breathe.

My chest lowers in a heavy exhale. I’m sorry, I almost say in regards to my outburst. I stop myself though. I already hear his response. Don’t fucking apologize for your emotions, Calloway. You can be upset.

“Thank you,” I whisper, kissing his cheek. I slide off him so he can ret

urn to his own pursuits and not dwell on me.

His gaze drifts off for a moment and then returns to me. “When we start having sex again, you need to fucking tell me if you’re in pain.”

I wonder how long this has been on his mind.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s not easy, you know.” My voice softens to a whisper. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Emotionally, I mean, but he knows this.

He cups my cheek, the one with the scar, enough to draw my attention off the bed and onto him. “I don’t ever want you to lie there in pain because you’re trying to make me happy—because you’re afraid of hurting my feelings. That’s not how this fucking works. You matter.”

I hear him say a version of this to me at sixteen. At seventeen. At eighteen and nineteen and now at twenty. He has tried to make me feel worth more than I’ve allowed myself to be. All this time.

Even when the topic was about me sleeping with other guys. Even when I shared details. He still listened.

And his response always had the same heartbeat. You matter.

I’m about to throw out a lighthearted joke, but the words catch in my throat and my eyes glass again. I nod repeatedly.

“Come here.” He pulls me back onto his lap, his arms tightening around my frame, and I bury my head in his warm chest. “We all have parts of ourselves that bite us in the fucking ass.”

I look up at him. “And what’s biting my ass?”

He almost smiles. “You’re too sweet, Calloway.” I wish I had a better fatal flaw, something destructive like lust or greed. Kindness seems so easy to conquer, and yet I’ve let it rule me.

“Do you know what’s biting yours?” I wonder.

“I’m too fucking stubborn. Maybe too aggressive.”

“Or too attractive,” I note. “Your beauty is terribly distracting.”

He gives me the sexiest stern look that I devour with greedy eyes. “Yeah?” he says deeply.