Long Way Down (Calloway Sisters 4)

Guests exit their vehicles in floor-length gowns and tuxes. Suited for the Oscars, not any party with my name attached to the invitations.

It hits me.

In this fucking moment. I’ve been accepted into a world that has never wanted me. Not as kid. Not as a teenager, and not even as an adult. To be celebrated formally with Daisy by her parents, their friends—this entire social circle—it’s insane.

I’m the invisible son.

Cast-out and forgotten. Being the center of anything fits me like a jacket three sizes too small, but it still has meaning that I acknowledge.

I ride on the outside of the lined cars, pulling closer to the entrance by swerving between a black Rolls-Royce. I switch the bike into neutral using the clutch and coast to a stop by the curb. Daisy hops off before I park, and I quickly remove my helmet, worried about how she’s taking this.

We’re underdressed. There’s no fucking way around this fact.

She has on a white knit top, two teal shells printed over her chest with the words raised by mermaids scrawled underneath. It’s really fucking cute, but in frayed jean shorts, she’s not even close to formalwear. I’m not any better: a pair of jeans and a dark green shirt, the arm-cuffs short.

We both just assumed the party would be low-key and family-only when her mom texted us the details last minute. She didn’t book a ballroom or a fucking castle. The location read, Villanova, the wealthy Philadelphia neighborhood where Greg and Samantha live.

“Hey,” I call to Daisy.

She doesn’t turn around.

I leave my helmet on the bike and catch up to Dais by the front stairs. Classical music filters through the door, less and less like us—everything is. But we knew today would be more about her parents than about our relationship.

I set a hand on Daisy’s waist and turn her around to face me. She crosses her arms like she’s cold but it’s fucking hot out. Fifteen minutes ago, she was bouncing with excitement at riding a motorcycle, the first time since her surgery in August. Now she’s tucked into herself, more closed off—and she keeps touching her hair, combing her fingers through the brown strands.

After Cleo and Harper confronted her at that yogurt shop weeks back, she’s been a little jumpy. But I can’t fucking blame her.

My brows furrow at her like you okay? It takes her a moment to nod in reply, and she keeps holding my gaze, like she’d rather go home but knows she can’t.

“I love making her happy,” she says softly. “I just wish she would listen to me, and I could’ve sworn I said to keep it small. She knows I won’t complain, and I don’t want to make waves, not over something like this.”

I hug her closer to my side, and she scuffs the grass with her sandal.

Daisy has spent a long time discovering what she wants, what she desires—who she is inside. About an hour earlier, when we were getting dressed for the party, we were figuring out when to tell her parents that we’re trying to have a baby.

“I don’t think we should bring it up today,” she said, buttoning her jean shorts.

I dried my wet hair with a towel. “You going to elaborate?”

Her voice quieted as she said, “I’m just scared that no one will listen to me. It’s easy to dismiss my opinion when I’m younger than my sisters, and I also used to do what everyone else told me anyway…” She put her hands to her hips and stared up at the paper lanterns in our room. “What’s the point of speaking up when no one hears you?”

It broke my heart.

I stepped closer to her. “The fucking point is for people to understand that you have opinions, that your voice counts, and if they don’t hear you then yell louder.” Her eyes flitted to mine, and I said deeply, “Never give up or back down on the things that fill your soul, Calloway. There is no worse life than a hollow one.”

Imagining someone walking all over Daisy—it kills me. She’s been through too much to hit that kind of roadblock.

Outside of her parent’s mansion, Daisy gives me a solemn smile. “I guess it could be worse. She could’ve invited all my ex-boyfriends.” Her smile fades rapidly, eyes widening. “Ryke, what if she—”

“No.” I shut down the idea, even if Samantha Calloway has hated me for more days than she’s claimed to fucking like me. I don’t even want to entertain the possibility of running into Julian or the Swedish guy who took Daisy’s virginity or the douchebag who backdoored her.

If Samantha brought one of them, then she must really want a fucking fistfight at this party—because I see myself swinging without enough hesitation to stop me.

Look, I’ve listened to detailed stories about her exes, sitting there with a grimace and a glare, thinking God, I hope these fuckers get their dicks crushed.

I’ve had to watch her date a handful of them, the worst kind of guys: ones who don’t take care of their girl, who don’t care about what she needs or wants. Listening to their smallest head.

My features must have darkened because a woman in a velvet blue gown says congratulations to Daisy but never even glances at me. I watch her disappear inside.

I can’t be surprised that I have an unapproachable, ugly fucking glare when thinking about breaking cocks.

Before we’re stuck greeting guests, I lead Daisy into her parent’s foyer, my hand on her lower back. The classical music grows louder as we pass through the doorway, and her muscles tense beneath my palm.

“Hey.” I twirl her around to me, her big, green doe eyes glimmering. “Don’t worry about making everyone feel comfortable. That’s not your fucking job tonight.”

“Does this mean I can expect inappropriate acts of adventure?”

My blood heats. I raise my brows at her.

She smiles more, rocking on the tips of her toes.

I lean down, clasping the back of her head, and I whisper deeply, “Not in front of your fucking father, Calloway.”

She unabashedly scans my six-foot-three build, in the flirtiest, most apparent once-over. “I thought I had you right where I wanted you, Ryke Meadows.”

Her eyes twinkle impishly, and my dick throbs, my arousal gripping me. Everything about her, I want close to my body, touching her slowly. Skin against skin. I want to pick her up and toss her over my fucking shoulder.

If we were alone, I’d move aggressively.

Without second thought.

I’d have her up against the wall, legs hoisted and my tongue parting her lips fast. Rugged and intense. She always tries to meet me in the middle, wrestling midair for the same objective.

Our relationship is fucking animalistic and visceral but grounded on the trust and friendship we built first. Since we’re both really physical, people may only see our sexual connection, but the latter is unbreakable. It’s what I fell in love with at the start.

I walk Daisy backwards, aware of what I can and can’t do in this kind of public setting. Thing is, I give no fucks most of the time—so I’m naturally going to push the boundary one inch further, stretching it without crossing it.

My stride is larger than Daisy’s, and in seconds, my chest bumps into hers. She almost falls back, but I catch her easily and slip my hand down her back pocket, cupping her ass.

Her lungs expand against me, and I tug her closer, grazing her features. I watch her gaze light up, as though I’ve given her a slice of chocolate cake.

“That’s an inappropriate act,” she says, her hands moving from my biceps to my waist in a restless state.

My expression hardens like I have no idea what she’s fucking talking about.

Daisy’s smile expands. “How’s my ass? On a scale of one to Better-Than-Chocolate.”

I slip my keys into her back pocket. “Hold onto my fucking keys,” I tell her before retracting my palm.

“Hold-Onto-My-Fucking-Keys kinda hot. I accept this new measurement.” She curtseys.

And then a server interrupts us. “Champagne?” he asks, tray in hand.

Daisy takes a flute, and I automatically decline. As we search for Daisy’s

sisters among unfamiliar faces, I hear the hush of whispers and feel the fucking heat of their eyes.

I’m too calloused to let their opinions in.

They can whisper about how I’m seven years older than Dais, how I’m not right for her. They can circulate a fucking false rumor about how we slept together when she was only sixteen. They can say it all.

But it won’t touch me.

Problem is, I recognize that Daisy hurts by shots at our relationship, at me. So I steer her away from them, hoping they don’t hit her ears tonight.

It’s obvious by the bar stationed next to the grand staircase that Samantha moved furniture in and out for this party. The house is packed mostly by each bar and narrow hallway.

We pass through an archway, entering the largest room in their house: vaulted ceilings, gold-draped windows, and about thirty to fifty fucking people milling around—I know less than ten of them.

A harpist and violinist play off in the corner, servers with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres weaving through guests.

I’m confident that I’ll say the wrong thing at some point.

Small talk is not my fucking strong suit. I couldn’t care less though. I’m not here to impress anyone. I just want to make sure Dais has a good time.

“There they are.” Daisy bounces on her tiptoes at the sight of her three sisters and Willow. They notice her too, waving Daisy over—and I lock eyes with Willow for a millisecond before she turns her back on me and hangs her head.

It’s a new reaction, something I’m not fucking used to yet. A couple days ago, Lo let it slip that she’s Jonathan’s daughter. I’m not pissed at him for it, especially since he’s close to her. I just feel badly that I didn’t tell her sooner.

But her reaction…it’s not really one I expected.

She won’t talk about Jonathan and she’s avoiding me. It’s kind of obvious when we live together and she won’t even meet my eyes when we’re in the same room. I just don’t know why.

I scratch my jaw, unsure of fucking everything. My dad says he needs my advice to start a dialogue with her, but I’m definitely not an expert on Willow Moore.

“She may need a couple more months,” Daisy tells me off my gaze.

“To what?” I ask. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s awkward for her,” Daisy explains.

I frown, not understanding. “What’s awkward about it?”

Daisy tries hard not to smile.